Seasons by benjaminqgtan

1 Title

Table of Contents Writing i

The Coin Locker

Moka Sato

The Lone Voyager

Pooja Vyas

iii

First Crush

Isabelle Ocampo

The Beauty of Nature

Anahita Pochiraju

Breaking the Rhythm of the Rain

Aditi Raju

Feeding Your Curiosity

Jessica Kuo

vii

The Worst Thing to Happen to the English Language

Benjamin Tan

viii

A Word on Burning the American Flag

Sasha Hassan

LGBTQ in Indonesia

Elexa Tanner

TOK Art

Elexa Tanner

A One-Minute Incident That Spurred a Lot of Remembering

Karunya Bhramasandra

xii

Origins

Benjamin Tan & Pragathi Venkatesh

Portfolio (6)

Daniel Samuel

Untitled

Nandhini Sridhar

iii

First World Gag

Michelle Li

Untitled

Riya Desai

Bar Scene

Benjamin Tan

Art

Poetry i

En Route to a Museum on 32nd Street

Lauria Sun

Remembrance

Ivy Wang

iii

Stories Forgotten in the Morning

Gita Supramaniam

Credits

Writing Divider

The Coin Locker Moka Sato

So this was the famous Osaka station. The man desperately read the bright colorful signs all around him, trying to determine where he was supposed to be heading. Rush hour had him clinging onto his belongings as he tried to swerve his way through the wave of people, his eyes alert for any sign indicating his ride. He gripped the package he had received earlier in the morning at the post office from his mother, along with the letter of encouragement about living in a new environment tightly as he bumped into another stranger. As someone who just arrived from the countryside, he was still struggling to adapt to the massive urban cities and population. He should have known to research the train lines before coming here. When the man found his stairway to the platform, he still had ten minutes until the train arrived. Relieved, he headed to a nearby seat on the platform when he realized he still had his gigantic parcel with him. Panicking, knowing that bringing it on the first day of work was not the brightest idea, he dashed back up the escalator, remembering that there were coin lockers nearby. As he looked around, he noticed a large row of lockers, and rushed towards them. A woman was standing in front of one of the coin lockers. Her back stood against him as she pressed the desired locker’s number on the screen with her thin, shaky hands. Assuming from her narrow, slumped shoulders and untidy long hair, she was an old, fragile woman. The man sighed as he glanced at his watch, knowing well enough that his train would be arriving in less than five minutes. He prayed that either it would arrive late, or the woman in front of him would miraculously work faster to put a paper bag in the locker. He fastened the tempo of his toes tapping the floor, hoping the woman would notice his irritation from the rustling noise he had been making for the past few minutes. Alas, plans never seemed to work his way. Instead of putting the bag in, she had now crouched down on her knees, peeking into the contents of the bag, caressing whatever resided inside. His patience snapped. He finally decided to voice his thoughts, and give the woman a piece of his mind. He cleared his throat. “Can you hurry? I’m running late and I wish to leave this package in the locker before my ride arrives.” The woman froze, her back still facing him. The man waited for her to react, preferably with an apology, but most likely a sharp retort. However, neither came in the time he waited. The woman seemed to be glued to the spot, unmoving. Now, all the man felt was anger and frustration. Who did the woman think she was, deliberately trying to waste his time? The man grabbed her shoulder and pulled it back, determined to make the woman answer him. To his surprise, the woman’s body refused to move an inch. He tried shaking, pulling, pushing, but nothing seemed to work. “What is wrong with you?” he hissed, his words laced with venom. Suddenly, the woman spun around, leaving the man speechless. Her eyes, her dreadful eyes resembled nothing but a void- a pure black nothingness. Her whites, covered by concentrated red, made it hard to believe that those black orbs could be even considered as eyes. Her chapped lips, crooked nose, and acute jawline screamed nothing but frail, but the man knew inside, that this was the result of his work, and she was truly at a young age of twenty-one. He’d never seen a creature as hideous as this before in his life. “Wrong…? YOU,” she rasped, clutching the man’s shoulders and leaning in, her face inches from his. Her breath washed over him, and the man wrinkled his nose at the sour smell. Her grip was tight, and the man struggled to reduce the pain, trying to somehow escape her hands. “Let me go,” he gasped. “Stop.” The woman ignored his pleas as she tightened her grip, the bones in the man’s body screaming in pain. But then, abruptly, she froze again. She turned to face the white paper bag she had been looking into, which had started rustling. Quickly, she bent down to grab it, and ran away with the bag safely in her arms.

5 It can’t be, he thought. It’s not possible. The man was left behind panting on the ground, leaning his back on the lockers. His breath was shallow, and his eyes seemed as if he had seen a ghost. There couldn’t have been a truer statement. I saw her die myself. “ 6:00 a.m., near the entrance to Platform 10 of Osaka station, a baby was found dead inside a coin locker. Reports say that the child was only 2 months old, and cameras have only caught some of the physical features of the suspect. The suspect is most likely the mother of the child, with long black hair ” When the man turned on the TV, a familiar platform appeared on the screen, and his eyes were instantly glued to the video of the crime scene. A thin, pale woman wobbled towards the lockers with a large, white paper bag. It reminded him of the unwanted encounter a few days ago, and it chilled his body to the bones just thinking about the woman. “ and has been a serious problem these days in society, nicknamed “coin locker baby” in which the baby is left abandoned by, usually, single mothers in coin lockers of train stations ” The man noticed that his phone was ringing, and grabbed the remote to turn off the TV. He looked at the screen, and he doubted his eyes. Immediately, he grabbed the phone and threw it as hard as he can, away from himself. The phone hit the wall with a bang. His heartbeat was loud in his head, and he pressed a hand on his chest to calm himself down. The ringtone stopped. I saw her die myself. After a moment of silence, the phone started ringing again. Slowly, he picked it up. The man sighed in relief when he realized it was his old friend he had not talked to in years. After a few awkward greetings, the friend explained the reason for his sudden call. “Yeah, your ex. She keeps calling me, can’t you tell her to stop?” An irritated voice could be heard on the other end of the line. “She keeps yelling about a baby. Do you think,” he paused, “she actually gave birth?” The man stopped breathing. As he ended the phone call, he realized that his hands were shaking. The phone rang again. This time, the man knew that it wasn’t his colleague. I killed her. So why was the phone still ringing?

