The Featheralist: Volume 04, Issue 02

DEL NORTE HIGH SCHOOL | MAY 2022 | VOLUME 04, ISSUE 02

what is that comes after forever? is it a darkness so dark you can’t see past what your fingers touch? or is it a feeling of warmth that spreads across your body like light in your eyes? or perhaps it is just a feeling of nothing, just the rhythm of the world as it pulses under your palms, like little crabs in the sand pushing up for air as the waves and the shoreline push and pull in a harmony of earth. welcome to issue 13 of the featheralist, my last traditional issue before i graduate high school, and perhaps one of the last stops before i truly see what it is that comes after forever. my forever. i started writing for the featheralist when i was 13 years old — just like the number of this issue. i was a freshman in high school, following the footsteps and interests of my sister, just two years older than me. her friends were the ones who were in my position back then, leading a team of over 60 writers and artists and graphic designers to produce magazine issues each trimester. since then, our team has grown, and i, with it. the time after high school has felt like an indefinite stop. ever since i was young, elementary, middle, high school was about preparing for the defined next step, for going to college. now that i’m at that end, whatever comes next feels like after forever. i’m not used to writing forewords. i’m not used to writing such personal, emotional forewords, while i sit on my bed in my childhood bedroom, closing up the beginning of my ending. and while it isn’t the end, it certainly is where i’m getting towards the back cover of this volume of my life. so, here’s to this: the end of this beginning, the beginning of an end, and the beginning of a beginning, and the end of an end. as the hundred writers, artists, and designers take you through these pages of volume 04, issue 02, i hope you embark on a journey that leads you to the comforting darkness of the unknown, the warmth of a new light — or simply, the rhythm of the world, pulsing beneath your fingertips. best, andrea baek president, editor-in-chief

02

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Featheralist

FOREWORD

04 05 06 07 09 10

POETRY

CALLIGRAPHY

by Deanna Hu, ‘22 “Cliffs” by Iris Ding, ‘22 Watercolor

BEAUTIFUL WITCH OF THE EAST

by Deanna Hu, ‘22 “reflection” by Iris Ding, ‘22 Watercolor

OMINOUS IS A GARDEN

by Deanna Hu, ‘22

“Spring Garden” by Anna Feng, ‘23 Watercolor

SEASHELLS

by Rini Khandelwal, ‘24 “Seashells” by Aliya Tang, ‘25 Colored Pencil

IT'S OK TO ASK FOR HELP

by Hemadarshani Rajendran, ‘24 “It's OK” by Hemadarshani Rajendran ‘24 Marker

PERMISSION TO DANCE

by Anna Prasouvo, ‘24

“Permission to Dance” by Tanvi Bagri, ‘24 Digital

16 17 20 22 24 26

SPLINTER

by Ellen Xu, ‘23

“Bloodied Hand” by Alice Tang, ‘23 Colored Pencil

VOYEUR

by Shriya Sankaran, ‘23 “Sorrow” by Anna Feng, ‘23 Acrylic

ON FAMILY, LOVE, AND WHO WE ARE: A REFLECTION OF THE PERSON I HAVE COME TO BE

by Andrea Baek, '22

“Aquiring a Halo” by Nicole Pi, ‘23 Mixed Media

I WISH I COULD TAKE IT BACK

by Shreya Shahane, ‘23 “Reflect” by Iris Ding, ‘22 Digital

THE COLOR DIVIDE: PARTS TWO AND THREE

by Nikki Hekmat, ‘24

“Colors Divide” by Hemadarshani Rajendran, ‘24 Colored Pencil

ODE TO THE JAMES WEBB SPACE TELESCOPE

28 30

EXPOSITORY THE SUBURBIAN HELLSCAPE

by Audrey Zeng, ‘23

“Decension” by Saumya Palakodety, ‘24 Watercolor

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

11 12 13

PROSE

AFGANISTAN: A DECADES LONG STORY

by Vinay Rajagopalan, ‘24

“Desperate for Hope” by Hemadarshani Rajendran, ‘24 Watercolor

32 34

#HUNGERFIGHTERS

35

POWAY UNIFIED AND A NEW SCHEDULE: A STUDENT’S OPINION

36

ANTIBIOTICS: TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

by Ishan Kapoor, ‘23 “Breakfast” by Andrea Wang, ‘23 Digital

THE PLATYPUS

by Tyler Xiao, ‘24

“River” by Katelyn Chen, ‘24 Watercolor

by "Jack Miller, ‘24, Vivian Hoang, ‘24 “Tick Tock” by Iris Ding, ‘22 Digital

by Avani Ranka, ‘23 “Outreach” by Iris Ding, ‘22 Digital

THE DATE

by Bella Chong, ‘22 “Red” by Iris Ding, ‘22 Digital

AN AWAKENING

by Raiya Bann, ‘23

“House in the Woods” by Andrea Wang, ‘24 Digital

MISSED CONNECTIONS

by Nicole Pi, ‘23

“Boquet” by Katelyn Chen, ‘24 Colored Pencil

38 39

by Shreena Dayal, ‘25 “Antibiotics” by Iris Ding, ‘22 Digital

CONTRIBUTORS AND COLOPHON WORKS CITED 03

CALLIGRAPHY

poetry | The Featheralist

Written by Deanna Hu, ‘22 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

Cliffs Iris Ding, ‘22 Watercolor

04

“You write it left to right” Teacher — shi — demonstrates first with a sweep, so easily, the characters cascade out into an oblivion of dry papyrus where it sinks into small divots and expands like a peninsula “Inside to out” The ink is from generations, the pride of mother after mother, as black as ivory is white, to be saved for the funeral procession where the ink will lay upon my ownership; it was never a present I wanted “Up to down” She handled my fist, clenched, nails penetrating flesh, the calligraphy brush, onyx black tipped, picturesque clove: it shakes midair, ink mist dripping slowly, quavering, scared “No again.”

She corrects my posture, back straight, up, higher, lifted chin, up, higher, elbows raised, up!, higher!, confidence, be confident! the words react to emotion, the strokes scream your mind “No, again.”

She adjusts my wrist, with her two slender fingers, cold, distanced distanced like the columns of characters, pillars of stern lampblack stone molds taint the gentle tail of old wood “No. Again.”

I slowly lower the brush, and stroke and stroke and stroke and stroke rancor until the poem heeds my bluff “Again.”

Written by Deanna Hu, ‘22 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 My mother weaves a huaer into my hair, silken so that the Evil Queen would be jealous. The me in the mirror was powerful, graceful; the me in the mirror was my mother.

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

BEAUTIFUL WITCH OF THE EAST She raised me well, through her stories of lush mountains and bright-eyed fawn. In Anhui, where the peaks kissed the clouds and it tasted like citrusy mornings.

It makes sense that her hometown resides there, at times she feels like a nature fairy, a gypsy so perfectly born in the woods. Her wooden scent has not faded since, remarkable like the Huangshan. Her towering presence drew in many men, inadequate callers for which she rejected, instead she followed freedom.

There was a compulsion to imitate this figure, she moved like an ice dancer, frictionless.

In my dreams, I can see her skater costume fluttering in the wind, a capeless ice witch. Flowers would sprout at her fingertips and thrive in the cold and small birds would visit to drain its nectar. The ice would part underneath her movement so she glided forever until I finally awoke.

My mother is kind but my hospitality is an elusive swan, swimming in the blood-water pond that smells like fresh cast iron and rust.

The poison wafts up from its origin, and it spreads, from corner to corner of Earth; it’s overwhelming, its omnipresence. I can’t quite run. Acid rain pours down now, words words words. Demons. Small metal fangs pierce the atmosphere, they pile up, slowly at first. Give it a few days and the spheres will become metallic sludge, attached to every surface and glare. Mother, It will be hard to travel then. I think, maybe, I’ll need an umbrella. Please wait for me; It will take many days.

reflection Iris Ding, ‘22 Watercolor

05

poetry | The Featheralist

OMINOUS IS A GARDEN Written by Deanna Hu, ‘22 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

The Birdbath where Some acquaintances scattered seeds, some fed salt to pigeons But gray doves fly by sometimes.

They look in the mirror then they cleanse then they look in the mirror Hummingbirds sing their buzzing song A lone melody or a busibody The Fountain, just like how My fingers cascade down the keys White on white, pedal on draining the clarity The sound is harmonious, like ripe fruits of a harvest Snapped off from its stalk, freshly white of a pale bosom The rings still echo from the lake, if you can see the ripples Only a skeleton still sits at the Steinway The Glass is piercing and whittled It makes gorgeous figurines, a unicorn of sorts among anomalies All in Laura’s jungle Within my inner soul The organs that rumble on Sunday church Dusty chamber pews that I traverse over as Bach’s Toccata plays eerily in our surroundings

Spring Garden Anna Feng, ‘23 Watercolor, Colored Pencil

06

1. seashells Written by Rini Khandelwal, ‘24 | Plastic Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 Is all I can think about.

I purse my lips, hoping plastic is not the only thing you think of too.

You circle the sand with your foot.

You shake your head.

“The water,” I insist. “You haven’t tried the water–” “I don’t want to.” There is irritation hidden in your usually monotone voice.

“You haven’t tried,” I repeat.

“I’ve been in the rain,” you say. “I know what it feels like.”

“Not waves,” I argue. “You haven’t felt waves–” “And I don’t want to.”

I sigh. Perhaps I was wrong.

Suddenly you yelp, clutching your foot. You squint at the sand.

“Sharp seashell,” I note.

The seashell gets tucked into your shirt pocket.

I smile behind my hand.

“Let’s take pictures,” I say.

“No.” “Memories!” I urge.

You shake your head.

I pull out my camera– Suddenly there is sand in my eyes and I cannot see, I am crying and you are laughing.

I rush to the water to clean my eyes as best as I can, But it stings.

I come back, Sopping wet while you are grinning, standing on the rocks, Dry. “Is it cold?” you ask. I see a little sparkle in your eyes.

“Maybe.”

2. grapes “That’s not fair.”

I shift into the shade of the awning.

“You said you didn’t want to try.”

You wipe away sweat, mumbling about how the blazing sun is even hotter today.

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

You shove a grape into your mouth.

I think I am staring for too long because you stop and look me in the eyes and raise your eyebrows.

I look away.

“What?” you say, indignant.

“Nothing,” I say. The summer sky is bluer than your eyes.

“Liar. You were glaring at me.”

“I wasn’t glaring.”

“Yes you were.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“Whatever.”

There is an awkward silence. Not a single cloud is in the sky.

Sweat rolls down my neck and back.

I nibble at a grape.

You shove another one into your mouth.

Three seconds, and you have another grape.

Then another one.

One more – “Stop.” I swat your hand away from the bowl.

You blink. “There’s more grapes on the counter–” “No,” I say. “Why do you eat them so fast?”

“Why do you eat them so slow?” Your tone is firm.

Now it’s my turn to blink. “What?”

You sigh, exasperated. “Just eat the grape, taste it, and get it over with. Move on.”

I look at you.

You look back. You nod at the grapes.

I reluctantly take one in, whole.

Its sweet juice bursts in my mouth as I bite into the cold refreshing flesh.

I nod.

You smile.

The grapes are gone within seconds.

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

SEASHELLS

07

poetry | The Featheralist

3. snow My fingers are numb.

Why don’t you care?

Because right now you are grabbing my arm and pulling me further into what you call a white wonderland.

I call it hell.

The chattering of my teeth is not enough to cover your screams of delight.

You tug at my arm. I shake my head.

But ten minutes later I have attempted and failed to roll snow into balls and stack them onto each other.

What is that smile on your face?

I am shaking, shivering, rubbing my hands, I can see my breath (and yours).

The wind’s cold daggers slice at my face.

The jacket, the gloves, the scarf are not enough.

You tug at my arm again. I’d grit my teeth if they weren’t chattering so hard.

“Another one,” you insist.

I manage to open and close my frozen jaw. “No.” Your smile falls. “Please?”

“Feel my fingers,” I snap. I rip off my gloves and touch your face.

You flinch.

“My teeth,” I choke. “I’m shivering. I’m cold. Freezing. Killed myself making that snowman. Why the hell do you like this?”

The sparkle in your eyes is gone. You slowly pull off your gloves as well.

Your fingertips are redder than mine.

I suddenly realize that you too are shuddering. You too are freezing.

I look at your face, a question in my eyes.

You shrug. “Either you make the most of the snow, or you complain about the cold.”

I am too stunned to speak.

Why was I so oblivious to this? How could I let my discomfort blind me from joy?

