Fault Lines 2018 by The Bishop's School

FAULT LINES â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

FAULT LINES A literary magazine of The Bishopâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s School La Jolla, California May 2018

Fault Lines Staff Editors: Rita Kimijima-Dennemeyer and Liz Szymanski Staff Members: Athena Tsu Lucy Liu Carlyssa Phoon Hannah Robbins Priscilla Hsieh Sabrina Webster -Faculty Oversight: Rickey Fayne

Dedication My years at Bishop’s have imbued me with a love of language, and a I owe a lot of my passion to Dr. Banta. I have had the great fortune of taking a class with him every year since freshman year, and under his tutelage I have seen myself grow not only as a Latin and Greek student, but also as a writer and overall language-lover. If you have ever spoken to this man, you will know that he is a wealth of knowledge. You can’t take a class with him without finding out something you never would have expected to learn; mythology, history, etymology, even mathematics–you name it, Dr. Banta will find a way to sneak it into a conversation about classical texts. My conversations with him have utterly transformed the way I think and write. I’ve learned that I don’t have to shy away from my diverse interests; there’s always a way to weave a story together if you know how. Thank you for teaching me so much and being a mentor to me. I will carry this knowledge with me forever.

Rita Kimijima-Dennemeyer 18’

Contents Cover Artwork: The Roar of Nature

Elisabeth Holm ’21

Dedication Artwork: Crocodile

Carly Phoon ‘20

Why I Write

Lucy Liu ‘20

Loved is a book

Maya Ebel ‘21

Flying through the Scales

Jeffrey Wang ‘21

The Vibrance of Childhood

Elisabeth Holm ‘21

Hidden Among the Leaves

Lauren Whitlock ‘21

All in a Rose

Liz Szymanski ‘19

Breaking Open

Danielle Straus ‘18

Strung Along

Bela Kellogg ’21

Mass

Sabrina Webster ’21

Crush

Bennett Hixson ’18

Stars and Scars

Veronica Tang ’18

More Than Meets the Eye

Carly Phoon ‘20

Old Passport Photo

Carly Phoon ‘20

Won’t Find Me Begging

Eric Pan ’21

A Lonely Sophomore’s Unofficial Guide to Love at Bishop’s

Matthew Ai ‘20

Restless

Nicole Ellsworth ‘21

Golden Gate Bridge in the Nighttime

Joelle Jeon ‘21

SNOW

Cassidy Ratner ’21

a silent song

Alexandria Delatorre ‘19

Hatching Light

Danielle Straus ’18

He Sacrifices to Him with Solemnity

Evan Peng ’18

Coffee Cup

Abby Mack ‘19

Womanhood

Veronica Tang ‘18

Yuxin Shi ‘18

Two Reasons

Rita Kimijima-Dennemeyer ‘18

cool girl

Bennett Hixson ‘18

A Letter to My Body

Delilah Delgado ‘21

stage directions for a tragedy

Crystal Wang ‘19

Amari

Nicole Ellsworth ‘21

Native

Nicole Ellsworth ‘21

In the Woods that I have made irrelevant

Crystal Wang ‘19

The Only Difference

Sabrina Webster ‘21

John

Nathan Huynh ‘19

A Certain Sort of Yearning

Eric Pan ‘21

Wait by the Roadside

Why I Write: An Imitation of Terry Tempest Williams Lucy Liu â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 It is dark outside as I sit on the bus ride home. I watch the lights of the cars pass by. White light comes towards me and red light moves alongside me. As I am enveloped by a blanket of boredom, I feel my hands twitch and reach for a pen as yearning swirls inside of me, but my hands remain resting still in my lap. I think about why I write. I write to collect myself. I write to unravel. I write to weave phrases and punctuation into vibrant textiles of story. I write to teach. I write to learn. I write to savor the flavors of language. I write to make myself real. I write to preserve myself in time. I write to stop time. I write for tranquility. I write for cacophony. I write to hear the melody of thoughts. I write to orchestrate the symphony of words. I write to weep my unshed tears. I write to exist. I write to disappear. I write to sing in the way I know how. I write to sculpt vague ideas, thoughts, feelings, into tangible things I can see, just a little beyond the surface of ink. I write for the beauty of literature. I write for words like boustrophedon, apopemptic, and mishpacha. I write for words like love and joy and laughter. I write for the satisfaction of the last sentence. I write to invent. I write to prove my dreams exist. I write to commemorate the infinitesimal moments of life. I write to conceive meaning out of a world that never stops changing. I write for my sanity. I write because of my insanity. I write as an ode to the wildflower I found, a splash of color and perseverance that swayed triumphantly in the early autumn wind against a backdrop of lifeless, gray concrete. I write for the little miracles. I write for the luvable loveable mistakes. I write for the future that may never arrive. I write because I am a photographer of moments. I write because it is a challenge. I write to cultivate a voice. I write to find beauty and strength in life. I write to give away pieces of myself. I write to impact. I write to evoke. I write to enrich. I write to become a better person and in becoming a better person, better the world. I write because it is the way I remember the world. I write because it is the way I forget. I write to understand. I write out of hope. I write out of fear. I write out of a necessity to hold some amount of power in a world where I meet thousands of people that I will never see again. As I write, I begin to feel helpless as the enormity of everything sinks in and I realize how small, and insignificant I am. What can I possibly hope to accomplish by writing? Even this very list will probably be read once and then stored on a shelf to gather dust, or maybe recycled into a clean slate for someone else to fill. Eventually only the faint ghost of bliss and accomplishment from writing this will remain somewhere in the hidden crevices of my mind along with the hazy summer days of second grade. Then I remember the sentences of other writers. The ones that make me stop, and think, and reread them over and over again and sound them in my head and taste the words as they roll off my tongue and just marvel at the utter beauty in that sentence; the way the words were strung so cleverly, so intricately, and so delicately together and how they fit perfectly. Those sentences are why I write. Those sentences are proof to the power of words. They cause me to believe that my words can create an impact. I realize that even if the only thing my writing makes better is me, that difference still causes the world to be a better place. I write to change the world.

Loved is a Book Maya Ebel â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 timeless stories caressed and held with little hands loved to the end of time Watching kids go by and by hands get bigger and feet get longer and the book gets smaller cherished and rubbed but it is still read over and over with every goodnight with weathered down pages faded print touched by many and touching the hearts of many more

Flying Through the Scales Jeffrey Wang ‘21 A solitary car speeds downhill on the desolate neighborhood street, whizzing past house after house. From yards with dainty flower beds and trimmed lawns to expansive lots and jungle-like growth, each house remains silent. Only the first few streaks of light have begun to flow across the sky, disrupting the dark of the night. As the car continues zooming down the slope, it begins to near the neighborhood park at the bottom. The three-story, imposing house fronts are slowly replaced by fan palms and willow trees. Eventually, it makes it to the bottom, blurring past the neighborhood park of desolate fields and dew-laden flower beds. The sky is now a translucent gray, although the bright, yellowed hues of the sun slowly chip away at its dull metallic color. In the sleepy morning, most remain asleep and the occasional, distant cricket chirp still reverberates through the street with astounding clarity. Yet, while the neighborhood remains drowsy, the now-bustling park is entering the busiest stage of the day. The flowers, freed from their dewy shackles, all point to the west, bathing themselves in the cozy warmth of the occasional beam of sunlight. A rabbit skips across the field, bouncing fluffily. The air is refreshingly crisp, infused with the distant scent of fresh grass. The trees are locked in a slow, flowing dance, moving and rustling in the direction of the wind’s music. In the flowerbed, the air suddenly flutters. It hums with a newfound energy. Despite the forlorn sky, the glowing wings of red and orange butterflies begin to streak across the air. As one buzzes next to a bright red and blue bird of paradise flower, it slows to a halt. Its wings now flap slower; it carefully lowers itself down onto the flower’s sweet, nectar-filled inside. The head begins to cock forward. The antennas pull backward. The wings now drum a slow, steady beat. Burrowing into the flower, its long, rolled tongue, usually hidden away from sight, begins to unravel. Tantalized by the delectable liquid inside, the butterfly extends its tongue into the flower, scraping into the sweet, slightly tangy glaze of the golden nectar. Within moments, the wings begin to beat again. As the butterfly softly hums through the air, it joins the symphony of voices around it, amalgamating into a tranquil harmony that resonates across the park. Inside the bushes, the ladybugs make up the woodwinds. As they scurry from leaf to leaf, the soft undertones of the rustling leaves, though quiet, permeates the music. Just outside, percussionists whiz through the air. From the slow, beating flap of the butterfly’s wings supplying the bass to the rapid buzz of the bees adding to the tenor, each performs in sync with one another. In the midst of the chaos, the wind whispers quietly in the background. Despite the musicians seemingly focused on themselves, the sounds blend into a seamless harmony. Each flare of life — the wind, the bugs, and the bees — channels energy into the instruments. The trees and the flowers undulate with the dual harmonies between the wind and the bees. In a higher, separate voice, ladybugs move from leaf to leaf, providing a light, playful rustling sound, superimposed upon the low hum from the others. Diffusing into the small space, the tones begin 3