The Lone Voyager Pooja Vyas

It’s been years since I’ve seen anything other than the blackness of space. Sure, stars are speckled in the distance, washed over in color, but they’ll always be light years beyond my reach. Sometimes, I dream I’ve reached the stars, a place with clouds and colors and light. I know it’s not real, but in my dreams I finally see them up close. I mix the colors to create gaseous masterpieces never before seen in the vast cosmos. A small spark of joy strikes my chest and I dream that this was all finally worth it- but I know it’s not real. Besides dreaming, I fill my time in the control room of the spacecraft. My course has been set many years ago (irreversibly, might I add), but here the artificial gravity is light, so I can’t hear the hollow echoes of the steps I take. The viewing dock from the control room is enormous, spanning the entire length of the roof to the floor. On the other side of the glass lies everything that has and will ever exist. Behind it, trapped in this vessel, I’ve concluded I feel ...empty. Thinking about why is almost as pointless as trying to remember when. I watch the planets and comets- markers of where- drift by. No, as I drift by. Every day is the same, and I forget to acknowledge it was ever any different. The ship, powered now only by its reserves, propels itself forward: 370,000 teracircs per hyperbit. That fact used to amaze me. And even though I’ll regret it, I force myself remember. When the world applauded as our fleet left. When the last of the astro-voyagers drifted slowly out of my view. When the void of space first consumed me. The images are now faint, clouded by the nothingness that has since filled my mind. My throat grows tight- I knew I would regret it. The years have begun to weigh down on me, but there’s nothing I can do except stare at the emptiness before me. In silence, I watch the stars twinkle in the distance. Sometimes, I dream of seeing them up close. From behind the glass, I watch the universe expand around me.

First Crush Isabelle Ocampo

I thought I felt love for the first time in fifth grade. Her skin smelled of peaches and fresh laundry, like finally coming home after a long day. We would sit close together on my old gray loveseat for warmth in the winter, my head resting against her shoulder while we took our breaths in sync. My room carried the scent of chocolate for months because one of us had thrown a ball of Christmas chocolate into the heating vent. She thought I was gay. I thought she was the best friend I’d ever had. She was right. One night she lay crying on my bed, exposing her wrists scarred with both fresh and old wounds. She told me she wanted to stop existing, that she’d already tried three times before. I tried to hug the sad out of her. To me, she was a masterpiece. Even when her eyes were glued to the floor on bad days, she was beautiful. As I know now and knew before, the greatest works of art are born from tragedy. I stared at the pill bottles in my medicine cabinet. The capsules’ electric blue reminded me of her eyes. She texted me during all hours of the day: two in the afternoon, four in the morning, and everything inbetween. I felt honored that she confided in me. She was grateful for someone to talk to. Her voice had taken over my mind, speaking to me about her issues, the few things that made her happy, the people she couldn’t understand. For some time, it was bliss. My own voice started to have its own thoughts, its own opinions. It spoke of not being as pretty or smart or athletic as the other girls in my class, how they would always be better than me. It told me I would never be enough. My voice tried to have a conversation with hers, but she couldn’t seem to hear me. Her voice drowned mine out with words like “I have it worse!” and “You’re so lucky.” My voice shrunk and cowered behind me again. I stared at her and listened. I was worthless, but at least I could help her. It felt like I was choking on air the first time I thought of leaving her. “We’re friends, and friends don’t abandon each other,” my fragile heart thought. My voice whimpered, afraid to speak for fear of being ignored again. My brain couldn’t decide. I wanted to stop existing too. She didn’t hear me. “Everybody hates me. I wish I wasn’t here anymore,” she murmured, refusing to make eye contact. “I feel like that too, sometimes,” I replied. “God, you’re so ungrateful. Your life is perfect!” She was furious. How dare I speak to her like that when she was the only one who was really suffering, she cried. I turned away and put my arm around her when she started sobbing. My heart ached out of neglect. I pretended I was away from my phone whenever she tried talking to me. My voice and my brain were tired of feeling so miserable and incredibly hopeless. In the beginning, her voice was the blood in my veins, my fuel for living. Now she was poison. The reason I stopped talking to her sounded questionable, even to me. Something about her being away from the phone when we were having an important conversation. I was just searching for an excuse at that point. Some kind of justification to save myself instead of saving her. I turned my phone off for days to avoid her, knowing that I’d give in if we spoke again. My brain screamed at me for being selfish, for caring more about myself than another person. If not for being used by others, what reason did I have to exist? I was worthless without her. I tried not to be that person anymore. I haven’t seen her since the seventh grade. I haven’t spoken to her in about a year. She represents a time when the bruises on her body had transferred to mine. I tried to find her and lost myself in the process. I still can’t bring myself to tell her. I was in love with being needed, with the thought of someone finally wanting me. But it wasn’t me she wanted.