I bend down and cup a snowball into my hand.

Seashells Aliya Tang, ‘25 Colored Pencil

4. dust There is not even a scratch on the cherry wood.

On the lower shelves are fairy tales and picture books and Gulliver’s Travels; Higher up are books from when we went to school.

It seems only yesterday that I had been poring over these.

Yesterday was too long ago.

I glance behind at the desk, Messy journals and pretty glass paperweights.

In a little box are the fancy pens that you love. Loved.

I trace the book spines, dust coming back on my fingertips.

You never allowed dust.

But the dust does as it pleases now that you are not here.

I wish it was still yesterday.

How did the time go by so quickly?

08

Written by Hemadarshani Rajendran, ‘24 | Designed by Priya Tantod, ‘23 Girl: Dear Diary, I like cake pops.

They look perfect on the outside.

But really, the inside is just a mess of leftover cake.

Just like my life.

My life is perfect.

At least it seems to be perfect.

Perfect skin.

Perfect grades.

Perfect house.

The perfect life.

But reality is far from what people see.

My parents quarrel all the time over company issues.

My so-called friends gossip about my personal life.

My siblings are filled with jealousy over me.

So my life is really far from perfect.

It’s miserable.

But I can’t tell anyone that because I’m supposed to be perfect…

I’ve realized a few things in my miserable life.

Being rich is no use if you can’t spend it with anyone meaningful.

Family…. doesn’t exist.

My life … not in my control.

I’m simply a piece of paper on which people write their expectations.

Everyone expects me to be someone else.

But has anyone asked me what I want to do in my life?

Boy: Hey Diary, I saw her yesterday.

She really is as pretty as the rumors have it.

As beautiful as 10,000 roses.

Yet, something seemed off about her.

about me again.

Fake? Me? I guess that's true in a way.

Everyone only talks to me if they want something My whole life, I’ve been unhappy.

BUT, I never asked for such a life…why am I so from me; miserable?

He’s probably the same way.

Must I spend my life making everyone else happy?

When can I be happy?

Next day at school… in admiration, and not jealousy...

That’s absurd though!

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

IT'S OK TO ASK FOR HELP Boy: (Passes by the girl) Girl: I hope I don’t run into that boy again. My eyes Oh, I see her again!

Wait, she’s…. Crying?!! were all puffy from crying all night.

What in the world? I didn't know she cried!

Boy: I wonder if I’ll see her again today. Maybe I could I mean obviously she can, but she seemed so strong whenever I saw her. talk to her...

Maybe I should go and talk to her…. Just in case she needs any help.

That should be okay, I think?

Later that day...

Other Students: “Did you hear that she got a C?! It seems she isn’t Boy: “Hey, are you okay ...? You seem sad.” as smart as I thought.”

Girl: It’s that boy again! “Uhh ...me … yeah ... I’m fine. I just have dust in my eyes.”

“Maybe she cheated on all her tests before!”

Boy: “Oh, okay then.” Is she lying? “Just wanted to “Oh my gosh, I think you're right. I saw her check in. I'll see you around . . .” drinking from a clear plastic water bottle during Girl: “Yeah, sure, thanks ...”

Boy: I think she needs help, though. “Wait, I just the test. She probably had notes on it.” wanted to say… totally random, but, no matter who you are, just know that it's always okay to ask for “Oh my gosh, really?!” help. Okay, now I’ll actually get going . . .”

“She’s so stuck up – she doesn’t even talk to any of Why did I say that?! That was so awkward. She must think I’m judging her. us anymore.”

Girl: … Does he actually care about me? This has never happened before. Maybe I should ask . . .

“I bet she’s such a fake person who buys “Wait! I know this sounds weird coming from me … but do you mind sitting with me for a while, just everything in life.” so I’m not alone …?”

“Obviously.”

Boy: (Smiles) “Of course I will. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you company!”

Girl: I… Sniffle, Sniffle I just heard my friends, no, some people talking Girl: (Smiles) Just maybe ... maybe … it's time for me to ask for help …

“She must think she’s such an elite person”

She wore glittering diamond rings, but she seemed dull.

She had colorful designer brand clothing, but her face seemed colorless.

I wonder if she’s ok…

What am I thinking, how could such a person be sad with all the money she has?

Girl: Dear Diary, I saw a boy yesterday.

He was staring at me, like every other boy I've met.

But he was a bit different.

His eyes were innocent as if he was looking at me

It's OK Hemadarshani Rajendran, ‘24 Marker

09

poetry | The Featheralist

Permission to Dance Tanvi Bagri, ‘24 Digital

PERMISSION TO DANCE Inspired by BTS’ “Permission to Dance”

Written by Anna Prasouvo, ‘24 Designed by Priya Tantod, ‘23

Who needs permission to dance Be the hand that makes your playlist Don’t search for a DJ, you can be your own Hit the mixer Time to get it started It’s a promise, your ears know the beat Lungs know the chorus Steel your nerves with the hum of the tune Close your eyes Accept what you're feeling Groove to the beat with no self-consciousness If you’re feelin good don’t hide it Glances don’t matter as long as you’re having fun The pulse of your heart is all the rhythm you need Feel that rhythm and dance along Have pride in your vibe You are the center of this dance floor Embrace your spark

10

Written by Ellen Xu, ‘23 Designed by Priya Tantod, ‘23

the fisherman slices the belly of the argentine rainbow trout and carves out a beating heart.

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

SPLINTER it looks small, disfigured in his hands. “here, do you want to hold it?” i cup my hands under his and the he drops the organ my belly palms.of“brave,” he fisherman slicesinthe the argentine remarks. he turns backcarves to clean the restheart. of rainbow trout and outoff a beating the fish, spotted bellies floating upwards in a freezer bin. small, the fish’s heartbeat pulses through it looks disfigured in his hands. “here, do my veins, becoming a syncopation of my own. his you want to hold it?” i cup my hands under my and blood intoin its too he he transfigured drops the organ my river; palms.not “brave,” longremarks. ago the water had back been its vein, an of of he turns to clean offaorta the rest pulsing wonder bellies if the heart really decidesin a the life. fish,i spotted floating upwards whatfreezer is deadbin. or alive; whether it betrays its own the fish’s heartbeat pulses through bodymybyveins, beating, a carcass torn and of thrown becoming a syncopation my own. awaymy in ablood sea oftransfigured red. (the heart is an its too into its organ river;ofnot own.) long ago the water had been its vein, an aorta of pulsing life. i wonder if the heart really decides it is what a few minutes until the heartbeat on its is dead or alive; whether drums it betrays into own a punctuated i pass hearttorn back and body bysilence. beating, a the carcass into thrown his palm. the guts likeheart glacédis an away in a are sea smeared of red. (the cherry on my fingertips: garnet and viscous, as organ of its own.) if a part of me might slip away if i’m not careful. think before i smear it onto the on it is ia don’t few minutes until the heartbeat drums dockinto anda my hand comes backi pass a rose punctuated silence. thebush heartofback splinters, calcified cypress threading into his palm. the guts are smearedthrough like glacéd my skin likeonsilk. skin isgarnet the largest organ as cherry my (the fingertips: and viscous, in the if body.) a part of me might slip away if i’m not careful. i don’t think before i smear it onto the it takes hours and a comes fire-hotback needle to carve docktwo and my hand a rose bush of out the splinters. an army veteran once toldthrough me splinters, calcified cypress threading that my if you shot in (the the leg, finger to skinget like silk. skinbreak is thealargest organ divert the body.) pain. i blast music into my ears to in the shake the thought of the way the metal tip is tearing through myandepidermis like to the it takes two hours a fire-hot needle carve underbelly a trout,anflaky andonce keratin out the of splinters. armyscales veteran told me subverting intoget their state, a beating that if you shotlifeless in the leg, break a finger to heartdivert severed at its roots: shearing all to the pain. i blast music intoaway my ears theseshake layers of things once the thought of thei way the thought metal tip is constituted (the my brainepidermis is an organlike that the tearing ‘alive’. through deceives you.) of a trout, flaky scales and keratin underbelly subverting into their lifeless state, a beating when you reach intoatyour tracheashearing and drawaway out all heart severed its roots: yourthese heart, layers i hold your in my of gift things i palms. once your thought heartbeat is detached restisofanyou, likethat constituted ‘alive’.from (thethe brain organ a ticking clock separate from time itself. and deceives you.) when you reclaim your heart, i am left cutting at the splinters youinto leftyour in me. wondering if out when you reach trachea and draw thereyour washeart, any part of you alive in theyour i hold yourthat giftwas in my palms. first heartbeat place. is detached from the rest of you, like a ticking clock separate from time itself. and when you reclaim your heart, i am left cutting at the splinters you left in me. wondering if there was any part of you that was alive in the first place.

Bloodied Hand Alice Tang, ‘23 Colored Pencil

11

prose | The Featheralist

VOYEUR

Anna Feng, ‘23 Acrylic

Written by Shriya Sankaran, ‘23, | Designed by Priya Tantod, i carve my heart out of my chest. in the mirror i see the hollow of my throat: on either side lay my collarbones. then, inwards: sternum. outwards again: ribs, one, two, three. down: navel. in the mirror i see a girl shaped roughly by callus: porcelain skin, rosebud lip, ebony hair. i watch myself move, a marionette guided across the stage by lurching string: hand smoothing down waist, hair falling by shoulder-blade. here i can pretend that i am the only one watching. here i can watch myself and pretend that i am not a sight to be watched in herself: here, a girl. she stares into her mirror, vainly — i shut my eyes. there is a certain futility in pretending i am unseen. i am perpetually propped up on a pedestal and forced down on my knees: simultaneously to be lauded and degraded. there is no existence of myself separate from the eyes prying me apart: even in running away from one gaze i run closer to another. in closing my eyes i hold onto some last semblance of hope: please-god-when-i-open-myeyes-let-me-be-invisible.

“in closing my eyes i hold onto some last semblance of hope: please-god-when-i-open -my-eyes-let-me-beinvisible.” i open my eyes. in the mirror, still, is a girl who stares back. in the mirror is a girl so beautiful she deserves to die. a critic dissects me: there is a green blemish at her neck, the fingerprint of cheap jewelry tarnishing. she is scarred, too; it spreads across the left side of her stomach, pockmarks her elbows and her knees and her thighs. her hair thins easily, falls out with the slightest touch too forceful. her bones jut out knifelike, her skin stretches between with leathery tautness. if you touch her she will stain pink, welts inflaming behind the scrape of nail, like scars left on the earth by an army advancing.

12

Sorrow

you may take her anyways, of course. if not you, someone else will have her. i plunge my hand into the outlined cavity at torso left-center. when you cut skin, there is a moment at which the wound pauses at fat-white before stippling into blood. in this moment, i pray one final time: let me keep this part of myself, please. let me live without killing myself. it is, as always, a prayer made in vain. i avert my eyes while i wait for its inevitability. when i was a child, my mother told me that looking at my scrapes would make them hurt more. i skinned my knees on playground asphalt like anniversaries: let rust-blood seep into sky-blue leggings and jeans and shorts too long. i limped home year-after-year and waited for my knees to scab over as i looked for the bandages in boxes that were always empty. in that i learned: being conscious of your pain makes it ache a little deeper: in that i learned that looking away is easier. my heart lies in the palm of my hand. here is my surrender: here is my death. i watch my last heart’s throes and consider the mechanics of killing oneself. one by one, i sluice through blood and plasma to retrieve organ and bone. i seep into packed dirt and asphalt and rock, hardwood and marble and sand, until the grit of my blood becomes a permanent fixture of the gap between nail and nail-bed, staining eggshell-white to bruise and brown. i cut myself apart until i am but inches from death and then: i die. i shove my corpse into a leaded coffin and drown it. i immolate myself and let the stench of gasoline stick to my skin. i preserve myself in the position of self-sacrifice and pray that i become a martyr for another girl.

— and i am watched all the while, as though i am nothing more than a performance for the dispassionate. tomorrow, i will be serif fonts on recycled paper: tomorrow, the third-page stories will run with sugar-coated commentaries on my mediocrity. tomorrow, my reviewers will turn a blind eye to the knife at my neck as they deliberate on my death: tomorrow, my suicide will be ruled emotional and unrealistic. tomorrow i will be ever-watching audiences.

insufficient

for

my

today, i cup my dead heart and lower it into the ground.

Written by Andrea Baek, ‘22 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24

I didn't learn much about my mother’s life before America until I was a teenager.

She had never told me much about her life in Korea before she moved here, so I didn't, and probably still don’t, understand the scope of her sacrifice.

