The Saratoga Library’s Teen Advisory Board presents:
!"#$%&#' (')$*+,(,-'!(&(.$%+'/-'(%0'12,' *3+'*++%#'(%0'-2"*3'21' 4(,(*2&('
' 5##"+'5' 6"%+7'6")-7'8"&"#*'9:;<'
A Letter from the Founder When I opened my laptop to start writing this letter, I clicked first to my Internet browser and scrolled through my home page, a news website. The site announced the launch of a new tablet – or was it a smart-phone? – and all of its fantastic, innovative features that made this device, according to this website, loads different and infinitely better than its predecessor, an advertisement for which I am sure I remember seeing just a few days ago. The site also declared that this new product had been sold out minutes after it had been placed on store shelves and online. Seeing this advertisement and considering the rate at which new technology is created, I would be hard-pressed to argue that our world is not ruled by technology; however, I make the case for the lesser-considered ruler of the modern world: words. What makes the arena of technological innovation – and every other industry, from food to transportation – so successful is its ability to sell, its strength in communication. And as we have been taught since the early days of our education, the key to communication is language, and the key, of course, to language is words. Words are used for anything, everything, and for every little infinity in between. They have been used since the dawn of man and will be used until spaceships are the primary mode of transportation. This incredible realization that words – weird little symbols that are the building blocks of civilization – have immense power is what prompted me to found Musings. I wanted to create a space for the youth of Saratoga to wield the immense power of words, to create a little slice of the future and to gladly display it on these pages. And so I proudly present you with Musings: our little niche of the present, what will be the past, and what will soon be the future. Happy reading, Riddhi Sangam Founder and Co-editor
Table of Contents Less Than a Handful Swetha Tummala – cover page Reading for Writers Catherine Pugh – 1 What the Saratoga Library Has Done For Me Kiran Rachamallu – 2 Pocket Constance Lin – 2 runaway Meera Srinivasan – 2 Disillusioned Carolyn Sun – 3 Where I’m From Ashley Chen – 4 Ghost Town Rachel Hull – 4 silver candy wrappers Margaret Zhang – 4 You’re Dreaming Carolyn Sun – 5 Vessel Carolyn Sun – 5 Reversal Kriti Sharma – 6 Masterpiece Shreya Kanchan – 6 Forget Me Not Meera Srinivasan – 7 To Be Alive Jacqueline Lin – 7 Hurry, Little Flower Shloka Janapaty – 7 frozen petal Angela Lee -7 Blossom Mehak Sharma – 8 Con Man Carolyn Sun – 9 Alive Ingrid Pan – 10 Distance Linus Lu – 10 we wear black because it’s zhu yu’s death Angela Lee – 11 Musings’s Editorial Staff: Founder and Co-Editor-in-Chief Riddhi Sangam Co-Editor-in-Chief Ashley Chen Readers Sarah Deva, Cathy Guo, Amith Lukkoor, Jayee Malwankar, Jui Malwankar, Anokhi Saklecha
Reading for Writers Catherine Pugh My working theory is that there are two types of people in the world: those that buy books they’ve never read before, and those that buy books they have read. I guess I understand the former: it’s a chance to try something new, perhaps follow up on a book recommendation you always meant to get around to reading. But I will always be a staunch supporter of the latter. I love to re-read, to experience beautiful language all over again, to find new themes I might not have recognized before. And I never ever have to spend money on a book I might not like. Why take that chance? I have one final trick up my sleeve, my favorite place to be since before I can remember. The library. The Saratoga library is a key fixture in a lot of my childhood memories, from finding the matching characters in the children’s section to the summer reading program to the used book sale to the first time I ventured into the miles and miles (or so it seemed) of shelves in the adult section to the stop sign that always wishes me well as I leave: NEVER STOP READING. My room is practically papered with those little paper hold slips – the ones that aren’t being used as bookmarks. I’ve had the chance to volunteer in the children’s section in multiple
1
Santa Clara libraries, and like most voracious readers I have plenty of memories of taking home stacks of books, only to return the next week for more. That’s a memory I share with almost anyone that’s ever loved books. Except to me, the library is one thing more than refuge and sanctuary and escape and treasure trove and wonderland. I am a writer, and every writer knows you need to read before you can write. My most vivid dream for my future is a house overflowing with books and the time I would spend there breathing them in, letting them color my dreams and my reality. Every writer knows that the only way you can create worlds and characters and stories is by living more lifetimes than you could possibly experience by yourself – by reading. By continuing to read throughout your life, voraciously Before you can create your own words, you need to know what you like and what you don’t, what works and what doesn’t. What sets your mind and your heart on fire and what you’re just glad you didn’t spend money on. Books are a writer’s food and drink, and we need more of them than we could ever collect ourselves. No one could own that many books, no matter how long they spent searching. But libraries could. Libraries do hold that many books, and
they’re my secret weapon when I visit bookstores. I never buy a book I haven’t read, because why would I want anything but the very best for my own bookshelves? I find the best by checking out piles, stacks, mountains of novels and short story collections and nonfiction. In the course of one year I read over 30,000 pages, and I’m still counting. Some days I walk by the display in the children’s area and realize I’ve read nearly every book there. Some days I foray out into the cavernous adult’s section, searching for something new and interesting. Most days I don’t need to go exploring, because I have a list as long as my arm. I request my new books online, and a week later they mysteriously appear at my house. (My mother has become very familiar with the holds section in particular.) In order to write, I need to read. Until the day I have written dozens of best-selling novels, I could never have enough money in my wallet to sample all the books that catch my eye. And even then, the library will be my lifeblood, my infallible friend, my first choice when someone says “Hey, have you read…?” And if I ever made it to that kind of fame and success, I know the first place I’d go for my new book. I’d check it out of the library, of course.
