Parsons First Year Journal: Issue One - Presence/Absence
parsons rst year journal
issue one presence/absence
“What should I do, Grandpa? I can hear waves across the sea. Six years have passed like water... I have two names now that call me.”
- Hazel Choi
First Year Journal Team
Editor - Brie Bouslaugh
Editor - Maya Samat
Designer - Rodger Stevens
Director - Jess Irish
Associate Dean of First Year Program - John Roach
Director of First Year Program - Alaiyo Bradshaw
Associate Director of First Year Program - Jess Irish
Associate Director of Operations - Luke Davis
First Year Program Admin trator - Mikayla Makle
Printer - Conveyor Studio
Cover image - Juliet Wang
Parsons School of Design
New York, NY
Spring 2024
Writing has always been an indispensable part of the First Year program. It is through language that we come to understand who we are and why we make what we make. Language facilitates community; it fosters understanding. Writing a ords us the freedom to communicate our dreams. On the following pages you will encounter writing of varying genres and perspectives. From a seemingly invisible monster haunting a small town, to a visual exploration of theories of the a erlife, to the nuanced narratives woven into African American quilts, these First Year voices are all uniquely beautiful.
The theme of Presence/Absence is meant to conjure the latent dualities embedded in identity, embodiment, and place. Presence, according to the late Buddhist monk and activist, Thich Nhat Hanh, is a ention, is love. Being present is both a practice and a gi . Returning to campus post pandemic has been critical to the rebuilding of our institution and ourselves. But what does it mean to be truly present, and what constitutes its opposite? Is absence intrinsically bound to presence itself?
In the following essays and images students explore these ideas and more. We invite you to engage with their words through your own unique lens as a writer and thinker and maker at Parsons.
We invite you to be present in this inaugural issue of Parsons First Year Journal.
Sincerely,
The Editors Maya Samat & Brie Bouslaugh
The L t Time I Saw Home
Contents
If You’re Aphrodite, Then What Am I?
Never Have I Ever
Melancholia I (a er Dürer)
Barbara Tuzova
Barbara Tuzova
Ammie Liu
Katharine Whitman
September Roni Reindel
Apocalypse Hyeonwoo Moon
Found Poem Self Portrait 1
Right-Handed
A ican American Quilts: A Time Capsule
Handprints
Ch ing Kimchi Jjigae
Carina Dai
Esther Deng
Chelsea Sta ord
Jackie Filip
Jisoo Yoo
Dear Diary Sharanya Khemka
Problems Fangai Yan
Sacred Fi ing Dipesh Aggarwal
Found Poem Self Portrait 2
Carina Dai
Presence Reika Oh
Time Juliet Wang
Two Names Hazel Choi
I Remember Kiara Li text
The L t Time I See Home
Barbara Tuzova
Khamovniki. July 30, 2023. 6 PM.
It takes me ten minutes to get to the metro station where I pick you up. We walk up the stairs and take a sharp le past the pharmacy and the orist shop before se ling on the hot stone wall outside the same shawarma place I used to go a er school. You roll a cigare e as we watch Ayubchon at work. You stub out your cigare e and I stand up hearing my back crack. This is the last time I sit there with you.
I leave for Siberia the next day. We go to my apartment. You lay down on the ma ress on my oor. I tell you all kinds of stories about the things I nd sca ered around my room while I nish packing an entire decade of my life. I wave goodbye to my room, my kitchen, my siblings’ and parents’ bedrooms, the bathrooms, the living room, and the hallway. I even caress the walls as one would caress an old friend. I turn the lights o . This is the last time I ever walk out of the doors of my home.
Khamovniki. Aug t 14, 2023. 4 AM.
We sit on the windowsill of our mutual friend’s apartment. It’s a ve-minute walk from the metro station and barely een minutes away from the place I call my home. You roll a cigare e. Your extremely annoying childhood friend ushers us out of the room. “What secrets have you got to keep from us,” he asks. You are the only person in that apartment that I trust.
Everyone’s out of their minds, so we sneak out. I race you down the stairs and out into the street. We sit down at a playground.
A strange, unse ling sound echoes around us. “Must be the air defense system,” you say. This is our new norm. We look at one another and we just know. There’s nothing more to be said. Khamovniki. Aug t 23, 2023. 4PM.
I’ve lived with you for a few days. I’ve been keeping my food in your fridge and sleeping on your sister’s bed. I’ve projectile vomited in your bathroom sink. Your apartment is comforting and familiar, but it isn’t home.
We wake up late. We get ready fast. I set my three bags down in the hallway. We leave.