Whenever I would ask her questions about her life, her response was often that she simply “did not remember.”

My mother was brought up in a family of 5 children, the second-youngest amongst three older sisters and a younger brother. Her father, my grandfather, was a government official at a post office with a lineage tracing back more than 50 generations. Her mother, my grandmother, took care of the children. Both of my mother’s parents owned properties of incredible historical significance, and my mother often spent her summers on such estates, playing games in the yard, working in the family’s peanut fields, and enjoying her childhood.

My mother always tells me she was never a successful student in middle and high school, but started really studying once she got to college. In a culture where cram schools and tutors prepare middle and high school students for the academic placement of their dreams, my mother didn’t enroll in one of these schools until her senior year of high school, and ended up graduating near the top of her class in college. When I ask her about her past, she tells me stories of how — for an art student — she excelled academically.

My mother started working in her senior year of college. From teaching art to high school students preparing to go to art school, to landing coveted positions at advertising firms, my mother became a salary-woman, supporting herself through her own craft. My mother was a successful graphic designer working for an advertising firm in Seoul, making her way around show biz with a career of multiple awards, advertising contracts, and job acceptances.

My successful graphic-designing mother, with her superior eye for fashion and color and position, dropped everything she knew to move to America with my engineer father.

half-sister. His father – my grandfather – passed away from a heart attack when my father was young, and his mother – my grandmother – supported the entire family by running a small restaurant. My father didn’t have much growing up; he studied on the second story of my grandmother’s small store, and didn’t have access to the same resources, the same time to dream and live and think that his peers had.

albeit safely — from the nest on my own in order to teach me how to fly. Even from a young age, she had always encouraged the urge to create my own path.

My father is insanely intelligent. He graduated from the first graduating class of KAIST, or the Korean Advanced Institute of Science and Technology. Arguably one of the best science and technology research universities in the world, KAIST has paved and continues to pave groundbreaking research in these fields. After earning his degree in Microwave Engineering, my father got his doctorate degree from Pohang University of Science and Technology. During the late 1980s and the early 1990s, when not many people in South Korea had PhDs, my father earned his doctorate and became a successful engineer for LG.

There's a stereotype of a “tiger mom” that surrounds Asian mothers: Asian mothers who force their kids into activities, personalities, in neat little boxes and labels on a neat little shelf that forces Asian children to become one of the successful doctors, engineers, and businessmen that the immigrant experience pushes to create.

My mother and my father met on a blind date when my mother was a freshman in college, got married in 1997, and moved to America for my father’s work in 1999.

“It took me a long time to understand that this was how she loved me.”

My mother dropped everything she knew to move to America with my father.

I am thankful enough to know that my father moved to America with a stable job at a stable company making a stable wage, but I also know what this meant for my mother. My mother gave up her job to stay at home and keep a household for my father. My mother gave up her friends, her family, her language to move to San Diego, in a country that spoke a language she did not speak, in a place where her friends and family were not present.

My mother spent days alone while my father was at work. Their one-bedroom apartment that my mother drives past from time-to-time for me to see was my mother’s new reality.

She had my sister in 2002 and me in 2004.

My father was brought up in a household of six children. He's the youngest of all of his siblings, with two brothers, one sister, a half-brother, and a

She raised both of us as individuals. She has never been one to make decisions for us, and let me fall —

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

ON FAMILY, LOVE, AND WHO WE ARE: A REFLECTION OF THE PERSON I HAVE COME TO BE This is how she showed me, has shown me that she loves me.

She lets me be my own person.

My mother was never that mother.

Perhaps it was her own unconventional education and childhood, but my mother brought me and my sister up with rather warm words, sometimes a comforting type of warm, sometimes hot, and

sometimes searing, and a firm but free hand that instilled in us the values of independence and self-discovery.

It took me a long time to understand that this was how she loved me.

The only thing she ever really forced me to do was to go to Korean school. This school, and the values she instilled in me as a result of this education, gave me a sense of pride in my identity — both personal and cultural — and strengthened my ownership of such values.

More than anything, my mother loves me by letting me be free. She has never been one to go heavy on the compliments, and so each word of praise has always held so much value.

I learned to realize that my mother loves me

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prose | The Featheralist

through silent attention.

She's currently writing a book on parenting, and how she brought up me and my sister to be individuals, to be our own people. For her, I wrote down my thoughts about getting to know oneself in Korean, and how my personal values have affected the attitude with which I approach my life experiences. She tells me about how she has read this paragraph to her friends, and how they had marveled at the extent of my bilingualism and the depth of my thoughts. She hasn’t told me herself that she thought my writing was good. But I know through her actions, what she’s told me about what others have said, and what she’s said about me behind my back that she’s proud of me.

When I asked her to get me something from the grocery store, my mother used to complain, act like she would not buy it, and then show up back home with that product in bulk. As someone who tries to be direct in communication, I had always assumed that if she acted like she didn’t want to get something for me, she simply would not. But this is not how my mother is.

It took years of miscommunication for me to realize that this is how my mother showed me she loved me.

My mother taught me that while I couldn't change the way someone loved me, I could come to understand each of their own ways in which they showed me love. That even though her way of showing me love may not always have been obvious, it didn’t make her love for me any less strong.

I love people like how my father loves me.

As someone who grew up having virtually nothing, my father does his best to show me, through every day, that he loves me and that he would do his best to provide for me the resources he never had.

“I love people like how my father loves me.”

It is through him that I learned how to love others.

I've found the word love to always come easily to me. Regular “I love you”s to my friends, my family, even strangers I had just met. “I love you” before leaving the house, before going to bed, before hanging up the phone.

My father, before meeting my mother and perhaps having kids, never really had a reason to be affectionate to others. So much so that, often, I tease him about his emotional reticence.

But my father learned how to show me he loved me. Out of all of my family members, my dad is the

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one I feel the most comfortable showing affection to. My father, too, showed me love by letting me be my own person, but also in ways I, an attention-seeking, growing child, needed.

It is from my dad that the emotion of love comes so easily to me. It is the curiosity and adoration with which my father has treated me that I treat the world. It is the care with which he loves me that I approach relationships in my own life. It is through him that I know that love isn’t an emotion that should be shared scarcely.

My father taught me that everyone deserves to be shown love in a way each person needs. I look more like my father than my mother, and as a generally happy person, I tend to smile a lot. Many older Korean people have complimented my eye-smile, and each time this happens, I know my father is smiling with me too. I remember telling my dad that whenever someone complimented my eye-smile, as an extension they were complimenting him, and that because his eye-smile was just as pretty, he should smile more.

My father brought this up to me a while later. In his slightly tipsy speech, he confided in me that he would never forget my compliment because no one had said anything similar to him before.

To me, this moment serves as a constant reminder that people deserve to be loved in the way they want, the way they need to be loved. It's one thing to love someone, but it’s another to understand how they would like to be loved and show them love in this very way.

It is a combination of the values instilled in me through my upbringing, the desire to get to know myself and the others in my life a little bit better, and constant reflection on how I live my life that ever so slowly help me build an understanding of who I am and who I may come to be.

And all of these factors have amounted to this attitude with which I aim to approach the world, as written by myself in my messy Korean scrawl weeks ago, and as shown to other Korean ladies in my neighborhood by my subtly proud mother: “You must rid yourself of the idea that you know yourself well…

Just as you would take time to get to know a stranger, just as you would approach a stranger with kindness and patience, you must show yourself this same kindness and patience and curious desire to get to know yourself better.”

Aquiring a Halo Nicole Pi, ‘23 Mixed Media

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

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prose | The Featheralist

I WISH I COULD TAKE IT BACK Written by Shreya Shahane, ‘23 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 “I wish I could take it back.” was the only thing running through my head as I fell.

The wind blew through my hair, as I reached upward to grasp something that could not be found. The few moments before my death were ethereal, the feeling of ecstasy, fear, and euphoria all balled into one. It felt like I was flying, the frigid New York air piercing my skin, and I closed my eyes to enjoy those peaceful moments … I could finally forget.

Forget all the suffering they had caused me. All the pain they had inflicted on my poor, unprotected heart. The trauma that they injected into my brain, permanently tattooed into my memory to forever haunt me as I lived.

All my life I thought I deserved the misfortune I had received. Even as I fell, the only memories that stuck out to me were painful. The only comfort I had were the echoes of my sobs in the lonely bathroom stall, the reflection of my sullen face as I covered up the evidence of my hurt, and my brother. My brother.

My eyes opened abruptly. No, no, no, no. Suddenly I wanted to live. I looked up, back at the ledge of the building as it got smaller and smaller, farther and farther away from my reach. Tears flooded my eyes, floating up into the air. It was happening too fast. Suddenly I wasn’t flying, I was diving. I was dying.

“Suddenly I wasn’t flying, I was diving. I was dying. ”

Reflect Iris Ding, ‘22 Digital

Why couldn’t I have just endured the pain? What would have happened if I had hung on a little while longer? What if, just for his sake, I had pretended it was okay? That I was okay? Would it be different?

Would the future change? It was too late now.

Nothing could change. It was over, nothing left to do or say. Still, I couldn’t help but think, I wish I could take it back! I wish I could’ve shared my pain!

I wish I hadn’t chosen my fate! I wish I hadn’t jumped off this ledge! I wish I could take it—!

Thud.

I wish I could take it back.

16

Written by Nikki Hekmat, ‘24 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 Part Two: Cassidy You shouldn’t have done this.

falling with a thump on the couch. He grunts, and I sink into the farthest armchair. I point an index finger at the crate, wrinkling my nose. “Could you move that somewhere else? I hate turnips.”

Yes, I should have! I fire back at my subconscious.

This was a mistake.

How else am I going to find them?

“Hello? Anyone awake there?”

I jump at Nick’s jarring voice. We’ve stopped before a small house, its white paint gray in the night. Shadows circle neatly-cropped shrubs, and there’s a welcome mat on the front step. It’s everything a perfect home should be. I’m so taken by the sight, I almost forget to answer him.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” I make sure to keep several feet between myself and this strange Red boy — who’s to say there aren’t a hundred officers waiting inside this picturesque home?

Nick shakes a chestnut strand out of his eyes, two orbs holding back a blood-red sea, as he holds his crate tighter to his chest. “My parents won’t be back until tomorrow, so you should be fine.” His face twists as he says those words, like there’s something foul-tasting in his mouth. But he simply turns on his heel, making his way toward the front door.

Parents. I press a hand against my pocket, sighing when I feel the comforting bulge still there. This is what I came here for. And I won’t let anything, not even the odd house of a Red boy, stand in my way.

Nick opens the door with his foot, grunting for me to follow. That’s been our main medium of communication so far — he grunts, I follow; he grunts, I slow down to match his pace. It’s been surprisingly effective.

When I step inside, I am shocked to see that his house is . . . normal.

There’s a living room with a TV and family pictures hung on the walls. The kitchen is small, but I can smell the spices of a roast cooked not long ago. There’s even a poster of a singer in the hallway. No pitchforks, no chains, no starving children. But I’ll stay on the lookout for flying alligators with razor-sharp teeth.

Nick sets his crate down on the living-room table,

Nick stares at me with an expression that is of neither annoyance nor awe. After a moment, he moves the pile of putrid purple vegetables to a corner, and sits back down. I watch the way his skin brightens in the lamp-light, darker than blood and richer than pomegranate flesh.

“Tell me, Blue. What’s one good reason I shouldn’t call the Watch this very moment?” Nick asks, cocking his head to the side.

I swallow noisily. No. I won’t let him intimidate me.

“This is the best way I can explain it.” I fish out a bundle of yellowed paper from my coat pocket, opening it with care. “Here,” I say, handing it to him.

Nick takes it, and I can’t help but hold my breath as his eyes scan the page. Please, Nick. Please understand.

He arches a brow. “This is a . . . birth certificate?”

I nod, almost bouncing out of my seat. “Yes, yes it is. But look at the bottom.”

“It says . . .” He squints, peering closer. A crease forms in the center of his temple. Then, as if a light switched on in his head, his eyes widen into two copper coins.

orphanage. Mrs. Davis thought it best.” I roll my eyes. Nasty woman.

“But I still don’t understand. Here” — he lays the papers flat on the table, pointing to a section — “it only gives your parents’ initials: M.R. for your dad, H.R. for your mom. That could be anybody!”

I duck my head to hide the color in my cheeks.