The Beauty of Nature Anahita Pochiraju

Tired with the familiarity, I turned left instead of right. I trudged along the hard cobble-stone pathway surrounded by trees. While wondering whether to turn back or not, a harsh wind screamed in my face. I turned around looking for the path that would take me back into the familiarity, but it is nowhere in sight. Filled with fear, I continued into the unfamiliarity, apprehensive of what I might find. As I trudged along the pathway, I entered into a forest and happened upon a brook. Fragile and jewel-blue in color, the river was like a subtle sweep of a painterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s brush. Seeping and snaking smoothly through the trees, twigs twirled on its murmuring surface. The surrounding trees whispered softly against the wind, like a soothing lullaby. Angel-white, snow-covered mountains stood silently in the background, a brooding presence of majesty. From a small gash in the face of the mountain poured out a weeping silk-blue waterfall. Woven into it are miniscule ice crystals. The river swallowed these precious ice crystals creating a sound like the steady rumble of a drum roll. It was an awe-inspiring site. My gaze returned to the brook. Bending down, I scooped one hand through the water and drank a handful. It was thirst-quenching. I sat opposite of the river bank and closed my eyes, enjoying the cool breeze. The sweet perfume of the forest drifted to my nostrils as I reflected on the beauty of nature. Every path has its own challenges and beauty. New paths will present new beauty. I am glad that I chose left over right.

Breaking the Rhythm of the Rain Aditi Raju

February 11, 2017- the day filled with sunshine and the final debate tournament of the year. Thirty- the number of hours she spent preparing for this tournament. Two- the number of tournaments she had previously failed. The large red halls of the Stanford University campus welcomed all speakers and debaters alike. Three 2.5-hour rounds passed by like a rhythmic breeze. Alice gave speeches, they asked questions. Alice asked questions, they gave speeches. Twelve hours later, it all came to a close. She arrived home tired, hungry, and anxious. Time slowed. “The results will be out by 9:00,” they said. It was 9:05, the sun had been replaced by rain clouds, and her shining phone screen showed only a blank results page. Butterflies filled her stomach, sweat filled her pores, and fear filled her head. She refreshed once more: “CONGRATULATIONS TO THE FOLLOWING COMPETITORS ADVANCING TO THE FINAL ROUND.” Amanda, Nicole, Brian- “it’s fine, it’s only the first three- there’s still time” Leia, Max, Oliver- “Relax, the next name could be mine.” Sam, Judah, Tina- “Three more names to go- it’s probably alphabetical by last name.” Zachary, Vanessa, and... Lane. Alice re-read the list at least ten times. This was not happening. She spent thirty hours preparing (others procrastinated until the last minute). She had experienced countless failures and learned from them (others only knew success). She received compliments from fellow competitors (but others had too, and it was not enough). In the end, every name in the world was on that list, every name except Alice. Failure is like a knife. It can stab you once, then stab you over and over again, and keep punishing you for a single mistake. Or it can stab you once, then you can throw that knife away, and leave only the scars behind. Alice already owned an entire collection of knives. She did not need another one. For once, she decided to throw that knife of a memory away and keep only the scar. This tournament was supposed to be the final one of the year, but it did not have to be the final opportunity. A new notification appeared on her phone: “DISTRICT SPEECH CONTEST MAY 6TH.” Five minutes later, she marked her calendar. Three- the number of tournaments she had previously failed. Twelve- the number of weeks she had until the next speech contest. May 6, 2017- the day that would be filled with sunshine, clouds, rain, and the final speech contest of the year.

Feeding Your Curiosity Jessica Kuo

Sweat drips down my forehead as my mind runs a mile a minute; the crease between my brows deepens as the volume of impatient voices grows incessantly. Finally, I make my decision. “One grande Iced Cascara Coconut Milk Latte, please.” I live quite an uneventful life. Every day after school, I head straight home, eating a quick meal before delving into my homework assignments, practicing cello, eating more, showering, and going to bed. The cycle repeats itself five times a week, and on the weekends, the process is somewhat similar. Because of this, I cherish the opportunities in which I go out to eat at cafes or restaurants. Like a small child eagerly waiting for Christmas Eve so they can get their hands on their new toys, excitement bubbles inside of me every time I head out to get food or drinks, the thrill of trying something new reviving my normally exhausted soul. Turns out, the latte had way more coconut than I expected; I’d hoped the cascara would be stronger. Despite this, I was satisfied to have tried the new Starbucks drink. I knew to not order that drink ever again, and to not recommend it to my friends. Because that is my main goal when I try new foods--I want to feed, both literally and metaphorically, my curiosity for new drinks and dishes so that I can expand my own taste palate and share my knowledge with my peers, bringing more zest and flavor into their lives. There were multiple times when I was met with slight disappointment when I tried something new. Panera’s Orange Scone, this super sweet frozen custard from Shake Shack, Thai Curry Chicken from Buffalo Wild Wings. However, the times where I was delightfully surprised always outweighed the letdowns: Artichoke Pizza from NYC, Geisha’s Kiss from Sushiritto, Eggplant Parmesan from Cheesecake Factory, Mochi Ice Cream from H-Mart. Everyone has different preferences and experiences when it comes to food. I always try to order something different or unfamiliar, because those endless amount of options on the menu are just begging to be explored. Sure, I might risk wasting $15 on a bad bowl of ramen, or $5 on a drink that is mostly just ice. But there are those special times when you decide to take a chance and plunge into the unknown, and when you take that first bite of the weird-looking burrito or that first sip of a drink with a funny name, your eyes immediately light up. Your brain buzzes with delight, and your heart feels so full that it’s about to burst out of your chest. But the feeling doesn’t end there. When you recommend the amazing dish you just tried to your friends and family, and they try it the next day and excitingly tell you all about it and how happy it made them feel, that is when you know you did your job. Food has the power to strengthen or build relationships, and it is also a way to push yourself outside of your comfort zone without high stakes, in preparation for bigger obstacles in life. By taking risks with what you eat, you are making life more diverse and exciting by exposing yourself to new flavors, textures, cultures, and people. So take a plunge, and order that sandwich or milkshake that you’ve never tried. You may be pleasantly surprised.