to blur. The edges of each tone are as soft as an artisan cashmere jacket, warmly melting into other pitches. As the musicians perform with smooth efficacy, the audience moves to the music as well. As a ladybug ambles across a leaf, each miniscule step sways the branch, moving it with the music. As the bees and butterflies move from red geraniums to pink azaleas, the dark green stems and colorful petals follow them. As the wind gusts onward, unique in its depth and tone, the trees sway in unison. The audience glides with the melodious nuances in the rich depth of the rustling, bustling wildlife. Uphill, a different symphony is being played out. A boy is preparing to leave his home, but he first enjoys a bowl of porridge prepared by his dad. In the porridge, a slight saltiness from the dried, roasted pork inside competes against the zest of the bright orange sweet peppers thrown in. Each flavor is set in the backdrop of the watery rice, vying for attention beyond the monotonous base flavor. Moments later, the bowl is completely empty. Wiping away his mouth and pulling on a hoodie, he is preparing to visit the park. After stuffing a ringed notebook and a few #2 pencils into his bag, he runs out of the house, his mom close in pursuit. Upon arrival, the boy rushes out and calls, “Ma, it’ll only be a second!” A moment later, after trampling across the still-damp field and staining his shoes with the fresh mud, he reaches his destination: the concert. Yet, rather than taking a seat on a nearby bench and basking in the quiet lyrics, he steps onto center-stage. The musicians pause. The slow, monotonous flap of the butterflies dissipates. The bees, hastily whirling from one flower to another moments before, settle. The ladybugs retreat into their bright red-and-black shells. Each looks up. Each watches as the imposing human figure moves closer. Each watches as the hands begin to stretch outward. Each watches in horror as the destruction begins. He begins by uprooting geraniums. Although he has a focus on the tall-stemmed, magenta flowers, he tears the violet and red ones as well. Check. Afterward, he steps forward and shifts his eyes toward the bushes. After eyeing multiple berries and examining the color, he picks out the blue-hued ones with light green stems. Check. Finally, after glancing at his notebook checklist, he snaps off a low-hanging willow limb, one almost as long as his leg. Check.

In a shrill voice, he shouts, “Ma, I got everything I need!”

Stolen of their instruments and their audience, the musicians look onward in a stunned silence. In a hushed tone, they hear the muffled sound footsteps slowly fading away.

The Vibrance of Childhood Elisabeth Holm â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

Hiding Among the Leaves Lauren Whitlock ‘21 I arrived through the city but love the forest. Sunset. And the beams of light poking through the thick cover of leaves, the calls of hundreds of birds, the soft running of the squirrels and the deer, the cool air caressing the tree trunks with dark green moss creeping up the sides. One frail memory dragged up from my childhood—playing hide and seek through the endless trees and stumbling over the ubiquitous roots, laughing as I stood up, dirt on my knees. For years, I sang the great grey owl’s call, dancing to the soft sounds of the forest. There is nothing special about this forest, but it is real life. It is as sincere as fresh picked blueberries, nabbed just before the birds came to feast on mother nature’s dessert. Infinite woods cohabit with flora and fauna where the sun is shaded by the lush canopy to ease the heat of the floor, teeming with life. Who was I playing with? Automatically, as I step through the undergrowth with my childhood friend, we sing the songs of the cardinals and the owls, but I love it here, running out into the green anonymous among the city behind us, our parents watching from the edge as they wait, the blissful tingle of the brisk twilight air immersing us in the soft grasp of the forest, holding us with nothing but the words, forest, canopy, woods, grove, jungle.

All in a Rose Liz Szymanski ‘19 Victor is in prime viewing position. His worn, floral armchair angles directly toward the parlor window, and his dusty binoculars are within reach. The smell of burnt popcorn wafts in from the kitchen’s microwave. Victor wants some, but his knees aren’t cooperating, and besides, it’s almost showtime. As the familiar Westminster Quarters ring 7:30 from the mantle clock, Victor sits and waits eagerly for an expensive SUV to park in front of the house across the street, just like one does every Friday night. The car is always different, as is the boy driving. But, the rest is just the same. They come to call upon the girl of the house, who is remarkably pretty for eighteen years and legendarily popular. Victor watches with amused cynicism, as he has for the last year and a half, since the weekly callings began. He has been a people-watcher since boyhood, and in his 88 years never did care for the television, especially not the malarkey the homecare nurse records on the the DVR machine. With no other plans, he watches the Friday courtship rituals—when teenage suitors from high schools from far and wide try their luck with the princess of the house. Few receive the courtesy of a second date. Twilight sets and he perches in an ancient chair, anticipating the night’s events through his thick lenses. Raising crooked hands, he pushes the simple, boxy frames further up his peeling nose. With nothing left to do but wait, he looks to his wife, Dorothy. Her picture companions his spying chair. The photograph is yellowed, but its image is still young. In the photo’s black and white memory, she wears a peaceful joy in her smile. A perfect rose is nestled in her hair, and despite its present greytone blossom, Victor relives its once vibrant red hue. It was he who had plaited it behind her tender ear. The chimes ring again, 7:45. Victor recounts aloud, for Dorothy, some of the memorable failures that have scrambled to his young neighbor’s door: the idiot who wore beach sandals, or the jerk who didn’t bother to leave his car and instead used the damn cell phone to call her out. He knew they wouldn’t be back. As 8:00 draws nearer, the old man begins his live-action commentary. He prefaces by shunning the shenanigans that teens seem get into these days and declares how things were done right in his days. He knows Dorothy would have laughed, shook her head, and smirkingly reminded him of their own shenanigans—florid, flushing, and flourishing. She could always make him blush. With that, a silver Honda CR-V approaches slowly, as they always do Date 1, searching for the house numbers hanging from the fire-yellow paint of her house. This time, it is a lanky teen, clean shaven, dark haired, and rather scrawny that parks and peers out the driver-side window. He stretches into the back seat of the car, retrieves a parcel, and collects it to his navy blue button-down and black tie. The kid gets points for the get-up. Victor wears an impressed frown and raised eyebrows. He’s raised the bar. In vain, Victor wishes once more for popcorn. Then, with a gust of courage, the teen gets 7

out of the car, turns, marches up to her front door. Victor pulls back his blue polyester curtains even more to devour the unfolding situation. On the doorstep, the young boy pauses. He paces, muttering to himself. Victor snorts. Ring the damn bell already. Women don’t like to wait. Dorothy would have laughed at that, he knows. The boy complies to Victor’s unheard advice. Twenty seconds later—a record, that girl usually keeps them waiting—the door hinges, and her curious and bright eyes emerge, smiling at him and the present in front of her. Victor cranes his neck, but the damn boy’s head blocks his view. What’d he bring her? Upon seeing her smile, the boy’s shoulders loosen and neck straightens; he delights in her reaction. As the young couple turn toward his car, Victor at last sees the gift. The young girl’s nose brushes gently the petals of a dozen crimson roses wrapped in golden paper. Victor’s heart lurches. She’ll marry that man, Victor whispers, and he knows Dorothy would have agreed and giggled fondly at him whom she loved past death.

Breaking Open Danielle Straus â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Strung Along Bela Kellogg ‘21 I am one bead strung on my mother’s rosary, of burden, pain, and love. The five beads on her rosary that she cherishes the most: the first one, broken in half, the second one, crack forming down the center, the third one, scratched and discolored, the fourth one, fragile and still unbroken, and the fifth one, a pristine outer shell but a hollow inside. With every movement my mother makes, these beads lightly scratch her neck, yet she is unable to to take them off, because she loves these broken beads. The collection of beads strung on my mother’s rosary conceals the worn down piece of string running through the beads. My mother uses those beads to protect herself from seeing what’s there. Weakness. If observed closely, these beads appear exactly the same. This is because her beads of strength and weakness transcend the state of coexistence. They exist within each other. Strengths are fallible. That’s where her weakness lies, in her strength. The same can be said about the traces of her strengths showing through in her weakness. People seem to define themselves based on their strengths. However, for those like my mother, it takes defining the strengths in one’s weaknesses and the weaknesses in one’s strengths to clearly see their set of beads. Soon, my mother’s rosary will become a memory, just as the memory of my grandmother’s collects dust inside an aged mahogany jewelry box. When my mother was two years old, my grandparents left for a four week trip to Peru. This left my mother in the care of my great-grandparents. During those four weeks, my great-grandmother changed my mom’s diapers, brushed her hair, fed her, played with her, and tucked her into to bed every night. Months later, when my grandparents arrived home and my grandmother picked up my mother from her crib, she cried out for her mother, but my great-grandmother had already left the room. I used to worry that the beads strung on my mother’s rosary would end up threaded onto my own. Except this fear is beginning to fade away, because I know I can overcome my mother’s beads as she did with her mother’s beads and as my grandmother did with her mother’s. I don’t think my mother ever forgave my grandmother for what she did that time and the hardships that my mother endured later on, but my mother had the strength to overcome it. So, I know that maybe I can overcome the trials my mother puts me through. I also know that one day, I will have the strength to carry the weight of my own beads, not only for myself, but also for others. That is the day my mother will be able to take off her rosary.

