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ELEBRATION JANUARY 2020
WHAT, WHERE, & HOW
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| FROM THE EDITOR I look out my window in Charlestown, Massachusetts. It’s a dormer window quintessential Boston looking out on a quintessential Boston scene. We live on the highest hill in the area and our guest room affords us the best views in all of Boston. It is this view that I have held to as I begin celebrations of the Christmas season back in this part of the world. A view that changes with the weather and the seasons, yet has its solid buildings, trees, electric poles, and fences that are not easily moved. My view has changed dramatically from one year ago. One year ago, my view was the minaret of a mosque, just steps from our kitchen window. One year ago, we could see a mountain range in the nearby country of Iran from our front balcony. Just one year ago we searched for Christmas decorations to fill our small apartment throughout small towns in the Kurdish Region of Iraq. We found a small shop, crowded with trinkets that boasted a ‘Made in China’ label and glittered with red, gold, and green. We filled two shopping bags with ornaments, greenery, lights, and a tiny, fake tree. This year, Christmas decor began filling shops in mid-October. So much can change in a year. This is arguably the resounding cry from every third culture kid on the planet. With all the change that comes through and around our lives, we struggle to hold
on to something tangible. We struggle to replicate celebrations and traditions in different contexts—and that is what this issue is all about. Jodie Stock takes us into the bright colors and joy of a Christmas in Pakistan, while Maryam Ahmad captures what it is to celebrate Eid as an expatriate. Grace Spaulding talks about how family celebrations change through movement and resettling, and Lucille Emmeline writes about discovering that Father Christmas was really her mother aided and abetted by her sisters. Our Spotlight Interview features Jessi Vance who founded the Kaleidoscope organization. There is poetry, there is prose, and there is one of my favorite Christmas stories called Lucy’s Harmonica. So whether you find your home in Portugal or Uzbekistan, in Pakistan or California, we hope that you find traditions that are portable and celebrations that capture the beauty of faith and family. Enjoy this issue of Among Worlds!
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JANUARY 2020 VOLUME 19 | NUMBER 3
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| ARTICLES
FINDING HOME IN POETRY
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Melanie Han
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS... HOME with Jodie Stock
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Rachel Pieh Jones
EID, EXPATS, & EXPECTATIONS
GOD, GIVER OF HARMONICAS
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Maryam Afnan Ahmad
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THE MAGICAL ART OF CELEBRATING
CHRISTMAS ON THE MOVE
Grace Spaulding
Lucille Emmeline
| FEATURES
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SPOTLIGHT INTERVIEW
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with Jessi Vance
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FROM OUR DIRECTOR
WRITER IN RESIDENCE
Michael Pollock
RITE OF PASSAGE Mary Bassey
Editor: Marilyn R. Gardner Copy Editor: Riah Solomon Graphic Designer: Laurel Fleming Digital Publishing: Bret Taylor
THE MISSION OF AMONG WORLDS IS TO ENCOURAGE ADULT TCKS AND OTHER GLOBAL NOMADS BY ADDRESSING REAL NEEDS THROUGH RELEVANT ISSUES, TOPICS, AND RECOURCES.
AMONG WORLDS ©2019 (ISSN# 1538-75180) IS PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY INTERACTION INTERNATIONAL, 1516 PECK ST, MUSKEGON, MI 49442 USA. NO PART OF THIS PUBLICATION MAY BE REPRODUCED WITHOUT THE PRIOR PERMISSION FROM THE PUBLISHER. PRINTED VERSIONS OF SOME ISSUES MAY BE PURCHASED AT WWW.INTERACTIONINTL.ORG FOR $6 USD PLUS SHIPPING AND HANDLING. CONTACT US REGARDING INTERNATIONAL SHIPPING OR DISCOUNTS WHEN PURCHASING FIVE OR MORE ISSUES. THE VIEWS EXPRESSED IN AMONG WORLDS DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THE VIEW OF AMONG WORLDS OR INTERACTION INTERNATIONAL.