The Worst Thing to Happen to the English Language Benjamin Tan

The worst thing to happen to the English language since the transition word “indeed”, is oneself. Let’s paint this scenario as black-and-white as possible. You’re a high school student taking the SAT, sweating through over a hundred problems as your mind turns to rubble, and just as the light gleams at the end of the tunnel, a nightmare of a question appears: choose a transition word to complete this sentence! “I am a scientist, ______ I am.” Literary barf. Nevertheless? No. However? No. On the other hand? Not even a transition word. You get to the last answer choice hoping against hope that this is just another sad joke, that this is just another “none of the above” and go. But, fate is not kind. INDEED, a wise choice. That anger you feel right now? That indignant passion to overthrow the established standings of society? To bring anarchy and destruction down upon the hated college board? Multiply that by ten, because the worst thing to happen to the English language is not the transition word “indeed”, it is “oneself”. Indeed, at its worst, is unnecessary. A seussian anomaly of prancing Sams screaming out, “I am Sam, indeed I am”. It’s cute. It’s cuddly. It even rhymes! Indeed, indeed is not quite so bad. But, whereas indeed can only turn prolific prose to nursery rhyme duddery, oneself does more than that. Oneself destroys. One could rest my case there, but one must not give too much benefit of the doubt to the other ones of the world. So—overarching thesis statement. Oneself’s rise to prominence in literature’s profound soul-smashing formal rear marks a fatal flaw in our soul-smashed society: trying to apply to the world what the world cannot be applied to. Take my anthropologist essay editor. Humanities studies. Nice person. I presented her with this flowery thing, quite pretty, and already huge in proportions: “When I write, it is like sharing a piece of myself to the world.” The grace! The elegance! And, since this is an essay on the oneself, you can guess what happens next. “When I write, it is like sharing a piece of oneself to the world!” Yes. I agree with you: who in the world is oneself? When I write, I chop off the arm of the magnificent Bob the Oneself lounging down the hall, and I “share a piece of oneself to the world”! No. I can say quite obstinately that I do, in fact, not do this. I will not go so far as to impose oneself onto the rocket science fearing generals of literature, but let’s face the undeniable truth. Oneself has destroyed my poor, morally-questionable anthropologist essay editor’s mind. She thinks that it is fundamentally okay to go around sharing multiple oneselves (pieces of them at that) to random people around the globe. No. She would be arrested. My anthropologist essay editor took my humble statement of epically spreading the love and joy I feel for the world and blown it out of proportions. No longer am I a lighthouse guiding ships to harbor. No longer do my words cut sleet and hail to illuminate the way to destiny. Now, I kill Bobs.

Your feelings prohibit my freedom - a word on burning the American Flag Sasha Hassan Pride in our flag, a representation of our values, are instilled at a young age. Children across the nation dutifully salute it in every American classroom. We’re taught to take our hats off, to stand silently with our hands on our hearts and revere everything it stands for. It’s a flag that stands for the sacrifice of our fallen troops and our nation’s strife. It shows our unity, our strength, our purpose. So when someone dumps a bucket of gasoline and drops a matchstick onto our flag, people tend to get emotional. To many, that burning flag is more than just a piece of fabric - it’s a representation of our American ideals. Freedom itself is under attack. The Dougherty Valley student body isn’t entirely in agreement. While writing this piece, I took an informal poll of the student body’s opinion. When asked, “Do you think Americans should have the right to burn the American Flag?” 45.9% of all students surveyed voted no. Nearly half the student body was much higher than my estimates, the most outlandish of which had been around a fourth. When I pressed for the reasoning of those who answered no, most just shrugged and cited respect. “People who think that they can disrespect the flag because they’re not being heard in society are being disrespectful to the people who fought to hang up the flag in the first place,” Junior Sally Wheeler* claimed. It’s a common misception--that burning the flag is restricted only to those who hate America and seek to belittle our values, when in fact, the opposite is true. During the Vietnam War, thousands of enraged college students burned the flag in protest. They marched against what they perceived to be the massacre of young American men in a war they had no place fighting to begin with. They burned the flag, yes, but they burned it to call for the protection of American citizens from dying senseless deaths overseas. Can we truly construe such efforts as anti-American if their intent was to save Americans? If we can find some sort of understanding here, then maybe we won’t be so quick to discount all accounts of flag burning as unpatriotic. Another common argument is that flag burning should be outlawed because it disrespects our troops. After all, many have gone to their graves fighting under our flag. To me, the brave men and women who fought and died for our country did not do it to compromise American freedom. They died because they cared about upholding our ideals and our right to express ourselves in any form we choose. These two arguments are the most common cited against the legality of flag burning. Here, perceived offense is used as the primary form justification to put a leash on free speech. However, those who still find flag burning offensive are hard-pressed to find any legal backing. Time and time again, our highest court of law has upheld our right to desecrate the flag. In Texas v. Johnson, the Supreme Court ruled that any laws that protected the flag, federal or state, were in violation of free speech protections. This decision was strengthened again on June 11, 1990, when the Supreme Court overturned former president George Bush’s Flag Protection Act of 1989. Congress also showed their support for freedom of expression when they struck down Congressman Bob Bennett’s proposed Flag Protection Act in 2005. In the eye of the law, the flag warrants no more protection than any other scrap of fabric. This uncompromised defense of an action outrageous as flag burning leaves many scratching their heads. How could such a flagrant sign of disrespect remain lawful? When we seek to justify such drastic action, we need look no further than the First Amendment, which provides all Americans with the freedom of expression. In its full unabridged glory, it states, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.” Basically, people have the right to express their beliefs freely and peacefully without interference from the government. While fire and peaceable assembly don’t seem to complement each other, in flag burning they find common ground. Flag burning constitutes peaceful protest since there is no injury or threat of injury towards any specific person or group. As offensive as one may find it, burning an inanimate cloth does not counts as an act of violence. The First Amendment gives people both the right to give offense and be offended, but never does it allow offense to be reason enough to silence someone’s voice. Look at countries such as Russia, where people are silenced for voicing dissent, no matter how innocent. In one of the country’s recent crackdowns on speech, the government prohibited images of Vladimir Putin photoshopped with gay pride symbols or makeup because it was considered disrespectful. Here, offense is distorted and used as a shield to deflect criticism.