We grab a co ee and walk up the boulevard. We hop on the M5 bus to my metro station in my part of town. We walk down the avenue and turn down my street. I stare at my apartment block and into the window of where home once was. I snap some quick photos. I wave goodbye.
We take the bus to your house once again, where I pick up my things. This is the last time I take the MS.
I hug you and two of our friends goodbye. This is the last time I see you.
At half past midnight, I leave Moscow. This is the last time I see home.
If You’re Aphrodite, Then What Am I?, Barbara Tuzova
Never Have I Ever
Ammie Liu
Never have I ever kissed a boy on the cheek.
Never have I ever found the shoe that I buried in the sand pit behind our school’s playground.
Never have I ever looked under my bed when the lights are o to confront the monster that made the so knocking sounds at night.
Never have I ever been caught trying on my mom’s white leather high heels when I was home alone.
Never have I ever caught the thief who stole my favorite, mint-colored, Studio Ghibli limited- edition mechanical pencil in grade four.
Never have I ever made it to the train that supposedly, would’ve taken me to Hogwarts.
Never have I ever choked on that piece of gum that my mom insisted would have killed me during the road trip to grandma’s place.
Never have I ever, despite the tingles that ran down the veins of my st and the tension that shivered in my knuckles, punched my middle school bully in the face.
Never have I ever apologized for sneaking into the backyard of my grandma’s neighbors, and, without permission, picked oranges from their orange tree, more than once.
Never have I ever bought the ve-dollar Totoro pencil case that
was displayed in the middle of the shop window of the stationery store a block away from my neighborhood.
Never have I ever ran out into the pouring rain on a humid summer a ernoon and joined the game of hide and seek while the shy sun curled up behind layers and layers of clouds.
Never have I ever admi ed that I was jealous of Natasha’s 3DS and secretly planned in my head a million ways of stealing it away.
Never have I ever liked my math teacher. Ever.
Never have I ever succeeded in making my turtle disappear with a BAM! the way the blonde lady wearing a three-piece suit and a bright orange tie taught on television every Friday night.
Never have I ever worn pink because Armando said it was a “girlie color.”
Never have I ever liked what I smelled like a er P.E. A lot of attempts were made to cover up the smell. As it turned out, washing my armpits with soap in the school’s bathroom sink produced the best results.
Never have I ever let out a single weep when I was pushed into the operation room. But the white light and its re ections on the glazed, pale yellow walls blinded my eyes, hiding the world away with a piece of white silk; the bi er, arti cial fragrance of the disinfectants covered up my nose, leaving me to su ocation; the ice-cold surgical table penetrated through my bones, ripping my body into countless pieces.
Never have I ever screamed or yelled or squealed or cursed or cried or bawled or felt my lungs explode or tasted the mixture of tears and snot in the classroom. Despite how much I really wanted to.
Never have I ever discovered Atlantis at the very bo om of my bathtub, only bubbles that dancedto my disappointment. Nor did I ever nd the entrance to Narnia in my closet.
Never have I ever nished making the wings for Halloween, with the feathers sca ered across the oor like the a ermath of a massacre. I shed my tears in the closet. My shoulders trembled withevery sharp breath I took in, mourning for the death of my lifelong dream. The words of my dadechoed in my ears. Every le er punctuated a hole on the surface of my heart. “Grow up, you will never become a dove.”
Melancholia I (a er Dürer), Katharine Whitman
To fall apart.
To lose your appetite.
September
Roni Reindel
To leave and cry. To stop crying.
To go pretend everything is ne. To smile forcefully.
To pretend not to cry yourself to sleep.
To not sleep. To sleep all the time.
To pretend not to care. To fall apart again.
To go to school. To see friends.
To decorate cars and pose for pictures.
To carry childish backpackson the last rst day of school.
To pray you have di erent schedules. To get lost in homework.
To make good impressions.
To go to the library and work for hours.
To let work distract from reality. To accept reality. To go outside.
To join a club. To meet new people. To feel free.
To talk about art and museums on the bus home.
To use Snapchat again.
To add words to pictures sent back and forth. To celebrate. To be alone. To remember.
To ask what you should order for dinner. To get a response. To go against the response.
To laugh. To hang out. To talk. To drive.
To walk the dogs in the dark. To watch a show.
To convince yourself things are just as good as before. To replace. To fail but pretend to succeed. To remember again.
To feel less pain remembering.
To wave and nod in the hallway. To ask friends for opinions. To exchange greetings in the library. To feel be er.