The Magical Art of Celebrating By Grace Spaulding
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When we lived in the Philippines, we were great at celebrating. We took family vacations to the beach to celebrate the end of school. We threw multi-family parties on Halloween complete with apple bobbing, donut-eating contests, full costume regalia and homemade haunted houses. We celebrated birthdays a week at a time. New Year’s Eve in the Philippines meant so many fireworks that it triggered my brother’s asthma, so we went out of town to escape the lion’s share of the pollution. We were surrounded by friends who felt like family that every day felt like a celebration — but we also threw plenty of parties with those same people every chance we got. Then, over the course of a year, came a lot of changes: A life-threatening head injury to my dad, the rescinding of 75% of our organization’s funding, an unexpected move back to the States the summer after my freshman year, a distinct pay cut and rise in the cost of living. These are the invisible transitions that happen to every
family, but when combined with a transnational move, it can cause a ripple effect, where each person confronts their own losses and grief. Our celebrations and our celebratory attitudes took a plunge and we found ourselves disoriented and lost. We bought a van to drive around the country visiting supporters and telling people about our new reality and sold it later that year. When we asked our parents whatever happened to it, my mom said, “We ate that van.” We had dumb Tracphones and all the kids in school had Motorola Razors with unlimited texting. Our vacations revolved around piling in the car and driving to California and Canada (sometimes in the same trip) to stay with relatives and visit people who gave our family money for our livelihood. The pastor of our original sending mega-church came out at the center of a mega-scandal. We tried and failed to get involved and make meaningful connections with people at a new church for what felt like an eternity. Other churches cut our support because we were no longer serving overseas. I ate in the bathroom, a la Mean Girls, during more than one lunch break at my new public school. There seemed to be very little to celebrate. We don’t have a lot of celebrations that are rooted in generations of cultural tradition. When people ask what my heritage is, I usually just say “American” because my dad’s side of the family came over before the Mayflower (although people tell me that’s impossible) and on my mom’s side we supposedly have a Native American ancestor (but doesn’t everyone?). Our traditions and celebrations are a combination of the absurd (we pull out the Redi Whip and give everyone whipped cream
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manicures and mustaches on Christmas morning, for example) and the kind that seeps into your family after you’ve lived in a place for long enough. For instance, driving just down the street to watch fireworks set off from the top of Pikes Peak with our noisemakers and party hats at midnight on New Year’s Eve There are times when the nostalgia rises to the top and memories resurface and become a part of life again, like when my dad prepares his annual homemade sushi dinner about once a year, making each ingredient from scratch, There are traditions we don’t completely understand but hold on to anyways. Our celebrations are borne out of necessity and a patchwork-like approach to life. Celebrating looks more like an art than a science. It’s more than just some special formula and combination of disposable income, good cheer, great weather and awesome friends. It takes something a little bit more than that: Maybe the willingness to hope and believe that life is wonderful. You just have to affirm that sometimes, and make it as good as it can be right where you are. My parents have been back in the US for more than 13 years now, and in truth, things have been hard to celebrate. The last two decades were marked with health trials, lost grandparents, unexpected transitions, goodbyes of every kind and the never-ending struggle of settling in and finding friends in this new world that is our passport country. Despite this, through a steady process, celebrations have increasingly become a staple in my family culture. My mom is inherently good in every way and seeks the pursuit of it in all things. It’s part of why her house is so clean even after the house-helper days of the 4
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Philippines are long gone. It lends itself to her impeccable judge of character and judicious yet gentle opinions. But she also protects the beautiful quality of loving to have a good time. She finds the people who know how to bring the party with them everywhere they go and keeps them close. She revels in a luxurious evening meal on the patio and aspires to have a hot tub. So, as my parents have been both settling and growing where they have been planted (or uprooted, or scattered, or whatever metaphor speaks to their situation best), the spirit of celebration has risen to the top and trickled down to affect us, their adult children. They took an anniversary trip to Europe during which they hiked the Camino, backpacked across Spain and took a cruise — all in the same two week period. Though they are two individuals bound to duty, faith and service in every part of life, they’re discovering how to celebrate despite unexpected setbacks and losses, and they’re taking us on the journey with them. We’re reintroducing celebrations and traditions little by little, wherever we get the chance. Celebrations in our very vanilla (with just a few sprinkles on top) family look like sleeping under the tree on Christmas Eve eve, even when we have certainly outgrown it, and now have to convince a sister-in-law to do so; bottles of Stella Rosa Moscato d’Asti that my mom discovered at Costco; tapas nights in or out, depending on the bank account; and the once forgotten, ever-lovely, new luxury of family vacations that to date have revolved around major life events but now include the promise of cabin lodges and ski days.