13 Students who oppose flag burning are quick to point out what they see as a world of difference between photoshop and flags. “If a country is preventing people from photoshopping pictures of Putin, that means that their government is infringing on their citizens’ personal rights because they’re preventing the leader of their country from being attacked,” Wheeler claimed. “Here [in America], they’re just preventing a national symbol from being attacked.” In part, the statement is correct. What Russia has made illegal is completely different than the Western norm, where a largely unregulated internet frequently circulates art or writing that mocks politicians. For many Americans, this comprehension and general support of our right to express ourselves becomes shaky when nation symbols are involved. To them, the flag is different: a symbol of freedom that deserves special protection, if not for offense, then for fear of danger. “Today you burn down the flag, tomorrow you burn down the White House,” Wheeler declared. “It has to end somewhere, right?” What many fail to realize in this line of thinking is that freedom of speech does have restrictions. While petitions, marching the streets, and flag burning are all permitted, libel, explicit threats and damage are not. Thus, the First Amendment allows citizens to make their voices heard without allowing drastic action that would actually inhibit others’ liberties. When the government suppresses actions it considers to be offensive or controversial, however, the line between freedom and censorship becomes less clear. The universal rights expressed in our Constitution fall subordinate to more subjective thoughts such as offense. The moment you create a subjective boundary, you’ve essentially relinquished your freedom. Letting your personal liberties take a backseat in favor of more politically correct but malleable ideas such as offense creates an environment where quite literally anyone can call for your silence under the guise of being too controversial. This year, prominent activist groups such as Black Lives Matter campaign to remove Confederate statues and symbols from public areas, a sentiment that many agreed with under the notion of racial equality. But this quickly escalated to others calling for the removing of statues of our founding fathers as well, since they owned slaves. A more compelling argument than simply offense that could be made is that many Confederate states were set in place during the Civil Rights movements to intimidate African Americans who spoke out against slavery. One could make the case that this targeted message to incite fear in minorities was a form of racial discrimination and therefore should not be allowed to stand. Instead of this approach, however, the argument is watered down to ‘I’m offended, so we can’t have that.’ Its message is too flexible - it allows any idea to be marked as unfit for circulation on the basis of emotion. By allowing emotion to take control of expression, we quickly spiral into justifying more and more radical ideas in order to preserve the feelings of citizens instead of creating clear boundaries to allow the greatest freedom of expression. One could argue Wheeler’s earlier point with respect to censorship. Today we take down a Confederate statue, tomorrow we shred the Constitution. It has to end somewhere, right? That’s precisely why the 45.9% of Dougherty students who think flag burning should not be allowed is so disturbing. Too many students support ideas that chip away at our freedoms because they see things as black and white. They think that their concept of offense is so blatantly correct that this rule will play in their favor. Likely, changes like these won’t prevent hate speech or keep people from protesting national symbols. It means people who hoped to topple Confederate statues might witness the suppression of racial equality activism. Patriots who just wanted to keep everyone standing during our national anthem might instead be forced to remove their red caps. That’s the ultimate fate of exercising our right to express our ideas subjectively: restriction of our freedom. Creating such flexibility in our rights just means those in power decide what you can and can’t say because they decide what’s offensive, not you. That’s what 45.9% of students more or less stated that they agreed with when they said Americans shouldn’t have the right to burn out flag. They were unwittingly willing to cut corners on liberty, all while thinking that by unconditionally supporting the flag, they were defending it. It’s not a matter of whether or not you personally agree with burning the flag. Millions of Americans do not--and that’s okay. It’s not easy to set aside deeply rooted emotions in favor of upholding a cold, impersonal ideal like freedom of expression. No matter what happens, however, we must defend our freedom unconditionally so we don’t lose our footing on the slippery slope that is perceived offense. So maybe your emotions should take a backseat. *name changed for anonymity

