2024 Anthology and Catalogue: Select Works by YoungArts Winners

Anthology + Catalogue

Select works by the 2024 Winners in Design, Photography, Visual Arts & Writing

Anthology + Catalogue

Select works by the 2024 Winners in Design, Photography, Visual Arts & Writing

National YoungArts Week T-Shirt

Designed by Maria Useche (2017 YoungArts Winner in Design)

Acknowledgments

We are thrilled to welcome you to this Anthology + Catalogue, comprising works by the 2024 YoungArts award winners in Design, Photography, Visual Arts and Writing. An affirmation of the caliber of their expressions, these editions are often the first opportunity for young artists to see their work published and represent a bold step toward a professional future in the arts.

Our work is a continuous process that depends upon the knowledge and commitment of a vast network of guest artists, teachers and educators. We are grateful for the many partnerships and artists who have helped inspire this next generation of artists. We extend our gratitude to Anthology Editor, Lizette Alvarez.

This volume and YoungArts programming throughout the year are made possible by the support of its most generous donors, including Anthropologie; Aon; Micky and Madeleine Arison Family Foundation; Sarah Arison and Thomas Wilhelm; Jeffrey Davis and Michael Miller; State of Florida through the Division of Arts and Culture and the National Endowment for the Arts; Jay Franke and David Herro; The Horace W. Goldsmith Foundation; Agnes Gund; Hearst Foundations; Barbara and Amos Hostetter; Michi and Charles Jigarjian / 7G Foundation; John S. and James L. Knight Foundation; Leslie and Jason Kraus; Ashley Longshore; Steven and Oxana Marks; Miami-Dade County Department of Cultural Affairs and the Cultural Affairs Council, the Miami-Dade County Mayor and Board of County Commissioners; Northern Trust Bank; The Jorge M. Pérez Family Foundation at The Miami Foundation; Podhurst Orseck; PricewaterhouseCoopers LLP; Psycho Bunny; Rockefeller Brothers Fund; Jen Rubio and Stewart Butterfield; Sidney and Florence Stern Family Foundation; SunChips; Sandra and Tony Tamer; Bruce and Ellie Taub; UBS Financial Services, Inc; and Lynn and Louis Wolfson II Family Foundation.

Please visit youngarts.org/donor-recognition for a complete list of donors.

Above all, we extend our sincerest gratitude to the artists featured. We dedicate this publication to you, your families, teachers and mentors.

Ela Kini

Olivia Le

Chloe Lee

Tehmina Malhotra

Massey

Jada McAliley

Ollie McCrary

Amber McLeod

Ian Negroni-Martinez

Jenna Nesky

Seren Park

Stella Wu

Jerry Xiao

Ziyi Yan

Ava Ye.

Nathan

About YoungArts

Select Works

by the 2024 Winners in Design, Photography,

Visual Arts & Writing

Emily Allison

to my mother—

there was a twinge of palo santo in the air when i slipped out of my shoes. i worried for a moment that if the thurible tipped we’d light up on fire but at least everything would go down smelling like palo santo.

i think you burn it because it reminds you of floresville. like how the wedding was good & we’d suck on stoplight pops & roll tamales until they steamed up the windows. there’s four generations of people here.

i could never say yosemite right until you corrected me. you pronounced it in a voicemail & i’d listen to remind myself. sometimes i write yosemite & say it wrong in my head yosemite yosemite yosemite yosemite yosemite yosemite yosemite yosemite

i don’t want to fight you but the palo santo smell won’t go away & it’s supposed to cleanse me of something but i don’t like it anymore. it smelled like my grandma once, but now it just smells like being a daughter.

Liam Ardila

Photography

Laundry 35mm film

Yuraima Arreaga

Photography Alliance Ouchi-O’Donovan 6-12 Complex

Los Angeles, CA

Semana Digital photography 2023

Sanaa Averette

Photography Stivers School for the Arts Dayton, OH

Sinless Silver gelatin print 2023

Gray Baker

Visual Arts

Ladue Horton Watkins High School

St. Louis, MO

Covet and care

Sewn acrylic stained canvas scraps 2023

Marcos Barrera

Photography

Grand Rapids, MI

Untitled Film photography 2023

Claire Beeli

Spirits

During the summer of 1943, my grandfather lived in a shack that clung like a barnacle to the side of an Alpine mountain near Curaglia, Switzerland. At fourteen, he was already father to the dozen goats he spent his days herding through the high peaks and pastures that nourished him; three generations survived off the same dark soil, the same brooks, and the sunlight above.

One summer, just before he left town and moved to the shack, a boy, one year older and three inches taller than him, tried to steal one of his goats. My grandfather hit the boy until he couldn’t stand, reclaimed his goat, and left him lying in the dirt. I’ve heard that story recited in my grandfather’s thick Romansch accent more times than he had goats.

That same week in 1943, his youngest brother contracted tuberculosis. My grandfather never told me that story; I learned it through my father. Still, my grandfather climbed back up into the mountains.

Four months ago, I met an old man at the library. He wore a leather jacket, and he stank of cigarette smoke.

By his left hand lay a thick book, open to a spot near the end. It was printed in a font so small he had to slide a magnifier over the yellowed pages to read it. By his right hand, lay a notebook. His watery-blue eyes never strayed from their back-and-forth flow across the book while his right hand formed elegant letters in the notebook.

I stole glances at him from behind the library computer—on which I was supposed to be searching the library catalog for books on Mexican history—but I couldn’t make out his tiny text or his looping notes. His hand and eyes never stopped. I sat, fidgeted with the computer’s mouse, and searched nonsense terms in the database for ten minutes, waiting for one of the two, the eyes or the hand, to give in. Neither did.

Ten more minutes passed. With his high-belted pants and hair like loose spiderwebs, he reminded me of my grandfather, a man who only ever read the news and his circa-1950 Bible. Both of them felt transported from another time, one when God hovered over Alpine peaks and cathedral spires. I imagined existing so close to something so vast; I imagined what it would be like to feel that thrumming omnipresence.

This man’s eyes, though, were different from my grandfather’s. Clearer. He understood, completely, every word he read in that colossal book.

“Let me know if you’d like more room,” he said. I flinched. His eyes turned on me, piercing my skull and brain. His voice, though, was soft.

“No worries,” I said.

And that was it. He shifted back to his enormous book, and I to my useless list. Still, my heart lurched toward him like it was on a short leash, so I stopped and asked, “If you don’t mind, what are you writing about?”

He set his pen down. He flexed his gnarled fingers as if he’d been waiting for the question, and my neck warmed.

“You know the King James Bible?” he asked.

I didn’t, but I knew what the Bible was, so I nodded. Close enough

He lifted the book with the tiny print. “This is a dictionary of every word in the King James. I find a word here, and then I flip to the back, for the original Hebrew. You know, like in the Old Testament. I copy both versions into my notebook.”

“Why do you do it?” I asked.

This time, he didn’t meet my eyes. “I run my own church. If I’m going to preach this stuff, I’ve got to understand it as well as I can.”

***

My father’s house has a side yard. It’s three feet wide and mostly dust, a place you visit only when you forget your keys and can’t open the front door so you try the kitchen door out back. Nowhere, really. An in-between.

Eight years ago, I called that side yard a church. A bush existed there, a few feet past the kitchen door, dry and barely clinging to the dust with its tough roots. I called that bush an altar.

Sometimes I prayed beside it, when I could be sure no one was watching. I’d been to church with a friend once, and when I told the youth pastor that my family didn’t pray, he told me I could pray anywhere, anytime. And I wanted to pray so badly. I couldn’t do it in the house—not in the bedroom I shared, not in the living room with its shadows.

So I let the dust turn the knees of my cotton leggings chalky, let the moon watch me, and let the cold snip at the frayed ends of my body like the hairdressers I refuse to let near me.

“Dear Jesus,” I would start, because I didn’t know how else to begin a prayer. “I don’t know how to make this sound like I’m talking to you and not just asking for things. Because I want things, but I don’t want to just ask.”

I tapped one of the brittle branches with my index finger. It wobbled.

“Please let me do well on my times tables,” I asked Jesus, “better than Alex. And please let my dad stop leaving the garage unlocked because I know someone’s going to steal my bike.

Also, I thought, closing my eyes, let this all be an experiment. Let my parents be scientists measuring our reactions. Let them blindfold us next week and put us in a car and drive us to a mansion where they’ll surprise us and say, ‘We’re sorry, it was all a trick, we had to do it for science. Let’s all live here now.’ Let that happen

I left my offering there for Jesus. Three flowers, each a different neon-dyed color, plucked from the neighbor’s garden. It was the best I could do.

I fled to the yellow warmth of the kitchen before the night could take me

My grandfather woke one morning that summer in 1943 to the sound of church bells pealing. He ran out of his shack. A goat bleated. His heart pounded inside his ribcage. Everything looked the same, green and bright. Cold and clear as a mountain brook. He left his herd and stumbled down to the village, to his baby brother.

***

I recovered from my embarrassment enough to ask the old man at the library why he started his own church. His chair squeaked as he leaned back.

“My late wife and I did it together,” he said. “We were sick of the old world, the old boys, all of it, and we could see things. Around us, in everything. Spirits, you know?”

I didn’t. I still nodded.

“You ever feel a spirit?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I wish

“You’ll see ’em sometime. Look in the corners of the rooms. Our church is all corners, to give them places to just be. You’ve got to want to see them there. You’ve got to want it bad.”

He nodded once, like the matter was settled, and bent

Creative Nonficton

Woodrow Wilson High School

Long Beach, CA

back over his magnifying glass.

My parents told us they were separating on the first day of summer, nine years ago. They called a family meeting and as I went to hear what they had to tell us, I fantasized about surprise vacations, beach days, and swimming with the moon jellies my father once took us to see in the harbor. The silky texture of their backs. The glow of sun on skin.

Fantasy evaporated in the space of a word. Separating . It left only the elastic of my nightgown, biting into my small wrists. The sound of the silence after thunder. My heart, fluttering. The wax of the worn stairs, back up to my room.

I didn’t know how to react. I hadn’t yet met the man in the library and his smoky jacket, but I first started looking then. In the corners of the rooms, in the side yards. For something I could feel but not touch. For something, anything, that could help.

Little Swiss boys in lederhosen fill the walls of my grandfather’s house in dry Sylmar, California. They herd goats, sheep, or cattle, sometimes on grassy mountainsides, sometimes through fenced paths and knobby-jointed brown trails.

Only one Romansh newspaper still circulates, and in his old age, he can only read children’s books in English. His wife died when I was young. Her memorial in the backyard stands beside a twin stone. It’s blank, waiting.

God haunts my grandfather. Starved Jesuses stretch limply from pegs and rafters, their mothers glowing in dusty portraits, their followers quoted in German wall hangings. After I learned about Catholic indulgences in world history, I realized that the certificate near his front door, inscribed with my grandmother’s name, was an indulgence. He’d paid his church, hoping to keep her from purgatory. He never pays for anything, if he can avoid it.

He hikes on Sundays still. He began taking his path in the balding Sylmar mountains before anything existed there, and now his skinny, ragged trail is on AllTrails, logged Beeli Goat Trail.

My uncles do maintenance on it every other month. Repairing the wooden sign. Beating back weeds. Two weeks ago, my father shoveled from the path a dead fawn, its eyes pecked out. He’d hiked ahead to get to it before my grandfather could see. ***

I prayed in the side yard for the last time on a full moon. I was ten, and scared, and old enough to be embarrassed about the bush.

Dear Jesus , I started, staring at the bush. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t pray aloud, not anymore. Just help me. Please.

I curled over the bush like an old man I would meet in a library, years later, with clear eyes. The hands that met over my breastbone were not mine, but my grandfather’s, withered and missing three fingertips on the right side.

Please. I know you’re there.

I know you’re there. ***

I still pick flowers and pray when I drop them. My grandfather still won’t talk about his brother. He still repeats that story about the older boy, the goat, the dirt. He still wears my grandmother’s pink Birkenstocks.

The old man in the leather jacket still sits in the back of the library and reads, his magnifier trembling. His notebook isn’t full yet. The memorial is blank. The yellow window is flickering to black.

All of us are left wanting—watching the shadows in the corners. Listening for bells.

Claire Beeli

In Plot 47, Long Beach Community Garden

My father plants like it might save him.

Tomatoes, snap peas, kale, carrots, woven trellis-structures swaying.

He hides them under soil like they’ll show us who he is.

Coffee houses are sick of him and his fertilizer hunts, he won’t pay for what could be free. His car always smells of pungent grounds, seedlings.

We have dinner sometimes, now.

There is dirt scattered like snow on his hair. He smells

like an earthworm, like he’s been burrowing with the seeds, and his smile stands out, brighter.

The tomatoes, lettuces, radishes, these bitter things for him

are fodder for salads in bowls wide enough for a young girl to sit in.

The rest, they are different.

The snap peas we chomped on in expensive trays, climbing his wooden lacework.

The lamb’s ear I pocketed and held to my cheek, frosted leaves cool and soft.

Pumpkins planted in May, in hopes of carving again, come fall.

Strawberries because he budgeted for them, when we ate cartons in a sitting, daisies

because my sister liked the way they sprouted.

He still brings us baskets of limes from that gifted tree, years ago.

Hundreds every spring. We can’t take so many,

maybe two or three stuffed in pockets each dinner,

but still he smiles, wide and bright against so much dust.

Poetry

Woodrow Wilson High School Long Beach, CA

Narnia Blackwell

Photography Alliance Ouchi-O’Donovan 6-12 Complex

Angeles,

Naomi Borenstein

To the Men You’ll Meet at Minimum Wage Retail Job

I: Baby-man (not to be confused with man-baby)

One year till college, and he’s spending his summer at his sister’s job, which is now also his job. Spending 12 hours a day in a wooden shack, folding t-shirts for tourists with chipmunk face ease. They-don’t-have-any-ac-but-that’s-okay-because-Ihave-this-nifty-little-fan-and-piece-of-paper-to-write-down-mynew-sport. He’ll run into the shops to give us the shirts, sweat drenched, eyes beaming to explain how he just figured out a new rule, and he can’t wait to play it with his friends in the park when it snows.

He’ll help you cope with Antifa-angered-lady who is screaming about kids these days. He’ll smile and nod, get her out of the store, and when he sees you’re uncomfortable, joke about it to lighten the mood. He’ll lean back against clothing rack, nearly toppling it over. He’ll ask you your favorite band, favorite sport, favorite pizza place in the whole wide world. You tell him about a pizza place ten minutes from your house that you dream about each night. He tells you that his favorite is the pizza down the block.

He’ll ask you hey-I-know-this-is-pretty-random-andcrazy-but-I-want-go-to-those-pizza- places-with-you-andmaybe-if-you-want-we-can-go-to-the-one-down-the-streetbecause-your-favorite-is-a-two-hour-drive-and-one-hour-ferryride-from-here. You have to tell him that you’d love to, but you’re busy with work and sleeping, and your girlfriend is coming up next weekend. He nods. Your shifts become more awkward, but he doesn’t ask again.

II: Man-Who-Leans-in-a-Little-Closer-Than-You’d-Like

He’ll come in 10 minutes to closing when your boss just left the store to help pack up another store. It’s-the-first-timeI’ve-been-to-Martha’s-Vineyard-I-want-something-to-rememberit-and-everyone-told-me-this-was-the-place. He has one of those smiles that he’s been practicing for a while, a construction work chic of highlighting brown beard. His hand moves closer. Move. You move towards a rack of sweatshirts that he’ll like, that you like. Because they’re the most expensive and expensive makes for kinder bosses.

Help him find his size in an Army green hoodie that you never did like but he does and you’ll do whatever to get him out of here. It’s in the back, at the bottom, of course. You have to crouch to get it, but don’t think about him looking at your 14-year-old figure and just grab the sweatshirt. He’ll smile and say thankyou-no-really-thank-you. He holds the sweatshirt with his greasy hands. They slowly inch towards you. His fingers brush yours, and you feel spiders crawl up your arms. You wonder, can I report this? Then he’ll stroke your arm, and you’ll forget everything as you run to the register to check him out.

III: Grandpa-Who-Needs-to-SHUT-UP

Little Boy walks into the store with his whole family. Mother is here to yell at the bank to unsuspend her card, ‘cus she swears-I’m-in-The-Vineyard-and-my-husband-is-an-importantman-and-I-will-be-speaking-to-your-boss-about-this. Grandma is there to pick out clothes for Little Boy and hand him the phone so he can sit in the corner and learn Welsh. You want to learn Welsh; you want a nicer boss. So you make conversation.

