a Continuum

by Yumna Ali (age 16)

We are limited generations. The numbers will only ground themselves as time passes by.

However, I believe that is what makes every single generation, every single decade, every single year, every single week, every single day, every single hour, every single moment, every single human being, spectacular.

Because we are finite. We come in quantitative numbers, for only a selective amount of time, during a selective amount of time.

And whether you believe it or not, you are part of a generation that will never come back.

Although some may argue that there is indeed enough time in this world, time is outwardly perpetual, an endless stream of water forging its way through the labyrinth jungle.

Such that life is continuous, and love is continuous, Because of the simple fact that the world isn't complete in its existence without you.

So do what you want at this time, and take those eerie risks in life.

Because we are irregularities that form a larger picture, and those infinite risks you take may just change the world for the better.

Because what was once the singular aspects of life we took for granted, will move on to shape another part of humanity, in someone else's universe.

The Herculean Quandary by Taylor Filler (age 16)

I took a flight recently and some things occurred to me, things that made me question, some things that were questionable. I've always liked the window seat. I love the scattered patterns of light, but this time was odd. This time was different. Glancing through the looking glass, I realized how many questions I had: Why were we placed in this domain? Are we all the same or are we all insane?

The machines, streets, and buildings that make up our lives, each little light made by you and I are merely dots from this vast empty sky. At first,

I felt like a God, looking down upon my kingdom, an omniscient leader of the spirits below me. That was, till I remembered the thousand more of me. From the ground, I am the pinpoint and down there are millions of eyes (I's) staring up at the streak in the sky and thinking,

"I wish that were me!

Oh, to be *that* little dot!" But now, looking down

I feel smaller than normal.

I don't feel grand and I don't feel wise. Looking down, I see a world of lights, lights that blend, that I can't tell apart. And instead of feeling like a giant from beyond, I feel like a liar and a fake, such a fraud.

I feel like King Midas, oh the gold I could have! The knowledge and money and wealth, oh how grand!

The hole in my being would be fixed by my honor! The glory, what luck the Gods have given me! But in the end, all stories were written for a reason. And Midas learned in “his” that he was the villain. “He” was to blame. “He” was the ignorance. *He* clouded his judgement and paid the price. And like King Midas, I finally see it clear.

I am just like anyone else but with triple the fear. Because like everyone, I want to be something. I want to leave a legacy, something worth keeping. But seeing how small my light truly is, I ponder the true worth of existence. How hard must I work to be remembered?

To be the “someone” you look at and say "I know her! She changed my life!"

To be someone who means something and to be that much brighter of a light?

My conclusion has come to the fact that we overthink. We worry and we tremble, we bleed in silence.

It's gotten to the point that we worry about everything and nothing is peaceful, nothing is nice.

Because we've made it that way. So we never stop “going,” so nobody makes it, no one remembers the world that cried wolf becomes the world we remember. The people that scream are silenced and their light is extinguished. Or the lights become blended if they do remain lit. So I pose a question: who IS the villain?

The protagonist, the best friend, the NPC.

We all have a book, but which one is mine?

Will you remember my words?

Do you see my signs?

Are my screams so muffled that you can't hear what I say?

Or did I instead whisper?

But, then, who's to blame?

When I look out this window, this tiny little lens, I see lights and I see people who must stop pretending, who have to scream and MAKE their voices be heard. Because I see you but I can't see your words. In this storybook, this image shows us our world. But will you actually look, or will you just say it's absurd? Maybe I am the villain, or maybe I'm not

But we can't be anything if we keep saying nothing. You and I are the villains and the main characters. Our world contradicts and makes us bend backwards. For what?

For what reason should we?

Well, when our light fades,

I suppose we'll see.

My flight has brought me full circle from deity to insect. Do I allow myself to fade into peasantry or do I choose to shine like Apollo?

Do I labor at life like Heracles and reap the rewards? Or do I fade like the origins of these myths and be replaced by another Homer? That question is for all of us, what genre is your tale?

This chapter is your time to brand your name in the earth We decide the next move, so you tell me.

Message Received by Taylor Filler (age 16)

Message Received: 4:07 pm

Subject: In Search of a New Home Something's not right here.

Everything's amiss

Thoughts pass the wand'ring Earth I set upon. They promised love, a plentiful abyss.

How will I return to my point of spawn? My home's somewhere afar, where they call space.

It is a place where Gods and royals meet their fate. Diamonds replace rain and stars take trees' place with skies a color Lovecraft would create. Alone is where I truly feel at home but I'm comfortable beside the silence. Home is the place my soul was strung and sewn, a place full of awe and benevolence. I hope to take you where I hold so dear. The place I desire, holder of my fear.

My Favorite Color by Z (Azadian)

Brown is my favorite color.

Brown is extremely proud.

Brown is beautiful.

Brown is powerful.

Brown somos los mejores del mundo. I love the color brown

Brown people fight for their beliefs.

Brown people don't give up.

Brown people have pride. My people are brown, tough, and crazy. My people fight for what we love, and die for what we believe.

Brown Don't mess with Brown.

Brown is mi Raza.

Brown is Si Se Puede.

Brown will always be my favorite color.

Romero

(age 18)

Forgotten by Dio Rivera (age 18)

I am a Chicano

But other people don’t know. I’ve never heard Chicano in schools just on the news where we are considered fools.

Others see us as dangerous people in our community. They forgot the fact that we stand for Unity.

They see the “Violent” protests we lead, dangerous Chicanos is all they see.

We’re considered as high school dropouts, forced to the streets with no help.

We’re being forgotten in this society, forgotten that we’re mighty.

They don’t see the part where we are tear gassed, the part where we are considered the last. They don’t see us as victims of police brutality. They hear lies, not reality.