To get a breath of fresh air. To feel hope.
To drive again and again. To sing in the car.
To drive home and feel like everything is right in the world. To feel at peace. To heal.
To get a phone call. To question. To hesitate. To relent. To sit in the passenger seat.
To look at the water. To talk and to cry. To agree to try again.
To admit. To worry. To be unsure.
To come back together. To take it slow. To cry more.
To feel con icted. To get advice.
To make a pros and cons list. To contemplate. To decide.
To hope there is no regret.
To tiptoe. To feel comfortable.To feel whole again.
To drive more. To talk more.
To question. To ask. To nd out. To sit in silence. To stare out of car windows.
To feel vulnerable. To feel protected. To feel violated. To decide it’s no big deal.
To backtrack. To ghost. To cry. To dream of violence.
To stare and be stared at.
To look in the mirror and see a di erent person.
To stay awake. To decide not again.
To be supported. To have a shoulder to cry on.
To still feel alone. To want to get rid of your skin.
To feel dirty. To sit in the shower. To cry again.
To feel incapable. To fall short.
To be helped. To be patient.
To heal again. To not heal completely.
To remember every once in a while.
To not remember clearly anymore.
To think about the positive.
To stop caring.
To move on.
Apocalypse, Hyeonwoo Moon
Apocalypse
Hyeonwoo Moon
“I should move soon to a di erent place. I cannot handle this anymore.” Leo, a college student living in a small town, could not sleep due to numerous assignments, so he went outside to refresh his mind.
At four o’clock in the morning, villagers were still awake and Leo saw groups of people gathered together, so he walked towards them to join the conversation. However, contrary to his expectation that they would be talking to each other telling funny stories, as he got closer he saw their dark expressions such as faces frightened by a monster. He heard people whispering about seeing a monster wandering around the neighborhood, but he had never seen it even though he had been living in the neighborhood for over twenty years. As Leo arrived in front of the people, they suddenly started sca ering in di erent directions. “Yes, it is time to go home. It is extremely late,” he whispered to himself.
Leo also made his way home, but soon a er he encountered a gure about the same size as himself. The creature was something he had never seen before — a human-like shape, but with ve legs. It had no arms and was covered in black skin. Leo felt anxious about the unknown creature. But as soon as he saw it, the monster disappeared from his sight as if evaporating with the fog.
A few days later, Leo witnessed people whispering just like before. Among them, he met his friend Martin and asked about the existence of the monster. “Have you seen the monster that people have been talking about?” Leo asked. “Yes, I have. Sometimes, on rainy or melancholy days,” Martin replied. “I have been living in this place for over twenty years. You know me. How could I be the only one who has not seen it?” Leo continued. “Maybe you will see it soon as well,” Martin spoke with a cold voice as he le . Leo felt
uneasy about the story of the monster and the unusual behaviors of the villagers, but despite this, he returned to his daily life.
As the years went by, Leo grew older. However, as time passed, he became more anxious and worried about his future since he could not get a job even a er graduation. One night he went to the bathroom to wash his face with cold water to refresh his mind. When he looked in the mirror, he saw the monster. “Where were you? Why did you suddenly disappear that day and then reappear now?” Leo questioned. “When I go out, people do not see me the way I am, but just hate me,” the monster replied with a thick voice. “I will show you around the town. Let’s go out!” Leo replied with an excited gesture. “What do you know about me? Have you lived like me? Don’t talk like you know me,” the monster replied with a poker face. As Leo felt scared of the monster, its size gradually grew.
The monster gazed at itself in the mirror. It seemed angry at how it looked and denied its appearance by harming itself, tearing o its own arms and a aching them to other body parts. “I don’t want to be anxious anymore whenever I see myself, I just want to be happy like ordinary people!” the monster screamed. “Stop what you are doing!” Leo said in a voice trembling with fear. “Alright ne, I will let you experience what it is like to live like me,” the furious monster spoke in a cold voice as if he had found a solution. The monster wrapped Leo’s body with its legs in an a empt to change Leo’s appearance to mirror its own. “No!” Leo woke up screaming and felt his pillows and blankets soaked from sweat and tears. “I didn’t see it before, but I see it now… I saw it on the day when I walked alone in the darkness and whenever I was overwhelmed by waves of anxiety,” Leo whispered to himself. A erward, the monster didn’t appear when Leo returned to his ordinary life. Villagers didn’t witness it anymore either. It wasn’t that the monster was gone completely, just that the waves of anxiety were calmer. But Leo knew they could always reappear as a tsunami later on.