You tell him how you learned Russian and got bored, so you learned ASL and got bored, and so on and so forth. Grandpa butts in, and Little Boy walks back to the corner. Coworker helping Grandma cringes as he smiles like nursing-home-princecharming. He tells you he used to know a bit of Russian from his

time on a cargo ship. He’ll ask you what-does-this-mean, and you’ll tell him you only know enough to yell at your cat because you yell at your cat in Russian. He’ll lock eyes with you, and all you can feel is them saying baby-you-are-angel-baby-myforty-year-old-daughter-is-watching-us-and-so-is-the-womanI-married-in-lace-and-silk-but-I-want-you-to-say-любимый1 -so-badly-that-I-will-ignore-her-and-her-son-my-grandson-whois-four-years-younger-than-you-and-who-is-why-we-startedtalking-in-the-first-place-who-is-sitting-in-the-corner-learningWelsh-but-he-should-be-learning-Russian-so-he-can-comeback-here-in-fifty-years-and-hit-on-little-sweet-not-foreignforeign-girls-like-you.

Coworker guides the Wife of Grandpa (aka Grandma) to the counter to check out for Little Boy. Mother still yells in the background as Grandpa asks, so-you’re-in-college-right? Never have you breathed as clearly and as thankfully as the moment when you say “no.”

1Любимый (lyubimyy): Russian term of endearment that translates to beloved

Gabriella Bowman

Nighttime Jean Coat Up-cycled jeans (entirely donated) 2022

Blaise Brady

Visual Arts

Hillcrest High School Midvale, UT

A Maze in a Desert Collage on canvas, oil paint  2022

Devin Chang

Design

Taipei American School

Taipei City, Taiwan

Demilune Site Development Render Twinmotion, Rhino 7, Photoshop  2023

Vivian Chang

Lucky Number Three

For as long as I can remember, my lucky number has been three. As a little girl, I’d decided that two was too small and predictable to be a lucky number, and my father once told me that four was bad luck in Chinese culture -- the unluckiest number of them all; in Mandarin, the word for “four” sounds quite similar to the word for “death.” So, three it was -- not too big, not too small. The most important American fairy tales thought so, too. It was always Goldilocks and the three bears, three wishes from the genie, and the three little pigs. Three also happened to be the number of people in my family: my father, my brother, and me. And I loved my family. There was technically a fourth member who called every Saturday at 6 p.m. to tell us that she loved us, but she was on the other side of the country, living her own life. Four was like a snow day; she would visit twice a year and bring simple joys with her, but Four was never there for birthday parties and school recitals like Three was. Four was a plastic folding chair you only took out for parties, and Three was a trusty mahogany sofa.

Since childhood, however, everyone kept telling me that I needed Four. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day were one and the same in our house: we would buy a cake to celebrate our single Head of Household, our father, on both days. Dad would justify the Mother’s Day cake by joking: “Daddy does both dad’s and mom’s job.” And he did. This tradition was a little inside joke, and I didn’t think that much more about it. One Mother’s Day in 2nd grade, however, every student in the classroom was tasked with making a scrapbook to give to our mothers. It was a palm-sized little thing, and the cover was pasted with a photo of each student. Bound inside were eight small squares of white cardstock. On these minuscule pages, we were to write sweet notes telling our mothers how much we appreciated them. Drawings were encouraged. Soon, everyone got busy with their pencils and crayons.

“Dear Mom, thank you for being nice to me.” the boy to my right said out loud as he wrote.

The teacher gave out ideas periodically to the class for those who were not as literarily inclined. “You could say: ‘Dear Mom, thank you for taking care of me.’ or ‘Thank you for making me yummy food every day.’”

But instead of working, I just sat there, flipping through the empty, crisp pages over and over again. It was at this moment that it became obvious to me that our teacher, Mrs. Grunewald, had never considered the possibility that one of her students did not have a mother at home to give a cute scrapbook to that night. It became clear to me that having a mother at home was expected, and since I didn’t have one, there must be something wrong with me and my family.

My heart punctured and then deflated inside my rib cage. It didn’t have enough blood to keep it filled up. I didn’t have enough. Three wasn’t enough.

During the long hour, I briefly considered writing something to my dad, but the thought of it only made the pain in my chest worse; I would rather not write anything at all than admit that I had no mother to write to. At the end of the activity, the teacher told us to keep our scrapbooks safe in our backpacks so as not to lose them. I slipped mine into my pocket. Why waste a perfectly good blank journal? I would write a story about a pretty princess in it one day, I thought, or about a girl who lost her mother as a child but still got her happy ending. However, I never wrote anything in that pathetic little scrapbook, and I’ve long since lost it in moving boxes.

From that moment on, though, I thought Four was the answer to all my problems. Four was going to make me happy

and complete. I imagined her taking me dress-shopping for my first school dance. Maybe Four could finally convince my dad to let us get a dog. She could tell me it was okay when I didn’t make the Honor Roll that semester. She could tell me how to deal with that one girl who spread nasty rumors about me to all my friends. She would understand the nuances of girl friendships, which my father’s brash, simple, confrontational mindset could not accommodate. She could French braid my hair or make sure my ponytail was smooth before school every morning. Four would teach me how to be a woman because my dad and older brother surely would not. Four would finally fill in the long-vacant passenger seat of the family SUV. Four would fill in the big hole in our family and turn our oddness even.

But, when I finally got to have a mother at home at age eight, I found it even more odd. I called my new stepmother by her first name, and she called me by mine. That’s what made sense to us; she hardly felt like a mother of any kind. In fact, she was more like a roommate. I saw her at the dinner table and would make meaningless small talk with her. She would ask me: “How was school?” I would answer “good” or “okay.” She would ask me what I learned that day, and I would say, “I don’t remember.”

She never helped me with my homework, held me when I cried or talked with me about my crushes, nor did I want her to. When she was gone after one year, and I finally got Three back all to myself, it felt as if nature had been restored to its ancient equilibrium. Four was out, and Lucky Three was back in. I wasn’t a superstitious child, but I agreed with my Chinese ancestors on this one: Four was simply inauspicious.

However, the idea of Four would come whispering empty promises and sweet nothings to me again soon enough. At age nine, I arrived backstage for my first Chinese dance performance; it was the Chinese New Year show put on annually by my dance studio. My dad carried my costume bag behind me and dropped it off beside the door. I stepped into the green room while he waited at the threshold. The room had old-school light bulbs lining the mirrors that reminded me of a Hollywood set and gave me a sense of importance -- I felt like a famous actress. I pictured the crowds giving me a standing ovation for my rousing, emotion-evoking performance, journalists writing stories of my captivating, otherworldly beauty, and dozens of bouquets of roses being thrown at me when I took my bow; then I looked around the room, and I snapped out of it. I wasn’t Marilyn Monroe, preparing backstage to sing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” to the Man himself and to the entire world on live television. I was me, and I was standing alone in a room full of women, and every daughter had a mother with her to wrangle her hair into a tight bun or make sure her red lipstick stayed neat and even.

All the girls were already pulling out their mother’s eyeshadow palettes and pressed powders -- except for me. I looked back towards the door to seek comfort from my father, only to realize that he had already left to go buy groceries for dinner that night. I must’ve been so distracted that I never noticed him leave. My blood instantly plummeted to my feet. “Come back, please, Baba,” I said softly. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. My hopelessness soon turned into resentment towards him for leaving me there, but I immediately realized that it wouldn’t be right if he had stayed anyway. This was “Girls’ World,” a place only for mothers and daughters. I was on my own. The dance-moms soon noticed the lost look in my eyes, and a pseudo-maternal instinct must have kicked into them.

They dragged me into the makeup chair and began tapping my face with sponges and dirty eyeshadow brushes. Then, I was

Creative Nonficton BASIS Chandler Chandler, AZ

ushered to the hair chair, where they began ripping out my pool-damaged hair with a paddle brush. However, this was all after they finished their daughters’ hair and makeup, and that fact only made me feel more hopeless. I was grateful to the mothers who took pity on me, but I knew I would never be their priority. I wasn’t their real daughter, and none of them were my real mom. I envied my friends. This was a new kind of feeling. I had known petty and fleeting jealousy, but this envy was bitter -- it lingered in my mouth. Maybe I could do something about my lack of makeup and hair tools, but I couldn’t just buy myself a mother.

That night, as we were driving home, I asked my dad: “Hey, Baba, can we go to Walmart tomorrow? I need some things for dance class.”

“What do you need?” my dad asked.

“Just some makeup,” I replied casually. But I knew makeup, and some practice would get me halfway there.

My father made a “tsk” sound in disappointment.

“What? All the other girls had sooo much makeup, Baba! I had to borrow theirs!” In bed, I compiled a list of all the things I needed: Foundation, concealer, powder, contour, blush, highlight, eyeshadow, brushes, mascara, eyeliner -- everything the beauty gurus on YouTube convinced me that I needed. I studied makeup tutorials and product reviews like I was studying for the SAT. I was never going to feel helpless again.

Over the next year, every day when I came home from school, I would sit down at my vanity, prop up my phone against the mirror, and try to follow a makeup tutorial. I learned how to put concealer underneath eyeshadow to make it pop more. I learned that you couldn’t use cream products after powder products because they would clump together like flour and water. I learned how to do a smokey eye for special occasions that I would not be realistically attending for many years. I devoured as much makeup knowledge as possible so I wouldn’t need a mother to help me anymore -- I wouldn’t need anyone’s mother to help me.

However, I soon began overcompensating for this insecurity. Although I already had three blushes that would probably last me to adulthood, I convinced myself and my father that I needed a fourth that had a rose pressed into the powder. I’ll admit part of me wanted it because it would look pretty on my vanity, but it meant something more to me: It was an assurance that I had something that my dance friend didn’t have. It made me forget for a little while that I lacked something much more significant than a limited-edition makeup product. At least for now, I didn’t need Four anymore, and I would prove that to myself again and again for the rest of my life if I had to.

However, as we were standing in line to check out at the makeup store, my father had finally had enough of my addiction:

“Please, sweetie, you don’t need makeup. Your skin is young and beautiful, makeup will make you look old like a grandma,” my father pleaded with me.

“But every other girl in my class wears makeup.”

“Well, that’s because they’re not as pretty as you.”

“I just need it for dance class, Baba.”

“Well, you don’t need any more. You already have so much.”

I rolled my eyes at him as we stood in the checkout line at the makeup store. He just didn’t understand. So, I said the one thing I could think of that would let me win the argument immediately: “Well if I had a mom, I would be able to use her makeup instead.”

My dad fell silent.

We checked out and I skipped to the car with the plastic shopping bag swinging around my elbow. Deep down, I knew it was wrong; I knew it hurt him to hear that more than it hurt me to say it. I didn’t even blame him for the fact that Four wasn’t around. I didn’t blame anybody. I just really wanted that new blush. But if every word I had said was technically true, and if everyone else always saw the lack of Four to be a burden on my life, why couldn’t I use their pity to my advantage?

The next year, my friends and I were getting ready backstage again. As always, all of the Dance Moms volunteered

to help us do our hair and makeup. But when I saw the chalky bright blue eyeshadow they were swiping onto the other girl’s eyelids and the hideous, clashing bubblegum-pink blush they were splattering onto their cheeks, I couldn’t take it anymore. The past year of preparation had taught me so much that I couldn’t just stand by. I dragged my friend out of the makeup line, and we sat down on the floor in front of the full- length mirror to do our own makeup. As we sat there, I heard two moms talking behind me in hushed Mandarin.

“That’s the girl with the single father, right?”

“Yeah, I can’t believe she’s doing her own makeup.”

“Well, it’s not like she has her mother to do it for her.”

“She’s not bad, though.”

“Yes, but it’s a little pitiful, don’t you think?”

I made eye contact with them through the mirror, and they immediately looked away and changed their conversation to the costumes.

“Hey, are you okay?” my friend asked, concerned by the expression on my doll-painted face.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I laughed.

My dad finally came back to check on me. He stood at the door and smiled at me through the mirror. I stuck my tongue out at him.

“Evan, your daughter is too smart! She did all her makeup herself. We didn’t even help her!” One of the mothers said to him. He laughed. “Yes, she’s into these kinds of things now. It worries me, to be honest,” my father admitted in disapproving yet slightly amused Mandarin.

“No, no. You should be happy that she knows how to do it herself! You worry too much, Evan.”

I liked the way my dad said it so simply: I was just into these kinds of things now. The things that a mother would never teach me. The things I would have to take up on my own. The things I no longer needed a mother to teach me. The things I could only do on my own.

In Chinese numerology, Yī (one) is neither lucky nor unlucky. It can represent being in first place or being alone.

Èr (two) is lucky. It is believed that all good things come in pairs.

Sān (three) sounds like the word for “to live” or “birth”. It also represents the three most important stages of life: birth, marriage, and death. It is one of the luckiest odd numbers. Sān can sometimes be unlucky; it also sounds similar to the Mandarin word for “to leave.”

Not having Sì (four) was a fact that I could not change -not by trying to hide it from my teachers, not with a stepmom, not by hoarding makeup. Instead, something changed in me: it didn’t matter what other people thought of my family anymore. They could shame me, they could feel sorry for me, they could even admire me -- it was all the same. They all assumed I would suffer without Four, but Three was more than anything Four could ever offer me. Three was enough.

Kyle Cheng

Photography

Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts

New York, NY

Dad’s Eating Alone Again (#3) Digital photography 2023

Lachlan Chu

Breedlove

—After Toni Morrison

Come with me to the gardens, and we’ll find ourselves an arbor to sit beneath. There, I will teach you all the lessons, how to make something the work of your hands. Don’t worry, everyone. I know how thin the girl is, how delicate. I have already mouthed every word, already taken my lungs in hand and softened them. Be a darling, Pecola dear, I’ll tell her. Go inside, fetch me some clay. Compare yourself to a railroad car, your body to its coal; even I can smell your innocence evaporating from the stack. You know what to do: follow where it goes, find it in your hands, how they curve like breasts. Find it in your clay, dark and fertile like a naked woman, dripping wet, stepping out from the water. As you shape her, remember the beauty, remember she is yours to create. Anything you want to be. Before we leave, Pecola dear, fetch me your little white dolls. Dress them up. Light them.

Poetry

The Nueva School

San Mateo, CA

Isabelle Cox-Garleanu

lowercase letter e

in the french language, there is feminine and there is masculine for every word. a, in english, as in “a lawyer,” “a friend,” “a teacher,” is un in french for masculine terms and it is une for feminine terms.

“un entraîneur” is a male athletic coach, “une entraîneuse” is a woman paid to lure men into bars with her body. “un courtisan” is a man seen near the king, “une courtisane” is a prostitute.

“un professionnel” is a serious, poised man, “une professionnelle” is a woman who sells sexual acts.

the difference is one lowercase letter e. she’s clinging to the end of every word, begging she doesn’t ruin it. grasping every spark, every light of every profession, and somehow she darkens it.

she created the tongues of men who say these very words and yet she is not to speak, only to look pretty and say please and please the people who look at her.

she shouts about women and women empowerment but in all the phrases that seem to matter she is a lowercase e; back bent, head low, hidden and small.

across campus she walks each day, arms aching from calculus textbooks and ceramic projects, hemmed in by the rhythm of her busy friends with field hockey sticks, increasingly focused on logarithmic equations as womanhood grows on her. something she’s proud of until the blood between her legs plague her, disturb her. until she discovers that the battle in life is not only to be a woman but to prove to society that she is perfectly able to become a capital letter E –“Écologiste”, Ecologist “Économiste” , Economist “Électricienne”, Electrician – capital Es ruling the world and that’s what i wrote this poem for.

and when she is face to face with a young girl some day, tangled tresses, heavy breathing, heart beating –she hopes to tell her that no one will undermine her. don’t you worry, she longs to say. hand holding, skin illuminating, new beginnings –no one will discredit you. no one will diminish you. no one will lessen you. no one. no one. no one.

except the french language.

Spoken Word

Mary Institute & St Louis Country Day School

St. Louis, MO

Kalvin Crescenzi

2 Samuel 1:26

The mid-Autumn sun went down early behind the church. Gabriel squinted against the pale light as he headed straight for it, walking briskly and drawing his sweater tighter around his chest. His hands trembled. Every step towards the Cathedral of the Holy Cross felt like it shook the earth under his feet. The steeple stretched towards the sky with wistful fingers, and soon Gabriel was close enough to the building that it blocked out most of the horizon. At the base of the steps, he stopped to take several deep breaths. In and out, in and out. He climbed the stairs and stopped again at the door. In and out, in and out. The massive oak doors towered over him; were the hinges to give out, the doors would crush him in an instant. He pushed, and they swung open.

The inside of the cathedral was just as breathtaking as he remembered. The sweeping white marble of the floors invited him down the walkway flanked by sturdy cherrywood pews. The vaulted ceiling seemed miles away and stained-glass windows lined the walls, casting a glow on the gold and letting color dance off the marble. The pipes of a massive white-and-gold organ climbed the back wall like ivy. The confession booth seemed tiny beneath all of this grandeur, making it easy to miss. It was cherrywood, to match the pews, with two simple doors engraved in the middle with crosses. Gabriel knew what was inside - a narrow cabin with a built-in, uncushioned bench. The wall to his left would be solid wood and the wall to his right would be a woven screen through which he would just barely be able to see the priest’s side profile. He approached the booth.