We’re all grown up now. Or at least that’s what our driver’s licenses say. Celebrations take the form of three to four days together in the same city somewhere in the country, buzzing with the frenetic energy and excitement of being together again, with all of the old and new grievances, years of history, rehashing of old memories and promise of new ones, and the newest members of the family making us better. We meet up in beachside apartments from Northern California to the North Shore of Massachusetts. We meet up for memorial services, Thanksgivings, those weird days in between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, and for no good reason, right in the middle of a June or even October. We eat delicious food and have ridiculous conversations. Life here is just beginning to feel like our own, even though we’re spread out all over, and we owe a lot of that to the magical art of celebrating. Grace Spaulding knows what a life lived in transition feels like. Spending her childhood between the Philippines and Colorado, she has experienced the joy and sorrow of calling many places “home.” Acting as Assistant Director of Kaleidoscope, Grace communicates organizational vision and dreams up new ways of walking alongside your third culture kids. When she isn’t working at a conference or visiting one of her “homes,” Grace spends her free days at her house north of Boston. You can read more about her journey here.
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All I Want for Christmas is… Home By Jodie Stock
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Loud rhythmic music blared from the monstrous black speakers on either end of the makeshift stage, as I watched my full yellow skirt glitter and flare as I spun. The stage — several wooden tables placed together with a dusty carpet on top — creaked beneath my feet, groaning under the weight of seven other girls and me. I gulped in the crisp desert air, both exhausted and energized by the dancing. The other dancers and I could feel the music vigorously reverberating through the stage. We grinned at each other, adrenaline rushing through us as we added to the rhythm of the music with each clack of our brightly decorated sticks. The plastic ribbons taped to the end of the sticks gleamed whenever the floodlight rays hit them. It was Christmas night, and the whole community was gathered together to sing and dance into the night in celebration of Jesus’ birth.
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Because there was nowhere to perform the many acts prepared for the night, the village had used the empty ground nearby to set up the makeshift stage, rented lights, speakers and a large tent filled with patterned mats for people to sit on. As the performance ended and we struck our final poses, I scanned the exuberant crowd, cheering and clapping. There were little girls, dressed up by their mothers in sparkly frocks and bright red lipstick, decorated with ribbons in their long hair. Some were restlessly wandering around while others stared up at the stage, their mouths wide open in awe at the dance performance. There were creased old men, crouched around small fires and tightly wrapped in chadors to protect themselves from the night chill. There were teenage boys and girls, gleefully wearing their new Christmas clothes and shyly casting glances at the other gender to see if they had noticed or were impressed. There were grandmothers,
huddled together under thick, colorful quilts, chatting away as they kept their eagle vision on the teenagers to make sure none of them were up to mischief. Mothers scurried around, handing out quilts, eager to ensure that everybody was comfortable, and some of them carried trays of steaming chai to the hundreds gathered under the tent. As my friends and I struggled to get off the stepless stage in our ankle-length skirts, various languages rang out, with cries of “Happy Christmas” and “Barra din mubarak ho” and “Natal mubarak” filling the air. We had begun the night with our upbeat dandiya stick dance, and people continued to greet each other as others arrived acceptably late to the multihour-long program. This was Christmas in Pakistan. Especially in the southern province of Sindh — the area of Pakistan where I spent nineteen years of my childhood — music, food and community characterize all celebrations. I grew up in rural Sindh, where there are over 40 unique tribes and languages. While most tribes are Hindu, groups of families have become Christians over the years, adding more ethnicities to the Church in Pakistan, which is primarily ethnically Punjabi. Because of the cooler weather, which is relief from the highs of 120 degrees Fahrenheit in the humid summers, Christmas is the most celebrated Christian event in the year, even though in recent years, news of church bombings or violence against Christians in Pakistan during the Christmas season is not uncommon. Despite these real security concerns for the approximately 4 million Christians in Pakistan, the Christian minority still