They don’t see leaders in our community, protesting every day for unity and opportunity. As animals is how they treat us.

We’re living in the back of the bus. We’re treated horrible every day. We fight but they get in our way.

We can’t even walk down the street without getting harassed by the police. Being Chicano is a privilege.

We don’t need to be treated different.

We don’t need beans and rice to be brown

Because Chicanos are powerful from up to down.

Struggle Healing by Malinda Medina (age 20)

Dear young woman,

I hope you find yourself. I hope you find love.

Society itself will break you into thousands of pieces. The form of dark poisonous lies creep into your mind and blinds you from picking up the broken pieces. Lost with no sight, left with a deceiving illusion.

Seasons pass by and you’re struggling to find rest. The only words you ever heard is to be strong and keep on fighting. Don't show your reality because it’s only a weakness. All the time of being strong and fighting only left you feeling more drained and tired.

Wishing to see again a glimpse of hope or a light.

Staying strong and fighting was just on going without no ending. Still can't see, lost completely, realizing you’re only fighting for survival and not finding yourself.

Instead of seeing because we are blind, we have to feel.

Feeling is to acknowledge, as if seeing was believing. Acknowledging that you don't feel okay is a big step, instead of keeping it inside. Acknowledging is a step toward healing. Being aware, it's a step toward problem solving.

Self-kindness and gratitude is a path to find yourself. Expressing is a form of letting go and becoming more free.

Healing isn't easy or a walk in the park. Sometimes it could be more painful than the place that you were in.

Once you learn to acknowledge and release you soon can see and learn to love.

Who Am I? by Ty Holly (age 20)

Who am I?

Am I just another person of color who you can point a gun at? Or am I someone who doesn’t deserve the same rights as a white person?

I’m already a teenager who is struggling as it is. I don’t need your bull**** telling me all the stereotypes that I already know. First of all, none of them are true! The actions of my ancestors have been reflected upon me, the supposed savagery of how they attacked the white man after being hunted for “fun.”

These known stereotypes have been passed down to me and the many sisters and brothers that surround the nation.

“Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”

I have heard this phrase hundreds of times from adults. But these adults don’t understand how these small words can break us mentally.

Who am I?

I’m just another girl fighting against society’s expectations, a book full of lies and rules neglecting who I need to be, which is changing me into someone else someone I was never meant to become. Because adults don’t think I need to be myself, only the image of who I “have” to be. But it’ll take more than a couple of rules to change me. I will fight, I will overpower it, and overwrite its rules Because their rules don’t apply to me. The book I go by is the book that tells me I’m young and free, giving myself my own self-identity. But that book of my freedom is locked up and hidden away.

Who am I? A question I am asked by those around me But I am unable to answer because I don’t know the answer myself. Everyone is different. We are unique, separating us from one another. Yet, our minds are set in the past, holding us down against our will. fear being the enemy. Blocking the peripheral vision of creating good choices, we don't want to take risks. That's what makes us human. Everyone is a human, But our minds tell us a different story. Facts, Knowledge, logistics, society brought us down. Self-concept is our weapon, ripping through the pages of our nightmares, believing in ourselves, not letting our inner demons break us from the inside out. We are strong.

We are resilient. We are human.

Who am I?

The real question is Who do I choose to be?

Asking a child who they are is like a scar that will never disappear. Many others are just like me, searching through the depths of our minds looking for the answer to the question, afraid of giving the wrong answer. But it’s not our fault. It’s the one asking the question. I don’t want to struggle with a simple question. I want to answer it with a snap. I shouldn't need to overthink my answer, believing that it isn't the right way to go. With confidence, I want simply say

“I want to be a leader for my people, for my family, for myself.” My answer is my voice. Now I ask you a question, think carefully: Who do you want to be?

Donde by Nancy Palacios (age 21)

Hay mucha violencia corriendo en las calles, mucha pobreza y mucho coraje. La violencia existe por el mundo entero y siempre ha existido.

Yo soy de donde la gente se pregunta si son amigos o enemigos. Yo soy de donde ellos, bien enfurecidos, tumbando enemigos y matando los sueños de los niños.

Y de donde una bala le roba la inocencia a los niños. Yo soy de donde pasamos mucho tiempo ganandonos la vida, pero no el suficiente viviendola. Yo soy de donde amor y paz no existe, from where not only brown are killing brown but also the pollution we are around.

Yo soy de una comunidad where kids develop health issues, where options are limited.

I am from a community where resources are nowhere to be found, where people are scattered around, lying down on the ground.

Gazing at the night sky as the shooting stars pass by, not knowing that’s what took their life.

I see corner stores, liquor stores, packs of 6, 12, and 24.

I see the destruction caused by shooting stars and paint jars.

Yo soy de murales que describen la humildad y felicidad de mi comunidad, que poco a poco son destruidos por aquellos que se quieren apropiar, sin pensar que detrás de aquellos murales hay una historia que es parte de mi infancia. Yo soy de donde we wear black and white stripes instead of red, blue and white, where streets are not painted in gold but in red, in the blood of our own kind.

Dear Brown Girl by Nancy Palacios (age 21)

Dear brown girl, your skin is morena, como Tonanztin. Your accent is the love language that connects you to Mother Earth. Your thick, long brown hair carries the prayers of your ancestors: strong, Mexica, Brown.

You are a guerrera, for you, your mom, and your abuela. First generation here in this nation, making your familia proud that was once in deep devastation. Your beautiful brown eyes capture the struggle and love in the barrio. Your hands cradle the unmeasurable love you have for your people.

Dear brown girl, don’t be afraid.

Your ancestors are walking behind you every step of the way.

An