Gabriel closed his eyes and breathed again, in and out. The door creaked when it opened, just as it always had. He stepped into his side of the booth and turned around, shutting the door and sitting down gingerly on the bench, intentionally choosing not to kneel on the cushion. Gabriel crossed himself slowly, deliberately. Forehead, navel, left shoulder, right shoulder. He laid his open hand on his chest and bowed his head.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” He almost jolted at the sound of his own voice.

So small, almost pitiful. He needed to pull himself together.

“When was your last confession?” prompted a voice from the other side of the screen.

Gabriel jumped at that - he wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting quietly. The voice wasn’t one he remembered; of course it wasn’t. The last time he sat in this booth was, what, seven years ago? Eight? The old priest had been there since Gabriel was a little boy. His voice had been papery thin, weary under so many decades of life. This new voice was low and almost gravelly, comforting, with the remnants of what sounded to Gabriel like a Texas accent. Gabriel hesitated to answer the question, shame pressing against the back of his throat, making his breath hitch.

“I don’t remember, exactly. Six years ago? Maybe seven?” His voice still had that pitiful ring to it. He shook his head like a dog, trying to rid it from his throat.

“List your sins,” said the voice, firm but not unkind. Gabriel hesitated; his mind was blank. His stomach roiled - he wasn’t even sure why he was so anxious. He used to do this every week. It used to be like a chore for him. Things were so different now.

“Um…” he said stupidly, “the regulars, you know. Disobeyed the commandments, despaired about my salvation, presumed God’s mercy, used the Lord’s name in vain, used vulgar language, drinking, gluttony, used tobacco, lying, gossiping, skipping Mass…” Once he started, it was like he couldn’t stop. “Skipped Lent,

skipped prayer, lustful thoughts, failed to fast before communion, stealing, although it was just a pipe wrench and technically it was originally mine; I let my neighbor Brian borrow it once and he never gave it back so last month when we went over for dinner I saw it in the drawer and slipped it in my jacket pocket.” He was rambling. He cut himself off to catch his breath. “Yeah,” he finished. “That’s…basically it. I guess.”

“You guess?” asked the voice. Gabriel took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, through pursed lips.

“I think that maybe…” He hesitated again. Curse him, he was always fucking hesitating. “I think that maybe I don’t love my wife anymore.” It was all he could do not to clap a hand over his mouth. The voice didn’t respond; the silence pushed him to continue. “I can’t believe I just said that out loud. Good God, I feel like a horrible person. Oh, fuck me, I just took the Lord’s name in vain, didn’t I? Man, I really am rusty at this. It’s been a while.”

“No apology needed,” said the voice. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” Gabriel felt his stomach settle, just a little bit.

“Okay, God, just give me a second to calm down. Fuck, I just did it again, my bad, man.” Gabriel really must have been losing it because he could have sworn he heard the voice chuckle. He braced his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands.

“I don’t even know why I’m so worked up about this… whole thing,” he said, gesturing at the walls around him even though nobody was watching. “I used to do this every week, sometimes twice. I only stopped when…well, I stopped a while ago. It’s been too long. My daughter is almost five now, and my wife…my wife wants her to start coming to Sunday school. Here. At this church. It’s where she and I met. She wants Abby to grow up with God, I guess.

“Abby, my daughter. Abigail, that’s her name.” He was rambling again. “Well, basically, I wanted to come to confession at least once before we start coming back as a family, and the more Lilly pushed me to do it, the more I realized…I don’t think I want to be married to her anymore. And it sucks, because…well, because I still like her. I still care about her. I just don’t- I don’t think I love her anymore. Fuck. This blows, man.” When he finally shut up, he realized he was out of breath. “I think I should go,” he said, standing and immediately hitting his head on the ceiling of the booth. “Fuck, ouch. Fuck this.”

“There’s no need to-” Gabriel stumbled out of the booth, cutting off the calm voice. He stalked down the aisle and out of the church, back into the crisp autumn air. He clutched at his sweater and blinked back tears as he walked home.

***

A week later, Gabriel found himself on the steps of the church yet again. Curse him, curse him. His breath was shaking, his palms were sweating. Would he ever stop ending up here, he wondered? Or would this be the place he comes crawling back to for (“for repentance,” maybe?) the rest of his life? Genesis 3:19, for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. Before he knew it, he was back in the confession booth, wiping his sweaty palms on the legs of his jeans.

“Hi,” he said simply, stupidly.

“Hello,” said the voice. He hated himself for it, but Gabriel instantly felt better, calmer, after just one word. He took a deep breath.

“Oh, yeah, my bad,” he said, remembering his role here. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“One week now, I think. Do you, uh…remember me? I was

Short Story

Alabama School of Fine Arts

Birmingham, AL

here last Saturday, I rambled a lot, I probably said some really dumb shit? Wait, fuck, I forgot I’m not supposed to curse at these things. I probably did that a lot last time, too.”

“Yes,” said the voice, “I do remember. You mentioned your wife?” Gabriel’s throat turned dry.

“Oh. Yeah, I did.” The voice was silent, prompting him to continue. “I mean, I already told you most of the deal. We’ve known each other since we were kids. We have a four-year-old together. We were best friends, and I guess I just thought, who doesn’t want to be married to their best friend, right? It’s me. I don’t.” He stopped for a moment. The voice was still silent, sensing that he wasn’t finished. “I kind of just want my friend back. That sounds so pathetic to say out loud. I’m almost forty years old, whining about missing my friend. But I do, I just want to be her best friend again. But I can’t have that back, can I? Because we’ve been together for this long and even if we got a divorce, there’s no way it’ll ever go back to the way it was before. And I love my daughter. I wasn’t much older than she is now when my mom kicked it. A kid deserves to grow up with two parents.”

“Would it be worth it? To break a covenant made under God to prioritize your own happiness?” asked the voice. If anyone else had said that to him, Gabriel would have gotten angry. It would have felt sarcastic, patronizing, like asking him a question he should’ve damn well known the answer to. But here, it felt genuine. Like maybe his own happiness was more important than God. He didn’t think anyone had ever told him that before.

“Shit, maybe. I don’t know. I wish someone would just tell me what to do.”

“Well, that’s not what I’m here for. But I am here to give advice, or guidance, when needed. You’re welcome in confession, or in Mass, any time you like. I’d be glad to see you back.” The voice was so soft, so kind and so full of gentleness, Gabriel could hardly take it. He wanted to cry. Curse him, curse him. ***

The next Sunday, dread sank into Gabriel’s pores the second his alarm went off. He hadn’t been brave enough to tell Lilly what really happened at confession. It went great, he said, they’ve got a new priest, I think it’s a young guy; he seems nice Curse him, curse him, curse him. He sat up in bed, head in his hands, as Lilly stirred next to him. He looked over at her solemnly, her auburn hair splayed across the pillow, round face still peaceful with sleep. Abby, with her eyes, her freckles, her soft skin. Slowly, he stood up and stumbled to the bathroom. Before he got dressed, he spent a bit too long staring in the mirror at the cross tattoo on his spine, just below his neck. He shaved, washed his face, brushed his teeth, put on a dress shirt and slacks and let Lilly tie his tie for him, refusing to meet her eyes. She was as beautiful as ever, glowing in a pale pink sundress, her hair bouncing in loose curls at her shoulders. Abby looked just like her, right down to her dress, which was almost a miniature version of Lilly’s. Gabriel forced a smile, taking Lilly’s elbow in his hand as they left the house.

The cathedral was aglow with many-colored lights as the pale early-morning sun drifted through the stained glass windows. The thrum of the organ traveled through the floor and Gabriel felt it settle into his chest, behind his ribs. He and Lilly each held one of Abby’s hands. Gabriel tried to steer them towards one of the pews in the back, hopefully one that wouldn’t fill up with people, but Lilly insisted on sitting up front. Fellow church goers began to cram into the pew on either side of them, pressing far too close for Gabriel’s personal comfort. Gabriel tried to distract himself by looking at the program in the slot on the back of the pew in front of him. He stared glassy-eyed at the pages that outlined the different prayers that would be said, the songs that would be sung, the words he would have to say during call and response. His heart beat steadily in his chest, intensifying its pace with every moment that passed. He tried to shut off his brain before the memories came flooding back, but a few managed to worm their way through the cracks. Gabriel as a little boy, barely old enough to be in

school, listening to Father Campbell preach fire and brimstone, his father’s huge hand resting on the back of his tiny neck. The organ music swelled, filling the cathedral all the way to its soaring ceilings. Gabriel, as a pre-teen, drowning in shame in the back of a Sunday school classroom, feeling unnatural and unholy. Gabriel was abruptly tugged back to the present when he realized the moment he had been unconsciously anticipating was here - the priest ascended to the altar. He was dressed in cascading white robes with an intricately embroidered golden cross on the chest. He was young, probably a couple years younger than Gabriel. He had warm brown skin that softened in the sunlight and a head of tight curls. The glow from the enormous stained-glass window above the organ lit him up from the back, the gold threads in his robes gleaming. The voice on the other side of the confession screen had a body. Gabriel was somewhat transfixed.

The organ music faded and the priest spread his whiteclad arms and surveyed the room, a crowd full of spectators hypnotized. Gabriel had always struggled to understand why a young man would choose to become a priest. Now that he saw a cathedral full of admirers in awe of the priest - a vessel for the Good Lord to speak through - he could kind of see the appeal. The priest began the Penitential Act:

“Let us all acknowledge our sinfulness in preparation for celebration of the divine.” The congregation bowed their heads in a private acknowledgement of individual sin. Gabriel couldn’t get the memories to stop flooding into his mind. He pictured himself as a teenager, becoming enamored with a Sunday school teacher with golden hair and hazel green eyes. He saw how he cried himself to sleep over it. “May almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life.”

Gabriel tried to stay present, he really did, but his mind reflexively wandered, .

He had wasted so many hours of his childhood, his youth, his young adulthood in these very pews, zoning out and gazing at the big stained glass window on the back wall. This time, instead of the window, he gazed at the priest. Well, no, gazed isn’t the right word. Gabriel was a grown ass man, he didn’t gaze at anything. The minutes slipped away like water in his palm, and before he knew it, the homily was beginning. The priest stepped up to the podium and turned the enormous Bible to the page marked with a silk string. The congregation stood in unison. It took Lilly’s finger tapping expectantly on his shoulder for Gabriel to shake himself out of his trance and stand, a few seconds late. The priest read.

“Leviticus 20:21 - And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, Again, thou shalt say to the children of Israel, Whosoever he be of the children of Israel, or of the strangers that sojourn in Israel, that giveth any of his seed unto Molech; he shall surely be put to death: the people of the land shall stone him with stones.”

Gabriel, a teen again, kneeling at the foot of his bed and praying until his throat was dry and his kneecaps ached.

“For every one that curseth his father or his mother shall be surely put to death: he hath cursed his father or his mother; his blood shall be upon him.”

Gabriel, eighteen and angry, chucking a Bible across the room so hard it hit the living room wall and made one of the crosses on the wall crash to the floor. His father hitting him so hard he forgot his own name.

“And the man that committeth adultery with another man’s wife, even he that committeth adultery with his neighbor’s wife, the adulterer and the adulteress shall surely be put to death.”

Lilly’s hand found his; their fingers intertwined. Her manicured thumb traced gentle circles on the back of his hand.

“And if a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.”

The priest had brown eyes. Gabriel could tell even from this far away. He had big, brown, doe eyes that tossed back the light. They shall be stoned with stones. Their blood shall be upon them. Gabriel felt like he had just run a mile once Mass was over. It was barely an hour long, and yet he was almost winded. He was

exhausted, yet he felt…fulfilled? He felt more complete leaving the cathedral than when he had entered, somehow. Funny how these things work.

***

It was less than a week later when he found himself back in the confession booth. He refused to examine exactly why he kept ending up back here, focusing instead on how therapeutic it seemed, how much the voice calmed him. He entered the booth and made sure the priest knew who he was. Before he knew it, he started talking about his childhood, apologizing between every sentence.

“I shouldn’t be getting into this, you’re not a therapist,” he said.

“No, but I am here for guidance, and sometimes I have to know a person’s background to give it.” That made him feel better. It had been years since he had talked to someone like this, since someone had gotten to know him so deeply in such a short amount of time. It wasn’t until after his fifth confession that he realized he didn’t even know the man’s name. He had seen the voice’s face, but the voice had never seen his. With a childhood in the Catholic church embedded in his soul, Gabriel would never dare call a priest his friend— even a priest almost his age with the kindest voice he had ever heard and the softest eyes he had never met.

At his eighth confession, the voice broke its typical pattern. When Gabriel was about to leave, he thanked the voice and stood, cherrywood creaking under his feet.

“Wait,” said the voice, not quite frantic. Gabriel waited. “May I ask your name? Typically it would be uncouth, but I’m only human. I’m afraid I can’t help but wonder.” Gabriel smiled.

“Yeah, sure, of course,” he stammered. “It’s Gabriel.” “Gabriel,” repeated the voice. “Like the angel.” “Yeah,” he replied through a smile. “Yeah, I guess so.” ***

Two months later, Gabriel had made confession part of his routine; he’d go twice a week, sometimes every week. Two weeks in, his hands had stopped shaking every time he walked to the cathedral. After a month, he was cracking jokes through the screen. The voice’s laugh was a wonderful thing, low and hearty and warm. By two months, he was introducing himself by name every time he entered the booth. He felt bad for how long he stayed every time. He asked the voice if he was taking time away from other sinners waiting patiently to confess.

“No, no, I hardly get any confessions on Saturdays, and you come late enough that you’re usually the last person I speak with. And besides, I enjoy talking to you.” Gabriel smiled, a little too wide. They shall be stoned with stones, he thought. Their blood shall be upon them.

Gabriel was back in the booth, and he and the voice had been going back and forth for a while now, talking and even laughing about any number of things. Once the conversation lulled for a moment, Gabriel leaned his head against the wall with the screen, realizing that he still didn’t know the name of the man on the other side of it. He hadn’t dared to ask; it felt almost blasphemous, and he figured the voice would have told him by now if he wanted him to know. Somehow, he had never heard anyone refer to the Father by name, even though he had been coming to Mass regularly for the past few months. He always hurried them out right after the service was over, too anxious to speak face-toface with the voice. He tucked that fact away to examine later.

“You know, I’ve never gotten your name, even after all this,” he said in a moment of reckless bravery. The voice chuckled.

“Sam,” said Sam. “Short for Samson, not Samuel.”

“Samson,” Gabriel repeated, “like the Nazirite.” The Bible story came flooding back to him in waves.

“Yes,” said Sam. “Like the Nazirite.” ***

One month later, and Gabriel was back in the confession booth. He and Sam had once again talked for an hour, and once

again it seemed like minutes. By this point, it felt like a regular conversation, only with a screen between them. Gabriel couldn’t remember ever speaking like this with Father Campbell, even though he came to confession almost as often in his youth as he did these days. He hadn’t laughed this much with anyone in…he couldn’t remember how long. Since college, maybe?

“Sam,” said Gabriel, leaning his head against the screen. “Do you know what I look like?”

“No, I guess I don’t. I’m sure I’ve seen you at Mass, but I wouldn’t have known it.” Gabriel didn’t give himself time to think before he stood up and left the confession booth. He stood in front of Sam’s side, hand on the doorknob, for a few earthshaking moments, before he pulled the door open. Sam sat on the bench inside, wearing black priest’s robes, a white collar and a bewildered-but-amused expression.

“Hi,” said Gabriel.

“Hi,” said Sam, standing up. “Nobody’s ever done that before.” He was still standing inside the booth, and therefore had to look down at him even though Gabriel knew he was a few inches taller than Sam.

“Nice to meet you, I guess,” said Gabriel, holding a hand out awkwardly. Sam took it and shook.

“Yeah,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” ***

“You sure have been spending a lot of time at that church, huh?” said Lilly, the second he stepped inside. “I miss you. Abby misses you too.” She gestured down the hall towards Abby’s room where she lay, already asleep.

“I know,” said Gabriel, “I know. It just feels like I’ve rediscovered something, y’know? I feel close to God. Like, really close.” ***

The next time he showed up for confession, Sam was waiting for him at one of the pews furthest from the altar. Gabriel took a tentative seat next to him.

“You’re not in the box,” he said observantly. “No,” said Sam, “sure ain’t.”

“Ain’t,” Gabriel repeated, not mockingly. “I’ve never heard you say that before.”

“I try not to say it too much. People up here tend to think you’re kinda stupid if you talk like that.”

“‘People up here?’” Gabriel echoed. “As opposed to where?” “Texas. El Paso, if you wanna get specific.”