Mass Sabrina Webster ‘21 Point Loma, California 4:15 p.m. 1140 Evergreen Street, Saint Agnes Parish. The Saturday service is about to begin. Father Don, Vicky, and the nice old woman with the red hair whom I refer to as Linda, stand in a semi-circle around the church doors greeting the parishioners. “Hi girls!” Vicky says. I send a smile back as I trudge up the brick steps and through the open wooden doors. People gather around the holy water, taking turns dipping and blessing, which to me sounds a lot like an ice cream flavor at a Christian family run restaurant. I dip the index finger on my right hand into the small bowl of holy water mounted on the wall. The cold liquid wets only the tip of my finger. I bless myself: forehead, chest, shoulder, shoulder. The holy water doesn’t evenly distribute. My forehead, being first touched, receives the most water. A cold droplet starts to trickle down my forehead. From my forehead it slowly makes its way down to the bridge of my nose. I wonder if it is “unholy” for me to wipe off the water. Deciding I need all the holiness I can get, I let the water continue to occupy my face. The Priest’s processional begins down the center aisle as the latecomers file into their side aisle seats. Rex, the only member of the Saturday church choir belts out a familiar tune, Blessed be the Lord, accompanied by his guitar. At the front of the holy parade, the mustache man whom I guess is named Rob, holds the bible above his head followed by the deacon, the altar girl, and finally Father Don, dressed in his purple lenten robe, stitched with a golden shimmery pattern, creating a simple design that that contrasts the mauve fabric. After the first song is over, and everyone has retreated to their respective pews, the readings begin. Today, the lady with the blonde hair who’s natural speaking voice is an aggressive shout is giving the reading. “A reading from the book of Job.” “Glory to you O lord” the parishioners parrot back. As I listen to the lady whose shouts relay Job’s suffering, I sit, thinking about all the homework I should be doing, the tests I should be studying for, and practically anything else I could be doing besides sitting at church listening to a lady shout. I can relate to Job’s struggle, has he ever studied for a Physics test, a Chinese cumulative, and written an English paper in one night? Church is a place for people to reflect, talk to God, find peace, and a place where thoughts of homework can wait until after church. I enjoy church not because I’m asking for forgiveness or filling a void in my life, but because it is a peaceful environment where one can be quiet, calm, and engaged even if it is something as simple as making up someone’s name or reflecting on the artwork on the back page of the missal. Father Don’s homily is the pinnacle of the mass. His speech flows freely, like an improvised dance, unrehearsed but flawless, abstract but grounded in reality. His voice is pleasing to the ear, conveying with it his understanding of the gospel and relating it to a past experience or a childhood memory. His natural speaking voice is easy to comprehend, like the narrator of a Ken Burn’s documentary. But rather than an in depth analysis of the Civil War, Father Don poses answerless questions, profound statements, a sad story, an uplifting event, or a joke, which makes the older women in the church chuckle. All are components of a Father Don homily. The people at church are all different. One of my favorite couples is “The Lord Hear Our Prayers,” named this because Mr. Lord Hear Our Prayer says the weekly intentions in a strange 11

cadence. The Lord Hear Our Prayer couple is always at mass and usually sits a couple rows in front of us. They greet us with a smile or some nice words and never fail to make church interesting, like when Mr. Lord Hear Our Prayer makes a loud comment during the moment of intentional silence. He bent over to his wife and asked, “Are you still losing your hair?... Just thought I’d ask”, and she promptly quieted him but not until the nearby parishioners heard the awkward comment. Another church friend is a woman who looks identical to pre-weight loss Lisa Lampanelli. She always is accompanied by her mother who takes out her hand sanitizer immediately after everyone shakes hands, and filling the church with the sterile smell of purell. There are others including the lady who rearranges her purse during the first ten minutes of mass, which makes an obnoxious rustling sound, the woman who has to sit in five different seats before she makes her final selection, and the lady who cuts two to three pews to get her communion before everyone else despite the fact that Jesus is watching. Getting and receiving the host, or the eucharist, is another special part of the mass. Walking down the aisle allows for an opportunity to hear everyone bleating the hymn, but it doesn’t matter if someone is flat or off key, no one is judging, it is church after all. The eucharist is dry and flavorless and has to be eaten carefully to avoid it getting stuck to the roof of your mouth, yet it makes for the most interactive part of church. After communion, the mass ends with some closing announcements and a final prayer from Father Don. Before Father Don’s exit processional, people plan their escape from church, ditching out before the last song ends and before the priest is out the front door and on bricks again. I never leave early. I wait until the last chord has been strummed and applaud the only member of the Saturday church choir, Rex.

Crush Bennett Hixson â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

Stars and Scars Veronica Tang ‘18 All is fair in love and war, but nothing’s ever fair, so there must be something very, very wrong with both. And really, what’s the difference? One leaves bruises on the body, the other bruises on the heart. So, someone tell me – in this world of love, lust, and violence, where does one end and the other begin? Is the feeling not the same, this same chemical rush of adrenaline, this boiling of the blood? This heat, deceit, this pounding heartbeat is universal to lovers and fighters both. And even the ancients saw the truth, for who else but with the god of war would the goddess of love tangle with? I’d like to think that this collision of Venus and Mars was no soft affair, because stories of lovers who curled together in tinseled satin sheets exist only in dusty scrolls and fairy tales.

Not in this wasteland.

Every day is just another day, a day marked by nothing more than the ticking of the clock on the wall, because this is the only way I can be, the only way I can eat. This job is better than most, for fabric and thread does not wear as much on my hands, and I can count the seconds with the whirring, clicking of the sewing machines. Before this came the hard work, the time spent with an aching back hunched over rows of crops I didn’t know if I could afford because it was easier to buy sweet potatoes at a $1 a pound. These years of counting minutes, seconds go by have drawn the lines in my skin, and these years of working have stolen my curves and given me wiry muscles and clumsy calluses instead. But when she stood before the mirror wearing nothing, she looked like the frieze of Diana on a temple wall. And perhaps Diane herself remembers ancient history, when the silver goddess of the moon ran wild and ran free, before Orion spilled his blood in the waves from whence he came. She never should have changed, but how could she not? Time and loneliness have a habit of wearing down the mind.

Not out like others, hunting love.

He never swept her off her feet, and when they fought, it was with hunting knives as much as it was with words… but it must have been love, for what else could explain this emptiness he left behind? And she’s still trying to forget, so when she runs now, she runs from her memories of 14

him.

… that aching sweet pain hit her and she clutched her own mouth and cried out.

I’ve grown to resent this habit of mine, of checking the clock periodically. I feel like a pulsar, a neutron star that emits pulses of electromagnetic radiation regularly enough to rival the time keeping skills of an atomic clock. Because what use will this habit ever be for me? What use do I have for time when time is used to measure change, and my life no longer changes? Hope abandoned me long ago, and I have no choice but to slave away, day after day. This nation of dreams is nothing more than an asylum for the disillusioned and a graveyard for the undocumented. In the day, she told him she didn’t forgive him for anything – for leaving her in this world without him. But the cold night air riddled holes in her resolve. She wrapped herself in furs to remember the warmth of his arms and the sweetness of his words, but all she could hear was the whistle of her arrow as it flew past her cheek. No one will ever know what it was that killed him – her arrow or the scorpion’s sting – but in her heart, she knew it was her love that killed him. And she had been unable to save him, this hunter who defied gods to love her in return. So she placed him in the stars, etched him into the heavens with silver pricks of light, and now the world still knows his name, his love, and his final hunt.

She had been thinking only of holding onto him somehow.

Sweep the pieces of your life off the floor and stitch your arteries back together, until your soul begins to breathe again, until your heart begins to beat again. She walked or hitchhiked to whatever work she was able to find, travelling on the shoulder of the long rolling roads while the golden sunrise, an event of galactic stillness, spilled across the desert still cold and blue from the night. The night still brought the stars to light, and every winter, Diane could still see Orion in the sky, until summer came and Scorpio regained control of the skies.

She put her shoulders under the bar, said a prayer to him and prepared to lift.

More Than Meets the Eye Carly Phoon ‘20 When I look into a mirror, I see all I need to know. Obsidian eyes, a button nose, skinny ankles, dark disobedient hair. Mirrors represent a guilty dissatisfaction. An unseen luck. When I look into a mirror, I accept what is reflected. When my sister was born, her brain was tangled around itself. A twisted hand connected mismatching neurons, painted red over her vision, planted a bomb behind her skull. The labyrinth inside writhed, yet the hand left the outside untarnished. So mirrors, in all their candid glory, treat my sister kindly. Smooth complexion, dainty lashes, slender legs, wavy sun-streaked hair. People never think God has been cruel to her when they look at her. But they don’t know that invisible curses are cruelest.

Old Passport Photo Carly Phoon ‘20 My mother’s hands are chubby; they are not yet intricate webs of ligaments and slender fingers. Cradled in my grandmother’s arms, swaddled in a knit poncho, her feet poke out. The little pigtails, the downturned mouth, the sleepy eyes not quite aware; the resemblance to her mother is not yet visible. My grandmother stands in her crisply stitched coat with the frog buttons, holding her daughter, flanked by her sons. She stands also next to my mother’s father in 1958, reciting her vows. Young and wistful, not knowing whether it was luck or fate that brought her there. It certainly wasn’t choice; at least, not her choice. She will grow to love her husband, but too late. Taiwan born, American bound. Time to forget the past. The children are still naive and oblivious. My grandmother carries the weight of her family. Seven years until her husband will be dead. Seven years until all the stitches will unravel. And still my grandmother will hold her family, choosing not to be free so her children can be.But they will only know of the future when it impacts, like a train hitting concrete. For now, they are only departing: for the land of Opportunity.