LGBTQ in Indonesia Elexa Tanner

Have you ever wondered what it is like for someone who lives in a strict, religious country to be part of the LGBTQ community? As we see western countries become more accepting, understanding, and respectful of minorities, Indonesia is living in the past; the country still discriminates against the LGBTQ community. Due to the fact that Indonesia is a muslim country, a lot of its religious backgrounds make it hard for people to accept the community. Believe it or not, the LGBTQ community is commonly shunned and rejected by the majority of Indonesia. According to Pew Research Centre, 93% of Indonesia’s population does not think that the community should be accepted in their society. They claim that they are ‘infected' and therefore need to be avoided. This kind of rejection and discrimination against them are forcing the community to hide who they are, but those brave enough to embrace their true selves have a hard time living a normal life. Worst case scenario is that they are forced into the sex industry and forced to beg in the streets for their daily income, and all this because there are no workplace that would accept them. The rejection doesn’t stop there, they are also being rallied against by large numbers of people, and they are even called at by the authorities of our country. He says and I quote “It’s dangerous as we can’t see who our foes are, but out of the blue everyone is brainwashed — now the [LGBT] community is demanding more freedom, It really is a threat.” Rejection and shunning is just a part of it, another part is abuse. The community is faced with mental, physical, verbal, and sexual abuse from anti-supporters. Those who are openly a part of the LGBT community are dragged out of their house, beaten up, tortured, raped, forced to do sexual acts, and even urinated on. And these are just some of the kinds of assault the anti-supporters do them. One of the most commonly targeted people are the trans. Pratama, a transgender living in Yogyakarta, said that in 2011 and 2012, 85% of the trans community in Indonesia has faced violence. Abuse is common for those in the LGBT community. I am a pro-LGBT supporter and to see the way the people from my own country treat the community is heartbreaking. They are purposely causing the people of the LGBT community to suffer from mental illnesses like depression and anxiety. It is never right to abuse and cause someone pain and suffering. It is simply wrong, but this is what the community has to deal with when they live in a strict religious country. They can’t escape it because it is their life. Hayley Williams, lead singer of paramore, said that human beings are human beings, just treat everyone like that. And she’s right, because no matter if they’re gay or straight or trans or queer, we are all human beings, and we don’t have a right to treat or think of anyone else lesser than of that.

TOK Art Elexa Tanner

Perception itself can be defined as the ability to see, hear, or become aware of something through our senses. We absorb and input information and stimuli from our surroundings by perceiving the world around us. The arts are a huge area of knowledge that can stretch from language literature to interpretive dance. Artists tend to take the world around them and interpret what they understand or see in the form of art. Art is able to be interpreted differently by different audiences, and because of this, an original piece is more valuable than replicas or adaptations. Art is mostly meant to be an artist’s own personal perception of the world around him, but the meaning of an artwork may vary between different audiences. A painting can be perceived as a cry for help or as a mirror to the artist’s soul, depending on who is looking at the painting. Every single individual in this world has their own personal schemas that they develop through experience. They pick up values and interpretations of the world from the society or environment they are put in. The different worldviews around us provides various meanings to an artwork. Say two people look at the same sculpture. One is a psychologist, and the other a sculptor. The psychologist would take into consideration the emotional context and the mental state of the artist when analyzing the sculpture; on the other hand, the sculptor would analyze the size and color as well as the aesthetics of the sculpture. Both of them may come up with the same conclusion that the sculpture is outstanding, but they would understand the meaning of the sculpture differently. A variety of interpretations from the audience shows their interaction with the artwork; individuals are required to use their personal schemas to understand something unique. This interaction can make an artwork more valuable than it actually is. Shakespeare’s works are still considered literary masterpieces today as the intricate details of his plays are interpreted in various ways by different people all around the world. However, art can still be valuable without invoking different meanings between different audiences. Take the movie La La Land for example. The meaning of the movie is universal—it talks about a man and a woman who are both pursuing their dream as artists, a jazz musician and club owner, and a Hollywood actress. The movie includes various forms of art: cinematography, music, dancing, and acting. Even if this movie does not have various understandings from different audiences, it is still considered to be a very valuable piece of art and even has 6 of the 14 nominations in the Academy Awards, one of the most prestigious awards in the category of film. Perception is also very valuable in art, as it creates variety in artworks from different artists. As mentioned earlier, an artwork is an artist’s personal understanding and perception of the world around him, which provides variety in art. An original artwork is held in a higher regard than those that are replicates of another work. For example, The Battle of Anghiari is a lost painting made by Da Vinci in 1505. The original painting has been lost or, as some believe, is still hidden. Based on multiple references, multiple artists are able to replicate the valuable artwork, however the replicates will not be valued higher than the original painting, and even with replicates in museums, historians are still trying to recover and find the lost painting. This shows how valuable and meaningful an original and unique painting is. This however, can be challenged by referencing Shakespeare’s works, which are mostly stolen. Some of his most renown plays and works are actually plagiarized from different folk stories around Europe. This fact has still not reduced the value of his works and plays. Students and professors today are still studying Shakespeare’s work, even with the knowledge that much of it is not original. Although it is true that original works and works with have multiple interpretations are more valuable, there are still factors that make replicas and works that have a standard interpretation valuable to society. Artworks that are deemed valuable must meet standards set by society including originality and depth of meaning. Even then, some artworks are exceptions to others and have developed to become more valuable than society says they should be.