“You’re from Texas? Man, you’re a long way from home. How’d you get up here?” “Ah, you know, kid shit. My best friend in high school wanted to go to college up here, so I followed him, like an idiot. We had a fight, stopped hanging out, and I just never left.” “Man, you must’ve really liked that kid.” Gabriel leaned against the back of the pew and tipped his head back to gaze at the lofty ceilings.

“Yeah,” said Sam, almost wistful. “I really did.” Gabriel turned to look at Sam, who was already looking at him.

“So how’d you end up in the clergy, then?” Gabriel asked. “Doesn’t exactly seem like a backup plan.” Sam laughed bitterly.

“It wasn’t. When you’re a priest, people ask you that question all the time, and I kinda hate answering it ‘cause my answer is so damn corny.”

“Ah, come on, it can’t be that bad,” said Gabriel encouragingly, trying to keep Sam talking.

“It’s just so typical, you know? I was messed up before, man, like you wouldn’t believe. Vodka first thing in the morning, coke ‘till I couldn’t see straight, waking up in a different bed every day, seeing light come through the curtains and not knowing if it was from the sun or the moon. And then I ‘found God.’” Sam held up air quotes. “Priests will talk your damn ear off about how they ‘found God,’ but I kinda think it’s all bullshit. You don’t find God. He finds you.” At first, it threw Gabriel off-balance to hear a priest swear, but he leaned into it. “But, anyways, I just knew what I had to do. A month later I was enrolled in the seminary. It really was a calling, I swear it. I wasn’t raised super religious, but I always had this stagnant belief in some sort of higher power, and as my

life got shittier and shittier, that belief just got stronger. I knew I needed to be closer to God, but I had no clue how. I felt weak for it. I didn’t want to be one of those people who needs religion to live a fulfilling life. But eventually I came to terms with it. If I’m weak for needing God, then so be it. I’m weak.”

Gabriel sat in stunned silence for a few tense moments.

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at once,” he said through a quiet chuckle.

“Yeah, well, when I get to talking about God it’s sometimes hard to put the brakes on. It’s cliché, but I just know it’s what I’m meant to do. This is where I’m meant to be.” He gestured to the cathedral around them. “I know in any alternate universe, I’d always find my way back to God, no matter what.”

“Do you ever miss it?” Gabriel asked quietly, before he could think to stop himself. “Miss what?” Sam replied.

“You know, all of it. All the stuff you can’t have now. People are pack animals, right?

We’re meant to have relationships with each other. It doesn’t seem fair that you can’t, just because you chose to serve God or whatever.”

“Maybe it isn’t fair, but it makes sense, right? A priest’s duty is to do God’s work on Earth. If he has a wife, children, a family, then they’ll become his first priority. His priority should always be God.” Gabriel could feel that Sam had more to say, so he was quiet for a moment, waiting for him to continue. “I mean, of course I miss it sometimes, that connection. I miss the mundanity of it. I miss the sound of the shower going in the other room. I miss having someone to go grocery shopping with. I miss yelling at the TV together. God is everything to me, but he’s not a great Jeopardy watching partner.”

“Is Jesus no good at trivia?” Gabriel asked, smiling with an air of melancholy.

“Yeah, for someone omnipotent you’d think He’d do better on the general knowledge section.” They both laughed, a little sadly.

“Do people see you differently now? Now you wear the collar and everything, I mean?” “Of course they do. Before you become a priest, people don’t usually ask you to pray every time there’s turbulence on your flight, or hand you their baby in the store while they reach for something on a high shelf. I kind of love it, though. That inherent trust. I like knowing I make people feel safe.” Sam paused, gathering his thoughts.

“You become one-dimensional, though. It’s hard to make friends with a collar on. Nobody expects you to get angry, or sad, or jealous, or scared. You’re supposed to be this vessel of peace and serenity all the time. You’re never allowed to not have the answers. I mean, I’m sure you see me differently than you would if we had met in different circumstances.”

“I don’t think so,” said Gabriel, and meant it. Sam turned quickly to face him. “Really?” he asked, almost hopeful.

“Yeah, I don’t see you like that.”

“You don’t see me as a priest?” Sam looked like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be angry or grateful.

“No,” said Gabriel carefully. “I see you exactly as you are.” ***

At his next confession, Sam was waiting in the pews again.

“Do you come out for all your sinners, now?” Gabriel asked, sitting down next to him.

“No, no, you’re just always the last one I see. It’s nice, ‘cause we can take our time, and I get sore sitting in that godforsaken box for hours. It’s nice to stretch out.” Sam extended his legs as much as he could before hitting the back legs of the pew in front of him. “How’s the wife?” he asked as Gabriel settled back against the pew.

“Oh, good, she’s good. I don’t think she likes me spending so much time here.” “Really?” asked Sam, shocked. “Wasn’t she the one who wanted you to come back to church in the first place?”

“Yeah, I guess she wanted me to get back into religion, but not this far into it.” “So you think you’re back now, for good?”

“Yeah, man, I think I gotta be. You can thank yourself for

that. Something about you, I dunno. Makes me wanna love God again.” Sam looked at him for a long moment. Gabriel couldn’t quite place the expression on his face, but he looked like he might cry. Gabriel’s subconscious thought he looked like he ought to have a halo ‘round his head.

“You really mean that?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, of course. I couldn’t tell you what it is, exactly, but I’ve never in my life actually wanted to come to confession. So, good work, I guess.”

“That’s…that’s really nice, Gabriel. Thank you. Really, that means a lot.” Gabriel just shrugged and smiled. “That’s kind of the whole reason I do all this,” Sam said, gesturing vaguely at himself and the church surrounding them. “I wanna help people learn to love God again. So thank you.”

“Yeah, of course, man. It’s true.” Gabriel didn’t know what else to say. He let his head rest against his arm, extended over the back of the pew. He rolled his neck so he could look up at Sam, who was sitting relaxed but still formal next to him. For a moment, he quieted his brain and let himself just look . The pale evening sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows lit up the brown of his skin and made his eyes glint. The dark strands of his hair could have been gold if Gabriel squinted. He really was beautiful. In that moment, Gabriel felt like God had bestowed upon him the gift of sight just so he could look at the way the light made Sam’s eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones.

As he gazed, Sam turned his head slowly to look at Gabriel, his eyes soft and kind. They were so close together that Gabriel’s thoughts felt muffled. His heart fluttered. God, he felt drunk. Seconds passed as Gabriel’s brain failed to produce thoughts. When he heard Sam clear his throat and saw him begin to break eye contact, his body moved without his brain’s permission. He reached forward, grabbed Sam by that stupid white collar, and kissed him. It was brief and chaste and he expected to regret it as soon as he did it, but he didn’t have it in him. Fuck.

Sam pulled back first and looked at him for a few moments, chest heaving. Gabriel grinned like an idiot. Sam lifted a hand and slapped him in the face. The cross on his back burned.

***

At home, Lilly rushed to him and took his face in her hands. “Oh my God, what happened?” she asked, turning his face from side to side and examining the mottled red patch on the left side of his face.

“Tripped,” he said, gently taking her wrists in his hands and removing them from his face. He had always been bad at excuses.

***

A week later, Abby was at daycare and Lilly was out running errands. Gabriel wasn’t at confession for the first time in five months. Instead, he sat quietly on the couch, trying to read a book but only taking in a few words at a time, when he heard a knock on the door. He froze when he opened the door to see Sam on the doorstep dressed in his priest’s robes and holding a bouquet of white flowers. He looked so small.

“Hi,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I hit you.” Gabriel didn’t say anything. “I brought you these.” He held out the flowers with a stiff hand. “Lily of the Valley. The florist told me they’re supposed to mean ‘I’m sorry.’” Gabriel took the bouquet, mouth still slightly agape.

“How did you get my address?” was the first thing he could manage to ask.

“You wrote it down on the church sign-up sheet. Can I come in?” Gabriel stepped aside to let Sam in. He set the flowers down gently on the side table in the entryway. The two men stood looking at each other far longer than two men should.

“Leave the church,” Gabriel blurted out. “Leave the church, and I’ll leave her.” Sam looked at him with so much sorrow in his eyes he could almost cry.

“I can’t-” Gabriel grabbed his collar and kissed him again. When he pulled back, Sam began to do the exact last thing Gabriel needed: recite Bible verses.

“1 Corinthians 6:9, Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor

the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God.” Gabriel kissed him again.

“Romans 1:27, Men committed shameful acts with other men, and received in themselves due penalty for their error.”

Gabriel kissed him again.

“Hebrews 13:1, The marriage bed shall be kept pure, for God will judge the adulterer and all the sexually immoral.”

Gabriel stroked a thumb across his cheek and kissed him again. Sam let him.

“1 Corinthians 6:17, All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body.” He kissed him again, and again, and again. The cross on his back burned.

“Leave the church.” Sam rested his head on Gabriel’s bare chest. Gabriel stroked his hair.

Sam didn’t say anything. “Leave the church, and I’ll leave her, I swear to God.”

“You shouldn’t swear to God,” said Sam, voice muffled in Gabriel’s shoulder.

“Fuck you,” said Gabriel, playfully. “Just answer me.” Sam sighed and sat up slowly.

Gabriel missed the warmth against his chest almost instantly. “You know I can’t do that, Gabriel.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that hard, trust me, I did it once. You can, too.”

“It’s really not the same,” Sam said, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “I put in a lot of work for this. I had to earn that collar,” he said, pointing at the black robes in a pile on the bedroom floor. Sam moved so he could lean against the headboard, resting his chin on his knees and looking at the floor, the ceiling, the walls, anywhere but Gabriel’s face.

Gabriel was quiet. He sat up on the bed, letting his head rest in his hands. He was breathing deeply, in and out, in and out, trying to organize his thoughts, when he felt a hesitant touch on his bare upper back, just beneath his spine. His head shot up, and when he turned he saw Sam sitting close behind him, eyes zeroed in on the cross tattoo on Gabriel’s back.

“Tattoos are sort of like the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to God you know?” said Sam quietly, almost as if he were talking to himself. It still messed with Gabriel’s head to hear a priest curse, which he figured was more than ironic in his current situation.

“What do you mean?” he asked, just wanting to hear more of Sam’s voice while he still could.

“Well, obviously you’re not ‘supposed’ to inject ink into your skin, not by Biblical standards at least. It’s like saying ‘this is my body, and I’ll do whatever the Hell I want with it.’”

“Even if the tattoo is a cross?”

“Especially if it’s a cross. It’s ironic, kinda. It’s the most obvious worldwide symbol of the Christian God. It’s a symbol of your Creator, and you’re using the autonomy He gifted you to permanently alter the body He gifted you. It’s almost an act of worship, if you think about it.” Gabriel shifted so they were facing each other and took Sam’s face in his hands.

“‘Would it be worth it?’” he began, quoting Sam’s own words back at him. “‘To break a covenant made under God to prioritize your own happiness?’” Sam dropped his head onto Gabriel’s shoulder and sighed.

“You don’t love your wife anymore. I’ll always love God.” Gabriel felt a bit like he’d had the breath knocked out of him.

“I love you,” he exclaimed. He wasn’t sure if it was true, but he felt like he had to say it.

He was pretty sure it was.

“No, you don’t,” said Sam immediately. “I do, though. I do.”

“You don’t,” Sam replied, shaking his head. Gabriel shifted closer to him in bed, gently removing Sam’s hands from his head and tilting his chin up so he had no choice but to meet Gabriel’s eyes.

“I love you,” he repeated. He felt a little more sure of it this time. “2 Corinthians 4:17,” said Sam. “This too shall pass.”

Aaron Dai

Biography of a Dead Grandpa

When my grandfather died, I didn’t cry; there was nothing left to grieve anyways. For almost a decade, he had been carved into the makeshift infirmary bed my grandmother had made in their bedroom. His sickly, paper-like skin sagged from his bones and his hollow eyes were in a perpetual squint as if he were staring at the sun. He had a bedpan, but when he needed to shower, my grandmother rolled his skeletal body out of the bed and into his wheelchair, pushed him through the narrow doorways of their apartment, and into the bathroom where she would brush, bathe, and rebandage his sores. When she finished, she rolled him back into the bedroom and reattached the IV drip, making sure to prop the door open with a stepping stool before retiring to the worn leather couch where she slept.

According to what I’ve read online, most Alzheimer’s patients eventually die of some sort of organ failure, but I think they’re wrong, most die of ignorance. Because even though Ronald Reagan had been diagnosed in 1994, Chinese doctors didn’t normalize the diagnosis until the early- to mid-2010’s. What’s more, Alzheimer’s typically begins to show its symptoms around the ages of 60 to 70, when people are most likely to confuse it for normal aging. I remember one summer, when I was still in Pre-K, my mom and I visited him and my grandmother, and my mom said to me that when he forgot his keys, got lost, or got angry with me, it was just “old person slowness,” nothing that wouldn’t get better with time. I think that even organ failure is just another form of ignorance, the way someone’s body becomes so intent on keeping itself alive that it eventually loses control altogether.

My grandfather passed away in August of 2017, but my mom says he started dying five years prior. Between the ages of five and ten, every summer I watched him slip away little by little until I stood over a breathing corpse. Early on, he wandered away frequently and randomly without telling anybody. Once, while I watched T.V., he passed by and said he was going on a walk before disappearing out the door. Six hours later, after my grandmother had filed two missing persons reports and my uncle and mom had driven around all of downtown Tianjin on my uncle’s motorbike, he slid the front door open and changed into his slippers as if nothing had happened. The next morning, my grandmother changed the lock to the apartment.

The delusions followed, early signs of schizophrenic hallucinations. His most common vision was that there was an intruder in the apartment, that they were there to hurt him. He began yelling at closed doors and dark rooms and pointed out thuds and footsteps no one else could hear. He shut the blinds and closed the curtains in the early afternoon and when my grandmother wanted to go out, he pressed himself against the door and told her that she would die if she left.

What I mean to say is that he was already gone by the time I was old enough to remember him in any meaningful way. To me, he is and always will be inexorably tied to his deathbed, the apartment, his jagged snoring, my grandmother and mom’s hushed whispers around the kitchen table, or the paramedics in the living room. His sickness does define him, as twisted as it sounds, because that’s all I can remember.

After his death, I grew to resent my grandfather because every time I looked in the mirror I saw him staring back at me. Not him, but the eyebrows my mom swears I got from him, the nose bridge my uncle says reminds him of my grandfather, and the way I scrunch my forehead which my grandmother remembers he used to do. He reminds me that I am a product of

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a history I know little about, and that I will never really know. I will always be staring back at a stranger. ***

Almost a year ago, my grandmother told me that she didn’t remember how old she was when my grandfather last wished her a happy birthday. My grandmother is a brokenly devoted woman who was there with my grandfather from his first memory slips all the way to his funeral, a reminder that love extends beyond the confines of our own humanity. In the last months of his life, when my grandfather could no longer be lifted out of bed because the sores on his body would crack and bleed, she started reading to him. Every day, she picked out a stack of three or four books from his office and carried them into his room. At night, through the walls of the apartment, I listened to her read poems, short stories, and textbooks to him until I fell asleep. The morning before my mom and I were supposed to return to the states, I walked into the office to find her shuffling through the books on the shelf until she picked one out. “It was his favorite ,” she said to me, showing me the worn leather cover. She tenderly swept the dust from the cover with her hand before leaving the room. Even after he died, she kept the book on her nightstand with the bookmark in the same place.

My grandmother’s love is not a tender one; she scolds me bitterly when I come home late and never misses the chance to tell my mom that I should be doing better in school, but it is enduring. She remembers my favorite flavor of chips and the exact prescription my mom needs; she knows that my dad usually forgets to lock the door when he gets home and that my dog doesn’t like to eat celery. She remembers that my grandfather was always on time for everything that he did, that he could fold dumplings faster than anyone she had ever met, and that he loved to read about history. She recalls that my grandfather didn’t know his own birthday before he met her because he didn’t own a birth certificate and that the birthday they made up for him was on November 9th because it was exactly half a year away from her own.

***

My mom always says that my grandfather’s mind died ten years before his body did, and his body ten years before his memory, but trying to remember him is like gluing together shattered glass; each memory of him cuts deeper than the last, reminding me that I will only ever be an observer to his story. I strain memories of him with my curiosity until each moment I remember is nothing but a collection of unanswered questions. Here’s the thing, though: in trying to understand who my grandfather was I’ve learned to see myself more clearly. Because even though I am a product of a history I know little about, I am also a product of love, of dedication, and of all else that transcends our memory: my grandmother’s patience, my uncle’s determination, my mom’s comforting hand. Though I will never know my grandfather, he has taught me everything that I know about love, lessons that even Alzheimer’s neurotic fog cannot erase from our minds.