Found Poem Self Portrait 1, Carina Dai
Right-Handed
Esther Deng
Only about ten percent of the world is le -handed, according to Google at least. Because of natural selection, it was just easier for everyone to use their right hand to share tools and living spaces. Essentially, right hand dominance was shaped by social cooperation, and thus now makes up the majority of the population. For example, my parents are right-handed. My grandparents are right-handed. Their parents are also right-handed. However, I am le -handed. My family has grown up with traditional Chinese standards and has always sought to pass those onto me as well.
When I was eight years old I went to China, and I vaguely recall everyone telling me I was di erent. I was unlucky. Or was it that I was dumb because I am le -handed? That summer, I sat on the oor of my great grandma’s house, the air conditioning not blowing low enough to reach me, my ngers shaking, a empting to write with my right hand. Over and over. My Chinese name never looked so ugly. So foreign.
Unfortunately, I was not genius enough to switch to being a righty a er this rst “study session.” I recall memories from that summer that were spent not only writing, but using chopsticks with my right hand and cu ing Jianzhi with my right hand as well. I still can’t use chopsticks very well to this day. And I hold scissors in my le hand.
My great grandmother told me this long, tragic story about the background of the le -handed stigma (other than the fact that when writing it smudges everything in its path) but I honestly cannot recall it. Obviously, I recognize that everyone was just try ng to help me. They always do what’s best for me. But did it really make such a di erence?
Three weeks later, back in the U.S., I gave it up. I gured if the president could win over half the country, how dumb could le ies be? I’ll just have to prove to everyone their superstition is wrong. This is not a story about how I became ambidextrous.
Quilt, Chelsea Sta ord
A ican American Quilts: A Time Capsule
Chelsea Sta ord
African American quilts serve as more than mere fabric constructions. Cra ed predominantly by Black women in the South during the 19th century, these quilts weave together stories that transcend time and contain historical signi cance, encapsulating narratives of resilience, progress, and cultural identity. In a society where the history and culture of Black Americans has o en been obscured or overshadowed, these quilts emerge as artifacts, refusing to be buried or forgo en. Beyond their aesthetic appeal, the quilts embody archives of memory and history. The quilt-making process itself is a testament to the creativity, community, and indomitable spirit of many who faced adversity with resilience and grace. In exploring the rich background of African American quilts, it’s important to understand that they are more than mere stitches on fabric; they are living expressions of history. The transformative evolution of the process re ects the resilience of Black women in the face of adversity.
Initially, enslaved Black women were compelled to engage in spinning, weaving, sewing, and quilting on plantations for their oppressors. Over time, however, this oppressive act evolved into an unexpected expression of liberation. The practice became a vessel for asserting agency, expressing creativity, and establishing a distinct identity. Quilting sessions served as spaces for socializing, storytelling, games, singing, and camaraderie, o ering slaves a unique opportunity to connect without supervision and liberate themselves from the environment of plantation life. Quilting also o ered Black women a safe place to gather, fostering a sense of community and mutual support.
The act of bartering for fabrics and assisting one another in the creative process further solidi ed the bond amongst African
American women. Moreover, quilt making played a crucial role in the Underground Railroad, serving as a hidden way of communication for enslaved individuals seeking freedom. Quilts hanging from clotheslines or windowsills along the Underground Railroad were not simply decorations but instead, were encoded messages guiding those on the run.
The evolution of quilting from a form of labor imposed by enslavers to a symbol of liberation and community empowerment showcases the transformative power of creativity and resilience in the face of systemic oppression. Quilt making transcended its role as a domestic cra ; it became a multifaceted means of communication, weaving together stories, symbols, and hidden messages. Beyond the practical act of quilting, these circles served as incubators for cultural identity, passing down traditions, wisdom, and skills from one generation to the next. The quilts came to embody a universal language that resonated with shared experiences and emotions. The evolution of symbols re ected changing experiences and circumstances that spoke to the experiences of African Americans over time.
In a world where cultural heritage can be easily overlooked or overshadowed, quilting emerged as a silent but powerful form of cultural preservation. It is a reminder that the stories of African Americans, though at times hidden or discarded, are woven into the very fabric of these quilts. The appreciation of quilts as more than simply textiles but as living expressions of cultural identity enriches our understanding of the diverse histories that shape the broader narrative of America. These artifacts and the signi cance they hold as touchstones connect society to a heritage that deserves acknowledgment and celebration. Quilting in the South was a means for African American women to escape the shackles of enslavement and immerse themselves in a passion that provided both purpose and community. The threads of quilting stitch together not only fabric, but the multilayered story of a community that has shaped and continues to shape the cultural landscape of America.