Won’t Find Me Begging Eric Pan ‘21 “Why did you do it?” See, here’s the thing. It all started some fourteen billion years ago with a giant explosion to turn nothing into something and he’s absolutely positive that it’s all about to end right here, with Mrs. Robinson’s calculating eyes peering at him from under the rim of her glasses, set on burning his head through with lasers. Raj rocks back and forth on his feet, his head bowed and dark bangs falling over his eyes. The clock ticks. He hears laughter and the rapid beating of sprinting feet outside the office. He feels her gaze move to the door, and has half a mind to hope that perhaps she would ignore him to step out into the hallway and admonish the kids for running. “Well?” she asks instead. He takes a breath. He doesn’t know why he’s here. Again. “I don’t need your help,” he says, and she sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose and sends him home with a note and a stern “Don’t you lie to me, young man.” Raj barely stops himself from raising his right eyebrow with a “That’s it?”, keeping his head bowed as he steps past the threshold and closes the door behind him, stashing the note into his pocket. If he didn’t know better, he might’ve guessed that she was beginning to give up. He stumbles out the school gates. He stumbles past smiling Mr. Ingle, who calls his name and waves to him on his way back from the grocery store. “Raj, m’boy!” he says, laughing. “How’s your mother doing? Heard she was sick a while back.” “Fine,” Raj says. He leaves before Mr. Ingle can hum and exclaim, “Good to hear!” but hears it echo through the hall of his head anyway. He stumbles down the hill, stumbles past the fence he’d helped his Ma erect around the garden when she was crying all the time after his Pa left, stumbles through the unpicked strawberry patches and overgrown patches of wild sunflowers, stumbles up the cobwebbed patio stairs and through the unlocked door, stumbles up the moaning stairs creaking around him. He does a lot of stumbling these days, he reminisces dimly, twisting the knob of the door at the top of the stairs, pushing it open just enough for him to slip into the dark before shutting it behind him. He takes a breath. “Ma,” he says dreamily. His voice is clear in the silence, and it helps bring him back to himself. “Ma?” There is a long pause, then a bit of fumbling in the bed, the sheets tangled and spilling over onto the tiled floor. He takes a few steps into the room and spots a dark shape struggling to lift itself up on its elbows and lean against the headboard. “Raj,” she says breathily. “That you?” “Ma,” he repeats. “Come closer, so I can see you,” she says. He acquiesces, stepping forward into a few beams of sunlight filtered through the shutters and striking the floor. 17

“School’s out already?” she asks. “I can never tell the time here.” “Yeah,” Raj mumbles. “Good day?” “Yeah.” “Stayed out of trouble?” “Yeah.” “Homework?” “Not much.” “Good.” She sighs, before wheezing and rumbling into a coughing fit. The bedframe shakes beneath her. “Ma!” Raj says, rushing over to offer her the mug of water on the nightstand. She coughs a few more times deliberately, chest heaving and shuddering with effort, then laughs, waving the mug away. If Raj didn’t know better, he would mistake it for choking. “Guess I’m not as strong as I once was.” “No,” Raj says, “I guess not.” “Still, maybe I should go out sometime,” she says. “When was the last time I walked you to school myself? Haven’t seen Mrs. Petunia in forever, too.” “It’s Mrs. Robinson now. Mrs. Petunia retired years ago.” “Yes, yes,” his Ma says. “My memory isn’t what it once was. Lord knows how long I’ve been cooped up in this bed for. Could do with some exercise sometime.” She coughs. “I hope your Pa’s not feeling overworked, me being bedridden and all. You know how he gets when he’s tired.” “Ma,” Raj says. “Pa left a long time ago.” For a tense moment, he can only hear her breathing, and imagines that she’s furrowed her brows, eyes glossed over, trying to figure out what he means. “...Ah, yes,” she says at last. “I remember now. I’m sorry.” “You should get some more rest,” he says. “Worry about apologizing when you get better.” “When I get better,” she echoes. “Yes. When you get better. You will.” “Alright,” she says, sighing, quaking. “Go make yourself some dinner. Don’t worry ‘bout me, I think I’ll go back to sleep.” She lowers herself back onto the bed, turning a couple of times before settling. Raj watches her until he can hear her feeble breaths, erratic and shaking. “You’ll get better,” he says to her. “Soon, I promise.” He turns to leave, drifting across the floor to the doorway. He opens it and its hinges scream before abruptly stopping like a cry dying in the chest of a lost child. Suddenly, he hears fumbling on the bed and turns around. “Ma?” “Raj?” she says sleepily, voice quivering, attempting to lift herself back onto her elbows. “...Back from school already?” “...No, not yet,” he says. “Go back to sleep.” He slips out the doorway and closes it, careful to avoid irritating the hinges again. 18

He stops at the top of the stairs and pulls out the note Mrs. Robinson sent home with him, struggling to pick out the words in the creases and crumples. There’s a line for a parent’s signature. The words “refused to cooperate with my teachers” jump out at him. He fills in the blanks. “I’ve repeatedly refused to cooperate with my teachers and fellow peers,” it reads. “I bring home this note to acknowledge that I understand another offense will result in a call home.” And below in a smaller font, “I understand what you’re going through. Don’t be afraid to reach out if you need help. Please. Mrs. Robinson.” He shuts his eyes and breathes. He doesn’t need help. He doesn’t. Everything is okay. Perfect, even. When they open, the note is stained with wet marks, ink-written words bleeding into each other in streaks of crimson, indecipherable. It doesn’t matter; he can recite the words by heart. He should be ashamed of crying, but so long as nobody sees it, he’s not really crying. He descends the stairs, tearing the paper in two and dropping it into the trash bin on his way out of the house. The two halves float gently, twirling and dancing like maple leaves falling in the autumn wind before resting at the bottom, atop a pile of torn pieces of the same notes. The next day, he would return to school one signed note poorer and Mrs. Robinson would sigh, shake her head, sit him down and ask, “Why did you do it?” as if she didn’t already know the answer, and send him home with another.

A Lonely Sophomore’s Unofficial Guide to Love at Bishop’s Matthew Ai ‘20 An “A+” Soulmate At Bishop’s, high school students get 6.5 hours of sleep on average—and it’s not because they’re up partying every night. Insanely sick kids still show up to class, because they can’t afford to miss even one day of school. Everybody fights for that must have A, to the point where some people1 do their homework on Friday nights. This stress is what makes Bishop’s so unique, but it isn’t difficult to see where it comes from. When you take over a hundred smart, talented, hard-working students and throw them together in a school, you’d be crazy to think that there wouldn’t be any competition. In this stressful environment, it’s astonishing that relationships happen. Somehow, love still flourishes despite the academic competition. I don’t know how they do it. It’s brutal. But even though Bishopian relationships somehow survive, they also die. It seems like over these years I’ve been at Bishop’s, more couples have broken up than new ones have been formed. It is a testament to the impermanence and stupidity of this wild thing we call high-school love. Dances If you ever want a full, complete picture of teenage romantic and social life at Bishop’s, attend a dance. You will find kids from all ends of the spectrum—from freshmen who still look like middle schoolers, to seniors who look like thirty-year-olds; from the shy ones who try to be social but end up hiding in the corner, to the loud “bros” who cavort around hollering vaguely; from those poor single guys who huddle in a circle like penguins, to those hormonal couples all over each other on the dance floor letting out all those months of suppressed PDA. Surprisingly, all of this petting around goes unnoticed by the teacher-chaperones, one of the reasons for their presence being to make sure that no funny business happens. They have to spend their hard-earned Saturday night embarrassing themselves by virtue of being there, and then later stand around watching their own students acting like fools, probably gaining a sense of vindication for their dignities.2 As if the people aren’t overwhelming enough, then there’s the music. Usually, it’s the music that makes or breaks a dance. And judging Bishop’s dances through that perspective, they pretty much suck. Honestly, I think it’s all part of that “Bishop’s difference”—that is, hiring bad DJs who play music that can’t even get the crowd up. I can’t remember the last time we’ve had any DJ who possessed any Viagracal energy. At the aforementioned dance there was a “San Well, only some people. There are many chronic procrastinators at Bishop’s. However, there is one faculty member who suffers the most—the Dean of Students, the OG Mr. Beamer. While the other teachers cycle through “dance chaperone duty”, Mr. Beamer has to attend every single school dance. At the most recent dance, Mr. Beamer seemed to bear the marks of a weathered man. For the entirety of the three hours, he stood with his back resting on the wall, arms crossed, and eyes fixed in a glassy stare. 1 2

Diego School DJ” who advertised themselves as the “ONLY choice for the BEST school dances PERIOD!” That night, the crowd enjoyed some very appropriate Parental Advisory Content with soul-stirring gangster rap including the line “All My Friends Are Dead.”3 The Outdoor Classroom When I came to Bishop’s in sixth grade, one of the first places on campus I noticed was the outdoor classroom. It is located next to the staircase that leads up to the administrative office. The classroom itself is modest in appearance; a continuous square of grey wooden benches lines the perimeter of a small concrete open area. The outdoor classroom was the subject of the first Bishop’s legend I ever heard. I was told that the outdoor classroom, along with the Prayer Garden, was a secret meeting spot for young couples, a place for them to spend time together and probably do some understandably illicit things. However, my scientific mind instinctively sought verification. But try as I might, this kind of hypothesis was not one that could easily be investigated for evidence. I forgot about it for years until eighth grade, on a Friday night after school when I was waiting to be picked up after a school play. Loud music and strobe lights emanated from the dining hall. As I sat on the bench at the front of the school, a shadowy figure emerged from the din. Like a sentry, Mr. Beamer strolled over to the outdoor classroom. He lingered there for thirty seconds, and walked back to the dance. Seniors Out of all of the grades, the senior class, without fail, is the most romantically active. Year after year the seniors are the group of students who push the boundaries of what is appropriate. But why? Sensibility would say that seniors are responsible, mature individuals who have realized how to manage their time and understand their emotions. These seniors finally feel ready to take on the joys and challenges of responsible adult life. This could not be farther from the truth. Seniors are a complete mess. For them, the oyster on the horizon is college. The average senior specimen spends at least eight4 hours a day thinking about college. To these poor seventeen-year-olds and eighteen-year-olds, college is a quantum paradox of life and death—it causes so much pain and so much joy. It offers so much opportunity and yet so much hard work. It giveth and it taketh. College is the main reason why high school relationships never last. But it is for that same reason that senior love flourishes. But I guess you can’t blame the disc jockeys completely. Modern music is such trash in my opinion. Sure, a “sick beat” might get you “groovin’” on the dance floor, but they are always rapping about money, or drugs, or sex. What happened to romance? It’s a dance for goodness’ sake. Back in 18th century Europe, they had fancy balls, etiquette, and real love in their waltzes. Bass drops aren’t that sentimental, if you know what I mean. 4 This statistic may not be accurate. 3