If grief is supposedly love persevering, then I believe we are all amalgamations of untold years of grief. Like Alzheimer’s, we carry love generationally; we receive it from our parents, we pass it down through our children, and they pass it down to theirs. As a result, our very existence is a consequence of cascaded love. Our faces are composed of the traits that our ancestors loved the most, our personalities are shaped by those we love, and the homes we raise our children in are reminiscent of those we grew

up in ourselves. There’s a Japanese myth that says your face is the one that you loved the most in your previous life. To have lived at all, therefore, is to have been loved. ***

During my grandfather’s funeral, he came back. A small bonfire was lit in front of his casket, and mourners were invited to burn a slip of joss paper and share a story of him. With each mourner that went up and shared, a piece of him returned to us. And for the first time, I really saw my grandfather, the teenage farmhand who didn’t know his own birthday, the punctual professor whom students adored, the husband that turned houses into homes, and the father that never gave up. When mourners slowly began to disappear, I watched the remaining smoke from the joss papers rise in the cloudy afternoon sky. At that moment, he was more alive than he had ever been.

Aruna Das

Paterfamilias

Writers are a dangerous species. My great-grandmother always used to warn my mother against visiting her great-aunt, an author of children’s books, too often. “She likes you a lot,” my great-grandmother would tell my mother, “but be careful. She might put you in one of her books.” My great-grandmother’s fears were not unfounded; the sister-in-law in question had named a monkey in one of her stories after my great-grandmother.

Every writer is, to some degree, a plagiarist and a borrower of others’ life events. It is impossible not to be inspired by the world of the people around you. I can laugh at the way that my mother’s great-aunt went about stealing from people’s lives but I know it can sometimes lead to sinister outcomes. Stories have the power to hurt. Several years ago, a novel my father’s highschool classmate wrote was shortlisted for the Booker Prize. It wasn’t often that his school produced a celebrity so my father bought the novel—and quickly realized that certain elements of the plot were worryingly similar to the life experiences of a mutual acquaintance. The mutual acquaintance, it turns out, only found out about the book after it had been published. His life was laid bare, page after page. People who had not known his secrets before the book’s publication were now able to put together the pieces as easily as if they were doing one of those 100-piece jigsaw puzzles as an adult.

To call myself a writer seems self-aggrandizing since I have so little to attach to my name. But when I was writing personal essays for school, I was always worried about how I represented my family to my teachers and friends in my writing. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, a period full of physical and verbal explosions of anger at home, my mother would warn me not to tell anyone what had happened or risk being taken from her by Child Protection Services. I kept my mouth shut, not only because I didn’t want her gone, but also because I worried that people would never understand the full picture: that my mother’s terrifying moments were also matched by ones of extreme kindness, moments that I thought magical. I was scared of my power as a storyteller. I knew it would be easy for me to expose my family’s vulnerabilities and make myself look like a victim. I became adept at writing around. I would carve out entire chunks of a story and discard them, leaving a sanitized image. And most fundamentally, I became an expert in ignoring my maternal grandfather.

Even though I never met my maternal grandfather, he shaped my life. He left permanent marks on his wife and children and, through them, on me. But I always felt that, because any story involving him would necessarily involve my mother, my uncle, and my grandmother, I had no right to write about him without asking their permission. And the process of asking their permission would only resurface painful memories. It was only after my grandfather died that I felt my resolve to never speak nor write about him weaken. I felt an urge to put words to paper, to pin down events, to establish certainty in a time of confusion. Naively, I thought writing this essay would be easy because I have been drafting it in my head all my life. It wasn’t.

I first learned my missing grandfather’s name was in first grade. For homework, my teacher had given us a grainy image of a tree with boxes on its branches. Draw your family members and write their names in each box, the instructions said. There were enough boxes to account for three generations. When my mom wasn’t around, I asked my dad what his father-in-law’s name was. I’d never seen a picture of my grandfather but I sketched him out in pencil, anyway, with eyebrows that met in a “V” and a frowny

mouth. Then I worried that the teacher would ask why he was angry so I colored his face in with a dark brown crayon, pressing hard so that he was reduced to a waxy oval.

In our house, my missing grandfather—when he was mentioned at all—was always known as Dushtu Dadu , Bengali for “Bad Grandfather.” When I got older, it struck me that my grandmother never referred to him as her husband and my mother and uncle never referred to him as their father. Somehow, he was defined by his relationship to my generation, the generation that had never met him. Whether I liked it or not, he belonged to me.

I never possessed a linear narrative about this man. Instead, stories slipped through, usually during my mother’s moments of anger and despair when she was trying to explain to us why she was the way she was. From what I gathered, the first five years of my mother’s life seem to have been fairly happy. Then my uncle was born. My mother was delighted. Here was a child for her to play with, a real-life living doll. Sometime later, her father beckoned her into their bedroom (the apartment was just two rooms so they all shared a bedroom). As they sat on the bed together, my grandfather took out a length of rope and showed her how to twist it into a noose. “Now that your brother is here, we don’t need you anymore,” he told her matter-of-factly. Then he rejoined my grandmother and her newborn son in the living room.

The last time my mother saw her father was when she was in her early twenties and still living at home with her family. His friends were visiting, which usually meant he behaved normally, but this time he just couldn’t keep up the facade. My grandfather bit my mother. Multiple times. Blood welled up at the juncture between her shoulder and her neck and at several spots on her back.

“Get out,” said my grandfather’s best friend. “Get out or I’ll call the police.” My grandfather got out. A few days later, he returned, full of righteous indignation, but my grandmother wouldn’t let him back in the house. The straw had broken the camel’s back at last.

Almost overnight, my mother’s crippling stutter, caused by a lifetime of abuse, disappeared. At the end of the month, my grandmother found that, for the first time, there was no one to spend all of her monthly paycheck and that she could make decisions without summoning a beating. She bought a refrigerator—she had not been allowed to buy one before because her husband insisted on freshly cooked meals—and a TV, which he had called a “frivolous expense.” Now, she watched nature documentaries with her son. She gifted her daughter a sari. They took cab rides for the first time in their lives.

I never shared this information with anyone. I didn’t want to claim my grandmother, mother, and uncle’s pain as my own. But, at some point, and invariably when my parents and grandmother were not around, an adult would ask me: “And is there—” they always paused awkwardly. “Do you have a maternal grandfather?”

For a long time, I didn’t know how to answer this question. At first, I used to say, “I don’t have one.” Then I learned I could say, “He’s dead,” even though that wasn’t true. Then, suddenly, that became true.

My mother was fifty when we learned the news. My grandfather had died under mysterious circumstances, a thousand miles away from his home, during the height of the Covid pandemic in India. After he fell ill, his caretaker took him to her home, one state over, rather than the hospital next door to his

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apartment. A few days before Dushtu Dadu died, he made a will, to which only his caretaker and her husband were witnesses, leaving everything to them. The caretaker’s husband reached out to my uncle over email in the middle of October and told him that my grandfather was critically ill and then later that my grandfather had died. A subsequent examination of hospital records revealed that the man had been lying. My grandfather had died at the end of September, not in October. The story was not adding up.

My grandmother was outraged. She has long refused to get a divorce, which meant she could once day reclaim the things he had stolen when he left. She thought that her estranged husband would never make a will and expected that he, both her elder and a heavy smoker, would die first, automatically leaving her his possessions and money. In her mind, his death would be the easiest and least painful way out. But now, he had given away all the money and all the savings that he had long ago depleted from her bank account once he realized his wife had thrown him out for good. He took the nest egg she was keeping for retirement and then gave it to two people who seemed to have denied him proper medical attention.

My grandmother challenged the will in court. My mother wept all the time, it seemed, explaining that her tears were not for her father, but for herself, her brother, and her mother. Once, however, between sobs, she told me, “I never wanted the man to have been murdered.” My father paced around our home impassively. Even as my other grandparents fell ill with Covid, we held a funeral for a man no one wanted to remember. My sibling and I gave a eulogy, ghostwritten by my mother, over Zoom. My sibling tried not to grimace while delivering the lines: “I hope he finds peace.”

As my grandmother’s legal battle dragged into its second year, I couldn’t help but wonder whether my family would ever find peace. So long as the court case continues, we could not stop thinking about him. And no matter the outcome, we cannot simply forget.

My grandfather’s abrupt departure from my grandmother’s house—for it was her house, rented with her money—meant that he left old ties, shirts, and notebooks behind. For reasons I cannot fathom, she never donated them or threw them out. Instead, she took these artifacts with her when she moved houses. Every now and then, I’ll stumble upon one of these relics when I visit her house. I’ve never had the courage to touch his clothes but I have accidentally used his old notebooks for scrap paper. My grandmother handed one to me when I was doing math homework in her living room. As I mapped out sums, she casually remarked that the notebook belonged to my grandfather. I immediately pushed the notebook away, but she scolded me, saying that notebooks are meant to be used.

It would have been both fitting and tidy if I had written this essay in my grandfather’s notebook, but I didn’t; I used it for math homework. But using his paper, seeing his neat handwriting, and hearing my grandmother’s cryptic assertion helped me shape this piece.

In the years between my grandfather’s death and the writing of this essay, I grappled a lot with the question of who gets to tell a story and how they get to tell it. To answer that query, I found myself asking a different one: Why are they telling the story? What bothers me about my father’s classmate who was considered for the Booker Prize is that he stole someone else’s life and hardships and presented them as fiction. While his writing received acclaim, his motivations were more exploitative than empathetic. He either did not consider the repercussions of his actions, or didn’t care.

But I have concluded that I am not stealing this story. It is my story. I hope I have been empathetic and fair in its telling because I know it is not just my story. There must be a right way to tell a story like this—painful, raw, communal and exposing—but I don’t know exactly how to do that. All I can say is that I started to write this story to better understand how one man can shape so much, and so many. As I wrote, I realized that—despite my life-long fears of misrepresenting my family

and my desire to be a fair story-teller, I never considered who shaped the man himself. A writing mentor asked me: Why did your grandfather become this way? And I didn’t have an answer. I never thought to even wonder. I’d always known my grandfather to be a monster but now I remember that every monster, every Caliban, every Grendel’s mother, has an origin story. What was my grandfather’s?

Here too I struggle to put together a narrative. I know he and his family fled from present day Bangladesh because of the communal violence prompted by the Partition of India. My mother’s paternal grandfather always told her that they had left their ancestral homes after seeing people rounded up and decapitated. That was all he ever said about it. His son, my grandfather, was only eleven at the time. What had he seen? And when they arrived as refugees in Calcutta, I know his parents struggled to put food on the table. My grandfather’s father lost his livelihood again and again. But I am unable to fill in the gaps of these broad sketches. The people who went through these horrific events took the details to their grave. They didn’t like to talk about it.

Let’s be clear: People have gone through similar or worse hardships without becoming monsters. I don’t know what actually broke my grandfather. I say all of this not to justify my grandfather’s actions but to remind myself that monsters don’t merely come into being. Something creates them. .

I am also telling this story because I know that nobody truly owns the stories of their lives. That’s theoretical, impossible. Sooner or later, someone will always tell those stories. And the stories will differ depending on the narrator. If you don’t like the other narratives, you must share your own.

After decades of silence, my grandmother is now learning, or perhaps accepting, that reality. My grandmother must tell her story to counter the misrepresentations of my grandfather’s caretaker. My grandmother must tell her story if she wants her money back. My grandmother must tell her story if she wants peace.

Teigan Edwards

The Songsleuth Poet

From the Office of Jenise Edelthrush

To the Office of Prof. Saul Kingleyson

October 10, 4:02 AM

I address this fax to you, Professor, out of not merely a desire to get my thoughts down on a page before they escape me, but also the fear that I will not be able to do so without your guidance. That is to say - I am lost. The worry that I have bitten off more than I am capable of chewing haunts me. Forgive my melodrama. I find that I have no other way of putting it. Attached below is what was supposed to be the first draft of my latest chapter.

It is unedited, because I fear in editing it, I will negate whatever spell it has on me, and though I am certain it sounds strange to say so, that is not what I want. Therefore, I shall simply have to ask you to forgive the ramblings I am certain exist, as I do not wish to take up any more of your precious time with more ramblings. ***

Saul had only just entered his office and retired his overcoat to the back of his desk chair when he noticed the additional skewed inch atop the already mountainous manuscript of his former pupil. A pale sticky note denoted the new pages as ‘the eighth chapter, more or less’ in his assistant’s scribbled hand.

The Professor could only guess at why James had even come to campus to transfer the manuscript and note from the fax machine in the History Faculty’s shared anteroom to his own office prior to Saul’s designated arrival time of 7:15. He could not ask the young man, as he had already rushed off to his myriad duties at the University, leaving Saul nothing to do but sag into the soothingly plush cushion of his desk chair and draw the growing stack of papers closer to himself.

When he’d agreed to read over the first draft of Jenise’s anthology, he’d neglected to recall her break-neck work ethic. Only last week, she’d submitted two refined drafts of the third chapter and a first draft of the seventh, and for the first time in many years, the fifty-eight-year-old had found himself relieved that he had never married, for he was sure any spouse would have knocked him upside the head, and rightly so, for the amount of additional time he dedicated to reading each draft thoroughly and returning it to her as soon as possible.

Much as these long nights had disrupted his sleep schedule, he knew from having her as a graduate student in his Medieval Studies class that this was the most effective way for her to work, and every hour would be worth it, just as it had been with her expansive essays. The final product was always above and beyond all expectations.

He’d been roped into the situation initially because of his research into folklore and folk heroes of the British Isles during his doctoral studies. He had to admit some scholarly interest in Jenise’s anthology, as well as a sense of what he could only call wonder, after hearing that her family was privy to the muchcoveted journal of Sir Francis Willcott. But he also had to admit the personal aspect.

Jenise Edelthrush was the closest thing to a daughter he was ever going to have. He would never have children of his own. He had accepted his lot in life long ago. He was fine with it. He was not happy. But it was only right. He was hardly qualified to be a husband, much less a father. Yet even still, when Jenise came to him with her request, as she always did, he felt that tug. The tug that told him there was something he could do. If not for himself, then for her. This young woman whom he’d taught and then befriended. Whom he understood, as few could, she’d admitted.

This pupil who, like a daughter, would surpass him, regardless. His role in it all was just to make the process slightly more bearable for both of them.

He’d had them leave campus to read his notes twice already in an attempt to get her out of her surely musty office and into the sunlight once in a while. He knew she’d be sequestered away otherwise, with nothing but her books and her documents and her manuscript to draw her attention from one day to another. He feared even sleep could not compete with the completion of such a task, even with the University making it ever so clear just how far it was sticking its well-respected, sensitive neck out for her. He hoped she’d at least eaten recently.

Saul peeled off the sticky note. Unlike the other chapters he’d reached for between classes, what lay beneath began with a preface before the chapter header. He could tell even before reading that it was written in Jenise’s, at times, overflowing style, which only became more pronounced when she wrote to a standard other than that of scholarly academia.

He paused on the introduction. His thumb flicked back and forth against the paper’s edge. In reading her words, he found them stumbling in a way he’d never witnessed before. At times, long sentences would sandwich quick thoughts, interjected as if she were speaking and her mind could not decide what she thought.

Even at seven o’clock in the morning, following an allnighter, Jenise Edelthrush had never stuttered, not on paper or in person. It was not how her mind worked. And even if it were, or had become so due to circumstance, revealing it to even him was not her way.

It was weakness, in her eyes. And though it was not weakness to him, it was vulnerability, and that was also not her way. He flipped the page and continued to the eighth chapter. ***

Chapter 8 [To be Titled]

The Gentle-Rogue of Worcester has been vaunted throughout history by rival vigilantes and folklorists alike. However, for a gentleman of the Renaissance, I’m afraid my dearly deceased many times great-uncle was rather, shall we say, modest in the keeping of his journal. I could hardly tell you why he bothered to keep one at all given the scarcity of his entries and the sparseness of his language.

From what I know of him, he was a reserved man, though one with a fighting streak, to be sure. The kind of person who seems to live forever due to some feeling that is the opposite of infamy. His writing is, likewise, contained and almost quiet.

(I apologize for the upcoming injection of my relation to the college, Professor, for I must include it in the event that some of the material proves useful for connecting with my readers. Feel free to cut it if you feel it does not fulfill this task.)

When the University of Edinburgh asked me to include a section on Sir Francis Willcott, likely for marketing purposes as he has returned to the public limelight in the past few years, I was of course happy to comply. I cannot discount the difficulty the University must overcome in order to have me, an essentially amateur scholar and woman, neither of which the papers have been shy in reminding the public, write this anthology on its behalf. If this chapter so pleases them and the overall performance of the book in domestic markets, then I am all the more in favor of it.

This specific request stemmed from what I can only describe as a cross between a family tradition and Hammurabi’s Code. That is to say, I was likely asked to analyze my long-deceased

relative due to my family’s steadfast tendency to uphold the merits of historical scholarship at any cost, even the cost of their much-cherished pride.