Handprints
Jacqueline Filip
La Cueva de las Manos, in Argentina, is a cave lled with stencils of handprints from early groups in the area, as represented by its name. Some of the hands are colored in various shades of reddish brown, while others are outlined. Upon doing some research, I found that the pigments most early humans used to paint were made from various minerals, like ochre, charcoal, and limestone. Some colors, such as blues and greens were not used, due to their rarity in minerals. In the cave there are also paintings of animals, which experts believe were either worshiped or hunted by early peoples, though there is no way of really knowing. Still there seems to be no explanation as to why ancient people stenciled their hands, not only in South America, but across the world in various sites.
The rst thing that caught my a ention about this photo was the various colors used — dark and reddish browns, bright yellows, ivory whites. They fade into each other, creating beautiful overlaps. The hands themselves are so unique, various sizes and shapes; you can tell just by looking that it’s the hands of many di erent people printed on the walls.
There’s something so humanizing about seeing these handprints, more so than “traditional” cave paintings, at least for me personally. We all know about ancient groups, but they feel very far, distant from our lives. Yet here is something that remains of them, a sort of, I was here! And don’t we also do the same things now? We make hand turkeys, dipping our ngers in paint and stamping them on paper, then hanging them on a fridge. Humans have always been the same, despite being separated by millennials and cultures.
As I look at these handprints, I want to know more about who made them. Are the smaller ones children’s hands? Do the di erent colors used perhaps re ect di erent families, or groups that have come and gone? Were the children excited to blow pigment around their small hands? Did they know they would still be there today? They remind me of why I do the things I do, even if sometimes my existence feels so small in the grand scheme of things. I make art to say I was here too, to make someone smile or feel something, even if it’s hundreds of years from now.
Ch ing Kimchi Jjigae
Jisoo Yoo
My grandma loves spicy food. Unfortunately, I have scars on my tongue. Okay, so not scars, but it sounds cooler that way. I have a ssured tongue, and on top of that I have a condition called geo-graphic tongue. To put it simply, my tongue is a desert, cracked and uneven, and the titans of capsaicin and acid come hurtling down from the heavens to wreak havoc on the landscape. Basically, I’m sensitive to spicy and sour foods. But my grandma didn’t know that. She just thought I was weak. So whenever I visited Korea, she would sit me down and forcefeed me the spiciest food I could ever have. And I, her dumb American baby, had neither the heart nor the words to tell her that my mom washes my kimchi and I cry at the taste of bell peppers. (I’m be er now, I swear.) But if there is one thing that I loved, even if it was too spicy for me, it was her kimchi jjigae.
Heapfuls of gochugaru and gochujang, pork belly and kimchi cooked to perfection. According to my dad she learned how to cook from the king of Korea’s chef. Therefore, whenever we eat her food, we eat like royalty.
“You should learn from her, once you can reach the stove,”my dad used to say. “If I could have anything for my last meal, it would be grandma’s kimchi jjigae. ”Asian squa ing over a large puzzle, my grandma would hunch over next to the TV as she clicked the pieces together. For her, this was a way to pass the time. Her arthritis-ridden hands could no longer hold the needle that she once skillfully used toembroider pieces. She once created great pieces, ones of swirling green trees and small birds that we would hang in our home back in California. But for now, she was content piecing together a picture of the Ei el Tower next to the TV.
There was a kimbap store right next to her apartment. We went there o en, especially in the summers when walking to other restaurants proved di cult under the humid Korean sun. She used to say “We add extra ingredients not for avor, but for looks. See? You don’t taste the spinach, but it looks pre ier with it.” I thought that life was like that. You do things not because they serve a purpose, but because they make life pre ier. Like taking a walk down the river, eating eokbokki under the shade of a canopy. My grandma didn’t go out o en, her knees too weak to walk anywhere for long. But sometimes, when my grandpa was able to convince my dad he was fully capable of driving, we would go out to the Han River. It would be good for grandma, he would say, ge ing fresh air. (The air in Korea is never fresh, but my grandfather persisted.) By the river, as we watched the bikes pass by, I saw my grandma at peace, bones se ling as the warm breeze blew through. It was rare to see her so calm and happy.
And then she died. At funerals, Koreans eat a stew called yukgaejang. It is spicy. Red with oily swirls that oat around strips of beef and burdock root, meant to ward o evil spirits. Red is common in many Korean designs, which represents formation and creation among obangsaek, or the ve cardinal colors. How ironic, then, that we eat the reddest stew that exists for an event dedicated to death. I ate it slowly, savoring the warmth that the cold spring would not allow for, thawing out my hands and ears and heart.