“Well, you see, that’s the small hitch in my plan . . . but I thought that if I could somehow find some public records, I could track my parents down. A pregnant woman who ended up having a miscarriage? A baby dead after delivery? There has to be some cover-up that can connect the dots.”

Shaking his head slowly, he looks at the paper, then back at me. “How did you even get this?”

“Mrs. Davis doesn’t let anyone look at their files, not even her favorites. But last week I found the key to her office, and I took my chance when everyone was asleep. And, well, the minute I found it . . . I knew I couldn’t stay. I was going to be kicked out in a month anyway — you know, because I’ll be an adult. So why wait to be thrown out on the streets when I could finally find my parents?” I sigh, releasing a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Never have I said those words out loud, and now I’ve just told them to a Red boy I hardly know.

Nick stares at me, that strange look coming to his face again.

“I know it seems impossible —”

I fidget with the hem of my sleeve to avoid his eyes, like two fires burning a hole into my soul. “What?”

“Your parents were Red?” he exclaims, jumping to his feet. “But you — you’re — ”

He frowns. “You came to Red territory to find your parents? Even though you could be killed?”

“‘Your parents were Red?’” “I know,” I sigh. “Believe me, I’m as confused as you are. But that’s why I came here — I want to find my parents.”

Slowly, he sits back down, and his face twists in perplexion. “And your last name . . . ?”

“Davenport is what they give all the kids at the

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

THE COLOR DIVIDE: PARTS TWO AND THREE

I duck my head, feeling my cheeks warm.

Then a hand suddenly appears before me.

I glance up, meeting Nick’s blazing stare. He leans on the edge of the couch, his hand inches from me.

“I will help you find them. But then you have to go back to your side,” he says resolutely. “It’s just not safe for you here.”

I can’t help but gawk at him. “You — you’re going to help me?”

He nods.

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prose | The Featheralist

“But . . . why?”

“Because I understand.”

When he doesn’t say anything more, I don’t feel the need to press.

It’s his eyes that I trust; the very color I was raised to hate, yet somehow I see pain hidden deep within the churning waves of red. I stare back at his hand, biting my lip. Tentatively, I reach out, my fingers wrapping over his coarse palm until — A blaring knock comes at the door, causing us to rocket apart.

“This is the Watch, Base 4C-55! Under order 367, we command you to open this door!”

Both our eyes are wide, but not from the command.

Instead we stare at the large purple marks that stain where our hands once touched. And just as quick as it came, the foreign color fades before our eyes, returning our hands to their original shades.

My breath comes out in short bursts. “Did you just see —” “UNDER ORDER 367, WE COMMAND YOU TO OPEN THIS DOOR!” Nick jumps to his feet, as if awakened from a dream. “Come on!” he barks, stuffing the birth certificate in his pocket.

He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

18

Colors Divide Hemadarshani Rajendran, ‘24 Colored Pencil

You’ll simply be a sailor to them.”

A thousand thoughts race through my mind as we sprint through a network of alleyways.

Cassidy nods vigorously, pulling the cap over her head. She steps out of the craft, looking down at us through sad eyes.

But the one I focus on is my parents’ faces.

I still remember the day the Watch came to our door in the dead of night. They said they needed Mom and Papa for questioning. As I stood there while they clambered into the sleek black car, an officer told me they would be back tomorrow.

That was two weeks ago.

I shake my head to clear it, my lungs burning. I know we’re close when I smell seagull dung and salt. The next alley opens into the lapping waves of the harbor, roiling currents reflecting the moonlight. Cassidy pants beside me, drinking deep lungfuls of air, but I don’t stop just yet. The dingy white boat is still there, and even more important, the rickety man leaning against it.

“Thank you, sir,” she says softly. Then she walks away, her shoulders drooping. “Goodbye, Nick.”

As I watch her fade into the distance, I hang my head. “Thanks, Mr. Rowan,” I mumble, barely above a whisper.

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

Part Three: Nick

I hear a rustle as he rearranges a head of lettuce.

“Call me Michael, Nicolas.”

I glance up, feeling the ghost of a smile. “Thanks, sir.”

“That young lady reminds me an awful lot of someone I used to know,” he says, his eyes crinkling as he leans against a crate of radishes.

I arch a brow. “Who?”

“Mr. Rowan!” I call, waving my hand in the air.

He smiles. “My late wife. Same bold character.”

He glances up, a brow raised in question as he stops counting a new pile of crates in his boat.

“Nicolas?”

I laugh humorlessly. “What was her name?”

“Helen.”

I skid to a halt, gasping. “Mr. Rowan, please! Please, sir, we need your boat!”

“. . . Wh-what did you just say?”

“Woah there, lad!” he chuckles, shifting his gaze beyond me. “Who’s your friend?”

“Helen,” he sighs. “Remarkable woman. She passed a little under eighteen years ago during childbirth.

Cassidy’s head is ducked, her hood drawn tightly.

When she glances up, eyes wide with fear, the smile melts from Mr. Rowan’s face.

“Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m out of the boat, bolting over smooth gravel.”

He looks from me to Cassidy, then back at me, and I can’t read his expression.

But all three of us freeze when we hear the sirens.

His brows shoot up into his hairline, and in a flash he scrambles into the boat.“In,” he breathes.

“Quickly!”

I reach a hand out to help Cassidy into the rocking craft, jumping in after the motor roars to life. We take off, settling into crates of pungent vegetables, just as several sleek cars pull onto the pier, the echo of their sirens lost in the waves. *** I jolt upright at the sound of wood crunching against gravel. Tall blue flags flap majestically atop the nearest building, making my skin crawl. Mr. Rowan fishes something from a bag, pulling out a blue cap with a scarlet plume. It is identical to his own hat, simply with the colors of fabric and feather switched.

He hands the article to Cassidy. “Wear this so that they won’t question you as you leave the harbor.

The babe didn’t make it either.”

M.R. H.R. Cassidy is almost an adult . . .

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m out of the boat, bolting over smooth gravel. I have to find her. She has to know.

“Nicolas!” Mr. Rowan exclaims from afar. “You need a hat!”

“CASSIDY!” I cry, scanning the harbor. “CASSIDY, COME OUT! CASSIDY —” But before I can register the Blue officer in front of me, he lifts his gun, and fires.

The End

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prose | The Featheralist

ODE TO THE JAMES WEBB SPACE TELESCOPE Written by Avani Ranka, ‘23 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 The James Webb Space Telescope was launched at 7:20 a.m. EST on December 25, 2021. This is the dawn of a new era of space exploration. The culmination of the past years of technological innovation and advancement. Another landmark in human history.

tourism. Musk, SpaceX and a project to colonize Mars.

The overarching goal of the James Webb Space Telescope is to investigate three questions: How did we get here? Are we alone in the universe?

How does the universe work?

Just imagine.

These queries have been haunting humanity for centuries. And now, we may finally have the tools we need to answer them.

Space exploration is no longer a purely government-centric area of involvement. Its main players are expanding. It’s becoming commercial.

Brand new opportunities for jobs, investment, and technology. But also the environmental, ethical, and economic consequences.

More technologically advanced satellites providing home internet. But what would that cost consumers? What harm could that potentially be used for?

Let’s consider how we reached this age of scientific progress. The obvious answer would be to begin with the Space Race of the 1960s. It created thousands of jobs across the country in various fields, encouraged new technological and scientific development, and spawned a brand new industry.

Space exploration: the ability to seek out new life forms, to deepen our understanding of the universe, to preserve humanity from a dying sun and planet. But do we have the right to use another planet, to search for life, when ours are shriveling beneath our own hand?

But what comes to mind for me is a much more recent occurrence. The Billionaire Space Race.

We have never had so many choices to make.

Jeff Bezos versus Richard Branson versus Elon Musk.

Bezos is behind the aerospace company Blue Origin. Branson, the Virgin Galactic and space

All of that history has reached its pinnacle in the James Webb Space Telescope. Not just scientifically, but socially as well.

Several new technologies were developed to aid the telescope in its mission: optics, detectors, thermal control systems. Microshutters, the backplane, infrared detectors. Lightweight cryogenic mirrors, sunshield coating, cryocoolers.

Countless people of various cultures and ethnicities worked on the telescope, including countless women. This is a sharp contrast to outer space projects of the past, where women and people of color were oftentimes not even allowed in the room.

It isn’t just seen in the telescope. The CEO of SpaceX is Gwynne Shotwell. The deputy of NASA is former astronaut Pamela Melroy.

The list just keeps growing, every development stemming from an innate desire to understand and capture the unknown that has us coming together instead of falling apart.

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All my bags are packed I’m ready to go I’m standin’ here outside your door I hate to wake you up to say goodbye But the dawn is breakin’ It’s early morn The taxi’s waitin’ He’s blowin’ his horn Already I’m so excited I could die So kiss me and smile for me Tell me that you’ll wait for me Hold me like you’ll never let me go ‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a space-ship Don’t know when I’ll be back again Oh babe, I can’t wait to go There’s so many times I’ve let you down So many times I’ve crashed to the ground I tell you now, those tweets don’t mean a thing Every planet I go, I’ll think of you Every star I see, I’ll see for you When I come back, I’ll splash down in the sea So kiss me and smile for me Tell me that you’ll wait for me Hold me like you’ll never let me go ‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a space-ship Don’t know when I’ll be back again Oh babe, I can’t wait to go Now the time has come to leave you One more time Let me kiss you Then close your eyes And I’ll be on my way Dream about the days to come When I won’t have to leave alone About the times, I won’t have to say So kiss me and smile for me Tell me that you’ll wait for me Hold me like you’ll never let me go ‘Cause I’m leavin’ on a space-ship Don’t know when I’ll be back again Oh babe, I can’t wait to go

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

Outreach Iris Ding, ‘22 Digital

21

prose | The Featheralist

Red Iris Ding, ‘22 Digital

22

Written by Bella Chong, ‘22 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 The boy hunched over an old MacBook, the hood of his navy jacket thrown over his bangs. His eyes squinted at the screen, rosy lips pursed and long eyelashes brushing his cheeks. As his fingers flew over the keys, the sound of clack-clack-clack joined the other clacking keys in the west wing. He took up the whole of his desk space, his shoulders broad, his legs planted on the floor. Every so often, he would sigh under his breath when a line of code failed, or give a dimpled smile when he nailed it. If one had the courage to get close enough to him, the clean scent of linen with notes of apple blossom blessed their noses. And if they had the pleasure of being his muse for the night, they would taste the cold, crispness of spearmint on his breath.

Carmen glanced over from where she sat across from Jae. The university library was probably her favorite building on campus, with its Grecian dome on the centermost building and the wide, fanning staircase leading up to its massive wooden doors.

Spiral staircases climbed up its interior like vines alongside chiseled marble columns. Bookshelves piled high up from floor to ceiling, and students filled every available space from the lamp desks to the rafters encircling the second floor. Many of the lamp desk occupants looked just like Jae, their backs hunched and necks aching. They were hard at work finishing the assignments they had most likely procrastinated on, and here she was, staring at a boy who was so out of reach, yet right in front of her.

Jae didn’t stop his work for anything, not even his friends. “You’re staring, Red. Why are you staring?” His eyes never left his laptop screen.

“The scent would waft past her nose and relax her tensed shoulders, the ghost of a hug and a kiss of familiarity.”

“Red” was the affectionate nickname Jae had given her in primary school, when all she wore were red dresses, shirts, and shoes. Her mother had wanted to name her Ruby, but her father loved the name Carmen, like the opera. It was a strange compromise. However, Jae’s nickname came to grow on her like the aroma that clung to Jae — she now identified him by his fresh linen and apple blossom cologne. The scent would waft past her

nose and relax her tensed shoulders, the ghost of a hug and a kiss of familiarity. She didn’t want him to think she was creepy, even though they were best friends — the fear of him finding out about her feelings for him kept her mouth shut.

Carmen shifted in her seat and twisted her back, the dull cracking of her joints muffled by the clack-clack-clack of Jae’s keys. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Yes, you were.”

“How would you know? Your face was in your computer screen,” she scoffed. She didn’t mean to sound bothered, but she wondered if he even noticed.

His eyes left the screen, peering at her over the edge. Finally.

“Ah, how lucky I am to be graced by your eye-contact.”

Jae rolled his eyes. The clack-clack-clack of his keys persisted, if only a bit faster now. Every five or so seconds, he would glance back at his screen to make sure there weren’t any typos. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Something’s always wrong.”

Her smile was tight. She wondered if he noticed.

“Maybe I just like looking at your face.”