(You, professor, will know that I likewise inherited such pride and, as a result, will hopefully take pity on me for having to consult my relatives during the research for this chapter. Never before have I so understood that fire and fire do - but should not - mix.)

One such relic is the personal journal of Sir Francis Willcott, which has never been published nor reproduced. Why my family has refused to donate it, I could likewise not tell you except to say that I do not think my relatives could be impassioned enough to donate anything – be it their time, their skills, or their wealth.

Antiques are safely kept by the leaders, often the matriarchs, of the older generation until their children and grandchildren come of age to inherit such prized pieces on their wedding days and eighteenth birthdays and graduations. The oldest and most valuable family heirlooms are kept by the eldest relative on the Edelthrush side – Sir Willcott’s journal being among them. It is the only work that documents his life following his christening in 1559 but prior to his knighthood in 1592 and his subsequent death at the hands of a mob associated with the Aberdeenshire Witchcraft Panic of 1597.

It was only after I contacted said eldest-living relative, my Great-Aunt Lucinda, and skimmed through the journal of our mutual ancestor, that I understood why only a person with the document in hand could study this part of his life. With my Great-Aunt content to keep the journal only in the family, I have been permitted to include excerpts, though no one’s hands but my own and my Great-Aunt’s have touched the journal in the process.

It was only then that Saul, in his professorial way, contemplated the elevation of the pages he read. He’d subconsciously assumed, and therefore brushed aside, that they had been placed atop one of the many books strewn across his desk.

But no – or rather, yes, but no, still.

Tucked beneath the stack of papers was a small, leatherbound journal worn nearly to crumpling in on itself. Atop was not a sticky note but a card. And in James’ hand was written I worried a sticky note would damage it. Jenise had me pick it up from her office when I arrived this morning. She said you would know what it was.

His fingers drifted across its surface. His gut, warmed from his racing heartbeat, bubbled stinging his throat. The good kind of stinging. The journal - a specter, an anchor. He wanted to touch it, but it was too old to be touched, and he wasn’t holy enough to break its rules. Even as it called to him. Even as it reminded him why he’d spent his life among historical texts, it warned him away. It was a relic meant to be touched only by Edelthrush hands.

From what Jenise had told him of her family, they were akin to a fortress that bids you entrance only to judge you through the false eyes of so many nobles in oil paintings. Or something along those lines. Jenise always grew frustrated when she spoke of her family, specifically the Edelthrush lineage. Willcott must have had a sibling marry into it, though the details of that he’d have to ask Jenise later. Perhaps after his eight o’clock lecture.

He pulled away. It was doubtful that they would know, or even care terribly, if he opened it and read, no matter their reputation in academia. Still, once the wonder wore off, he found touching the journal unnerving. Like picking up a stranger’s wellworn clothing. It was an intrusion, not on the Edelthrushes so much as Sir Francis Willcott himself.

Leaning back in his chair, he stretched. The sun was tapping at the windows behind the blinds. The courtyard would be gaining light soon. Students would be arriving for eight o’clock lectures or heading to the library to study.

Ordinarily, he would’ve been happy to remain tucked away in the History building, but his many attempts to bring Jenise out

of her shell had him examining his own lack of fresh air and grasstouching.

Far be it for him to desire hypocrisy, so he took Jenise’s newest chapter in one hand and cradled the journal in the crook of his arm and made for a bench he knew few people frequented.

It was a narrow bench of stone that wore its age the same way the school did - with its mired bricks held high and its gabled roofs slanted to block out the sun. Yet the sun peeked through just above the black shingles, and Saul settled himself on the windsmoothed surface.

As it was, the bench sat in an open walkway against the wall of the science building.

Though it wasn’t a path that got much use, as it led almost directly to the administrative offices and the most illustrious broom closets the campus had to offer.

Returning to the manuscript, he was faced again with Great-Aunt Lucinda’s name, glaring up at him as if she knew he was in possession of her prized relic. He hesitated for a moment before setting the journal on the bench atop the pages he’d already read, succeeding in burying Lucinda’s name beneath its fragile exterior.

Lucinda Edelthrush had made a name for herself in scholarly circles. Her prestige came less from her family name, illusive and private as the Edelthrushes were known to be, than it did from her reputation as a collector, one who shared the name of the family. He had heard of her only in passing and never from Jenise, until recently.

He’d assumed they weren’t close. Not that Jenise was close with much of her family aside from her mother, who was an Edelthrush by marriage and who, Jenise had explained to him over tea recently, had stepped away from the extended family after the passing of her late husband.

Still, Jenise spoke of summers spent in the gardens of the Edelthrush’s family house and holiday dinners around extravagant tables filled to the brim with strangers who knew her name better than her face. She never seemed to dislike them so much as to seek distance from them. When she described them, it was like listening to a history paper being read. She’d researched them. She understood them. But she did not know them.

The few interactions she’d had with them as an adult were, as he could recall, the occasional reunion or funeral or christening. Jenise, though, had rarely missed work for anything in the five years she’d been involved with the University, but he wouldn’t know about gatherings, he supposed, especially if scheduled outside of school hours. Like Christmas parties or the like.

Two administrators rounded the corner at the end of the breezeway. They chatted amongst themselves, their suits fluttering with their long strides. Saul flipped to the chapter’s next page both to bury his nose in it to avoid acknowledging them and, also, to have something to cover the notebook with.

Admittedly, it was paranoid of him to think such a nondescript thing would garner attention, but they did work at a university, and when it came to social interaction, one could never be too careful. Especially with them. If they weren’t peering over Jenise’s shoulder every other week, maybe she’d be sleeping better and not rushing the process the way she had been.

The administrators passed by. They did not even glance at him, as they were deep in a debate over the proper way to cook rice and were not generally observant to begin with, confined to their offices as they were.

Saul meanwhile, in his hunched state, found himself nearly face to face with his watch. No longer caring about going unnoticed, he shuffled the papers back into his hands and held the journal to his chest, taking off in the opposite direction of the offices in an effort to get to his lecture on time.

***

We cannot begin at the beginning, for Sir Francis Willcott paid little attention to his childhood in his entries. There is a mention of a childhood friend who at the time of writing had moved to Glasgow, though the account lists no name other than Lynx, which has long been assumed to be a nickname. I searched Glasgow’s census and census adjacent records from the time,

most of which were surviving church registries, but found no mention of a name that could even be feasibly shortened to Lynx, if such a name exists.

Willcott also has several entries dedicated to Worcester’s beauty, though they lack the poetry of many other accounts from the time for they formed the origin of the title bestowed on him by the authorities and later accepted by two of his surviving compatriots - Tomas Faben and a man known only as Alessiofollowing his untimely death. The men disappeared in 1597 and 1598 respectively.

Both appear in his journal. For all his shortcomings, Willcott was adept at concisely conveying the logistics of the privateering and guard-for-hire jobs the two men accepted.

By far the most fascinating of his accounts refers to the discovery of a miniscule island off the coast of the Outer Hebrides. It was a marshy area that records suggest has been swallowed by rising ocean levels since Willcott’s account. As such, the island has no name in the modern era, though at the time it was known as the Songsleuth by its few inhabitants. Records suggest that the name stemmed from local legends of Banshees crying in the wind. The strange accounts of such creatures, ordinarily deemed inhabitants of Ireland, seemed to ward off visitors as effectively as the inhospitable land itself.

Willcott introduces the Songsleuth in an entry dated the 1st of November of 1588, simply stating that he and his sevenman party will be traveling to northern Scotland to escort an unnamed Duke from one undisclosed location to another. He catalogs their arrival in a single, two-line entry dated the same as the one before it.

“It rains always. Luvere and Recrue have returned to France. If not for the Duke’s insistence on security, we would have steered clear. I estimate it will take a month to cross. We will have to make camp often.”

Beneath the entry, Willcott begins a tally that keeps track of the days spent in the Songsleuth: between November 1 and December 11 of 1588.

His claim about the Duke suggests that perhaps the Songsleuth was seen as a place safe from the hazardous politics of the day. Without knowing the Duke’s identity, it is difficult to determine who he was attempting to evade or where his political leanings fell.

Willcott was a known outlaw, neither allying himself with the nobility nor the common man in full, and so an analysis of his political leanings, if one could be scraped together from the scant accounts, would likely prove too contradictory to surmise the Duke’s politics.

Additionally, his journal does at least make it clear that, in many cases, money was a worthy recompense for setting aside such alignments.

The next few of Willcott’s entries fall back into the humdrum of the every day.

“We ate fish. The storm rose and settled throughout the night… There was food and water aplenty.”

“Alessio insisted upon resting for a night. We will be at least a day behind schedule.” “Three pints of ale remain. I should have packed more.”

“Alessio and the others plot against me. I jest. We will stop for the night to keep Alessio’s wounded ankle from swelling.”

In addition to the minor setbacks, Willcott’s estimate was likely inaccurate due to the conflict of interest introduced in one of his longest entries, dated November 3rd, which begins with him once again tallying the party’s remaining supplies and ends with the first of a series of entries describing a group they met on their path.

“We came upon a traveling family today. The Duke was initially suspicious of their men and wanted to doubleback. Alessio suggested subduing them in case they were in league with the Duke’s adversaries, but he put little heart into the idea. It was the rain that got us before we could decide. It came down too hard to see clearly and made the mud too synonymous with sludge to safely lead

our horses through. The family, who appear harmless, has offered us refuge in their tiny camp beneath the bows of three titanus elms. We have started a pair of modest fires and rest facing one another until exhaustion overtakes us. I fear soon it will be only Alessio, who has volunteered for the first watch.”

Willcott’s prose, while undoubtedly acceptable as a method of understanding the scene, could have been written by any more or less well-taught man of the Northern Renaissance. Aside from his refusal to evoke the use of ‘whom’ in any of his writings, he has no remarkably distinct style or continence. He is always to the point, which is a virtue. However, this also results in us having very few accounts of how the scenery actually looked on the Songsleuth and how it may have affected him and his party outside of mere inconvenience.

The presence of elms, as well as the later mentioned alders and birch, are characteristic of the area today and largely unhelpful in piecing together a picture of how such a place’s ecosystem would have existed, separated as it was from the rest of the Outer Hebrides. In a later entry dated November 5th, Willcott makes perhaps one of his most frustrating jests when he documents having “spoken to the traveling family and their young daughter” about “where they hailed from and why they had come so far north” but does not include any documentation of the details divulged by the conversation.

That is, until the mention of a young girl named Adelae and a woman referred to only as Adelae’s mother, who first appear in entries dated the 6th and 7th respectively. ***

He’d finished another good portion of the chapter by the time lunch rolled around. His lecture students had cleared out long ago, and with the lecture hall open until the Medieval Remedies and Folk Cures lecture at three, and then his second lecture, the one on the British Empire’s influence on Ireland 1610-1658, at six, he’d had the space to himself for some time.

All the while, the journal’s memory had been an itch on the back of his hands. It was safely tucked away in the desk drawer. He’d have to take it out before he left.

If he was honest, it was more stressful than it was worth, caring for such a precious journal that he couldn’t even bring himself to open. He should simply return it to Jenise alongside his notes on her chapters: why she chose the journal entries she did and suggestions for how she could make the timelines of Willcott’s life more clear to the reader, based mostly off of the scraps of research he’d been able to piece together about the man while writing one of his own papers.

It is true, though, that his ability to make an informed decision about what to include in a chapter, based upon a journal he had not himself read, was limited. And he did suppose Jenise had given him the journal for a reason. And, therefore, the permission to open it.

So… perhaps he should.

He stared at the desk drawer for a long moment before he drew it out with both hands and set it, softly, atop a protective layer of lecture notes. With quivering fingers, he flipped to the pages marked the beginning of November and found the ones Jenise had excerpted.

She had chosen her excerpts more precisely than the chapter had let on. Only a handful of Willcott’s at times thrice daily documentation had been included. Among the cuttings were a couple of entries which particularly intrigued the professor. They suggested Willcott and the Duke he was employed by had a rocky relationship.

In short, the Duke sounded like a paranoid man who had never stopped distrusting the family in the Songsleuth and was eager to carry on with his journey despite the, at best, unpredictable and, at worst, dangerous weather conditions they faced. Willcott himself sounded more worried about his party, and even the family, than he was about his mission.

Classic Willcott – always the gentleman even if he avoided outward emotion like the plague. In that way, he was not so different from Jenise.

Saul stood. He cradled the journal as he set about jotting down his notes for her on a slip of paper. He would need talking points to keep their conversation on track. With it tucked into his pocket, he set out for her office on the opposite side of the History building.

The central courtyard was a dark rectangle of too-green grass. At this time of day, there were too many people around to see the layout clearly. Jenise would be in her office to avoid the din. Hopefully, she was resting, but he doubted it.

Her hallway was quiet except for passing students. Their voices were low so their footfalls were the first to announce their presence. He knocked and received no reply. Assuming she was deep in work, he decided to crack the door open to ask her permission to enter.

Only, when he opened the door, he was greeted solely by the sound of quiet breathing. Jenise sat to the left in her desk chair, head against the backrest and arms wrapped around her middle. He stepped in and shut the door to shut out the click of shoes on wood.

He approached the desk, mostly to see what she’d been working on. Scattered before her lay a mismatched collection of court records and a legal pad she appeared to have been trying to jot down notes on. Though she hadn’t gotten very far, as the only thing written on it was ‘Chapter Nine’ and then a single bullet point with nothing beside it.

Poor thing. She must have really exhausted herself. He considered turning around and leaving, only to remember the burn of the journal in his hands. He tiptoed closer to set it gently on her desk. He couldn’t have anticipated that the quick, quiet movement would rouse her enough to elicit a groan.

He jumped back, startling himself. She raised a hand to her head, her forehead crinkled, as if even the dim light of the room pained her. With blurry eyes, she slowly peered up at him.

“Professor? Did you need something?” He righted himself and tried to give off an aura of fatherliness, though he was certain he had failed miserably.

“I was just stopping by to check on you. I got your fax earlier and saw that you’d… been on campus early this morning.”

“Oh… I’m alright… Was there something else?” Her voice was hitched and foggy. Her eyes looked at him, but they didn’t see him. Only the outline of his face. He searched the room for some clue as to how to respond. The clock on the far wall chimed half past one.

“Have you eaten? Perhaps we could go to lunch? The dining hall is usually fairly empty at this time of the afternoon.” He knew how much she disliked large crowds and their roar of noise. Especially when she’d been alone in her quiet office for hours, at least, and only just woken up.

“Yeah…” She sighed and blinked slowly at her desk. Her head cocked to the side when she noticed the journal laying on it. “Did you not want to cross-reference it with the manuscript?”

“Oh – I have, and I actually have a few notes. We could discuss them over lunch.” Her eyes brightened, and she stood in a burst of energy at the invitation to work. Though her legs wobbled as she went towards her coat, her voice never faltered.

“Lovely idea. And how far have you read?”

“Up until… the introduction of Adelae. Adelae? Am I pronouncing that correctly?”

“I believe so, though one can hardly tell. I think she’s Irish, but I can’t tell exactly since Willcott is so vague… Well, most of the time.” Her eyes grew distant. Her hands, twisted in the scarf she had been in the middle of putting on, stilled. But with a blink, she was back to smiling and hurrying out the door, Saul in tow. “I mention that later in the chapter.”

Less than ten minutes later, they sat down in a deserted corner with their food. Jenise, it seemed, was already half-way through hers before he could even lift his fork. And he was glad he’d suggested lunch. Pride at his success warmed him. He patted it down quickly to avoid causing heartburn.

“As I was saying, later in the chapter, I speculate as to where the family could be from.” Jenise said through a mouthful. “My money is on Ireland, but it’s almost certainly somewhere

in northwestern Europe regardless, since they know about the Songsleuth. It’s pretty brief, but it seemed up your alley.”

“I look forward to it. Did you want me to try and figure out where their family came from?”

“Oh, no, that’s alright. There’s so little to go on in the journal, and what’s there isn’t even close to concrete.”

She took a few seconds to breathe and then down a few deep gulps of water. Saul’s eyes softened, at the way she came back to life with the liquid.

“You’ve done a lot of research for this book already. I can tell in your manuscript. But I saw that you’re already researching for the ninth chapter?”

“Oh, yes, birth and death and divorce records from London. They got here this morning. I need to make sure that Lord Hendershire – the one who famously divorced his second wife and then pretended to run off with a water nymph – was actually married. I’m starting to be convinced that the man lived alone all his years and only made up the legend as a last bit of fun before he died of consumption.”

Saul would have been lying if he’d said he didn’t find the story of the love-crazed Lord off-putting, for multiple reasons, but none of them were Jenise’s fault. And he would read and aid in editing her manuscript regardless.

A man with an either doomed romantic life or none to speak of, famous for indecisiveness, and who haunted his war veteran father, hit the nail a little too far in the coffin.

“That’s quite the lofty undertaking.” He tried to hide his ugly judgment with empathy for Jenise instead. “Are you certain you don’t want to wait a few days?”