It all boils down to this impermanence of adolescent desire, coupled with the typical high schooler’s procrastination. In the presence of senioritis,5 as the days of high school tick by and seniors notice that their time to get in a high school relationship is draining away. Eager to jump right in, “passion” is sparked and the flames of love burn strong and fast. But it is all a lie. You see, another common ailment of Bishopians is “Student syndrome.” It is a sort of planned procrastination, a waiting game, where a student will only begin to apply themselves to an assignment at the last moment right before the deadline—such as 2:00 AM the day a paper is due. According to an article in Issues in Informing Science and Information Technology, volume 7, this practice “is done in order to induce a level of urgency high enough to ensure the proper amount of effort is put into the task.” This mindset epitomizes the classic stressed-out Bishop’s student, but what researchers fail to see is that this extends to romance. Long story short, don’t procrastinate. Lockers I have witnessed many instances of public snogging, canoodling, etc. on this good Christian campus. It is, quite frankly, enlightening, to watch juvenile amor in its purest form. Two years ago, I had a chance encounter with a pair of the most lovely seniors, who left me with quite indelible memories. I approached them. They were making out, arms and legs intertwined like a braided Challah bread. “Hi, excuse me,” I said. No response.6 “Hello?” I waved at the guy. At last he opened his eyes and saw me. “Hey guys, I need to get to my locker,” I told them.7 They glared at me, disentangled their appendages, and lumbered off.8 This is not the only experience I’d experienced in my four-and-three-quarters years here at Bishop’s. It seems like Bishopians love to kiss in school in front of others all the time, and it is totally and definitely for our voyeuristic viewing pleasure. I have seen saliva being traded in the middle of Bentham Hall. I have noticed lipstick stains on some individuals. So, my advice is, don’t be stupid like these folks. Find a better spot to do it. I’ve heard that the Science Center Presentation Hall is usually deserted. Or, maybe go to that fabled area behind the Chapel.

This disease has not been scientifically verified. Well, actually, they did respond. It was “Mmmmmmmmm.” 7 The most illuminating dialogue I’ve had in years. 8 I’ve always had a theory about why they walked so funnily. I thought that maybe their legs were numb. However, that caused some internal regurgitation, as there were only two ways for that to have happened: 1) They had been going at it for so long that their legs began to feel heavy, or 2) Their legs had been so tightly squeezed against each other that blood flow was cut off. 5 6

The Prayer Garden People do weird things in weird places. It shouldn’t be surprising, then, that the most lovemaking on campus happens in the Prayer Garden. But it still is surprising; it is the most peculiar thing in the world. The Garden is a place of worship and meditation, somewhere to find a connection to nature, activities that involves an outward transcendence of the self. But instead these crazy couples retreat inwards, touching, feeling, smelling each other instead of the flowers. It is true though, that the Bible does have a lot to say about love.9 There are passages of pure beauty. “Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” In front of one of the benches in the Garden is a small statue of a saint, dressed in robes, arms outstretched with a dove in his left hand. This is unmistakably St. Francis of Assisi, saint of animals and the natural environment. His head is tilted, and he looks, almost with a divine omnipotence, at the bench where so many people have sat with their boyfriend or girlfriend. God knows10 how many things, or what things, St. Francis has seen Bishopians do on that bench. Whatever happens in the Prayer Garden, stays in the Prayer Garden, I suppose. So, perhaps I am wrong about the Prayer Garden. The fooling around actually isn’t that peculiar. Think about it. To physically explore another is only a segment of human’s nature to procreate. And that is perhaps one of the most natural things about humans; if we no longer live on farms like our ancestors, if we live farther from the Earth—figuratively and literally—than ever before, then at least we still have children today the exact same way our progenitors did millennia ago. Love is that outward transcendence; it originates from within a student but is always directed outward. So truthfully, the Prayer Garden is the most apt place for such activity. In this place of peace and nature, lovers can find their own peace and enjoy the nature of their connection. Friend, love itself is good. High school love is lame.

Of course, including Leviticus 18:22, which is unfortunately still being used today to justify homophobia. If there is a pun to be found here, it is certainly not intended.

Restless Nicole Ellsworth ‘21 Restless is the winter gale, On the brink of gold after a winter’s hail, Ready to shed a cemetery of trees, And dawn a crystal cloak of breeze. Restless are the dreams confined, To souls gone cold from stars to far to find, Circling paths paved by unforgiven flaws, Ready to break through mercy’s laws. Restless is the empty page, Hollowed and cut away as names are pinned to age, For soon the unwritten becomes an inferno of regret, Wishing that those three words had never met. Restless is the free child born without wings, Forever flying in her daydreams, Only to wake in a world of gravity, Where one must obey the laws of reality. Restless are we to escape our world, The land we call prison under an invisible dome, A dome made of stars in which me must settle, To call our view and the Earth our home.

Golden Gate Bridge in the Nighttime Joelle Jeon â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

SNOW Cassidy Ratner â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 The morning is dark. The air is cold. The city streets are an unfinished painting; precise and painted with white spots left unfinished; the newly fallen snow. The canvas anticipates the artist, but he does not return until the spring, when the painting has just about forgotten him completely. From above it sparkles, as if someone sprinkled glitter from above right before the city awoke. As it gets closer, the sparkle fades away leaving you wondering if it was ever really there. The streets have collected it and the trees have caught it. Worry free drivers speed by, transforming what was once an untouched crystal white to a worthless, castoff, brown. People, just as colorless as the world around them, begin to flood the streets, caught up in their own lives, unaware of the world around them. They stomp over almost every crystallized snowflake as the remains are shoveled off the street to be forgotten. Pennies that were once inhabited in a purse or an old shoe missing its partner try to crawl out from underneath, until they finally drown, only to be rediscovered in a time in which they are useless and of no good to their former owner. A single snowflake falls, impossible to see unless you are truly looking. On its own it appears to be a colorless nothing, but joined with millions more it becomes an endless, shapeless, abyss of frost. It disintegrates as you reach out to touch it, melting into the hand as if it was never there. You can feel the cold, but it might have well have just been a figment of your imagination. The steam rising from under the street takes many more with it; far more than the warmth of a hand ever could. It falls upon the city, the buildings, the roofs, the tiles. The dusty light comes through, breaking the one sky into millions. As the grey sky crumbles, pieces of it come descending unto the world, so small for some yet so large for others. The leftover pieces put themselves into a puzzle, blanketing wherever in the world it will let them. But eventually, the most exquisite thing becomes just another reminder to the world that nothing lasts forever. The seasons change for a reason after all, only for history to repeat itself a year later. What was once opaque becomes meaningless and transparent. As if the snow was never there, it disappeared as quickly as it came. It grasps on to its last bit of life in the night, but when morning arrives, it loses all strength and has no choice left to vanish. The frosty air fades into spring, only to wait for the next winter. And unless you are truly looking, the slushed remains of the previous morning look no different than the puddles of times passed that run rapidly through the sidewalk. The people, still as colorless as they were in the heart of winter, still walk, just as quickly as before, seem to be just as caught up in their lives; if not more. Unaware of what appears to be a phenomenon to the man who sits on the street, almost as invisible to the world as the snowflakes that he loved to watch. It was him who was so desperately looking, anticipating, waiting for the sky to crumble and let its pieces fall, only to be caught by the city. He notices every change in the season, every piece of falling snow, that the rest of the world has become too careless to notice.

a silent song Alexandria Delatorre â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 Silence is gentle, silvery, glistening in a way only the divine can. It is clear as a gray morning that drank from the dusk and the night, refreshed. It is hazy, the moment between contact and feeling, touch and sensation. It can be painful. Words waver in the air, waning in the dusk, suspended by a breath. An inhale, then nothing. They fall and shatter on our skin, slivers of glass. Red wounds, milky scars. Footsteps echo away, a door slams, an engine starts, his footsteps are heavy, wind blows her hair, his path does not break or arc. A piece of my past ties itself to him, and as he leaves, it tears from me. The unsaid, the unwhispered, the unmurmured scalds the soul that it boils within. But this is not silence, this is merely the absence of sound. Noise tramples. It crushes the quiet the way boots trample fallen flowers, Voices streak through the atmosphere like grenades, the hands that threw them empty, save the pins. Exploding to the right of me a loud voice, quick to speak and never afraid to. Behind me, raucous laughter, booming and expanding with every moment that passes, an ugly cloud. To the left of me a softer strain, more tolerable, sweeter. But consumed all too quickly in the swarm. A sandstorm of sound, swelling and beating like a war drum. Words complicate. The smirk passed across a table, A glance between two lovers, a fraction of a second but a lifetime of meaning. A tear slipping down a cheek, tiny images reflect on its blue surface A hand on a shoulder, a hand on a back, a hand in mine A wink, A sigh, A smile, Actions alone sing. And they weave hymn that only one can hear. A lovely melody.