expresses its joy in song and dance and a burst of mismatched color. The Pakistani government, recognizing the increased danger for Christians particularly at Christmas time, posts armed policemen at churches for protection. Most of the police are Muslim who stay outside the church, but there were occasional times I would look up during Communion and see a Christian policeman kneel down for the bread and wine with his AK-47 slung over his shoulder. When I came to my passport country, America, for university last year, I experienced my first Christmas away from my parents in Pakistan. That year, Christmas did not feel like Christmas to me. I went to Christmas parties and participated in white elephant games. I sang carols at my grandparents’ church and helped decorate their apartment. But so much was missing. Christmas seemed too… reserved. At home, the Christmas season was always a time when I hardly set foot in my own house or had time alone with family. But in America, it seemed to be the time people mostly stayed inside and with family. At home, my extroverted self thrived on the communal and zestful celebrations. In America, I enjoyed the parties but wondered where were the booming loudspeakers, energetic choreographed dances, beating of tribal drums, and multi-generational families? I wanted to outwardly and colorfully express my joy at Jesus’ incarnation, but I did not know how to in America. I was not the only one in my family to struggle with this. I remember my dad telling me a story from his first experience of Christmas in America, as JANUARY 2020 11
SPOTLIGHT INTERVIEW
Jessi Vance of Kaleidoscope Follow the link to Kaleidoscope, and the first thing you will see is color! A beautiful site, Kaleidoscope welcomes the visitor into a “Community that Activates Third Culture Kids to not Only Survive but Thrive!” Kaleidoscope was founded by a creative entrepreneur and TCK, Jessi Vance. Growing up in Uzbekistan, Jessi was struck by the need for people in her life who understood what she was going through. She graduated from Hope International University with a desire to help families just like hers who were spending their most formative years between cultures — and voila, Kaleidoscope was born! She channels all of her creative energy into new and exciting ways to engage TCKs, wherever they are in the world.
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Tell us a bit about your growing up years, your family and the places that shaped you? I’m one of those strange third culture kids that spent almost all her developmental years in one place. When I was six, my family moved to Uzbekistan and just fell in love. My dad fell in love with the eclectic gathering of culture and religion from stoic Soviet neighbors still inclined to whisper of KGB and listening ears to bazaars full of spicy Korean salads in rows upon rows of uncovered bowls, tangy aromas and chattering grandmas (I know, I don’t get it either. Google history of Uzbekistan at some point. It’s a saga.) and devout muslims dreaming of Mecca and a more supportive Islamic state to a thriving Russian baptist church.
It was never boring, that’s for sure. My mom fell in love with the craggy mountains and dusty streets, with the Uzbek housewives in bright dresses, perpetually sweeping the street in front of their house and inviting you in for a sweet piola of tea. For me it was the only world I knew. It was Russian ballet classes, school uniforms, gum wrappers collected from the corner kiosk and bootleg copies of Brittnay Spears listened to in my friend’s bedroom with the door closed, headphones on, stifled giggles and sneaking glances over our shoulders at our blatant rebellion from Amy Grant and Jars of Clay. We fell in love and just stayed. We stayed through my baby brother being born (the THIRD who didn’t come out a girl), through high school for me, through my mom’s journey with mental health and my brothers’ committed exploration of all the drugs Central Asian teens have to offer. Uzbekistan shaped me in the way I see myself as a woman, a paradox of the respectful and hospitable Uzbek mamas and the sexy, dominant, fierce Russian female. Uzbekistan shaped me in the way I meet God, the way I cook with more oil than is strictly necessary and the way I will always choose bright colors over neutrals. JANUARY 2020 15
WRITER IN RESIDENCE
MARY BASSEY
Rite of Passage
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My journeys to Nigeria have always been marked by the presence of all of my immediate family members: My dad, my stepmom, my sisters and my brother. For a significant portion of my life, North America has been my home. And with each visit to my birth country, Nigeria, my sole preoccupation lay in how I would blend in with my African home. How I would reconcile the uncomfortable paradox of being citizen and foreigner simultaneously. Growing up, I was grateful to have Victor by my side, my younger brother who wasn’t too far removed from my age. We were practically joined at the hip as we traversed the West African coast, the Canadian Pacific North West, the Southern conservative state of Kentucky and the more liberal state of California. Every visit to Nigeria, we were each other’s therapists, each other’s source of comfort as extended family and people our parents knew called us Mbakara upon the mere sound of our voices. Mbaraka. “White person,” though our skin was dark, our lips were full and our noses broad. “Foreigner,” though our tongues tasted the foods from Nigeria even while in California, and our father