I froze up again when I saw my grandmother. She laid on the table as the morticians prepared her for cremation. It felt wrong, seeing them use lipstick on her, a poor imitation of warmth slathered upon her face. It did nothing to hide how cold her hands were. This was not my grandma, I thought. My grandma was stubborn and hot-headed and warm. My grandma would not have died so quietly, she would have gone with a ame. But here she was, a zzle that turned to ash as she was placed in the wood-
en co n and cremated the next day. Strangers who knew me well held my hand. Strangers told my sister how much she looked like her, and strangers told me how much I reminded them of her. Strangers said I had grown so much, that I was just like her, that my artwork reminded them of hers. Strangers were in my grandparents’ house, eating the last few Tupperwares of her kimchi jjigae, learning that I liked to cook, asking if I could make it like her one day.
I don’t remember the taste of her kimchi jjigae. I don’t know what her artwork looks like. We had one of her pieces in our old house, but when we moved it got lost in transit. Was that a sign? That I too would be lost, searching for a connection to her, to Korea, to anything?
I’m doing too much, and it’s too late. I’m learning Korean, but reaching conversational uency feels useless. I’m learning how to cook, but nothing tastes right. I’m learning embroidery, but the needle pricks my hand a li le too hard and I bleed. I try to paint the pain I feel, but I can’t accept the fact that the pain I feel is not because she’s gone. I mourn less for her and more for the relationship I never had with her. That I should have had with her.
In his dissertation, Jaehyeon Jeong writes of the use of obangsaek in food television in Korea, stating that “the use of ve colors shows what meanings were preferred and deliberately inscribed by both material and symbolic producers of the program–namely, the embodiment of Korean philosophy or spirit in Korean food.” But for me, I was out of balance, without my grandmother, red and warm, to keep me distantly a ached to Korean culture, I would never t the “Korean spirit” that is so valued. I would never have t in anyway. A ssured tongue could never handle the spices my grandmother would use anyway, clumsy hands could never match her nimble ngers. I’m a ocean away from that peaceful river and that steam- lled kitchen. I am not her, so why am I trying so hard to do things for her?
But sometimes, the thought of my grandmother passes my mind. Sometimes I remember the warmth of her hand as I guided her to the restaurant next door. The warm summer breeze by the river. Her puzzles. She never nished that Ei el Tower puzzle. That restaurant closed down. Time passes and I can only dream f what she would say to me if she knew that I got into art school. That I do embroidery. That I made kimchi jjigae in my tiny kitchen the other day. That I added a heapful of gochugaru and gochujang.
Dear Diary
Sharanya Khemka
October 22, 1964
Dear Diary,
Another day in the city that never sleeps, where every heartbeat of the streets seems out of tune with my own. As I walk down the bustling avenues, I am acutely aware of the discreet glances, hushed whispers, and judgmental looks that follow me like unwelcome shadows. Being true to myself feels like an act of courage, a silent rebellion against the constraints of an unaccepting world. New York, with its grandeur, can feel like a stage where I must conceal my honest self behind an intricate masquerade. I’ve learned to wear my identity like an artist’s pale e, blending my true colors with shades of conformity, creating a masterpiece of self-preservation. The city’s sidewalks become both stage and ba le eld, where I perform the delicate dance of self-revelation under the unforgiving spotlight of society’s judgment. Oh, wait! I’m sorry! I’m ranting again, aren’t I? That’s the everyday, now let me get down to today.
I’ve discovered this charming li le bar tucked away between two towering buildings. It’s an oasis amidst the concrete jungle, a place where the scent of whiskey and wine replaces oxygen in the best way possible! It’s become my refuge, a cozy hideaway
from the urban chaos. As I sit here sipping my drink, I can’t help but overhear snippets of conversations - each a story like pages ripped from a novel. There’s something beautiful about it, the way these lives collide and part, just like the streets themselves.
Today, I sat near a couple discussing the latest Broadway sensation, dissecting the love a airs of the lead actors with the precision of detectives solving a mystery. It made me chuckle - in a place as vast as this, it’s funny how everyone is still fascinated by the romantic entanglements of strangers. The couple’s laughter and animated conversation lled the air, a brief respite from the surrounding anonymity. It got me thinking, in a city where secrets are the currency of connection, where do I nd mine — is it hidden in plain sight, communicating in a code only the initiated can decipher? Well, today I’ll leave it at that, and hopefully tomorrow I’ll return with a bit more clarity and connection.