Pocket Constance Lin What the Saratoga Library Has Done For Me Kiran Rachamallu The Saratoga Library is one of my favorite places to be. It has a nice cheerful atmosphere that I like. The library has affected my life a lot and has done so much for me. The library has given me my love of reading, a safe place for me to be after school, and has given me the opportunity to go to educational events. One reason why the library has affected my life is that it has given me my love of reading. My parents say that I will read anything and this is because of the library. I remember from the time I was three and could read simple picture books, I would go to the library often. Seeing the sea of books invoked curiousness in me, wondering what the stories were about. From Curious George to Magic Tree house to Percy Jackson to Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson, I have read many books in this library. The library has truly given me my love of reading. Another reason that the library has affected my life is that it has given me a safe place to be after school. On most Fridays, after school I walk to the library from Redwood
Middle School. I can be in a place that offers my favorite source of entertainment: books and magazines and can be in a safe place at the same time. I don’t know what I would do without the Saratoga Library. The last reason why the library has affected my life is that is has given me the opportunity to go to educational events. The Saratoga library has offered many great educational events. When I was little I would go to story time. Through elementary school, I joined book clubs. Now that I am in middle school, I go to some adult movies and lectures that the Saratoga library offers. One of my favorite events was watching the movie Farewell to Manzanar. It was about the Japanese interment during World War II. These events have changed my life a great deal. In conclusion, the library has affected my life a great deal. It has given me my love of reading, a safe place for me to go after school, and has given me the opportunity to go to educational events. I hope the library will stay like this for years to come.
I have a pocket. Full of crumpled dreams and long forgotten voices. A pocket to hold all the crumbs of nothingness that is everything. A pocket to turn inside out and let the pieces disappear into the wind. A pocket to hold the broken things.
runaway Meera Srinivasan her feet hit the ground and she’s never slowing down for her, the best way is away running far from her pain wanting something to gain by not bothering to stay it’s all right, look up enough conflict is enough much more, this new life is worth and she can’t go back. she’ll have nightmare attacks. living with her “loved ones” was worse she never settles back won’t cut herself slack no one she knows can see what she sees. and there’s no turning around no journeys “homebound” for where would her real home be?
2
Disillusioned Carolyn Sun 3
Where I’m From Ashley Chen I sit in the shade of the magnolia tree Whose anttraced limbs sheltered me when I wanted invisibility. Forever faithful, its skinny arms and legs never let mine bruise. Two teddy bear princesses that defined my childhood universe. Sugar brown, with fur soft as lamb’s ears, they ruled over imaginary worlds. I turn a page; the juice of pumpkin-colored persimmon fruit stains it. To me it speaks of hours watching the same feeble tree swell, pregnant With basketfuls of sweet fruit I hated because they didn’t look like apples. My heaven came in November, when the pineapple guava bushes dropped Green sugar spheres beside my feet. I stuck them in Trader Joe’s paper bags, Eating them by the strainer after lazy evenings. To the spine I finger the glued remnants of a pink streamer, which recalls Careless afternoons spent racing with my brother on a lollipop-colored bike. When he’d fall on the carpet, laughing at me, I’d stalk to my room, slamming the door To find solace with Harry Potter and Narnia’s Pevensies. Then I’d scratch the skin My eczema reddened and dried, as I glanced between it and an arsenal of antibiotics. I liked silence. Playground fights that started with takes-one-to-know-one and Tag-you’re-it I avoided, and instead I’d lean into a cushion of dirty clothes in the Darkness of my closet clutching a coverless diary and my favorite chewedout pencil. Scrawled writing recorded a trove of dreams forgotten, crushed between SAT classes and math competitions. I once wanted to dance ballet.