“No time. The Board of Directors has already asked me how much I have done, and I haven’t even edited anything beyond chapter three yet. I need to show them that I at least have quantity, if not quality.”

“They say he was a violent man. Did he ever go to court over his actions?”

He could still remember being a teenager, not much younger than the young Lord had been when his first wife had supposedly died. The bite of wood against fists. The sting of wounds that couldn’t quite be called wounds. The pain of bruises that went unseen.

“Not that I’ve been able to find, but I’m still looking –hoping a wife might be mentioned in the records if he was. Or that I can find a marriage or death certificate of some kind.

Everybody has their childhood transgressions, though. It’s just about whether they were illegal enough to take to court or not.”

He’d tried to be a good boy. Tried to take his anger and sadness out on fence posts and plaster walls. But that had only left him shame-filled and weeping at how it never made him feel as good as it was supposed to.

How could a boy raised like that hope to raise a son that didn’t seek out those same fence posts only to be disappointed with their sting. He supposed that was why he was playing at having a daughter. And not very well, at that.

Any pride he’d felt sank like a body in deep water. “True enough.”

(It is with Adelae that the journal began to affect me, Professor. I am not sure I am capable of encompassing said effect on these pages, but I will try in the hopes that it develops into something for the finished product. I must admit that these entries, while I am reading them technically for the second time, were first skimmed late in the night a few days ago, and so my thoughts are more muddled than those for previous entries.)

“She cannot be older than eight. She watches us when we retire for the night and lingers by Alessio’s bow when we turn our backs to it. Alessio has noticed and begun showing her, as well as who I assume is her older brother, the bow when he is not on duty.”

“Alessio dances with the family. It is a dance from their homeland, Adelae’s mother has told me. A kind of rite. She insists that I write it down ‘for future generations’. Though who will be reading this? I cannot imagine.

She also commands that I find a way to describe it. In this task, I am unqualified. I will have to ask for her forgiveness.”

It has been a long-established opinion among scholars that Willcott was distant from compatriots and adversaries alike. However, many also subscribe to the idea that, if he was close with any of his followers, he was, at least, fond of Alessio.

Alessio, the son of Greek parents who had traveled to Britain for work, joined the group in Cambridge at the same time as Tomos Faben and the now-infamous Tyrian de Sulac. He supposedly earned his keep by siding with Willcott when de Sulac turned most of the Gentle-Rogue’s party against him in an effort to convince Willcott of the value of a proposed heist in London. De Sulac was imprisoned on related charges less than a year later, taking most of Willcott’s men with him and sending Willcott down what many historians have deemed a spiral of isolation verging on paranoia.

Such events, as well as those that led Willcott to the Songsleuth, are documented in earlier entries of the journal. However, they are already widely known due to others’ accounts at the time and the 1986 paper written by Jacob Bellingry, in cooperation with the Edelthrush family, which essentially confirmed such accounts through vague paraphrasing of the journal.

As I have access to the journal myself, I can attest to the quality of the Bellingry paper and will suggest that readers interested in the subject read it, where it has been published, in the 1990 edition of A Decade of British Historical Scholarship found in most libraries.

With the background of Alessio established, it is clear that the younger man’s attachment to Adelae played a role in Willcott’s decision making, as he goes into great detail describing their interactions.

“Alessio has danced the past three nights around the fire. He tells stories to the children alongside the family’s elders. Adelae leans forward when he speaks.”

“[They] relate to one another’s situations. Adelae and her mother miss their home and the father they cannot return to. Alessio, likewise, has not seen his homeland since he was a child and expresses his longing for Cambridge and his parents nearly every evening.”

“I tried to drink in peace, but Alessio insisted I dance with him tonight. Adelae and her mother were overjoyed, I am certain. But the Duke grows restless with our lack of progress. If there were a map of the Songsleuth, it would be quicker, but even the family knows only of hunting paths. I fear traveling without a plan will lead to more detriment than progress.”

The area of the most scholarly intrigue also surrounds Adelae and brings into question certain ideas of the Songsleuth that we have perhaps taken for granted.

“Who appear to be the matron and patron of the family, perhaps Adelae’s grandparents, claim that she is ill and has been all her life. Something is in her bones, making them brittle, but I could not tell from looking at her. Her mother is always nearby, except for when Adelae and her brother wander into the marsh where she cannot follow due to her own bad legs. They fear she will fall if left alone for a moment, so they ask Alessio to watch over them, and he always agrees. Adelae and her brother will travel with us tomorrow when we leave to hunt, as she wars with them when they try to force her to stay at the camp. Before retiring to her tent tonight, their mother approached me to say that she does not trust the Duke or most of my men, but that she trusts mine and Alessio’s eyes better than the banshees.’”

Willcott’s support of the concept of local legend is only discounted by a later entry concerning Adalae’s family attempting to free her from the evil spirits they were certain had possessed her to make her so ill. His depiction suggests that the family could have been Irish themselves, as they believed also in the Irish legend of the Púca, and could have transplanted the tales of banshees to the Songsleuth.

Noel Etheridge

Chantal Eulenstein

Short Story Ames High School Ames, IA

Janaina

It begins.

There in the mirror with a girl written in saltwater and sand. There in the yellow house at the end of that dead-end drive, in the mirror, where Alya learns to cry.

It begins.

On the day the neighborhood boys call out to her on the street. “Ey, gringa!,” and Alya smiles because she does not know what it means. Deus - God - is the only word Alya knows in Portuguese, and even so,

Alya does not know how to pray.

There in the mirror.

Is a girl that is not Alya.

There in the mirror is a girl written in saltwater and sand. A girl with creamy arms the sun painted brown, and wide hips and a chest that fills the void of a pink tank top stained orange from the juice of a mamão. A girl whose curves would have stopped the bicycles ridden by boys who call Alya, with her skin as white as a soft yam, a boiled inhame, “Gringa”.

Alya stares at the mirror as she strips off her clothes, but in the mirror she cannot see that white, white, white collarbone and the curve of her own breasts that no boy could ever hold in his hands.

Alya does not know how to cry. Mamãe never taught her how.

But when the girl in the mirror,

the girl with thick black hair that falls to her wide, wide, wide hips moves, even as Alya does not,

she cries like she has never seen rain. When she holds her naked body in her arms, and it fits in her white hands, Alya knows. That the dark curls and soft curves and skin painted by the sun could never be her own.

It begins

There in the mirror,

Written in the steam that comes, is the name Janaina.

Alya wills herself not to use the bathroom for a week. At night she holds her pee so long that when she opens her eyes she finds a puddle between her legs. The yellow stain on her mattress makes her strip her sheets and scrub until her fingernails bleed.

Alya asks Mamãe, “Did you clean the mirror?”

“I always clean the mirror.”

But still Alya sees that name written in steam, the way the J curves down and kisses the beginning of the a. What a beautiful name.

When Alya closes her eyes, Janaina is painted in the underside of her eyelid. She sees thick, straight, black hair around her frame, skin the color of warm café com leite Ninho - coffee with milkthe kind Mamãe makes on Saturdays when she sleeps until the birds have gone quiet and the beans begin to mush because they have soaked too long. “Gringas!” the boys call again when Alya walks home with Mamãe that afternoon.

Even Mamãe, with her Portuguese, and olive skin, does not belong anywhere in the word Hispanic.

The Cuban man with graying hair who always sits on his porch and salutes the sun con un cafecito at three in the afternoon calls Alya Americana.

“Ay, Alya. Look at you my Americana! So big now! Doing well in school, eh?”

Alya smiles and says she is.

At school on the surveys where it asks for her race, Alya puts down “white, European.” Because there in the mirror, all she can see is the soft, white, inside of boiled inhame

Alya has never had to walk past the world, past police, past blonde bobbing heads, with her stomach in knots.

Mamãe has never told her that the women at school events ask if she will clean their homes before she even speaks.

Mamãe never wanted to teach Alya how to cry, so Alya never saw the color brown of Mamae’s salt-filled tears as they streaked across Mamãe’s cheeks the day that woman at the bank did not believe that a child so white could have come from a woman so brown.

But Brazil stains Alya with something that cannot be seen in her skin.

It lies in the curve of her jaw, the brown in her eyes, the cheeks that blush pink when she thinks of Janaina’s hips.

What are you?

They ask.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

Alya has not touched the white, white, white tile of the bathroom for seven days. Because she knows that there, in the mirror, is a girl with thick hips and lips and a body that stops boys on bicycles. Alya knows that her eyes will look down and see her own body with no hips and thin lips and no breasts, and see that she is nothing other than the girl who paints herself brown with the sun. But Alya can no longer hide the smell, from her sheets, from the body that has shed sweat from its pores and not been scrubbed clean with lavender soap.

When Mamãe touches the head of Alya’s hair, like she does sometimes to run her fingers through the strands that remind her of what esperança - of what hope - means in English, she can feel the way grease cakes around the roots. Mamãe grabs Alya by the arm and drags her to the bathroom. She locks the door and screams that it will be unlocked when Alya is clean.

Mamãe’s voice, as rough as the palms of her hands from scrubbing floors clean with bleach, will always be something to be afraid of.

Janaina is there again.

A pink dress rides up her legs, hugging the curve of her hips, the pink straps barely holding up her breasts. She looks like the girls on brochures for Brazilian Butt Lifts.

Does she know that girls suck fat from their stomachs to inject into their asses to look like her?

She puts on dark red lipstick, the color that stains Alya’s underwear every month, on lips nearly as thick as her legs. Her hair is in tight curls today, falling naturally in soft coils around her face.

Janaina puts her mouth to the mirror and leaves her lips behind in a kiss. On the mirror she writes in lipstick, curves and curls as soft as her own,

Meia-noite. Midnight.

Beneath the shower water so hot that it burns away the sweat and grime and pain, Janaina melts. Alya can see her own small, small breasts again.

When Alya wakes up, the weight of the world sits like a fist pressing against her bladder. When she turns on the light, the clock reads midnight. Meia-noite.

Janina is there in the mirror, waiting, Havaianas on her feet, a robe tied tight around her waist.

Alya watches the face, the cut of her jaw, the bump and wide nose, that look so much like her own. The window is open, and beyond are the boys that ride their bikes and chain smoke at midnight.

Beyond is moonlight and the stars like pinpricks in the sky and merengue somewhere far away.

Oi.

Alya jumps and a scream begins to swell somewhere in her throat. But Janaina reaches through the mirror and puts her hand to Alya’s thin, thin lips.

Janaina giggles as softly as the palm of her hand.

“Fala o meu nome.”

Somehow, Alya understands. Meaning strung somewhere on every word.

Say my name.

“Jan-EYE-na.”

Não. Jana-E-na.

“Jana-E-na.”

Say it like you have a soft, soft, soft indigenous tongue.

Then it comes, smooth and fast like a baby falling from her body.

Brazil on her lips for the very first time.

Ja na ina

The girl in the mirror laughs, her mouth as wide as her dark, dark, dark eyes. Like the color Mamãe cries.

Muito bem. Tu já viu Mamãe rir? Very good. Have you ever seen Mamãe laugh?

“Não.” It comes like a mistake, strange and alien across her lips. All Alya has ever seen Mamãe do is work and cook and wear her face as straight and cold as stone.

In Brazil she laughs so loud and wide that everyone calls her, uma palhaça. A clown.

Alya has only ever seen Mamãe sing. Sitting on the edge of Alya’s bed, running her hands through Alya’s hair, tresses the color of her skin.

“How do you know Mamãe?”

I know things.

There, written on her bedroom ceiling when she opens her eyes, are the words:

Meia-noite.

Alya showers at night, after Mamãe has turned off all the lights and closed the brown, brown, brown door to her room to fall asleep with a pillow between her arms. Alya sits, naked except for a towel across her wet body, and waits for the smell of cigarettes and that girl in the mirror.

Janaina comes at the first bark of the dog whose tail has been run over by one of the boys who will learn to ride a bicycle that night.

She is dressed in an old shirt and shorts and Havaianas. Always Havaianas. She looks almost like Mamãe, if someone dragged away her hips and chest and cut off her legs.

Janaina smiles, as though all she sees are stars.

O que o meu nome significa? What does my name mean?

I don’t know.

Iara Mãe D’água. Iara, Mother of Water.

Janaina reaches out her hand and Alya takes it because it is covered in soft, soft skin.

Deixa eu te mostrar. Let me show you what it means.

Deus wrote Janaina’s world in saltwater and sand. It comes like arms around her waist. Heat so thick it can be picked up and touched.

There, in the sky, is a river made of needle points.

When Janaina calls, it answers. It curves like her hips, as thick as the hair that tonight has been woven by another woman’s hands.

There is sand. Alya digs her toes into it for the very first time, and it beats rough against the soles that have never walked barefoot

across dirt roads. Janaina points her hand to the river.

Pula. Jump.

Alya stands, her toes wrapped in brown, brown, brown sand. Janaina wraps her arms around her waist, as though she is the sun.

Together they fall, cascading into that river made of stars, a thousand cigarette butts against Alya’s skin. Janaina calls, and the water comes, soft and gentle across Alya’s head.

Somewhere in the sky, Deus smiles like a woman would.

Ninguém batizou você. You were never baptized.

Alya never knew that Mamãe left God in Brazil.

Now Alya knows why Mamãe never taught her how to pray. Why God is a plastic rosary on a white ottoman that Mamãe picks up every time she tries to cry.

Tears that come like the stars. Tiny pinpricks of her pain.

So small Alya cannot see the way they stain.

Alya will never know, what it is to cry the color brown.

When Alya opens her eyes she knows how to pray. She finds Deus written on the ceiling, the beginning drawn on the inside of her eyelid.

The stars come. The pinpricks that baptized Alya in Brazil.

Janaina calls.

Venha. Come.

Janaina reaches out her hand, and Alya touches the soft, soft, soft fingertips.

There is a city beyond the beach. Wind that runs through the leaves of palm trees like Mamãe runs her hands through Alya’s hair. Cars that slip past stalls selling coconut water and açai on the shoreline. The boys that carry bags of caldinho de feijão, black bean broth, past the women on the beach, bikinis on their thick bodies, boasting not hiding their rolls, beautiful women with their legs stretched out to catch the sun.

Beyond the city is a favela, its houses stacked on top of each other, daring the wind to knock them down. Boys use twigs to tie together the ripped stockings of their Mamães into a ball, and play soccer barefoot in the street.

Janaina points to the favela. We paint our nails there.

Alya stands, Janaina on her arm, and watches the world go round.

When the smell of cigarettes and unwashed boys comes that night, Alya is already there, her hand outstretched. Waiting to feel the soft, soft, soft fingertips.

Janaina laughs when she sees the white girl naked and waiting, still wet from burning away the world with water.

This time they stand in the corner of a white, white, white hospital room. Mamãe is in the bed, black hair around her thin frame, a plastic rosary in her hand, and the color brown staining her cheeks. Her belly swells, calling for the sun.

The doctor asks, “What will you name her?”

Now there lies a baby in her arms. Hair as brown as the tears that come. Skin as white and cold as the man that stands in the corner of the room.

Ja na ina

“Don’t do that to her,” says the Doctor. “They’ll laugh her out of high school.”

With brown tears on that white, white, white paper, Mamãe writes, “Alya.”

The white man in the corner smiles until she bleeds.

But still she holds, that baby full of hair and blue eyes that will slowly turn the color of her tears.

When everything fades, the world is nothing more than Alya naked on the bathroom floor and cigarette smoke and the boys on bicycles that go quiet when she turns on the bathroom light. Because they can see all of her naked body in the window, from her calves to her waist to her breasts to the words she thought she found written in the stars so long ago.

There, on the nape of her neck, they call, like Janaina calls water and pinpricks in the sky, like Mamãe calls the color brown.

There, written on her waist, the way Brazil wrapped itself around her body,

are the words that come in waves, what am I what am I

Beside her, naked, is the tidal wave that paints white sand brown. There, across Janaina’s brown, brown, brown chest, are the words she dragged through steam on a mirror so long ago, who are you and Janaina laughs, because for her the world has always been big hips and thick lips and saltwater and sand and the stars.

Não sei.

I don’t know.

There, written on the ceiling are the words, Ask Mamãe.

Alya finds Mamãe in the kitchen, picking the stones from the black beans the man at the bodega sold her two weeks ago.

“Quem é Janaina?” Who is Janaina?

Alya watches Mamãe cry for the very first time, her head in her sandpaper hands.

There in the brown tears that come are the words, “O nome que eu queria dar pra você.” The name I wanted to give you.

There, beneath the twin size metal bed frame as strong as Mamãe’s bones, is the picture of Mamãe with mamão in her hands, smiling as if all she sees are stars, juice rolling down her arms. Stretched across her thin frame is the pink tank top too small to cover the belly that swells too big for her body. There across the straps as thin as her frame, are the stains that come from eating mamão with her hands.