Until then, Brian
Problems, Fangai Yan
Sacred Fi ing
Dipesh Aggarwal
As I walk down the stairs the sun with the se ing sun, a ock of birds y in dark shapes, peoples’ voices begin to sink, and the street dogs start roaming. I walk by the narrow one and a half lane road of Kolkata with four-story buildings on both sides feeling su ocated. I look up to the dark blue hues of the sky and breathe. While walking in the middle of the street, a taxi honks suddenly. I jump scared and step aside allowing its majestic passage. A er a couple of rights and le s, I venture up to a street stall with ve strangers gathered in a semicircle. I join them, stand, and wait. The short, skinny stall man at the other end of the table starts his preparation.
Right behind the stall a building under construction is skeletal and starving. The lamp post’s light is ickering. Street dogs are barking. I look over my shoulder to nd a baby in her mother’s arms screeching. But it all disappears as soon as the man distributes the small plates to us. His hand reaches into a hotair-balloon-looking bag to get a small, round puchka; with his nger he opens the puchka, and lls it with spicy mash potato and chickpeas. Then he dips it into a steel container of tamarind water with black salt, lemon juice, and spice.
The moment the crunchy, scrumptious puchka reaches my plate, I grab it. My mouth explodes with avors. Due to the spiciness of the lling, I begin to sweat profusely. My nose is running, and I’m panting like a dog. I manage the situation with tissues. Then mosquitoes around my leg begin stinging me. I start scratching continuously because a scratch soothes for one second but leaves unrest a er that. Still, addicted to this taste, I know I will come again tomorrow.
Found Poem Self Portrait 2, Carina Dai
Presence
Reika Oh
The heat is pushed out the window. It’s right there; all I have to do is slide the hinge open and that crispy summer scent will rush into my room – but I don’t.
Instead, I sit at my desk in my fully air conditioned room, windows and door dutifully shut. Distantly, I register my teacher talking through the slideshow that she has up on her shared screen. The tip-tapping of her keyboard and her slightly distorted voice is captured by her laptop microphone and travels through my AirPods.
Sigh, stretch. A er hours of si ing, I feel how my spine cracks at the movement.
My microphone is o , my camera is tilted towards my ceiling, and my focus is elsewhere: the li le boxes on the top corner of my screen containing my friends’ discord pro le pictures. They spark green every once in a while, whenever there’s a sound on their end. Even more distantly, I hear my mother in the kitchen washing the dishes. Cla er. I ought to help her a er class ends. Yawn.
My vision turns blurry from the tears that collect. in my eyes, and a single drop stains my cheek. I wipe at it lazily. No one starts the conversation that died down at the beginning of class because there’s no need to; it’s a mutual understanding. It’s simple.
I’m con ned alone in my room, for the fourth day in a row this week, the fourth week of this month, but their virtual presence lls up the silence. Their presence is nice. My mouth feels dry as I mumble a quick “thank you” to my teacher at the end of the class. I reach for my ceramic mug and take a gulp of the ice cold barley tea. I return to the call.
Time, Juliet Wang
Time
Juliet Wang
Once I read a theory saying that if we can imagine something separately, then we are not connected with this object. If we can imagine a mirror without ourselves in it or connected to it, then there’s a separation between us and the mirror. If we can imagine ourselves standing in front of the mirror, then our mind is not connected to our physical body.
This theory posits a fundamental separation between the non-material mind and the material body, suggesting they are distinct entities that interact through the pineal gland. Therefore, I wanted to explore the idea of the a erlife. The end of time, or a beginning of new time. I sought to delve into the question of where our mind goes a er the cessation of our physical existence.
I interviewed three groups of people from the ages of 18 to 78 and asked for their thoughts and concepts about the a erlife, or what would happen when people pass away. I aimed to forge a profound connection, confronting the inevitability of death; through the gentle embrace of so hues and undulating lines, I sought to evoke a soothing sense of relief. The mirror, a symbol of separation, delineates distinct realms: an outer space, a painted space, and an inner space within its re ective con nes, inviting contemplation on the multifaceted nature of existence.
Two Names
Hazel Choi
Gowun, my birth name; I did not know the meaning of my name. Growing up, the expressions of people who called my name were full of exclamations. Since I was young, the word has echoed in my ears like a familiar melody. In my head are many dictionaries. Meaning of Gowun in Korean: Beauty.