did not dare let us forget from where we came. I was 19 years old the second to last time I went back to visit Nigeria. The year was 2011. I finished my freshman year of university, straddling the blurry line between childhood and adulthood. I remember having to mentally prepare myself, as I always did, to be at the mercy of my parents’ itinerary, of the many extended family and family friends we would visit, knowing that years later when my parents would say, “Do you remember so-and-so,” I’d likely forget. Then 2018 came. I was 25 years old and living on my own. And I was determined that this would be the year I would make the trip to Nigeria without my parents. It would just be my brother and me. And unlike prior situations, I would be the one who bore the financial responsibility for the trip. I knew that our journey to Nigeria in 2018 would begin, not with a flight to Nigeria, but with a flight to a Nigerian Embassy in the United States. My brother’s and my passport had expired, and we needed to reapply for new ones. I remember the feeling of dread as I saw that the reviews for all three Nigerian embassies had a 2.2 or less star ratings on Google. Atlanta’s rating made sense to me: In 2011, my family stayed in the hot embassy in Georgia’s capital for hours waiting for our turn. It was not a great experience. But as I read the reviews, despite the rating being 2.2, the most recent ones for
the embassy in Washington D.C. sounded positive. So one morning in early May, I booked the hotel for my brother and me. And later that day during my work break, I booked tickets for our two-day trip to the US capital. But despite those recent positive reviews, I still braced myself for the worst. To my surprise, my experience could not have been smoother. Even with not having the passport photos upon my arrival, the man there (Obi) directed me to the nearby Walgreens where passport photos were taken. Within a month, our passports arrived, and I could confidently get my brother and me tickets to Nigeria. Though our parents knew of our intention to go for several months at this point, they now knew it was official. I contacted my aunts and uncle to let them know. My Aunty A announced in our family group chat that we were coming. Just Victor and me. The day of our departure finally came that first Friday of August. It was the last day of teaching summer school and the time of class dismissal was just a few hours before my departure time. After a bit of last minute shopping, I headed to LAX to meet my immediate family. We checked in our bags, exchanged hugs with our parents and sisters, and said our goodbyes. This was a rite of passage for us. Our first time arriving to our Motherland as grown adults. The first trip home without our parents. After our layover from LAX to Amsterdam, Victor and I safely landed in JANUARY 2020 21
Finding Home Dar es Salaam Delicacies So predictable: Tanzanian rainy seasons. Nose pressed up against the window, I wait. Pitter-patters become pelting poundings and hundreds of flying ants rise upward. “Dad! Come on!� and he brings them as always: Bright yellow boots and clashing pink raincoat. Plastic Tupperware in hand, I run out, dancing to a buzzing chorus of wings. Into the air, I leap for flying ants. And soon the Tupperware is full of them. We return home, and with a smile on my face, I present my prized possessions to Mom. A dollop of oil and a pinch of salt; Sizzling in the pan, they fry quickly. Then around the table, Mom, Dad, and I sit, munching and crunching our seasonal snack.
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in Poetry
By Melanie Han
Fertilized Love Giggles Why it is English that is “universal language?” They says to me “Everyone needs to learn.” It too hard. I too old. I try communicate with Granddaughter Doesn’t want learn language of mother Because she already speak English Universal language “My dear Yeast, It is a prized catch mother hen ignorance is special bond. I grabbed the hem of a mother, watching while trembling spit. Show me your fertilized love giggles. Love, Grandma” English is a universal language. The one that everyone needs to learn. It’s so easy so why can’t she just do it? I try to communicate with Grandma Doesn’t feel the need to learn English. Because she already speaks Korean But who needs that? JANUARY 2020 31
Eid, Expats, an By Maryam Afnan Ahmad
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I blame TV. It can present such a glorified version of holidays. Everyone is dressed and coiffed to perfection. Family and friends meet joyously. Starry lights twinkle in the background, and homes are clean to microscopic levels. All resolved; all at peace. Reality is that celebrations can be rushed and messy, especially as expatriates. Eid in Pakistan meant spending time with extended family: Dressing up, visiting, eating too much desert on Eid-ulFitr and too much meat on Eid-ul-Azha, small gifts of money called Eidi for children, bonding, laughter, togetherness.