Ghost Town Rachel Hull
silver candy wrappers Margaret Zhang
They call it a ghost town without any ghosts Where people, they’re trying to make the most Of their situation, the hole that they’re in Where tears are abundant and smiles are thin
sometimes, I wish she was as insecure as I, that each passed window meant a stolen glance, a wince, a quick fixing of bangs.
The ghosts don’t haunt the graveyard; they’re not even dead But then one must wonder what they are instead They might seem transparent, hidden in a nook But they can be found when one knows where to look The ghosts are alive, in the core of one’s heart Now, they whisper and giggle when one falls apart The shell of a person, a shape on the ground Now, those are the places the ghosts can be found Steady, silent phantoms are roaming the streets Along with the dust and the strange tumbleweeds These ones are the ghosts that never will die Along twisted paths that they’re travelling by They call it a ghost town without any ghosts The phantoms are what people are holding close It just takes one person to open the gate The phantoms are always lying in wait
sometimes, I wish she didn’t love herself, that she rose two hours before sunup everyday to stare at the flaws of her naked body, to step onto the same scale, over and over again, and expect different results. sometimes, I wish she was just like me, that she scratched on eyeshadow just to scrub it off her face, that she slammed the palette onto the bathroom tiles, that she crushed the cakes of powder between her fingertips and flung it at her reflection. I would cloak her in silver candy wrappers, clasp her hands together, tell her she’s beautiful. but it would zip right through her ears, the buzz of a fly drowned out by heavy static, because she already knows it.
4
5
Above: Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re Dreaming Carolyn Sun || Below: Vessel Carolyn Sun
Reversal Kriti Sharma “Why did you refuse me so coldly? Did you know who I was? Who I am? It’s useless; you’re a fool who may have had a famous name but certainly no brains. I must listen to Father. I focused on my schoolwork and tried desperately to live up to my name. I refused to be outshined by those inferior to me, the filth that does not belong here. You were a fool for refusing my extended hand, but then, I am surrounded by fools, so I could hardly have told the difference. To my Father and Mother I perpetually asked “Haven’t I done what you asked me? Good grades, no mingling with riff-raff and all?” I was what I thought they wanted me to be, but it wasn’t enough. With this disfiguring mark seared into my skin, I was suddenly spurned by both those who supposedly stood with me and those who stood against me. Doomed to complete this unfathomable task alone, with you cutting me off at every turn, knocking me down before I could even try. I knew it was wrong, and that I didn’t have the courage to do it. But nevertheless, try I did. For mother, for father, for freedom, for respect. For love. For acceptance. And then I realized that none of this will ever be mine. I don’t deserve it. I should never have done any of this. I am sorry. I tried to express my repentance. I refused to recognize you. I did not see your face. This is the wrong man, I told them. And you were free. And later, you rescued me from the wicked tongue of death that was curling, licking at my heels, and I was grateful. I am grateful. I am pitiful, I am weak, I am cowardly, but I am grateful. A life of quiet is the last thing I deserve. And yet now, by some twist of fate, I have it. Despite the shadow of pain that looms over me at times, I have it. Sometimes I still wonder how it would have been if you hadn’t refused my extended hand. Or if, perhaps, we were different people altogether.” ~ a dramatic monologue from the perspective of Draco Malfoy
Masterpiece Shreya Kanchan You had captured my attention right from the beginning, but there is a delicate rope barrier placed between the two of us. And yet, that doesn’t stop me from crossing my way over to gape at your beauty. I become a spectator to your magnificence because you are a museum of treasures and jewels and age-old artifacts. I want to hold each part of you up to the light–carefully brushing away the dust, just so I can examine you forever. You are a painted canvas that holds a thousand paint strokes. The color of your eyes (china blue, and beautiful) would put Picasso’s work to shame. I want to stare at the mosaic of your heart; I want to press my face up to the stained glass windows of your soul. Let me touch it, let me touch it. Some days you are like Bernini’s statues–your nose carved to resemble your mother’s; your stature like your father’s. There is a certain grace to your movements that even manages to surpass Degas and his ballerinas. Where do I fit in between all of this flawlessness? I want to hold your porcelain hands in my own. So delicate. So fragile. You are priceless. You are the curve of the Mona Lisa’s smile, you are the starry (starry) night, and I want you all to myself. The sign says do not touch yet I leave like a thief in the night. You are smudged, coated, tattooed with my fingerprints. You are my very own masterpiece.
6
Forget Me Not Meera Srinivasan
To Be Alive Jacqueline Lin
Seems like I’m fading away A passing dream, not to last. But maybe, maybe I might stay And bring back the times past. I’ll always remember you Don’t fear, it’ll always be true Even when it seems like I’ve forgotten everything It’s still staying with me The memories never sting. I won’t forget your helpful words You crafted out of air. Your amazing selves will stay with me No matter where. I won’t be gone long, I won’t be gone long So don’t treat me like a fading breeze Or anything that disappears I’ll come back, I promise. So try and hold back the tears.