Grandpa wants me to grow up like a ower. As I get older, the ower starts to bloom. I keep thinking to myself, owers are re ections. Just as buds bloom, I gradually nd my color. When it is time to introduce myself, everyone clears their throats, starting to y like bu er ies. I put one side of my hair back and begin to bloom.
Eyes. Eyes that shine like mirrors, that want to hide. The sound of wings, everyone buzzing my name. As I got older, the ower grew beautifully just like my grandpa wanted. But when I lost my name, the owers withered suddenly. New place, new culture, new language. Gowun, which is hard to pronounce, is now withering.
I’m losing my identity. I’m born again. A new me. A new name. The word Hazel uploaded in my dictionary. The word didn’t resonate in my ears like a melody.
What should I do, Grandpa?
I can hear waves across the sea. Do not lose them, you are still the ower.
Six years have passed like water. The bird has nished building its nest.
Gowun, Hazel. I have two names now that call me.
A The Things I Can Remember, Kiara Li
I Remember
Kiara Li
1
I remember taking a bath in cold water in winter. I remember my grandmother’s fretful eyes, convinced I’d catch a winter cold, but I emerged unscathed. I remember bear-shaped cookies, dunked in milk, their so ened forms evoking tales of cozy evenings.
I remember ants crawling on my arms, their tiny feet tickling my skin.
I remember the weight of a whole tub of eggs and how it tipped over when I tried to li them o the table.
I remember my mother’s hand, a warm and steadfast anchor as we wove through the bustling train station, cocooned in safety and love.
I remember the aroma of instant noodles lingering in the air, intermingling with the scent of sweat during a lengthy bus ride— the timeless hallmark of transportation in our village back in the day.
I remember the deafening sound of recrackers exploding right beside my feet. I was so terri ed that I could hardly move.
I remember family dinners, a large dog sheltered under the table, a loyal companion to the laughter and clinking of utensils.
2
I remember the soothing warmth of water in spring. I remember the feeling of my ngers being gently sucked by a carp.
I remember the surprise and delight of a ki en leaping from my bike basket—an unexpected burst of joy on a spring day.
I remember raising silkworms and carefully picking mulberry
leaves for them to eat every day a er school. My ngers smelled of fresh grass pulp, and I watched in awe as they spun their cocoons and transformed into white moths.
I remember kites soaring high in the sky.
I remember I couldn’t do a single sit-up.
I remember pu ing on my glasses when my vision started to blur, allowing me to see people’s faces once more—a clarity in the midst of uncertainty.
I remember the eerie prophecy that shrouded existence, foretelling that this day would mark the end of the world. It was December 21, 2012—the day came and went, yet nothing happened.
I remember the scent of tarmac in the heat of summer.
I remember the vibrant petunias tucked away in a corner.
I remember the pride of seeing my mother’s cellphone adorned with the pea shoots I nurtured, a small victory etched in pixels.
I remember the exhilarating moment I received my very own cell phone—a sleek, yellow, lightweight device, with my mom and dad’s numbers securely stored within.
I remember cu ing o a piece of skin when I was sharpening a pencil with a penknife, and how the smell of blood and rust were very similar.
I remember my grandma’s cantaloupes, their sweetness tinged with the imperfection of tiny black bugs—a reminder of nature’s quirks. I remember my lungs bursting! I went for an 800 meter run on the playground.
I remember telling my dad that I had lost my glasses, even though I knew I had le them in my English teacher’s o ce. I was too afraid to retrieve them, and guilt gnawed at me.
I remember the walls always feeling damp to the touch in the sweltering June heat.
I remember the eeting days of summer vacation, slipping through our grasp like sand through eager ngers.
I remember the so rustling sound of sycamore leaves falling in the fall.
I remember the day we moved, not too far away, but to a di erent city.
I remember receiving my rst computer. I remember eating a burger in the cafeteria with chopsticks. I remember riding the subway for two hours a week and listening to music on the subway.
I remember I was alone in the art classroom late at night drawing un nished paintings, my roommate suddenly appeared from behind the door, and we went back to the dormitory together with an umbrella—a moment of relief and camaraderie in the stillness of the night.
I remember the earthy smell of burning rewood and the crisp chill of autumn mornings that greeted me upon waking up from my sleeping bag during camping trips.
I remember huddling under my blankets, searching on my cell phone for information on how to live in New York.
I remember the graduation ceremony.
I remember catching my rst glimpse of the New York skyline from a yellow cab, a panorama of dreams materialized.
I remember walking down Fi h Avenue with three suitcases in tow, the journey beginning with endless possibilities.