Hatching Light Danielle Straus â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

He Sacrifices to Him with Solemnity Evan Peng ‘18 The papermaking process begins with the harvest of a tree. One could argue that it starts with the seed that became the tree, but for our sake, let’s start with the harvest. I’m sitting off to the side in the small hospice room, my eyes following my uncle’s overactive dog. My sister is by my side, bored and becoming restless. The TV running in the background plays some local news program, the short-haired lady speaking rapidly. It’s summer 2014, and we’re visiting my grandfather in Kunming, Yunnan, China. He’s deep into dementia at this point, remembering no one. I had never been close to him. In fact, I often had trouble understanding him—I’m less than proficient in Mandarin to begin with, and he also spoke in Yunnan dialect, which is just different enough from standard Mandarin to impede communication. In China, many older or less educated people do not speak Mandarin, and my grandfather happened to be both. On top of the slight language barrier, it was one or two years between every visit. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be able to tell you his given name. To me he was Yéye, Grandpa. Most memories of him take place at large dinner-feasts with extended family and in shopping malls. The image I conjure up now is a man wrinkled by time, darkened by the sun, and smoking a cigarette. God, the smoking. Not until the later stages of dementia did he stop smoking. Neither my dad nor his brother smoke, and I suspect my grandfather smoking non-stop has something to do with it. Gunpowder is a mixture of only three substances: sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate, also known as saltpeter. Alone, the ingredients are (relatively) not dangerous, but when mixed, are decidedly volatile. “Gēn Yéye shūoshuo huà ba. Chat with Grandpa.” I sigh and concede to my mother. I walk over to my grandfather who sits in a white plastic chair decked out with pillows and blankets. There’s a small table attached, almost like one of those baby chairs where the lip on the table is supposed to prevent the baby from knocking bowls onto the floor. My aunt is feeding him, a spoonful of congee at a time. He’s skinny. It’s almost painful to look at. Is this all life comes down to? I wonder. When he sees me, something changes in his eyes, which flicker with a kind of light that wasn’t there before. He mumbles things even my dad and uncle can’t decipher. And then I realize—he recognizes me. No, that’s not quite it. He recognizes my dad in me; the sparse memories he still retains are from when he was much younger, so the sight of me triggers his memories of my dad as a teenager, as we bear a physical resemblance. So there I am, barely an inkling of knowledge of who he is, and there he is, not recognizing his own sons, but, in a way, recognizing me? I sneak a glance at my dad. His face is expressionless. A year later, I receive a text from my mom while I’m having the time of my life at 29

summer camp. Only days ago I saw my all-time favorite band live, and now I’m making new friends. Yeye passed away last week. Dad is very sad. The tree is then processed, turning into smaller and smaller pieces at every step, until all that’s left is wood chips. From chips, the wood is further ground or dissolved into pulp. Now, the wood is at its very essence. These fibers are what give paper its durability and flexibility. In Confucianism, there’s a concept known as filial piety. In essence, it means respect for your parents (and your elders and ancestors, but mostly parents). The ancient Chinese took it seriously—the worst insults in Chinese often go after your parents or your ancestors. Nowadays, it isn’t as big of a thing, considering Mao’s Cultural Revolution and globalization, but it’s still an undercurrent in Chinese culture. The Chinese character for the concept, read xiào in modern Mandarin, encapsulates the whole idea. It is comprised of the ideogram for “old” on top of the ideogram for “son.” In other words, filial piety is the willingness of a child, especially a son, to care for his parents, even if it means carrying them on his back when they grow old. The Chinese word for gunpowder is hǔoyào, or fire medicine. Fitting, because gunpowder was happened upon by ancient Chinese alchemists trying to obtain immortality. Ironic though, isn’t it, that the quest for immortality yielded such destruction? In seventh grade, my dad sat me down to talk about some stuff I was going through. My mom was out of the house, and I couldn’t find an excuse to avoid the awkward conversation. So we talked. Or really, he talked and I nodded, said yes, mumbled affirmations. What did he know that I didn’t already? “I want to know what’s going on with you, Evan,” he said. “You know, Yéye and I, we were never really close.” (It was early 2013 at this point, so my grandfather, though not exactly healthy, was still lucid.) “And only now, with him so old, have I begun to regret that we never talked. I don’t want you to feel the same.” Finally, in a process similar to that of the ancient Chinese, who invented paper, the pulp is spread into sheets, and all water is removed, leaving only what we know as paper. The paper that changed the course of history. Confucius once said, “In serving his parents, a filial son reveres them in daily life; he makes them happy while he nourishes them; he takes anxious care of them in sickness; he shows great sorrow over their death that was for him; and he sacrifices to them with solemnity.” Today, true gunpowder is mainly used in fireworks. Next time you turn skyward and those bursts of color that boom with a mighty roar, know that you can thank a few Chinese 30

alchemists trying to become immortal. And maybe they achieved that goal; their legacy—the destruction and beauty that gunpowder brought—lives on forever. The drive to my grandfather’s grave is a beautiful one. Towering buildings give way to towering mountains. It’s a winding drive, bypassing a lake to climb hills draped in green. Clouds hang low, reminding me why the province is named Yúnnán, Cloud South. Even with no shortage of cars, the atmosphere is almost pastoral. The cemetery sits atop a hill, with a magnificent view of the metropolis in the distance. A tower built in a traditional style looms from the (tiny) parking lot. It’s raining, but nothing torrential. My uncle leads us to Yéye’s grave. It sits in the midst of rows upon rows of uniform headstones, all surrounded by brightly colored plastic flowers. Tinny-sounding Buddhist mantras play from a battery-powered lotus someone left on the neighboring grave. I stick some fake flowers into the already-overflowing vase built-in to the headstone. I bow, three times. My father does the same, and then proceeds to pour Chinese liquor on the grave. But oh, can’t forget the cigarettes. The cigarettes Yéye couldn’t live without. My dad lights one and leaves it, smoke wafting towards heaven, with the rest of the pack on the grave. After we finish with the grave, we file down to another area in the cemetery to make offerings. The scent of smoke is thick, but not overpowering. My mom directs me to light three sticks of incense, hold them in my hands prayer-style at my forehead, and bow three times in every cardinal direction. Meanwhile, my dad and uncle burn fake paper money—useful, apparently, in the afterlife. For a moment as the paper disintegrates and the smoke rises, I realize I miss my grandfather. My grandfather, who was a stranger to me, who lived on the other side of the planet. Yes, him. Because he’s out there somewhere, craving a cigarette. And the filial son sacrifices to his father with solemnity.

Coffee Cup Abby Mack ‘19 His eyes snap open as the clink of metal on metal echoes through the room. He shifts in his seat, finding that he can’t move. His head swings down, and to his dismay, he sees raw wrists encircled by a pair of rusty handcuffs. He feels hazy, like his brain and body were disconnected and one still slept. Dread bubbles up in his stomach when he hears a cough. “Richard. Good, you’re finally awake. I started to get worried when you didn’t open your eyes for an hour. After all, I don’t have all day.” Richard knows that voice, knows those honey-sweet notes. He looks up, relieved, when the heart-shaped face of his wife comes into view, tear tracks running down her cheeks. “Jane, thank God. What the hell happened? Why am I tied to a damn chair?” “Oh, you poor thing. You don’t remember?” “Remember what?” “Don’t be silly. Of course you remember.” “Jane, I don’t. Help me out of this chair and we can talk.” “I said don’t be silly, Richard. I know you remember. I KNOW! I don’t want to play any of your stupid games anymore. How can you not remember that you cheated on your Goddamn true love over and over again?” Richard jerks his head back as Jane’s spittle flies onto his face. Her normally pale skin is flushed an angry red, cheeks blotchy and eyes wide. “Jane! I don’t… Oh.” “Oh! Oh! That’s all you have to say? Do you not remember all those nights that you came home drunk with your shirt buttoned wrong and lipstick staining your mouth? Because I remember them, Richard. I remember how I told myself he still loves me, even though everyone said I was acting ridiculous. They said I should leave you!” Abruptly, her entire body jolts and she takes a step back from him. The sweet smile is back, looking out of place with her sweaty skin and smeared mascara. “Well, that won’t do, will it? I can’t leave you. I told you we are going to be together forever, and I don’t break my promises. But you cheated on me, Richard. On me. I said I would help you, remember?” Richard remembers now. Shame flushes his face red as he thinks about the countless times he woke up with Jane collapsed on the couch next to him, sobbing until her voice was hoarse. He remembers looking over at the ever-present half-full coffee cup on the table so he didn’t have to look at her face. The problem though, is that he can never remember what he did before he woke up. He knows his beloved wife is right, and that he must have done something horrible in order for her to cry so hard. Always level-headed, it takes a lot to set her off. At least, it used to take a lot. Richard is not so sure now. But he trusts his wife and if she says he was cheating, then he must have been. The only part that doesn’t add up is why he could never remember what he did. He asked Jane, a certified psychiatrist, why and she told him that it was a normal reaction of the body when it acts out of order. Which his body did, according to Jane. And there has never been any reason for Richard not to trust her. She is always so understanding 32

and loving, even saying that she would help him get through this. “You remember now, don’t you?” “I… I… Jane. I’m—I’m sorry.” “I know, Honey. I know. I’m going to help you though. Soon everything will be fixed. I promise. You just have to trust me.” “I will always trust you.” Jane approaches his chair, something silver flashing behind her back. The silver blur turns into a knife, a knife that Jane places into his restrained hand. She bends down and checks the ropes binding his feet, ropes that Richard didn’t even realize were there. Satisfied, she releases his hands and Richard sighs with relief as blood rushes back to them when he shakes them out, still wary of the knife. “I’m ready to help you now.” “What do I do?” She steps away from him for a moment and turns back with a cup of coffee in her hand. “Drink some of this and then we can begin.” She puts the mug into his free hand. Richard raises it to his lips and takes a long sip, confused. Jane pulls up a chair in front of him. He keeps watching her as his vision starts to go blurry. “Let’s start, Honey.” “Jane I—I don’t feel so good—” “You’re fine. Don’t you want to be better?” “I… yeah.” Richard shakes his head, trying to clear his mind, but he still feels half asleep, like his body won’t listen to him. “Okay, Richard. Take the knife and cut your stomach vertically.” “Whaa…” His arm is moving on its own accord, though. It brings the tip of the knife to his chest and suddenly plunges it in, dragging it down until his torso is almost split in half. He thinks he can see his liver. “Oh God, Jane. Jane.” “Shhh... it’s fine, Richard. I’m helping you.” Blood starts to pour onto the floor. “Put the knife to your throat Richard.” He can only gurgle in response as blood start to wet his lips. His hand brings the knife up to his neck, shaking. He draws it across his throat as Jane stands above him. “I told you I would help, Richard.” The knife clatters to the floor in a pool of blood.