Jae let out a sigh. This was the same sigh he made when his code didn’t work. He stretched his arms over his head and his Captain America shirt came into view, the top of the shield like a frown. "Well, I'm just about finished."

have a date.”

Carmen wished her heart hadn't dropped like it did, but she couldn't deny how far it fell. She had given him her heart to hold, even if he was

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

THE DATE “I have a date.” unaware, and those four words dropped it off the side of a cliff. “You … oh.”

He nodded, the movement casual, but she thought it looked stiff. Perhaps her eyes were playing tricks on her. Wishful thinking. “Yeah, so don't wait up for me.” He stood from his seat after shoving his laptop into his bag, and fresh linen and apple blossom permeated the air like a love potion. His chair scraped against the marble floor, garnering the attention of people nearby. Before he left, though, Jae sent her the smallest of smiles, the fondness he had for her present in the way his dimples appeared on both cheeks and his brown eyes twinkled. “I'll catch you later, Red.” “Yup.” Carmen returned his smile, though it was difficult for her to pull the corners of her lips upwards into a genuine smile. But this was her best friend, and she was supposed to be happy for him.

Anything she could give, right? She pulled her laptop open again. Maybe working for a little longer wouldn't hurt. “Have fun on your date, Jae. She's a lucky girl.”

Carmen couldn't bring herself to watch him leave, the smell of linen and apple blossom fading away.

Carmen's eyes widened slightly, and her eyes darted back down to her laptop. Her screen was still open to a blank Google Doc, the blinking cursor like the impatient tapping of a foot. Had she really spent all of that time looking at him? ... Had he been aware of her staring? Heart pulsing under her collar, she schooled her face into one of nonchalance. She shrugged. “Okay, cool. Wanna go get dinner or something now?” Where could they go today? They already went to that new Thai place that she wanted to try yesterday, so it would be Jae's turn to pick — “Oh, did I not tell you?”

She looked up from her laptop. The screen darkened as it powered down. “What?”

Jae licked his lips as if pondering something. "I

23

prsoe | The Featheralist

AN AWAKENING Written by Raiya Bann, ‘23 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 2022: I still remember the day I was six. As if it were yesterday, my earliest memories contain me moving far away from my former home. I was scared.

Confused. I had no clue what the next steps of my life would be, who I would meet, or what person I would become. Countless struggles occurred in my life — obstacles, roadblocks, failures — practically anything you could name. What happened in those days shaped the person I am today. Yet, every day consistently feels the same — and as I become older, the same sparks and adventures have lost their original childlike wonder. I live as if I am a shadow, watching as everyone else around me takes charge of their lives in ways I can never motivate myself to do.

I can’t understand them. I feel as though I do not fit in. Everyone has their own abilities, capabilities, weaknesses — but I have always questioned whether mine were enough. As I overthink it, I wonder if I’m cut out for college. I wonder how many clubs I need, what types of community service I would like to do without it feeling like I’m accomplishing it only for a resume, whether my choices of colleges are too ‘prestigious’ or are not ‘fitting’ for me. I work hard and I value the knowledge I so desperately reach, climb, venture, discover, capture, and work excitedly for — but what if that isn’t enough? What if my thirst for knowledge can’t satisfy or guarantee a future to the people who are supposed to view my application and make an immediate decision in minutes? And what if trying to get involved in a community larger and more diversified than myself scares me so much that I would rather constrict myself in my tiny, little shell than explore the depths of what is beyond me?

For now, I will only have to figure it out — one step at a time — as I continue to push through life as resiliently as I am capable of . . . .

2024: I am now 19 years old. I am officially a college student: happy, inspired, and exhilarated. Recalling myself before, my worries were necessary for the place I have reached in my life, but I definitely did not need to crush myself under such immense pressure. Looking at life from a calmer perspective, I like to take strolls outside in a beautiful garden on our campus grounds. I always walk and observe, never touching the delicate orbs of life plastered all around me: fearing that I could damage it.

However, each time I walk through this magnificent garden, I find another lesson I wished I had realized sooner. For example . . . I once heard the saying “the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” As I look up at this stunningly, breathtaking willow, I look at its leaves, the trunk, the roots that slice through the earth in huge gashes, and I am

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reminded of what life is really about: the people we choose to surround ourselves with. I preferred to be alone, but as I grew older, my family became my foundation, and I am the trunk of this tree, connecting each person I meet to me boldly and proudly. My leaves are the people I meet, the other family I choose to keep by me–my best friends–and as each season passes, I could keep those leaves or watch them fall like all the others. I must understand that pain, heartbreak, failure, and loss is only natural: it is normal. It is not wrong and sometimes it is the best option for us, but we feel that pain and we experience that loss. We learn to cope, to live with it, and move on to live our lives as we choose to do so.

The bonds we choose through life are our family and not just the family we are born into. That what we face through our lives (‘the wind, the rain, the seasons’) cannot knock us down and if it does, I believe we will regrow into something much more beautiful from all the tragedy we experienced before.

I took one last stare at the willow and continued down the same path observing the sunset, the beautiful yellows, oranges, purples, blues, practically all the colors that scream perfection of its own form.

The sunset that paints the skies in such vibrancy shines down upon the flowers by my feet. Some are dead and some are blooming brilliantly. Observing these precious flowers, I think about the options we have in life. The dead flowers represent the opportunities we choose to accept or deny. Sometimes the choices we make will not have a reverse card; instead, they may disappear. It is our choice to take advantage of what we are given, appropriately of course, such as job opportunities, clubs, internships, our educations, family, relationships, friends, anything you can think of. Our choices impact our future so we must think about how we may change the course of it. And because of this garden, I realized that all my hopes, dreams — any opportunity that occurs — I can grasp and fight as hard as possible to accomplish them.

Coming to the end of my path, I finally come to my favorite spot. A vast ocean tinged with greens and blues barely reaching the surface of the shiny boulders, and warm sand that consumes my feet with each step. I always like to sit on the largest rock; it finally gives me the ability to feel a part of the community I live in, to feel as big and capable to succeed and challenge myself as everyone else, to accept every part of me happily. Looking at this ocean will always remind me of one last lesson, though: I only have one life, and that life could end any day, but this ocean is my awakening. This is only the beginning of my life and, although it will change, I now know it will be as beautiful and mesmerizing as the water that flows below me. It will give me life regardless of where I land.

“This is only the beginning of my life and, although it will change, I now know it will be as beautiful and mesmerizing as the water that flows below me. It will give me life regardless of where I land.”

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

House in the Woods Andrea Wang, ‘24 Digital

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prose | The Featheralist

MISSED CONNECTIONS Written by Nicole Pi, ‘23 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 “You dropped your bag on 17th Street and 6th Avenue. I helped you pick it up and I noticed your pretty eyes. If I weren’t in a rush I would’ve asked you to get coffee with me. Now that I have time, maybe I’ll find you here.”

Click submit. And there you have it. A Missed Connection, or a digital message in a bottle.

In simple terms, a Missed Connection is a classified advertisement, but personal in nature, written after two people meet but don’t exchange contacts. We can safely assume that if Prince Charming lived in the modern world, he would’ve used Missed Connections to search for Cinderella. He might’ve written, “We danced at the ball in my castle. You wore a blue dress and had someplace to be at midnight. Didn’t get your name but got your slipper. Reply with a picture of your other slipper if you see this. XOXO.” Back when newspapers were the primary source of gossip and news, Missed Connections were placed in the “lonely hearts column.” But in the last decade, the “Missed Connections” section of Craigslist has become increasingly popular, especially in large cities such as Seattle and New York, where it is extremely common for two romantic souls to hold a second of burning eye contact in a subway.

How popular? Only about 50 thousand postings per month. There’s even a book written about the site.

If we dig a little deeper, we would see that the existence and use of Missed Connections tell us a little more about human nature than what might be expected.

Despite its use of modern technology, there’s something alluringly old-fashioned about Craigslist Missed Connections. Perhaps because it is basically a contemporary version of the singleton bulletin board in the town square, or maybe because Craiglist (like Facebook) is now “unwoke.” Or possibly because most of the people using it are attempting to be the Tom Hanks in their own “You’ve Got Mail” adaptation. But maybe the majority of its charm comes from the fact that in the midst of our hectic lives, Missed Connections proves there is a little romance left in all of us.

As a whole, each of our successive romantic relationships is a failure until one isn’t, and the existence and popularity of Missed Connections show that the lousy odds of forging a real connection online don’t have much impact on our inborn optimism.

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The appeal of Missed Connections comes from the teasing opportunity of a second chance. Despite the improbable probability of making any sort of change, the section represents a persistence in the face of long odds — it shows that the tiny spark of hope present in all people is rather resilient and ever-present, despite the best efforts to drown it. It has an artistic and wistful edge — the epitome of dreaming for “what-could’ve-been” — and is overall irresistible.

The section’s attractiveness could also be from the odd, almost voyeuristic appeal of putting private and vulnerable declarations of affection into a ruthlessly public, yet anonymous, context. The “you-smiled-at-me-on-the-train-platform” messages that would be inappropriate to share anywhere else, are at home among the thousands of other pensive advertisements.

It is rooted in our psyche to avoid any sort of embarrassment, rejection, and dismissal, so making a promise to a large data set, untainted by the judgment from the specter of observer effects, is simply too tempting to ignore.

From Missed Connections, we find several things we all have in common. That we can all remember those moments of potential connection with that seemingly perfect stranger. That we’ve all experienced those glances we regret not turning into conversations. That we all know too well of the sinking sense of disappointment that followed.

The fact that there exists a digital town square where lonely hearts can declare their feelings without fear of public rejection is both lucky and improbable. It is a small corner of the internet with relatively few success stories but continues to attract a steady stream of hopeful romantics because it sings to the streak of optimism in our nature. All advertisements turn up with a seemingly similar hope — that perhaps this last post will be the one.

From this, we must ask ourselves a question. Is the possibility of rejection really so powerful that we’re willing to let go of the prospect of what could be?

strange circumstances to permit the chance of a second meeting.

The existence of Missed Connections, at first glance, would point to the negative, but its anonymity suggests the affirmative.

As a whole, we are too afraid of defeat, and that mindset hinders our goals in all aspects of life. This suggests that we must expand discussions about our relationship with failure, and explore the reasons that cause our large avoidances of screwups.

For some reason, we forgo our right to make our own mistakes, and we easily let opportunities slip from our fingertips and settle for second best instead. Even our inner optimism isn’t strong enough to tide over our desire to be “normal,” but in our hearts, there is a part that wishes for life’s

At the end of the day, we should be left with no excuses, no explanations, and no regrets. When you catch the eye of an intriguing stranger, say hello and ask for their number. Maybe then, we’ll be one step closer to forging real connections, not just missed ones.

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

Boquet Katelyn Chen, ‘24 Colored Pencil

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expository | The Featheralist 28

Decension Saumya Palakodety, ‘24 Watercolor

Written by Audrey Zeng, ‘23 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 Since the beginning of the spread of COVID-19, the suburbs have seen a drastic increase in population, as the New York Times reports. Tired of having to go out of their way to social distance in cities packed to the brim with people, citydwellers have been moving out to more open, suburban or rural areas. Living in 4S Ranch, it’s pretty easy to see why the suburbs would be appealing to cityfolk.

They’re spacious, cheaper, and generally pretty safe. The foliage is meticulously planned, and the HomeOwner’s Association is always watching for any rogue flecks of paint that might dare peel off.

Even the origin of American suburbs is nice: they were made for rich people to get away from the terrible sanitation and crowding of the cities.

Suburbs were made to be perfect, and obviously, that perfection has carried over to today, right?

No. Although they do have some admirable qualities, the suburbs are a hellscape of cracked concrete and cookie-cutter houses. The main issue? Cars. Most American suburbs have either been built or renovated under the assumption that every resident will own and regularly use a car. This has

“the suburbs are a hellscape of cracked concrete and cookie-cutter houses.” caused a myriad of issues, the first being how cars have ruined the “aesthetic” of suburbs.

Although aesthetic may not seem like a major issue, when you live somewhere you are staring at your surroundings every time you go outside. It’s nice to live somewhere that looks nice. However, as cars have become more popular, walkable cities have been renovated and bulldozed to accommodate them. Which means there is a need for parking, huge signs that you can see from the car, and very wide, multi-lane streets. And that’s what the suburbs mostly consist of. It seems as though half of the area is just faded, cracked asphalt, and as much as urban planners try to make it look nicer by adding trees on the side of the road and in little boxes between parking spaces, the metallic shine of cars sitting on an endless sea of gray isn’t the best view. Furthermore, almost every shopping center has those large, beige-gray, rectangular signs with the letters the same height as the average middle schooler. Compared to the

building signs in the city that are nicely sized for the human eye rather than the human eye from inside of a car, the suburban shopping center signs look straight out of purgatory. Actually, the signs in purgatory are probably nicer than the ones in the suburbs. After all, they don’t have cars there.