A One-Minute Incident That Spurred a Lot of Remembering Karunya Bhramasandra

As I drown in memory, I remark, rather ruefully, upon the fact that today started out more normal than most days, and definitely wasn't supposed to culminate like this. As I am washed away by choices of days long past, I can't help but wonder why—again, again, again. I keep asking myself that question these days, constantly probing myself for reasons, for justifications, for words that don't seem to want to string themselves together in the recesses of my mind to finally bring me some peace. I can’t help but wonder about my past. It's cold today, strangely colder than usual, but other than that, perfectly normal. I'm wearing my favorite jeans, my favorite shoes, walking to my least favorite class—perfectly normal. I'm a little traumatized by the devastating exam I just had last period—perfectly normal. Here’s what was far from normal: two freshmen whom I’ve found myself stuck walking behind. Now, these two freshmen kind of warm my heart—I don't know them personally, but who can miss them? They so obviously have a crush on each other. Trust me, I know how two immature, nervous high school kids act when they like each other. Filled to the brim with the overblown promises of true love that heinously inaccurate high school films show us. Under the impression that this will last forever, that they can handle something as terrifyingly vast as a relationship. The shy smiles, the not-so-subtle flirting. That that person… you know, they might be the one. Cue Memory #1. I, too, was a victim of hilariously awkward freshman-year flirting. That was most certainly a time I'd prefer to block out in my memory, but seeing how today went, that's probably not going to happen. It's vague now, seeing as I've grown so old and decrepit, but I can pinpoint a few moments. Walking closer to each other than we probably should have. Really loud (definitely undeserved) laughter at each other's lame jokes. Endless, endless, endless teasing. Those freshmen seemed too familiar to me. I wanted them to understand the distinction between what they saw onscreen in those movies and what they could have off-screen. That line is hard to find. Hopefully, neither of them will be weighed down by expectation of what they should be. And their definition of "they" seems to transitioning rather rapidly; today, as I found myself stuck behind them, I witnessed a truly spectacular moment. They're walking too close together again. Both of their faces are alight with the joy of being in each other's presence. It's so pure. She's holding her phone in her left hand and suddenly, without warning, he runs his right hand down her left wrist, as if to take her hand, but he can't, because she's holding her phone, and they have a moment of acutely awkward laughter as she obediently transfers her phone to the other hand and slips her left hand into his right hand. Their fingers aren't intertwined. They've probably both noticed that. It's only about a second's worth of interaction, but boy, does it take me back. Cue Memory #2. These are the kinds of awkward physical mistakes that go on the cutting room floor when they film those high school movies—the kind of stuff that isn’t even worth the blooper reel because it's so unremarkable. But there is nothing unremarkable about learning each other. I'm remembering other pairs of hands long past that fit together just as well. This latest couple seems to have truly embraced the spirit of Homecoming, the perfect opportunity to confess your undying love to someone. But this is new to them, as it was once new to me. Every time they hold hands, it must hit them that this is real, that this is actually unfolding before their eyes. It must make them wonder, what is my life. It must conjure up even more nervous laughs than before. Because, now, suddenly, in a shocking turn of events, you've admitted something to someone. You've admitted your vulnerability. There is nothing scarier nor more rewarding. I hope they know that. Halfway down the stairs, though, their hands slip away from one another. Perhaps the awkwardness—coming from the expectation that I’m desperately trying to ward away from the atmosphere around us—has overwhelmed them.

17 Cue Memory #3. How unremarkable it is to succumb to self-inflicted awkwardness like that. What a wasted opportunity, right? Wrong. It's no wonder they seem so familiar to me. In another life long past when I was not so old and decrepit, I was them. From experience, I know that there is nothing unremarkable about consciously not holding hands. There is nothing unremarkable about learning yourself in the context of this new other person in your life. You are allowed to feel awkward, let society's expectation of your budding romance rule your sentiments. But only for a moment. Once you realize that it is no one but you who defines your relationship, it sets you free. Once you are liberated from expectation, you've suddenly got millions less people to please. Suddenly, it's just you, and them. I hope they know that. The boy says something unintelligible, and the girl replies back immediately with what must have been an inside joke, her face playful and glowing. He dissolves into laughter. It's so pure. When I see them next after the period is over, they aren’t holding hands. They’re sitting together, talking animatedly and giggling—he's probably pestering her for something or the other. And I am drowning in memories and the weight of the assurances I want to give them. I want them to know what reality alongside another person feels like. But perhaps they need to figure that one out on their own. I am not God nor their friend; perhaps the one-minute incident I witnessed today was just an unremarkable one-off. Perhaps I'm reading too much into things, as I do, desperate to find a connection and unearth something profound in everything. Perhaps I've bothered you long enough with how I've just completely blown two kids holding each other's hands for a few seconds out of proportion. I don't think I woke up this morning wanting to remember all of this. But I also don't think I'm upset that I have. The learning process continues, well past the time you choose to allot for your first significant other. I bet they're texting each other now, late into the night, full of promises and excitement for the future they have decided to cultivate together. As a frankly too-invested onlooker who has once been where they are, I'd advise them to remember these moments. They’re fleeting and strong. I hope they know that.