Womanhood Veronica Tang ‘18 This is the meaning of womanhood. Barefoot on soil with crops in the earth and bread in the oven, armored in floral printed sundresses instead of steel. There are dogs in the kennel and guns in the house, but our true strength lies in our bones, in hips that were designed to widen ever so slightly because we are the perpetrators of history, the progenitors of peoples, mothers.

And this is the meaning of womanhood.

The most sensible men want daughters, because the idea of male heirs is preposterous – killer whales are matrilineal, and no one should argue with apex predators - and while sons go off to fight in other people’s wars, daughters take care of their papas when their papas grow old.

Oh, the meaning of womanhood.

Every father is proud of his daughter’s wit, his daughter’s beauty, but it is not his to be proud of. A girl’s beauty is her own, but the world will never know that, never believe that, because the price of our legacies is the expectations laid upon us. From fairest creatures we desire increase. Well, screw Shakespeare and his sonnets, I say, let beauty’s rose die.

Damn their meanings of womanhood.

We struggle to claim ourselves, because how can we do so with our history of being claimed? Each girl must learn that men are selfish, selfish creatures. What makes them that way? I think they are jealous, really. Jealous of our gifts for creation, of our abilities to give birth and nurture.

It’s the meaning of womanhood.

A legacy of silence, of bearing the brunt of violence, of centuries of compliance. History tells us we should keep to the shadows and resign ourselves to the home, but if that is the place of the mother, where goes the maiden and the crone? Rather, where else can they go? The streets are not safe after dark, and I see no gaps between bruised wrists and bloodied thighs.

The meaning of womanhood.

Grit your teeth and wait for it to be over, hang on just a little bit longer, they say, but nine months later and you’re screaming because Oh god it hurts and this can’t be where I die and I swear there was more than this. These have always been our blood-matters, for it was once said that the woman’s battlefield was in the birthing bed. 34

Womanhood. For every woman who lived by her sword or by her pen, there are a thousand who settled for the age old path: a pot on the fire, a mouth at the breast. It will have to do. But for those who were never mother, sister, or wife, they were known, I think, through the strength of their life.

That is the meaning of womanhood.

Wait by the Roadside Yuxin Shi ‘18 In my family, womanhood equals motherhood. It is a symbol of power, of grace. My grandparents say that there are millions of girls in the world, but every child only has one mother. If you have a child, you cannot be replaced. If you do not, you will be forgotten. I The mother is the head of the house. Her power is never challenged. Her mind is sharp, tongue sharper. Her hands are calloused and hard, the hands of a proud woman. Her feet are swollen from standing for hours while making dinner. Her eyes burn with love and protection and judgement. She sees all, knows all. But why would you challenge her? She is the one that raised you. She is the one that gave away her life so that you could have one. Remember: your life is the result of an eternity of women, women who laid down and paved the road to your birth. II What if you are too afraid to have children? What if, like my aunt, you want to hold onto a life without that burden for a little longer—for too long? The ultimate gift slips away from her fingers, and that eternity of women descends on her like a snowstorm, enveloping her in their frozen tears until she is nothing more than a white statue, brittle, cold, a reminder of her failure. To scare me, my grandparents would tell me a story. They had watched a woman in the apartment across from theirs throw herself off the fifth story balcony because she had been childless and single at the age of forty. They told us how easy it was for something like this to happen. If we did not continue our lineage, we, too, would would experience her pain. It was the calm resignation with which they delivered this story that scared me. I could not hide behind the knowledge that this was simply fantasy; unlike ghosts or vampires, her plight was real. In my mind, the childless woman was this tortured soul, frozen mid-air, pain and regret etched into her face. III Even after all this, I do not want children. Facing the immortal wrath of generations seems like nothing compared to the daunting task of raising another human being. Of being responsible for their future. To me, motherhood is a cycle of what-ifs. What if I had held his hand? What if I hadn’t pulled her away from that speeding car in time? What if I loved them too much to let them go? What if I didn’t love them at all? I will either be the fruit, bearing the seeds of life, or the gardener, pruning the branches of my heritage. The weight of the eternity of women before me hovers over my shoulder. Like me, they are unsure. They do not yet know if they should push me down or lift me up. They ask me the question that trails every woman since birth: can you bring yourself to end this?

Remember: the chances of the exact right people meeting at the exact right time a million times over to eventually produce you are infinitesimal. It is a miracle you are alive at all. Who are you to deny usâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;to deny your future childâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;this miracle? No matter what I choose, be it the brick in the road of life or the frozen statue or the wailing, falling woman, that weight will remain there, waiting. It will never leave me. It will be a constant, haunting, harassing presence. I am, after all, its child.

Two Reasons Rita Kimijima-Dennemeyer â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18 perhaps we only have children for two reasons: one) to dip your feet into an unknown stream filled with mossy stones right on the brink of slipping away from beneath your heels but here, the air still feels like sweat clinging stubbornly to your skin it is better to give yourself completely to the water it will fill your nose and ears and pour out from your mouth two) forgive me, lord, for the sins of my forefathers i have prepared an offering cut from my womb

cool girl Bennett Hixson â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;18

A Letter to My Body Delilah Delgado ‘21 Dear hands, Why do you shake when I want you to be steady? Why do you sweat and spasm whenever I’m about to take a test; why does that tremor reawaken itself before every important piano recital? Tell me, how do you know I’m nervous when even my brain’s oblivious? Dear nails, I’m sorry. Sorry you take the brunt of all this stress. Whenever I want nothing more than to find the off switch of my mind, I take it out on you. I know. I should leave you alone. Nobody likes a nail-biter. Sometimes when I’m really stressed, you start to bleed. That blood is a reminder; it sets off alarm bells in my head and I’m reminded that even you aren’t invincible. (No part of me is.) Dear legs, Shin splints? Really? And stress fractures in both my tibias. That’s not supposed to happen, you know that, right? You’re supposed to keep me standing up. That’s your only job. Dear skin, I’ll be honest, I’ve grown to like you. Well, it’s more that I’m fascinated by you. You are a map; each freckle marks buried treasure; each scar is a river I can get swept away in if I’m not careful. I trace my way along you when I forget where I’ve been, when I forget where I come from. Dear heart, Maybe keep it together. These days, my pulse is a dysfunctional metronome, it speeds up far too often. People always tell me to follow my heart, but you’re a broken compass; you always lead me in what the rest of the world may call the wrong direction. And it’s not as if I know what the right direction is; I try to follow the map of my skin, but it only takes me to places I’ve already been, and it always leads me right back in front of my damn mirror, counting my flaws like my life depends on it. Dear brain, I am not only flaws and I want you to realize that. Dear conscience, I get it. You’re a little hyperactive. A little overeager to do your job. But maybe tone it down a little. Caring is good, caring is necessary, but you’re tearing me apart. Dear ribcage, You taught me that there is such a thing as caring too much, because some days I feel like you’ve collapsed inward and punctured my heart and watched as all the trust dripped out and curdled in the pit of my stomach. Dear body, You’re full of flaws, you know that? You’re too big in some places, too small in others, and simply nonexistent in some. You’re scratched, cut, and bruised. You’re scarred, on the outside and within. But you know what? You work. My heart may not know how to keep perfect time but it pumps blood through my veins so that I can rise each morning. My legs were broken and they healed--my bones reinvented themselves and knit themselves back together so I can stand today 40

on my two strong feet. And yes, my hands might flutter like leaves caught in the breeze, but they are beautiful because they manage to fit perfectly nestled within other hands of so many different shapes and sizes and colors. Dear body, Simply because you exist, you are overwhelmingly, beautifully, unquestionably enough.

stage directions for a tragedy Crystal Wang ‘19 [The drumbeat is heavy, as if heard through a magnifying glass bending sound waves through a funhouse mirror. notes cascade down like a waterfall over gold notes of danger, like the notes of plum in wine.] You sit upon your throne, high-browed and weeping. with hollow cheeks, like somehow, the tears managed to wear some of the skin away and you are only 17 years old, far too young to live and far, far too young to die. Instead— sing to the deer until they learn to run away from headlights, tap your foot until you believe in the rhythm. Let your voice run away from home, but keep it on a leash, just in case, so you still won’t be looking but at least you won’t be gone. Pour me into a pot and set it to boil, pluck at violin strings. pluck at heartstrings. see which one snaps first.

I don’t know how to breathe until I’m drowning.

[The morning after. Trees dole out droplets of water from their leaves, one by one: a storm in slow motion. Deer tracks, tear tracks, sweeping orchestral soundtracks.] Even if the song sounds like the nothingness before a storm, orange blossoms in the air still means wedding. Here comes the bride. Hold me closer, please. we don’t deserve this. [Waves wash in with nothing to brush up against.] Familiarity prevents us from recognizing beauty. Anything too beautiful will kill us. You died before you could say “one Mississippi.” home.