Aside from the issue of aesthetics, the mere dependence on cars brings about a slew of issues.

First, suburban dwellers are expected to own cars in the first place. There are virtually no other reasonable transportation options, since public transit is almost nonexistent in most American suburbs, walking 30 minutes just to run an errand isn’t feasible for most people, and bike lanes and sidewalks are tiny and scattered around inconsistently, if they’re there at all. In the US, over 45% of car trips are 3 miles or less, according to the US Federal Highway Administration National Household Travel Survey. This just shows the complete dependence on cars that the lack of feasibility of other forms of transit has created if one wants to live efficiently and with a nice quality of life in the suburbs. Not only is this expensive, but it is also terrible for the environment and creates more traffic. Nobody should be forced to own a car just to function well in society.

do about it? First off, if you’re interested in learning more about how much the suburbs suck or why they suck, or if you still think my points weren’t good enough and want some more information, urban planning is a great topic to research and learn more about. There are countless YouTube videos detailing how American suburbs came about, and why they’re so ugly and inefficient. As for trying to mitigate the issues caused by urban sprawl, one of the best things we can do is support public transit. This means taking public transportation whenever possible, even though it’s very difficult, and, if you’re eligible, voting for legislators who will fund public transportation. Public transit gets most of its funding from local and state governments, so putting politicians who actually care about improving cities and suburbs into place will go a long way. By decreasing car dependence and making American suburbs more aesthetic and travellable, we will be increasing our own quality of life and happiness.

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

THE SUBURBIAN HELLSCAPE

The suburbs also deprive humans of one of our most basic desires: human interaction. Suburbs are designed to keep human noises to a minimum.

Very rarely do we hear our neighbors among the roar of cars rushing by or the occasional bird chirp.

The single-family homes are spread out far enough from each other that it’s difficult for neighbors to

“The suburbs also deprive humans of one of our most basic desires: human interaction. ” talk to each other, and the dependence on cars means that even while going out, there is very little chance of running into neighbors and striking up spontaneous conversation. The design of suburbs have taken out these little conversations that would normally make up much of our social life, keeping families contained inside their identical houses, and decreasing our overall social interactions, a vital part of life.

So, the suburbs suck. Cars suck. But what can we

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expository | The Featheralist

AFGHANISTAN: A DECADES LONG STORY Written by Vinay Rajagopalan, ‘24 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 Afghanistan has been inhabited for thousands of years. It was a major link in the Silk Road, so many empires sought to control it, from the Macedonian to various Persian empires, to even the British empire. Still, the people who have lived in the region have persevered through all the trials and troubles.

The first time Afghanistan was unified in a state that is recognizable to us is the Durranis, under Ahmad Shah, who is known as the founder of the Afghan nation. He created a large empire which fractured after his death. Both Russia and Britain tried to conquer it, with Britain fighting many wars with it from 1839-1919, when it gained full independence. It stayed neutral for the 2 World Wars. The king at the time was Mohammed Zahir Shah. Unknown to everybody at the time, he would be the last king of Afghanistan. Under Prime Minister Daud Khan, the country entered into a conflict with Pakistan over the border, known as the Durand Line. There were many ethnic pashtuns (the most numerous ethnic group in Afghanistan) across the border, and Daud Khan wanted them to be within the border. This, importantly, led him to strengthen relations with the Soviet Union. The regime slightly liberalized, but still remained oppressive. There were houses of legislature, with many different political parties from all across the spectrum. However, the king interfered with the legislature, so Daud Khan staged a coup, putting him in power.

Daud tried to institute reforms, but there was controversy around him, as he appointed many loyalists to post in the government. So, a plot formed to coup him out of power. It was successful, and Daud and his family were killed, and the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan was established. This new government tried to make wide-spread reforms, but these were unpopular with most of the populace. Thus, there were many revolts, which gave the soviets an excuse to invade.

They had over 10,000 men in 3 divisions, with hundreds of aircraft along with them. With this overwhelming force, Kabul was taken in just a few days, and a puppet government set up. The Soviet invasion was brutal, killing a million civilians.

While the Soviets controlled most population centers, the rebel groups, most famously the Mujahadeen, controlled the mountainous terrain of the countryside. These rebel groups were angry with the occupation, which they saw as defiling Islam. The US, in order to counter the Soviets,

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started supplying the rebels, most importantly with surface-to-air missiles. Finally, the rebels were able to counter Soviet air power. Being stuck in a stalemate, the casualties mounting, and other internal troubles, the Soviets decided to leave the country, which they had done so by 1989.

Soon after the Soviets left, the communist government fell, and Afghanistan became a land of warlords. A new group, called the Taliban, sought to change this. They drew their supporters from schools called Madrasas. Supported by Pakistan, who wanted a friendly regime in its northern neighbor, the Taliban conquered most of the country by 2001.

The Mujahadeen had attracted many muslims from all over the world, but the most famous is one Osama bin Laden. He was born in Saudi Arabia to the country’s largest construction company. When the Soviet-Afghan War broke out, he traveled first to Pakistan and then into Afghanistan, where he used his influence to help out the Mujahadeen. As the war came to its close, he formed al Qaeda to commit terrorist acts. The first one was a bombing in the capital of Yemen, Aden. Spurned on by this, al-Qaeda committed more and more bombings, gaining more and more infamy. Bin Laden moved to Afghanistan to be safer and to recruit more people. Finally, al-Qaeda committed the most

“Finally, al-Qaeda committed the most famous terrorist attack of all time — 9/11.” famous terrorist attack of all time — 9/11.

In the aftermath of 9/11, the US demanded that the Taliban hand bin Laden over, but it refused. So, the US decided to invade. The campaign was astonishingly quick, with Kabul surrendering on November 13 and Kandahar, the last major city in Afghanistan under the control of the Taliban, surrendering on December 6. The hunt for Osama bin Laden was less fruitful. It took a decade before he was found in a compound in Pakistan, and finally killed.

The war seemed to be over and won, with the

Taliban seemingly on the cusp of defeat and a new democratic government installed in Kabul. The leader of the transitional government, Hamid Karzai, announced that elections would take place in October 2004, which he won by 55% of the vote.

But the Taliban was not defeated yet. They launched many suicide bomb attacks, and increasingly clashed with US and other allied forces. In response to this, the US sent in more and more troops to Afghanistan.

Karzai soon started turning authoritarian, rigging the election and intimidating his opponents. This led to the growing unpopularity of the Afghan government with its people. This, along with the fact that Taliban fighters had safe havens in Pakistan, contributed to NATO’s inability to defeat the rebel fighters. They were funded by the sale of opium, which had reached new heights since 2001.

As elections got more and more confusing, even as Karzai was barred from running again, trust in the government eroded.

As the war went nowhere, there were many attempts to make peace with the Taliban. Talks in the early 2010s were all but useless. Despite the lack of success in a peace settlement, NATO withdrew their troops in 2014. The Taliban threatened to attack polling stations during 2018 elections, which only added to the uncertainty during them. But during the elections, the US finally reached a deal with the Taliban to start withdrawing their troops. The Taliban were supposed to engage in peace talks with the Afghan government, but these broke down, and against the weak Afghan army, they made large advances in a short period of time. This led to the chaotic withdrawal that we all heard about in mid-2021, with stories like desperate civilians clinging to American planes being prevalent. By mid-August, the Taliban had control of Afghanistan once more, and the Afghanistan war came to an end.

20 years of war, and numerous casualties on both sides, all for virtually nothing. That is what the war in Afghanistan feels like. It left everyone with a bitter taste in their mouths. The war’s original purpose of destroying al-Qaeda seems so far removed from what the war became. And the Afghan citizens, many of whom have known war a strife for their entire life, do not seem to have a single light at the end of the tunnel to look forward to. We may praise them for being as resilient as they are, but it does nothing to help them. Just a few decades ago, Afghanistan had a future, which if not necessarily bright, was at least one filled with peace. Yet that soon fell into shambles. There are many lessons we could learn from this, but this is the one I feel is most important: we must treasure and preserve peace, because we don’t know how fast we can lose it.

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

Desperate for Hope Hemadarshani Rajendran, ‘24 Watercolor

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expository | The Featheralist

#HUNGERFIGHTERS Written by Ishan Kapoor, ‘23 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 The news media came to life with a recent Twitter showdown between Elon Musk and the head of the World Food Programme, where Musk committed to a $6 billion donation if the World Food Programme could clearly state how it would solve world hunger. As a response, the World Food Programme estimated that the donation would help provide food for approximately “42 million people threatened with famine in 43 of the world’s worst-hit countries for a year” (Lu). Come to think of it, in an era where mankind is amidst a technological revolution, groundbreaking inventions are transforming societies; a noticeable 282.7 million people are still facing “acute hunger” in some parts of the world. According to a UN report, around 10% of the world’s population was categorized as “undernourished” in the year 2020.

Not only this, the recent years have witnessed trends of food insecurity skyrocketing instead of the predicted trend towards improvement, with a 110% increase from 2019 (United Nations). The data is somewhat striking. Pause and imagine the number of people that will face hunger or malnutrition when they go to bed tonight. The thought needs a minute to be absorbed. On one hand, where technology and development excite me, I am haunted by the knowledge that food insecurity still exists in this modern world. The situation begs an explanation.

Back in 1976, Norman Borlaug, a simple agronomist (an expert in agricultural science), immersed himself in research until he developed a semi-dwarf, high-yield, disease-resistant wheat variety. He introduced these high yield varieties, along with agricultural technology, in Mexico, Pakistan, and India. This reportedly saved 1 billion people in the world from “famine, starvation, and

“ where are our hunger fighters today? Who are our hunger fighters? Are we doing enough to fight this plague? ” death” and earned him the title “Father of the Green Revolution'' (Global Reach Internet Productions). He was truly a hunger fighter of his era who made significant impacts with his ingenious innovation. Fast forward to 2022 — where are our hunger fighters today? Who are our hunger fighters? Are we doing enough to fight this plague?

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Contributors such as Musk, who have shown attention and goodwill towards combating hunger are definitely doing their part as hunger fighters.

While the World Food Programme expects the money from Musk to help millions of people, the brutal reality is that it will only solve the food insecurity issue for one year (Lu). So, while the donation is generous, it isn’t sustainable. Following the footsteps of Borlaug, many researchers are doing their part to increase global food production and bring sustainable solutions to world hunger.

However, a mere look at the demographics of regions such as the Indo Gangetic Plains (IGP), which is the world’s leading exporter of wheat, paints a baffling picture. While food production and export has grown tremendously due to research efforts in these regions, it is a bit puzzling that the farmers in those regions, who help export significant quantities of the produce to the world, are still challenged when it comes to sufficient and nutritional food for themselves and their families.

This clearly predicts that the issues leading up to food insecurity are deep-rooted in the socio-economic makeup of society and need a comprehensive outlook. How can we secure food and economic stability for the producers of the food? A quick glance at the end-to-end cycle of food production can reveal many flaws that have left us lingering in food insecurity for decades.

Even in recent years, researchers have identified a “poorly designed food supply chain (FSC)” as a key reason for the increase in undernourishment across the world (Food Direct). The domino effect that comes with any disruption in the supply chain is undeniable. So maybe technology leaders, with innovative supply chain solutions, are our modern-day hunger fighters. Supply chain tribulations, the general socio-economic setup guided by poorly designed policies, climate change, and global events, have acted as a cumulative force to hinder the global goal of no hunger by 2030 (United Nations).

To top things off, it is hard to progress in the right direction while the general awareness of real issues about food insecurity is low amongst our generation. A glance around the world is sufficient to substantiate this. Little do many know that this past year alone, thousands of farmers were holding one of the longest protests in the world for a record stretch of twelve months, enduring severe heat, cold, and a deadly wave of Covid. The protest against the Indian government policies about the sale and storage of produce caused panic amongst Indian farmers (BBC). At the same time an Island Country off the coast of the Indian Ocean, Madagascar in South Africa, was being traumatized by its first severe climate-induced famine. Haiti, a country in the Caribbean Sea, witnessed 44% of its population with severe food insecurity in 2021,

with acute malnutrition doubling to 86,000 kids.