I can fly Through an open sky And maybe a thousand more But I don’t think I’ll survive a storm Cause I’ll be scared to soar
Hurry, Little Flower Shloka Janapaty Bloom, bloom little flower! Coming soon is your hour!
But if I don’t fly When the storm’s up high I will never know What it’s like To be alive Because I stay down low
frozen petal Angela Lee
The plants will awaken, And winter will be shaken,
the thought of a single petal in lonely lines of pink kissing the sky goodnight and slipping under the sheets of dotted raindrops pure and clean morphing, holding hands crystalizing a cage of melting transparency freezing beauty freezing life and freezing time
When you open that pretty bud of yours.
if only I could freeze you
Spring is near, The time is here, To open that pretty bud of yours, which may have petals in groups of fours, Or maybe eight! Hurry, hurry, don’t be late!
7
I’ll only go If I fly low Away from the storm ahead And once it’s done I’ll be the one Who will not end up dead
Blossom Mehak Sharma When I look into a field of blossoms on a fine spring evening I think of the bubbly children who I sometimes babysit on Saturday nights I think of the inquisitive look in their shining eyes, When they ask me if the moon is really made of cheese. Every time, I laugh and say “yes”— Knowingly contradicting everything I have ever learned Because in all likelihood, I’ll never find out for sure. When I look into a field of blossoms on a fine spring evening I think of the summer of 2007 Day after day, my baby brother and I found mystical, faraway lands In the proximity of our own backyard. Night after night, we sketched our findings into little notebooks And he looked up to me in wonder and awe And that sheer innocent joy so commonly found in the eyes of young children At the time, I thought he was the only one learning and maturing— Little did I know that I was growing just alongside. When I look into a field of blossoms on a fine spring evening I think of myself as one of those vivid buds Just as these delicate buds bloom into ferocious beauties, I am still growing. The shine in the eyes of the kids I have met Is undoubtedly present in mine For it is the knowledge, the experiences, the inquisition, the struggles, And the sheer simply joy of life That shape us and give us the uniqueness, The vivid, unsurpassable colors that I see my reflection in, When I look into the field of blossoms on this fine spring evening.
8
Con Man Carolyn Sun
9
Alive Ingrid Pan
Distance Linus Lu
Incandescent light bulb turned on
Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not a matter of oceans or miles or tall mountains.
Works best at night When everything else is dark shines Through tungsten filament double coiled currents flow glow Seems to mean to outsiders peering in innovation creativity inspiration But is simply a cluster of glass inert gas just another electric device Only highlights a certain radius wishes rays could stretch farther further Tries harder trespasses limits One of the dozens that illuminate the room together Without others only a fraction is visible Unique needs CFLs LEDs that offer more efficacy life time Variety is key
Sometimes I stare out the window, and I imagine going somewhere farther and farther: being lost in a thick green forest stranded in the midst of giant sand dunes the horizon stretching on forever I feel far away, it feels quiet. The birds have stopped singing. The grass dead and the land dead. But I feel alive, so alive, my senses fired up. Windless and still. No movement. Absolute silence. I hear my pulse, my breath, and my thoughts. They sound far away. A light, a shimmer.
Incandescent light bulb turned off
10
we wear black because it’s zhu yu’s death Angela Lee rather sentimental at first sight, isn’t it? a dying girl and wilting flowers braided into dry tendrils that poured over her cotton bedding but the intensity in the room climbed it was silent but unsettling as I smelled war on her mind and she screamed in silence as it wracked her whole body and her tortured spirit clashed against itself again, and again bloodied, and beaten but again, and again the doctors and nurses taunted their hostage threatening to fire the missiles unless she became one of them: monsters she died before they could kill her, or at least that’s what the doctors say we all wore black and it rained sunflowers in the hospital that day oh, but don’t they know those missiles won’t be prepared for zhu yu’s comeback zhu yu it rings of joy and patriotism for it means freedom in our language taiwanese and yes, there is a difference between taiwan and china a difference between the way we act, the way we speak the way we think that we belong to nobody because the next time i see zhu yu she’ll be breathing normally in a chinese hospital no, it will be in taiwan, no, it won’t be a hospital she will be soaring through fields of sunflower, the liberty bell ringing free, at last
""! !
5LGGKL 6DQJDP $VKOH\ &KHQ 6DUDK 'HYD &DWK\ *XR $PLWK /XNNRRU -D\HH 0DOZDQNDU -XL 0DOZDQNDU $QRNKL 6DNOHFKD