I’m sorry. Welcome

Amari Nicole Ellsworth â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

Native Nicole Ellsworth â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

In the woods that I have made irrelevant Crystal Wang ‘19 i. There’s an accordion hidden on the bottom of every mushroom cap. Ruffles and petals and intricate folds. It’s soft as you run your thumb over the wrinkles, like your lover’s lower lip, gleaming in the sunlight. An instrument that makes no sound, only hovers there silently, face turned forever downward, until I pluck it away, still as delicate as paper. ii. Have you ever seen an ant die under a microscope? Its legs twitching, its cells still dividing, still trying desperately to make themselves everlasting, beautiful in their futility? iii. Hills don’t ripple, and neither do trees. Blades of grass quiver and leaves rustle. I rolled down a verdant slope once, felt the thrill of ironing out the hill, of life crumpling beneath me, only to have the grass spring back up again as soon as I stood up. The cuts on my legs took days to heal. I dusted off my clothes, now green with blood. iv. You know, the only difference between a grass hill and a haystack is whether or not you have roots to go home to. v. There’s a fly crawling on my leg, or maybe it’s not a fly. You know I’m not good with names. Sometimes, when it’s hot and dry enough, the skin on my legs cracks into irregular polygons lined with white. Maybe if I stand still enough, they’ll do just that. Turn into tree trunks. Maybe if I stand still enough, it won’t fly away.

The Only Difference Sabrina Webster ‘21 The only difference between me and the others auditioning to be a principal member in the Pasadena Tapping Tinas is my severe social anxiety. Tapping comes natural to me, it is my physical communication, the way I speak without my voice. My feet do all the talking. Everyone in the room can flap, shuffle, Shirley Temple, maxi ford, power jump, and paradiddle, there are no differences in that aspect. But after the dancing is over and I’m forced to talk to the director and the other dancers, I’m no longer an equal. These back and forth banters make me more nervous than the thought of tap dancing naked in a 3,000 person arena. After the painful question time I leave quickly, dodging people and any more conversations, silently praying that my unspoken code translated and my feet carried the message my mouth could not.

John Winni Huynhâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19

A Certain Sort of Yearning Eric Pan ‘21 A favorite thing to do of mine happens to be painting with words. Except instead of deep crimsons, cool phthalo greens, and vibrant cadmium yellows that you just can’t get to stay yellow, you get blood colored wines, underwater ocean adventures, and lakefront descension of angels from the twenty-third heaven. Instead of rich umbers and pastel ochres you get falling stars and spaceships to carry you to Mars. Instead of hours and hours of scrubbing one coat and reapplying another and just missing the right color and thoughts of what am I even going to paint, it’s hours and hours of why can’t ‘eve’ just rhyme with ‘trees’ and head-slamming against the keys and thoughts of where did all of my good ideas even go. It’s all the same, really. I would know. Allow me to tell you a story: At ten, I picked up a ripped, worn-down copy of the seventeenth book of Animorphs at a local summer day care over the break, and it had me hooked. In the end, I never did get to read all fifty books, settling instead for the first fifteen or so and the last three, because for as much as I adored the animal shapeshifting titular characters and their plight against the worm-shaped, mind-controlling intergalactic alien menaces known as Yeerks, there were fifty books (fifty!), and though I would never admit it out loud, some of them even scared me a great deal. Nevertheless, because of this, when I’d first graduated to the lower playground in grade school where all the big kids played during recess, I found myself spending much of my time staring into the abyss of a canyon situated behind the school, muffling the roars of the highway, dreaming about turning into a bird. In any case, it wasn’t as if I had anything else to do, since most of my friends from preschool through first grade had graduated to the lower playground a year earlier because of a one-grade difference, casting a divide between us and the times when we would try to catch lizards at the back of the fence together and trade Pokémon cards under the shade of an ancient oak after school while waiting for our parents to pick us up. If I could turn into a bird, I’d decided, I could escape the school grounds during recess, have the entire sky to myself, go wherever I wanted and return just in time for class, and nobody would know. I could find innocence, freedom; a speck in an endless expanse of blue. Just me. Years later, I would understand that this existed as nothing more than a vain wish for difference; a dream of impossibility. A pitiful attempt to matter. And yet, despite this, fingers poised over a black keyboard, dim white light filtering out from beneath the keys, cursor blinking on an empty untitled document, I remembered how much I had once dreamt of flying. But I knew that it never would amount to anything more than a dream, so I wrote instead, partly because the sound of fingers hitting the keys calmed me, and partly because there existed still some part of me that demanded to cling onto my empty dream, to make somebody acknowledge some sort of difference, even if it never existed at all. The next best thing, I supposed. It did occur to me that I probably did not have the authority to write about a twenty-oneyear old who had lost both of his parents at an early age, being fourteen and having a family, not to mention that I’d decided to write in the first person. Yet, despite it all, there existed a certain 48

something about narrating for such a character that enticed me; a certain lack of innocence that I could explore only in such a decrypt world, a certain sort of peace only found written down on an empty page. The cigarettes he pictured his character smoking. The taxi he took around town at night. The fish he kept in a flower vase. The cobwebs in the stairwells, the raccoons in the trash bin, the falling leaves dancing in the wind on a clear night. The same vain wish I’d clung onto since he was ten and picked up that Animorphs book; the same wish to fly. My wish. It relieved me, creating this character. Writing him out. Making a story. Taking a piece of me, carving a piece of my unrealistic wish, my impossible dream, and inscribing it on a sheet of paper, where it belonged. A certain sort of feeling that made me bleed out these words, sculpting this piece of myself into a character, keys tap-tap-tap tapping away, screaming that this was not me, this was not me; this was simply an image of a person I had once selfishly wished to be. An incessant clamoring that everyone has the same impossible dream, the same manifestation of a person that they never could be. And even though I did not mean for anybody to read this thing, that I had never meant for there to be a message, it screamed to be read, screamed a message of impossibility, of impermanence, a farce of a dream within a character within a page. Though, to be fair, that’s why it’s called fiction; all the impossible dreams we gave up on. Perhaps my writing begins from solely within this wish. Or perhaps not. A few days ago, I finished Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes and had a sudden, inexplicable urge to write a novella. I did not know what the title would be; I had not the names of the characters; not the tense of writing, nor from which perspective I would write; not even a premise to build upon. I simply wanted to write a novella. As such, I created a new document on Google Docs, gave it an ambiguous title (in this case, Alone, not because I had any particular idea in mind, but rather because it sounded, according to my dear friend Nicholas, “deep”) and scribbled down a few sentences before moving my mouse to the top right corner of the screen, clicking the blue rectangle that would return me to the page displaying rows upon rows of all the documents I’ve ever created, and leaving it to rest among the numerous others which I have created for the same purpose. I suppose that one day I might decide to complete one, but quite frankly unless I receive a sudden epiphany or something of the sort I don’t see it happening very soon, or even at all (I do hope, however, that it does, because I very much want it to despite my lack of continuous motivation). Nonetheless, from within my desire to set all these unrealistic goals stems a hidden love for writing. I suppose a better way to describe it is a love for art; a love for the intoxicating smells of acrylics and oils, of black bleeding into deep umbers and phthalo blues and blood crimsons and verdant greens and snow whites; a love of the feeling of fingers gliding over ivory and ebony keys, pushing metal rings and feeling vibrations on a bamboo reed; a love for things as mundane as key-tapping and pencil on paper, a love for semicolons and commas, rhyme and prose. Even if perhaps I did not hold such adverse feelings to public performances I might love the performing arts too. Yet, ever since kindergarten there always lingered some sort of emphasis on the sciences and mathematics; my parents lacked the necessary experience and knowledge in 49

other subjects to push me in, say, literature or history. In some senses, they succeeded; I, along with two others in my grade, now take advanced math courses two grades above mine, which does, I suppose, make me feel a bit better about my lack of true prodigious talents. I should feel gratitude. Sometimes, I do. Yet I still remember my creative writing journal in which I chose to spend my spring break completing a seven-page story of Easter in the second grade. I still remember my black and white drawing of a spider adorned with a blue ribbon which I held in pride at my teacher’s praise at the Del Mar Fair. I still remember the clarinet and piano classes which I clung onto despite being a tax on my time (piano I ended up dropping, though I still play on my own accord often). To have the power of creation, to have the power of emotion, to make somebody feel. One cannot achieve these things through mathematics nor the sciences. Not through code on a computer nor expertise in engineering. Humanity craves these -- to form and mold and sculpt with our very own hands, rather than toy with the existing and constructed ideas of ages past; a result of our simple, mortal human pride. I only want to make people laugh and smile and love and cry. I want to show them Christmas bells, hanging stars in the night sky, every crater on the moon. I want to introduce them to angels, to talking tabby cats, to elusive murderers; I want to take them to the Andromeda galaxy, to the bottom of the Mariana Trench, to a first date at a Starbucks, and even to their sister’s funeral, perhaps so that someone might remember me for something after death.

My humanity. My selfishness. My pride.

Is this too selfish a thing for me to want?

I don’t think so. Writing remains to me an escape, a window; a hole that I could jump in to forget all the procrastination happening above; headphones to block out the sound of my parents scolding me, blindfolds to shield me from their disapproving stares. It was at first reading; fantasy, in particular, captured me--the sun could fall from its throne in the sky and disappear below the horizon and I wouldn’t even notice, sunk deep in the corner of an ebony-colored loveseat, dreaming within the pages, between the lines, in every space. Even now, the memories of such journeys remain wistful. At the time, I cared for the story in lieu of the writing -- only years later would I begin to appreciate words, the way they went together, the way they blended and sang and melded and built upon each other, the way they formed drum beats, overbearing rhythms that I tap my feet to. Poetry and prose. A different kind of exhilaration unfound in mere fantasy; rolling ‘r’s and staccato ‘t’s; trees to seas and threads to sheds. I began to focus on each word, each sentence. In some ways, I resent this; this, to an extent, ruined fantasy for me. Of course, I can always stand to lose myself within rope-swing bridges to imaginary lands and kingdoms of mice behind the walls and vineyards and orchards and beanstalks reaching for the stars, yet I can’t help but feel that I am wasting my time. What am I doing? Why aren’t I writing?

For what am I waiting?