Chad, one of the hungriest countries and home to 500,000 refugees, had a 1 in 10 mortality rate in children, with malnutrition as a major factor (United Nations). There are many more stories of such horrendous events around the world that directly or indirectly affect food insecurity. Thus, as an average person, we can be piteous about the situation, but do we necessarily understand what real challenges engulf the world when it comes to food insecurity? Are we taking the extra step to make that difference?

While the world is filled with nerve-racking stories

Breakfast Andrea Wang, ‘24 Digital

consequential change is only possible through stakeholders’ motivation. A multi-prong strategy should include awareness and a nutrition centered approach (through crop diversification), better supply-chain management, and effective procurement and distribution systems. Strong pathways for end-to-end solutions, including collection, transportation, and sale of produce, should be developed and advocated as an economic opportunity. While a lot needs to be done in so many areas, the philosophy of “feed the hand that feeds us” through an economic uplift approach is gaining traction and producing results. Dr. Shakuntala Haraksingh Thilsted, World Food Prize Laureate, recently pioneered a fish-based food system that has enhanced livelihoods and nutrition for millions of low-income families across countries such as Cambodia, Bangladesh, Nepal, Burma, India, Zambia, and Malawi. The pond polyculture systems, in which fish are simply farmed in small rice ponds, allow nutrient-rich fish to be raised inexpensively (United Nations). The idea is again simple, yet effective. Heifer International, on the other hand, is utilizing funds raised to give a goat to each low-income family in third world countries to give them an economic boost. The approach of improving the economic conditions makes sense to pull each family out of the cycle of poverty (Heifer International).

Similarly, Muhammad Yunus, founder of Grameen Bank of Bangladesh, received a Noble Prize for pioneering microcredit wherein the bank credits small amount of loan, especially to women, who

would use the loan to turn themselves into self-sufficient entrepreneurs (The Nobel Peace prize). On a very different note, Akshaya Patra the world’s largest (non-profit) Mid-Day Meal Programme serves food to 1.8 million school attending children in India with an objective of improving literacy rate and thus eventually pulling these kids out of the cycle of poverty and hunger.

These are numerous uplifting stories that have succeeded in transforming societies against all odds.

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

of hunger and devastation, there are many success stories as well, where a real difference is being made. The Food and Agriculture Organization and the World Health Organization are leading the way to introduce food fortification in Haiti and other countries as a strategy to combat malnutrition (Olson et al., 2021). Food fortification is simply a process of fortifying micronutrients in staple foods so that nutritional deficiencies can be controlled.

The solution is simple and ingenious. From this example alone, one thing is for sure that following the footsteps of Norman Borlaug, research, whether big or small, can be a strong tool in bringing ingenuity to combat various food-related issues. Interestingly enough, the United Nations has marked “Increasing agricultural productivity and sustainable food production” through research as one of the most crucial factors in fighting hunger (United Nations Sustainable Development).

Furthermore, although food insecurity is essentially a social and sustainability issue,

While Elon Musk has brought the urgency of food insecurity into the limelight, many organizations and researchers have been working hard for years to relieve this issue. Yet the current numbers around food insecurity makes zero hunger targets feel like chasing a unicorn. Following Sun Tzu’s ideology, “In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity,” a deeper and more comprehensive solution is needed. We need a diverse group of stakeholders to hold hands together to combat these deep-rooted issues and solve world hunger.

As a generation, it is our call to take the time to understand the most pressing challenges that have kept so many in this vicious circle of hunger and bring the issue of food insecurity front and center.

We need to acknowledge that it is unacceptable to continue to keep ourselves desensitized, while billions of people go to bed hungry each night.

While many modern-day hunger fighter heros, who remain unrecognized, are working towards a more inclusive, fair and sustainable community, why not join the cause? Why can't we be the hunger fighters — the change makers!

“While many modern-day hunger fighter heros, who remain unrecognized, are working towards a more inclusive, fair and sustainable community, why not join the cause? Why can't we be the hunger fighters — the change makers!”

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expository | The Featheralist

THE PLATYPUS Written by Tyler Xiao, ‘24 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 The platypus is a mysterious aquatic creature. It lives a reclusive life, interacting with others only in time to mate. These independent creatures, torpedoing through the water, live to reproduce and pass for another generation. They are neither an abomination nor a blessing of nature; their air of mystery surrounding them provides enough cover.

Perhaps their existence is to balance out the fauna in rivers and bodies of water? Is its purpose just limited to that?

It is our duty to further examine the purpose of the platypus before passing any further judgment. Its combination of a streamlined head yet dense fur allows it to soar through water easily and insulate itself. It feasts itself on crawfish and other small creatures. The platypus is similar to the purpose of a deer eating the grass, a lion eating the deer, and the grass growing. Biologically, the platypus plays its role in the river ecosystem.

In many ways, the platypus parallels us, humans.

We meander alone, living an unrecognized purpose in society. Not all platypi are humans; only many of us alone are. These humans are not necessarily marginalized but instead live in solidarity like platypi.

Despite their purpose in the river’s ecosystem, in parts around the world, platypi are a threatened species. Unfavorable climate conditions across the world hurt the sustainability of the creature, and their numbers are slowly in decline. Yet the extinction of the platypus would not mean the

“The end of the platypus means not the end of solidarity, but instead a certain type, nonetheless than others.”

River Katelyn Chen, ‘24 Watercolor

extinction of loneliness and solidarity in the world.

Amongst the animal kingdom, are there not more animals who suffer a similar fate? The end of the platypus means not the end of solidarity, but instead a certain type, nonetheless than others.

If such a fate as extinction awaits the platypus, then what can we do? In nature, organisms slowly gain traits favorable to their environment as time

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passes. Yet this is time the platypus does not have.

Their isolation traps their race into a slow spiral of doom.

Today, the platypus continues to live on inside us.

We soar yet remain invisible, confined alone to the waters. Some of us remain invisible to the rest of the world, huddled deep in our quagmire. Many of us fade away with seeming insignificance, despite playing an important role in nature and society.

Our purpose goes unrecognized, as we swim alone

“Many of us fade away with seeming insignificance, despite playing an important role in nature and society.” in the waters. Thus, the role of platypi should not go unseen. As another day passes, a platypus fades away, and of us is forgotten.

Conservation efforts for platypi currently remain limited, despite declining about 22% of their habitat over the last 30 years. Yet if we reach our hands out, take care, and recognize the legacy of an animal — one who is shy, we can help bring us back to life once again.

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

POWAY UNIFIED AND A NEW SCHEDULE: A STUDENT'S OPINION Written by Jack Miller, ‘24 and Vivian Hoang, ‘24 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 By the start of the 2022 school year, Poway Unified School District will be implementing later start times for the middle school and high school schedule. In Del Norte High School specifically, there has been debate circulating this new schedule with a spectrum of opinions. We, as two students from Del Norte, will be doing a deep dive into the positives and negatives of these adjustments, and provide some perspective of the people here on campus.

CONS Many students view the new scheduling as a poor choice. One main concern is that the scheduling will be overall ineffective. The basis for this belief is that by pushing back the time to start school, students will just stay up later and won’t use that extended time to get sleep, fundamentally contradicting the goal to help students meet their required hours of rest. In regards to the district’s goal to improve academic performance in the morning, they believe that by starting the school day later, students will be more energized and mentally prepared to do work for early period classes. However, being familiar with teenager habits, students will just stay in bed longer, negating the plan to prepare their minds for the school day. If the district really understood how students operate, they would recognize that just pushing the start day 20 minutes later will be a useless effort. In order for the schedule change to create any lasting effect on academic performance, school days would have to start at least an hour later than the current time. However, doing this will negatively affect students' lives outside of school, and their ability to complete homework. A large number of students on campus participate in an after-school activity and/or a job. By extending the time we get out, it can interfere with our working hours, sports, clubs, or family activities.

This also goes hand in hand with the completion of homework. Many students relax after school before starting their homework. By extending the time they get out, it will reduce the number of hours students have to complete it, going back to the idea that they will just stay up later to finish their work.

All in all, a popular notion regarding the new schedule is that it shows the district’s lack of understanding of students' needs and lifestyles.

PROS On the other side of the argument, students will have many benefits from the issuing of this new schedule. One major point is that having a later start time will lead to the betterment of students’

overall health and ability to learn. According to a 2018 journal published by the University of Washington and the Salk Institute for Biological Studies, starting school just 30 minutes later will align with the circadian rhythm of teenagers, the internal biological clock that controls when the body will sleep or wake. The study proves that a half-hour delay causes an undeniable change in the health and conduct of students; the health conditions relating to sleep deprivation were

“The added sleep also led to increased alertness in the morning which boosted grades overall.”

reduced, decreasing teenage dependency on caffeinated substances such as coffee or energy drinks. The added sleep also led to increased alertness in the morning which boosted grades overall. In addition, the study included that the delayed start lessened the amount of tardiness and first-period absences. Pushing back the beginning of school will be a major help to students who live further away or walk to school, and it will give more time for kids to eat a proper breakfast and prepare their books for school. In summary, a prominent amount of students believe that this schedule change will be a helpful adjustment for the new year.

Whether positive or negative, the later school schedule will be a change that will affect all of us at Del Norte in some way or another. How do you feel about the delayed start? Do you think Poway Unified used good judgment when deciding this installment, or do you feel like these alterations will bring poor results? In any case, the following year will prove or disprove our feelings about this topic soon, and all we can do now is prepare ourselves for the changes that are to come.

Tick Tock Iris Ding, ‘22 Digital

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expository | The Featheralist

Antibiotics Iris Ding, ‘22 Digital

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Written by Shreena Dayal, ‘25 | Designed by Daisy Zhang, ‘24 To understand antibiotics, we must first understand bacteria. Found everywhere on the Earth and in the human body, bacteria are single-celled living microorganisms. Despite the prevalent notion behind the “99.9%” exclamations on sanitizer bottles, most bacteria are harmless and even helpful. It is estimated that less than 1% of bacteria cause illness in humans (HHS). However, this troublesome 1% of bacteria has caused some of humanity’s most dangerous diseases, ranging from the bubonic plague to diarrhea. Throughout history, bacterial infections have meant an untimely death for many who encountered them.

This is where antibiotics come in.

The Microbiology Society defines antibiotics as “[a]ny substance that inhibits the growth and replication of a bacterium or kills it outright …”

Antibiotics work by either preventing the reproduction of or killing the bacteria by stopping other functions. Specialized antibiotics are only effective against certain types of bacteria, while broad-spectrum antibiotics kill all bacteria, even beneficial ones. The history of antibiotic use in medicine can be traced as far back to the Ancient Egyptians applying moldy bread on infected wounds. The mold in the bread likely contained an antibiotic that stopped bacteria from further infecting the wound. Most antibiotics, though created in a lab, are modeled after real microbes that secrete bacteria-killing substances. In the natural environment, these microbes kill bacteria to free up space and resources for themselves.

One such microbe is the fungus Penicillium notatum. Scottish microbiologist Alexander Fleming famously noticed the antibacterial properties of this fungus after accidentally leaving a culture plate of Staphylococcus bacteria open while on a vacation. He saw that the area around

“The history of antibiotic use in medicine can be traced as far back to the Ancient Egyptians applying moldy bread on infected wounds.”

the Penicillium notatum growth was clear, as if the fungus was killing the bacteria. His findings were soon proven correct and penicillin was put into government mass production for use in World War II. Today, antibiotics are one of the most common classes of drugs. They have revolutionized the medical field, allowing for modern medicine’s complex surgeries and procedures. This breakthrough led to a significant societal change in the perception of mortality. Where deaths due to infection were previously seen as unavoidable, bacterial infection was suddenly treated as a completely curable affliction.

Every time a bacterium reproduces, there is a chance that it will mutate. These changes, which involve an accidental change in DNA during cell replication, are harmless most of the time.

However, these changes can also cause large effects on how the bacteria functions. At the rate that bacteria multiply, mutations are constantly occurring. Some of these can be helpful to us, like a lowered deadliness, while others can harm us further, like the ability to withstand antibiotics.

When broad-spectrum antibiotics are used against an antibiotic-resistant infection, all bacteria, even ones that are necessary to our health, are killed.

This gives the resistant bacteria sufficient space and resources to multiply and spread rapidly.

These infections can be spread to people throughout the community, proving to be particularly dangerous to those with weakened immune systems like the elderly and immuno-compromised.