It was in the first few years of our six-year, second expat tenure in Washington D.C. that Eid became challenging. America has a sizable Pakistani diaspora. Washington D.C. is one of the largest hubs and Pakistanis have well established circles. Many Embassy families also had extended family in the US. Simultaneously, Eid is often on working weekdays. Though life in the US presented various advantages, at Eid I was homesick. My stress level would rise as Eid approached but there was not much to do apart from the Eid prayer on Eid morning and maybe one Eid meal at a friend’s. Eid
nd Expectations Our first expat experience was kind to Eid. We were in China, where a smaller diaspora size and language barrier meant the community was tightly knit. Eid was spent at events at the embassy. A chand raat (the night of the moon sighting) for Eid-ul-Fitr was spent at a party hosted for mothers and children. Eid day was spent first at the Ambassador’s Open House and then visiting neighbors in the compound. After China, a two year repatriation meant we were back in the family fray and Eids were enjoyably spent.
namaz (prayer) was always festive. In and around Washington D.C., Eid prayers are held at multiple venues with hundreds present. After a lively, jubilant atmosphere coming to a quiet home was anticlimactic. I wanted magic, wonder, fellowship, and joy. I wanted to host cozy, relaxed gatherings. I wanted TV-advert-worthy laughter and socializing. The first few Eids passed that way. It was hard to make plans with Embassy friends. I would meander between hope and anxiety for the weeks prior to Eid and inevitably work myself up to a frenzied JANUARY 2020 37
Christmas On The Move: the art of finding magic By By Lucille Lucille Emmeline Emmeline
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I was eleven when I discovered Father Christmas was actually my mother, aided and abetted by her sisters. The discovery blindsided me; so intricately entrenched was my childhood innocence. My family and I had recently emigrated from England to South Africa and were staying temporarily with my aunt and uncle. Most nights I slept on the floor in my cousin’s bedroom, but on that fateful night, December 24, 1989, I chose to sleep on the couch in the living room. The crackling of wrapping paper was what woke me; any child knows what a present in the hands of its deliverer sounds like. Instinctively I pulled the covers over my head so I could peep out under the guise of slumber. And what to my wondrous eyes did appear? Three giggling women, and absolutely no reindeer. That first Christmas in South Africa was a perfect storm of rude awakenings. Nothing made sense to me. The stark African sun obliterated the hallowed traditions we had previously observed in snowy, dark, cozy England. I discovered that in Africa, Christmas was a summer affair. Instead of being bundled up in winter coats and woolen socks, we ran about in swimming costumes jumping in and out of the pool; instead of roasting horse chestnuts on a roaring fire, we ate giant smiles of watermelon and spat the pips at each other. When I inquired how, in the absence of a chimney, Father Christmas would deliver our presents, I was informed he would simply fly in through the window. I should have known something was up. My mother is South African, my father is Dutch and I was born and raised in England before moving to South Africa as
a tween. My mother worked hard to create unique traditions that took strands from our multicultural heritage. But looking back now, I realize that the Christmassy magic I adored in rural England was created not only by our wonderful family traditions, but also by our physical environment. We lived seamlessly in tune with the seasons so that you couldn’t have Easter without spring lambs or daffodils; you couldn’t have Halloween without burnt autumn leaves tumbling from the trees with each spooky gust of wind; and you couldn’t have Christmas without red holly berries, bright snowy days and cold, candlelit nights. That first Christmas in South Africa with its raging orange sun and exotic palm trees, its ice cream and giggling female Santas, its Christmas lunch instead of Christmas dinner, was my first Christmas without the magic. I bounced back, as all resilient children do. I think that abrupt deliverance into the world of adults at the tender age of eleven was the first step in what has been a lifelong journey of learning to embrace the foreign and somehow making it my own. Seventeen years ago when my husband and I moved to Saigon, Vietnam, I discovered a world without Christmas. It simply did not exist. And why should it? But even then, to my well-travelled mind, the lack of Christmas was a revelation, a shot of perspective to the vein, reminding me that our traditions are not universal. It was utterly liberating. Christmas does not need rules. By our second Christmas in Saigon the Sheraton hotel had begun to decorate its lobby with fake snow, the beginning of the appropriation of Christmas which wouold intrigue and delight me as we moved around the world.
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Where Will Among Worlds Take You! Among Worlds magazine is open to submissions for the following themes! Email your nonfiction stories, poetry, photos, and graphics to Among Worlds at AWsubmissions@interactionintl.org. We can’t wait to see what you have for us. Upcoming submission windows: Kintsugi: The Art of Repairing the Broken Submission Deadline February 15, 2019
Journeys: From Here to There & Back Again Submission Deadline April 15, 2019