Origins Pragathi Venkatesh and Benjamin Tan The searing pitch of plane engines shrieking in her eardrum; the shrill rise of brittle steel breaking against iron train tracks; the splintering rain hitting concrete towers ripping into the sky— She arrived at her son’s apartment, smelled the stale warmth shivering about her, stepped through the door, expected two smiling faces, her grandchildren, reaching out from beyond the haze and crying joy when they saw her: “Welcome Amma!” But no, the apartment was still. Dry night wind coalesced in pools around quivering windows; channel 55, etched into the upper right hand corner, hummed static on a sad television screen; a dying radio breathed nonchalant dust from the faded morning news; and illuminated by an electrical blue, her son, stripped to his underwear and a tight white shirt, melted upon a tattered couch mumbling nothings in his sleep. It couldn’t be helped. She left the room; it was dark. She felt her way along the walls. She glided her paper thin fingers across the pastel colors. Walked down a hallway. This was where they lived…. Her hand brushed against a wooden bed frame: the grandchildren’s bed. They slept soundly, listlessly, listening to the lulls of lullabies and dreams, quietly except for the pendulum rise and fall of their chests. She sat down next to them. This was their home. This foreign land, urban and petrified and distant from her, was theirs. This emptiness filled with the long dead songs of a shadowed house claimed their waking moments. They knew her. She was a pretty face on the holidays passing through their lives, falling through their fingertips. She had been the dark-skinned beauty in the middle of the marketplace playing cricket with her friends. She had been the neighbor lighting firecrackers clothed in the darkness of the early morning just to watch them fly high into the sky. She had been the culprit stealing from her parents just that touch of coin necessary to buy fresh coconuts from off the streets. She had lived. And now here she was. Aging. Lost. She needed concreteness. Needed to return to the romance of Mumbai. Needed the rickshaws, the melodies, and the festivities. Needed to press against her lips her roots and feel, just once, their coarseness ripple through her like wind and fabric. And here she was. A grandmother not knowing how to share her story with her two grandchildren. She didn’t understand the language of this concrete landscape. It was formless, shifting, swirling dust in patterns across her eyes, wrapping her in fear, and catching whispers in her ear. “Amba, you worry too much!” She could almost hear her sweet marumagal’s laughter seeming to catch itself amid the verses of stale, city air. If she could just catch that peaceful remnant. But that was all it was: stray memories that swim in the mind with age. It was all she ever could have. Tears welled in her eyes, but ritual refused to let them fall. Not here. Here, under a blanket of invisible stars and peerless smog, she had no words. The silk dresses she had run her hand through in store windows, her birthday wish; her childhood home with its dirt floor and straw roof; her struggle to put bread on the table so that she had her song could survive; the separation between her son and her ever since he moved away; and her grandchildren, snug in bed, and unknown to her all these were lost in the feeble night air. She touched the cheeks of her grandchildren, felt the biting steel in their breaths. It was late. It was time to rest. Time to forget her troubles. Time to let the morning usher away her worries. But she hovered, stagnant, catching her breath amid the valleys of an unknown landscape. She closed her eyes to the dizzying world, captured in her lungs the smoke and grime , and felt a small shrill, broken breath escape her. And then, one by one, the warmth in her eyes began to fall breaking against the ebb and flow of her grandchildren’s breathing. “I’m here,” she whispered. And as she watched the tears roll down from her cheeks, she hummed a small, little tune. Her grandchildren. Her home. Her regret. Her pain. Even if they could not understand the meaning of her song, it was all she could give them: her experiences, her wisdom. Her origins.

Daniel Samuel

Daniel Samuel is a student at Sekolah Pelita Harapan Kemang Village in Jakarta, Indonesia. Through his work, he criticizes the way humans work and react as well as their nature.

Mangga Dua Views

Lone

Fire and Fury

Locked Up and Insecure

Smoke Break

Authenticity

Untitled Riya Desai

First World Gag Michelle Li

Untitled Nandhini Sridhar

Bar Scene Benjamin Tan

en route to a museum on 32nd street Lauria Sun

she used to find it funny how one could spend hours staring at immaterial relics reminiscent of all things irrelevant to what she thought really mattered: those same hours staring at immaterial, irrelevant pixels dancing across dimly lit screens that held the unknown - waiting to be revealed at the brush of her fingertips only to shut down as the clock gently turns and turns (innumerable seconds at a time) until she is able to turn left [at the corner] and stumble home and pretend that empty wine glasses and faded curtains do have meaning over the years she has learned that money can buy happiness, only happiness is not for her. there are no sharp turns back into her empty heart, but that is irrelevant when she considers the monotonous voice of her routine life endlessly reminding her of better times: driving through dusty, abandoned fields with nothing but a mechanical voice telling her that she is miles away from any source of material things and in the long scheme of the universe what are taxes and unpaid bills compared to the irrelevant spinning of the earth around the sun and the sun traversing through the sky, never straying from its route (life is but a roundabout, after all), and the immaterial brush as a thousand lightyears pass through the empty echoes of empty breaths waiting to never be exhaled this is what she knows as she sits staring at immaterial things reminiscent of all that is relevant to her now: the blank white canvas faintly stretching across the wall close enough for her to reach out and brush with her fingertips to reveal the pounding secrets waiting to burst forth that in the grand scheme of the universe she is as immaterial and irrelevant as the sculpture of a man in the corner who is long dead and who will always be forgotten; that is to say, your destination will be on the right

remembrance Ivy Wang

are you there? vines clinging to the wall as you clung to life muted dawn, without your twinkling eyes the lake, silent without you hollow melodies, missing a soul waiting for accompaniment waiting for spring waiting for you a dead spring, until your whispers in the rustling leaves your laughter in the raindrops’ rhythm your face in the wispy carefree clouds petals in the wind, your flowing hair stars, your lullaby’s soothing chimes the vivacious river, your spirit’s melody i never once doubted that you were still here.

Stories Forgotten in the Morning Gita Supramaniam

Rock caves tragically block thoughts during the day and teasingly sparkle with colors and mystery during the night. It simply isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fair for someone who wants to be a dreamer, but only ends up daydreaming of finding inspiration. Dreams can be wonderful escapes of food like candy: sour blue and cherry-pink. They can be a place where not just the moon, but clouds and stars are made of cheese, soft and delicious. Then there are the nightmares of the plain and peculiar. Despite the soft mattress saying otherwise, I fall to a sudden jolt up. Worse, being inserted into horrors borne from stray musings. Confusion erupts from skin, almost like lava, boiling the air in swirling heat. Mundane details materialize, or fiery rage ignites at the sight of an innocent face. But they're beautiful and intriguing food for thought.

A Special Thank You to all those who helped us format and create cover art Here are our honorable mentions!

Nandhini Sridhar

Michelle Li's submission was chosen to be our front cover

Krishnapriya Hari

Akshatha Murali

Unknown

Benjamin Tan