Improper use of antibiotics, which includes following instructions incorrectly and using antibiotics meant for someone else, can also trigger resistance. Many people tend to think of antibiotics as an overall “magical cure”, even pressuring their doctor into prescribing antibiotics for unrelated issues like viral infections. Antibiotic misuse is not the only way resistance can develop. The agriculture system is another huge culprit. When farm animals are given excessive or incorrect antibiotics to avoid sickness, antibiotic resistance can easily develop.

Due to the crowded conditions of factory farmed animals, these antibiotic resistant bacteria can easily spread throughout the farm. Bacteria can remain on the meat, leading to human infection when handled incorrectly. Antibiotic resistance that has occurred in animals can also spread to humans in indirect ways, such as fecal contact with other crops being grown nearby. Such infections can easily spread within humans, making antibiotic resistance a perfect recipe for the fall of our national disease defense systems.

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

ANTIBIOTICS: TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING Antibiotic resistance, according to the UN, is one of the greatest threats facing mankind within the not-so-distant future (“UN, global health

“To meet the demands of modern medicine, we must redefine antibiotics, from “magical cure-alls” to fallible drugs with simultaneously great potential and a likelihood of disaster.” agencies”). Having more sick, hard-to-treat patients in the hospital is not going to help relieve the burden on a healthcare system already brought to its knees by the COVID-19 pandemic. As shown by the Frontline episode, “Hunting the Nightmare Bacteria”, antibiotic resistant bacteria outbreaks are persistent, with one top hospital dealing with lingering effects even months later. This could lead to greater amounts of money being required to treat patients with antibiotic resistant infections, pushing a greater economic burden onto those already unable to afford healthcare. These infections can have a real impact on the global economy, with previously harmless infections causing temporary worker shortages. In fact, it is estimated that antibiotic resistance could take 10 million lives annually by 2050 (Raphael). Important everyday steps that we can take to avoid the spread of antibiotic resistance include: buying organic or antibiotic-free meat, avoiding misuse of antibiotics, and following recommended disease control measures. To meet the demands of modern medicine, we must redefine antibiotics, from “magical cure-alls” to fallible drugs with simultaneously great potential and a likelihood of disaster. A balance must be kept to avoid the negative effects of “too much of a good thing”.

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The Featheralist

CONTRIBUTORS Staff Contributors Andrea Baek, ‘22 - Co-president/Editor-in-Chief Ellen Xu, ‘23 - Co-president/Editor-in-Chief Anna Feng, ‘23 - Vice-president/Deputy Editor-in-Chief Audrey Zeng, ‘23 - Treasurer/Editor Nicole Pi, ‘23 - Secretary/Editor Anna Prasouvo ’24 - Board Editor Nikki Hekmat, ‘24 - Board Editor Rini Khandelwal, ‘24 - Board Editor Shriya Sankaran, ‘23 - Board Editor Tyler Xiao, ‘24 - Board Editor Iris Ding, ‘22 - Head of Art Daisy Zhang, ‘24 - Co-head of Graphic Design Priya Tantod, ‘23 - Co-head of Graphic Design Advisors Mr. Thomas Swanson Dr. Trent Hall

Writers Andrea Baek, ‘22 Raiya Bann, ‘23 Bella Chong, ‘22 Shreena Dayal, ‘25 Nikki Hekmat, ‘24 Vivian Hoang, ‘24 Deanna Hu, ‘22 Ishan Kapoor, ‘23 Rini Khandelwal, ‘24 Jack Miller, ‘24 Nicole Pi, ‘23 Anna Prasuovo, ‘24 Vinay Rajagopalan, ‘24 Hemadarshani Rajendran, ‘24 Avani Ranka, ‘23 Shreya Shahane, ‘23 Shriya Sankaran, ‘23 Tyler Xiao, ‘24 Ellen Xu, ‘23 Audrey Zeng, ‘23

COLOPHON

The Featheralist, Volume 04, Issue 02 Del Norte High School's Political and Literary magazine.

Del Norte High School, 16601 Nighthawk Lane, San Diego, CA 92127 Phone: (858) 487-0877 Fax: (858) 487-2443 https://powayusd.com/Schools/HS/DNHS https://dnhshumanities.weebly.com/ dnhshumanities@gmail.com School Population 2,459 students 153 full-time staff Font families League Gothic (titles) Oswald (pull quotes) Libertinus Serif (by lines/body text) Computer hardware and software Windows 10 MacOS Adobe Illustrator

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Adobe Photoshop Adobe InDesign

Paper stock Cover: 100# Glossy Text Inside: 80# Glossy Text We would like to thank our printing company, Best Printing USA, for their steadfast technical support and consistent high quality.

Price of magazine We rely 100% on local advertisers and student-essay-contest-award money to print our magazines.

We print approximately 150 copies per issue depending on page count and distribute copies for free to the Del Norte student body and surrounding community.

Editorial Policy The Featheralist is produced and managed entirely by members of the synonymous The Featheralist club, an 100% student-run extracurricular club.

The Featheralist club members are divided into three distinct but coordinating departments: Writing, Art, and Graphic Design. Each department is led by a small group of student officers.

Artists Tanvi Bagri, ‘23 Katelyn Chen, ‘24 Iris Ding, ‘22 Anna Feng, ‘23 Saumya Palakodety, ‘24 Nicole Pi, ‘23 Hemadarshani Rajendran, ‘24 Alice Tang, ‘23 Aliya Tang, ‘25 Andrea Wang, ‘24 Graphic Designers Daisy Zhang, ‘24 Priya Tantod, ‘23

The Writing Department collects drafts from both staff and guest writers.

Student-led “editing squads” ensure that all articles are publication-ready. The Art Department curates artwork of all subjects, mediums, and styles through methods similar to the Writing Department. Officers screen all writing and art pieces for school appropriateness.

Lastly, the Graphic Design Department combines verbal and visual content together into print-ready spreads.

The positions expressed in any of the articles are solely those of the individual writer(s).

They do not represent the viewpoints of The Featheralist, nor those of Del Norte High School or the Poway Unified School District.

Mission Statement: The Featheralist as a club exists to foster a collaborative and mutually edifying community of artists, writers, and graphic designers. We empower students to explore topics spanning the entire spectrum of the humanities — from screenplay to political essay, from poetry to short story. We serve as a megaphone to broadcast students’ unique ideas, experiences, and visions to the entire campus and the larger community.

Scholastic Affiliations We are a proud member of the Columbia Student Press Association.

Cover art “Del Norte” by Iris Ding, ‘22 Backpage art “Background” by Iris Ding, ‘22

“The Suburban Hellscape” Balashov, Alex. “Why Even Driving through Suburbia Is Soul Crushing.” Quartz, Quartz, qz.com/698928/why-suburbia-sucks/.

Gajewski, Misha. “Here's Why You Shouldn't Panic Move To The Suburbs.” Forbes, Forbes Maga zine, 16 July 2020, www.forbes.com/sites/mis hagajewski/2020/07/20/heres-why-you-shou ldnt-panic-move-to-the-suburbs/?sh=7c433b af4007.

Hughes, C. J. “Coronavirus Escape: To the Suburbs .” The New York Times, The New York Times, 8 May 2020, www.nytimes.com/2020/ 05/08/realestate/coronavirus-escape-city-tosuburbs.html.

Lerner, Michele. “Choosing the Suburbs over City Life during the Pandemic.” The Washington Post, WP Company, 16 Oct. 2020, www.was hingtonpost.com/realestate/choosing-the-su burbs-over-city-life-during-the-pandemic/20 20/10/15/01c94c5e-e716-11ea-97e0-94d2e46e 759b_story.html.

“Afghanistan: A Decades Long Story” Dupree, Louis, Allchin, Frank Raymond, Weinbaum, Marvin G., Ali, Mohammad, Petrov, Victor P. and Dupree, Nancy Hatch.

"Afghanistan". Encyclopedia Britannica, 2 Nov 2021, https://www.britannica.com/place /Afghanistan. Accessed 17 January 2022.

History.com Editors. “Osama Bin Laden.” History. com, A&E Television Networks, 16 Dec. 2009, https://www.history.com/topics/21st-centur y/osama-bin-laden.

History.com Editors. “Soviet Union Invades Afghanistan.” History.com, A&E Television Networks, 24 Nov. 2009, https://www.history .com/this-day-in-history/soviet-tanks-roll-in to-afghanistan.

Taylor, Alan. “The Soviet War in Afghanistan, 1979 - 1989.” The Atlantic, Atlantic Media Comp any, 4 Aug. 2014, https://www.theatlantic. com/photo/2014/08/the-soviet-war-in-afgha nistan-1979-1989/100786/.

Witte, Griff. "Afghanistan War". Encyclopedia Britannica, 16 Aug. 2021, https://www.brita nnica.com/event/Afghanistan-War. Accessed 17 January 2022. “#HungerFighters” Olson, R., Gavin-Smith, B., Ferraboschi, C., & Kraemer, K. (2021, March 29). Food fortification: The advantages, disadvantages and lessons from sight and life programs.

Nutrients. Retrieved January 16, 2022, from https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/ PMC8066912/ Khan, S. A. R., Razzaq, A., Yu, Z., Shah, A., Sharif, A., & Janjua, L. (2021, February 13).

Disruption in food supply chain and undernourishment challenges: An empirical study in the context of Asian countries.

Socio-Economic Planning Sciences. Retriev ed February 4, 2022, from https://www.scienc edirect.com/science/article/pii/S00380121210 00252 Global Reach Internet Productions, L. L. C.- A. (n.d.

Their Habitat over Last 30 Years.”

Smithsonian.com, Smithsonian Institution, 25 Nov. 2020, https://www.smithsonianmag .com/smart-news/platypuses-lost-22-their-h abitat-over-last-30-years-180976404/.

“Poway Unified and a New Schedule: A Student's Opinion” Amy Morin, LCSW. “Should High Schools Start Later so Teens Can Get More Sleep?”

Verywell Family, Verywell Family, 29 May 2020, www.verywellfamily.com/the-pros-an d-cons-of-starting-school-later-2609565.

Accessed 10 Jan. 2022.

“Teens Get More Sleep, Show Improved Grades and Attendance with Later School Start Time, Researchers Find.” UW News, 12 Dec. 2018, www.washington.edu/news/2018/12/12/high -school-start-times-study/. Accessed 17 Jan. 2022.

“Antibiotics: Too Much of a Good Thing” “Bacteria.” National Geographic Society, 17 May 2019, https://www.nationalgeographic.org/e ncyclopedia/bacteria/. Accessed 31 January 2022.

Microbiology Society. “The history of antibiotics.”

Microbiology Society, https://microbiologys ociety.org/members-outreach-resources/out reach-resources/antibiotics-unearthed/antibi otics-and-antibiotic-resistance/the-history-o f-antibiotics.html. Accessed 31 January 2022.

Microbiology Society. “What are antibiotics and how do they work?” Microbiology Society, https://microbiologysociety.org/members-ou treach-resources/outreach-resources/antibio tics-unearthed/antibiotics-and-antibiotic-res istance/what-are-antibiotics-and-how-do-th ey-work.html. Accessed 31 January 2022.

Raphael, Therese. “After Covid, Antimicrobial Resistance Is the World's Biggest Health Emergency.” Bloomberg.com, 27 January 2022, https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/ articles/2022-01-27/after-covid-antimicrobial -resistance-is-the-world-s-biggest-health-em ergency. Accessed 31 January 2022.

“Superbug fears as supermarket pig farms escalate use of antibiotics.” Bureau of Investigative Journalism, 17 June 2021, https://www.thebu reauinvestigates.com/stories/2021-06-17/sup erbug-fears-raised-as-british-supermarket-pi g-farms-escalate-use-of-crucial-antibiotics.

Accessed 31 January 2022.

“UN, global health agencies sound alarm on drug-resistant infections; new recommendati ons to reduce 'staggering number' of future deaths.” UN News, 29 April 2019, https://new s.un.org/en/story/2019/04/1037471. Accessed 31 January 2022.

U.S. Department Of Health And Human Services.

“Understanding Microbes in Sickness and He alth.” IUPUI ScholarWorks, https://scholarw orks.iupui.edu/bitstream/handle/1805/747/u nderstandingmicrobes,insicknessandinhealt h.pdf?sequence=1. Accessed 31 January 2022.

Young, Rick, director. “Hunting the Nightmare Bacteria.” PBS Frontline, season 2013, episode 14, 2013, https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/ frontline/film/hunting-the-nightmare-bacter ia/. Accessed 31 January 2022.

May 2022 | Volume 04, Issue 02

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FILL YOUR PAPER WITH THE BREATHINGS OF YOUR HEART. William Wordsworth