“O dia que eu deixei o Brasil.” The day I left Brazil.

Why To run away.

Why In America I could be someone. My baby could be someone. Is there no “someone” in portuguese There is “alguém”. But to be alguém is to be a girl in a town that makes babies on a farm at 15. E na cidade, in the city, there is only work washing dishes and floors and cooking for the rich. In America you work like um burro, like a donkey, but you hold your own whip.

We are all alone Eu sei. I know.

Why I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

Why Janaina Era tão lindo, como meu bebê. It was so beautiful, like my baby. No one would ever touch a girl with the name of Iara Mãe D’água. Who would stand in the way of a goddess?

Why Alya Português não significa nada aqui. Portuguese doesn’t mean anything here. Who would see a goddess when they only know big butts and favelas and soccer? Here there is no whip you have to hold when you have white, white, white skin. Are you someone?

Mamãe answers in silence, and the color brown. But there, written in the veins of her sandpaper hands come the words, “Você é.” You are

and Alya cries saltwater and sand and the color blue. There, on the twin bed, Mamãe holds the baby that swelled in her belly so long ago. Her hands combing through her brown, brown, brown hair. Like the wind paints the world in Brazil. Because she knows there in her arms, there in the thin, white girl with the curve of her jaw like a doll’s, and pink lips and round, hazel eyes like Mamãe saw on TV Globo and wanted when she was 15,

like a scar Deus wrote esperança. Deus wrote hope.

They fall asleep to the sound of the setting sun and a world painted strawberry blonde. Wrapped in one another, there on the twin bed, the heat as thick and warm as it was once so many years ago, when Mamãe lay with her hands on her swelling belly and prayed for the day that Alya left her womb.

When the world goes black except for stars and the glow of cigarettes, Alya waits on the floor of the bathroom for the girl Deus wrote in saltwater and sand.

But Janaina doesn’t come. Instead there is the sun. There in the mirror, painted in sunlight, is a girl with thin, thin hips and skin like boiled inhame and eyes the color Mamãe cries. Her breasts do not fill the pink tank top stained orange with mamão. But neither do Mamãe’s.

Alya sees her own thin, thin frame as Mamãe cooks in her Havanais, the sounds of Frevo spilling out from a little radio, her body not big enough to fill the folds of a robe. There in the bean broth that Mamãe will dilute and drink hot when it snows, Alya sees the color of her hair. There in the watermelon Mamãe blends to make uma vitamina, is the color of her lips. There in the inhame Mamãe steams until it becomes soft enough to peel, is the color of Alya’s skin.

Alya is written in the overlap between the name she was never given, and her own. There in the mirror is a girl that cries saltwater tears with thin hips and red lips and hair the color of Janaina’s skin. There in the mirror is a girl Deus wrote in the overlap between red and white and blue and green and yellow.

A girl the Cuban man in apartment 202 calls Americana.

A girl called Alya.

There in the mirror is the echo of the name that stains Alya. It is, something that cannot be seen in her skin, without the curls and the thick lips and the stars.

It is the name that embodies what Mamãe calls the color brown

Henry Farthing

Photography Lawrence High School Lawrence, KS

Arizona Digital photography 2023

Elodie Fleurence

State of Mind

Hand sculpted low fire clay 2023

Moe Ford

Photography

Urbana High School Urbana, IL

Lia Franchialfaro

Photography Miami Arts Charter Miami, FL

Sydney Blu Garcia-Yao

Connection

My grandparents visited one summer when I was seven, and my grandmother needed sugar to cook 番茄炒鸡蛋. 1 Of course, I didn't know the name of the dish back then.

"Cutie, Mommy's very tired, so go get sugar with 爷爷 and 奶奶, okay?2"

I nodded my head, pride swelling my cheeks as I smiled. I skipped and bounded the whole way there, excited to have such an important responsibility.

"在这里在这里!3" I pointed to the numerous types of salt.

"糖吗?" my grandfather confirmed.4

"是的! 是的!" I said confidently.5 I grabbed two bottles of Morton iodized salt off the shelf, and at the self-checkout, I paid in cash. I remember being so giggly that I frolicked and pranced my way across the CVS parking lot.

"快一点! 快一点!6" I urged them to walk faster, anxious to get home and show my mother what a great job I'd done.

1 Stir-fried eggs and tomatoes, a ubiquitous Chinese dish

2 Grandpa and Grandma

3 "Here it is! Here it is!"

4 "Is this sugar?"

5 "Yes! Yes!"

6 Hurry up! Hurry Up!

Unfortunately, when I burst through the door, my mother took one look at the triumphant treasures I brought home and said, "宝⻉, 那

是盐｡

奶奶要糖! 7" I stopped abruptly, enthusiasm transforming into shocked embarrassment. I couldn't believe I got it wrong.

My Chinese is stubborn. That summer, it had yet to sprout. Then, when I was thirteen, I started watching Chinese drama after Chinese drama, and my Chinese finally improved. I could hold a conversation with my relatives about school or what I ate for lunch. Since then, it has refused to cooperate. My Chinese friends with their perfect tones and fluent sentence structure tower over me like sunflowers.

Worse, I am distinctly an outsider only half Chinese. No matter how hard I compensated, others always viewed me as other. As a kid, adults would scrutinize my multiethnic features as if trying to read the foreign inscriptions on museum artifacts and ask, "Where are your parents from?"

I too tried to categorize my features into either Chinese or Hispanic. Thighs: Hispanic, eyebrows: Chinese, nose: both. "When you smile, you look like me," my mother said. I didn't think that counted.

Still, I was not Chinese.

7 "Sweetheart, that's salt. Grandma wanted sugar!"

Translation note: In Mandarin, young children often speak with significant repetition.

I tried to increase my tolerance for spicy food. When my mother and I went to Chinatown, I ate 烤⻥ and 干椒炒肉 until my tongue sizzled.8 My mother slid me a glass of ice water, and I choked over gulps of ice cubes.

I was still not Chinese.

"How are you so good at Science Olympiad if you're not Chinese?" they asked.

"Wait, you can speak Chinese?"

"Why'd you go to Chinese School if you're not Chinese?"

"That's not how you pronounce your name! It's 喜妮 , not 喜旎" they said. I asked my mother when I went home, convinced I was wrong. I wasn't.

And I was, surely, surely, still not Chinese.

静夜思 by 李白

(My Thoughts on a Quiet Night by Li Bai)

床前明月光

疑是地上霜

举头望明月

低头思故乡

8 Sichuan fish soaked in spicy oil and stir-fried pork with dry peppers

At home, my mother's laugh fills the room as she watches a Chinese comedian, finding humor in a joke I can't understand. She moved to the United States for graduate school and did not intend to stay. In some ways, she never left China.

After living here for twenty years, my mother obtained US citizenship for ease of travel, but proclaims, "I'm always a Chinese citizen." She could move back tomorrow and fit right in, surrounded by familiarity. In our home, she has created an island of China. No one wears shoes indoors as per tradition but when American guests come over, they disregard this. The silverware compartment for forks is left untouched, tucked away for company.

My father left Puerto Rico over forty years ago. The last remnant of his heritage is my last name, hyphenated in Spanish tradition. But when people read my last name, they see Hispanic. They see my father and a culture we do not possess. The one time I went to Puerto Rico, we were tourists. My mother is still an immigrant at heart, culturally displaced. My father is not, assimilated in what it means to be American.

But the lives of the rest of my family elude me with their distance, occuring a continent and a language away.

"Tell me that story about when 爷爷 and 奶奶 got married," I ask my mother.9 My mother is an accountant not a storyteller. I nag for details like a child, but get only bits and pieces, incomplete scenes. I recreate her straightforward answers in my imagination:

It's the Cultural Revolution, and the aroma of soup wafts around the noodle shop as my grandparents' bellies growl. They laugh in newlywed bliss. My grandfather smiles at my

9 Grandpa and Grandma

grandmother, assuring her she made the right decision to marry him, despite him being from the bottom class as a scholar. The images drift to my grandmother, the sweat down her tanned skin as her muscles shake, tired from walking and carrying buckets for four hours, the sharp stench of urine surrounding her. I see her arms flex as she mixes it with water, how her back aches as she pours it on the crops. How she comes home to see everyone fed and happy, and finally sighs in relief.

"Do you have any photos of back then?" I ask.

My mother laughs knowingly. "No. Remember, we were really poor back then."

"Not even, like, for special occasions?" She shakes her head.

These stories have been passed from Hakanese to Mandarin to English. None of it has been written down, until now. In fact, no record exists of my grandmother's birth date. I don't know the names of either of my grandparents because I call them only by their titles. In hopes that I'd find my connection to my Chinese heritage through tracing my family tree, I tried to piece together their lives in my head, but I don't think I've succeeded. I know more stories, but the names are muddled with all my great-uncles and aunts, whom I call uncle eight or five by birth order. And without a clear record of where I've come from, I have no roots.

A tree cannot cross an ocean.

My Thoughts on a Quiet Night by Li Bai (静夜思by 李白)

Before my bed there's a pool of moonlight I wonder if it's frost on the ground Looking up, I find the moon bright

Then bowing my head, I miss my home (translation edited by my mother)

When my mother and I returned to China, we visited a mock Hakka town, an outdoor museum of sorts. We watched stories passed down generations animated on a small TV one of those tiny square ones from before I was born. Originally, the Hakka people lived in circular towns, fortified to protect themselves from invaders. Later, they moved South in waves, fleeing from war. Maybe it's no wonder I can't find my identity, because neither could my ancestors. Even the word Hakka means "guest families" because there is no geographical location they are tied to.

Technically, I am Hakkanese, an important detail when my family speaks 客家话 of which I understand nothing.10 In our family's hometown, about five hours away from the Cantonese-speaking major city of Guangzhou, most people don't speak the official dialect of Mandarin.

In front of the house there, a cactus tree stands guard, dense with thick pads of flesh sprouting off each other. Appearing soft and furry, nine-year-old me suddenly had an intense need to touch the needles, only to pierce one into my palm. I took a few steps back, shocked. What if they had to remove a whole chunk of my hand to prevent the needles from traveling through my bloodstream? I started to cry. My great-aunts immediately crowded around me and my splayed palm, discussing in rapid Hakkanese. One of the nameless relatives, of the approximate hundred I have, prodded my palm gently, using tweezers to ease out the needle. I

10 Hakkanese

can't remember her face, but her smile was warm like the tea we drank with every meal in China. My hand trembled as I struggled to remain still through tears. After a minute, she extracted the needle, and I cried again, this time with relief. My great-aunt embraced me warmly and my tears finally ceased.

She was family, but not like in America. I don't know where she stands in the family tree I tried to recreate in English. I saw her once, and may never see her again. We have no concept of extended family because everyone is family just the same. My mother calls what in America would be her cousin-twice-removed her nephew, because everyone carrying the Yao surname is family.

We had a family dinner in a dining room designed for a village with some fifty chairs. Dishes lined the perimeter of the glass lazy Susan on the table, the aroma of Hakkanese cuisine permeating the air. Lively chatter filled the room and family members came up to me, reminiscing about when I was only four.

"喜旎! 你还认识我吗? 我是你爷爷的弟弟!11" I remember when you were this tiny,

they said, hand flat, about two feet above the floor. You were so cute with your white, chubby cheeks. A nostalgic smile unfurled across their face. Now you're this big! How time flies! They laughed, so happy to have seen me. I could not help but smile back.

Yeah, I'm happy to see you too!

As I translated English to clunky Mandarin, I wasn't touched by the words they said so much as how they didn't see me as a stranger, a foreign white person, someone to begrudgingly greet. They saw family. They saw me.

11 "Little one, do you recognize me? I'm the younger brother of your Grandpa!"

Yiǔ duó wǒk làk: Much oil and hot wok with both, any dishes taste good -Hakkanese saying, for which there are no corresponding characters

Against the crackling oil of a wok, I watched my grandmother cook my favorite pan-fried noodles with a smile. My aunt set the dining table, and as I walked over to help, she shooed me away with a laugh. My grandmother struggled to squeeze all the dishes she cooked on the table, all my mother's and my favorites and way more than we could eat in three lifetimes. She cooked without spicy peppers, knowing my low tolerance for capsaicin.

"明年回来," my older aunt urged me.12

"我会!" I replied, reassuring her that we'll be back next year.13 Her reserved demeanor lightened as her thin lips turned up in a smile, mole on her cheek shifting up. I ate helpings of prawns with fresh celery, fish lightly pan fried with garlic, and tofu stuffed with mushroom and meat my favorite Hakkanese dish.

My grandfather laughed throatily, encouraging me to eat more in his accented English. "Try! Try!" he beamed, yellowed teeth unabashedly shining like the sun. My grandmother, too, upon seeing me eating well, smiled under her lifted porcelain bowl as she scooped rice in with her chopsticks. Tears dripped over the wrinkles on her face, wetting their creases before she wiped them on her embroidered sleeve.

12 "Come back next year."

13 "I will!"

"别哭, 奶奶别哭｡ 好快我会回," I said. "Like, tell 奶奶 not to worry.

We'll be back. 14" My mother translated into Hakkanese while my grandmother nodded and wiped a few more tears, yellow embroidery thread darkening with the dampness.

"明 " I looked to my mother, to make sure I used the right word.

She nodded for me to continue. "明年我们也可以一起吃饭! 15" My grandmother's

face eased in a smile as my aunt agreed. We quickly fell into conversation again, laughter and energy filling up the room until you couldn't hear the sound of chopsticks against porcelain.

The geographical displacement of Hakka people means we speak many different languages, from Hokkien to Thai to Cantonese. And maybe I speak English. Maybe my features don't appear entirely Chinese. Maybe I don't know all of their stories and names. But I don't worry about how Chinese I seem anymore. I know I'll always be family. Unconditionally.

Whenever I return to China, I know I'll be welcomed home as if I never left. And if I'm drowning, an entire village of relatives will be there to save me.

Family is the strongest connection. Even if it's thousands of miles away, I always had a place to belong.

14 "Don't cry, Grandma. Don't cry. I will be back soon."; Grandma

15 "Next Next year we can eat together!"

Elana Gardner

Pig Latin

I used to say that I was bilingual because I spoke Pig Latin and English— because African American isn’t a language. Because AncestryDna and 23andMe never blessed my tongue with the gift of a communication specific to my culture that I could claim in a presentation about my roots. I had no option but to don red white and blue that was sewn together with the blood, sweat, and tears of my ancestors.

Because, as much as I tried— I could never quite learn how to speak 75% West African, or master over 2,000 languages in the off-chance that I would reunite a diaspora.

Instead, it might’ve been easier for me to identify the original piece of a shattered glass plate, or predict the amount of suds produced from a bar of soap, and pass any other literacy test thrown my way. Osay iyay ustjay uckstay ithway igpay atinlay.

Don’t ask where I come from, because I’ll just say here, unless you can somehow point me to where, because my family tree has a few question marks. Even the most seasoned Gardners, Jacksons, and Frinks can only account for the 20th century limit to our pedigree. We come from guesses— educated ones.

Though I may crave a culture undisputed and intact, instead of a puzzle with half of the pieces floating in the Atlantic— I digress.

My culture has been pillaged, and beaten into submission, plucked like a leaf off of a tree before its prime, swept onto boats, and shackled, sharecropped and suffered and rotted in prison cells, beaten down, and built back up more times than the earth beneath our feet and then told to let it wash away like some bad dream.

Yet my culture prevails— rising to the top like leaves in the ocean, washed ashore and weaved into the fabric of this nation; It’s what John Henry hammered into the railroad tracks that America runs on. You might know it— It goes by “soul food,” “blues,” “jazz,” and “R&B” “hiphop,” “Harlem,” “folktales;” you’re hearing it as I speak.

But my family used culture to create our own language much different, and I might even argue, more eloquent than Pig Latin, or even English could hope to become. Something no linguist, polyglot, or etymologist could ever decode, because not all languages are spoken.

How else could you explain my 75 year old grandmother rallying 5 rowdy children with just a glance? What statistics could possibly quantify the way we cease our bickering and chuckle at my cousins’ neighbor in Memphis Tennessee, who swears that he saw Tupac strolling down Beale Street.

Spoken Word

I think I’m trilingual now, my first language was the hymns that I heard in church, my grandmother’s child-rearing glare, bonding over braids, and comparing conditioners, loving sweet potato pie, dreading washday, and not being able to imagine being born any different way. Then English, and then Pig Latin.

Brian Guan

song for a warrior on the last ship nowhere

In 1852, four hundred Chinese men, indentured to a Connecticut capitalist, were placed on a ship supposedly headed to California. Upon realizing they were being trafficked to the Peruvian Chincha Islands, the men mutinied, finally disembarking off the coast of Japan, where some 60 stranded died.

but, biao ge, is it a revolution if no one remembers? the way they’ve discarded our rhetoric, religion I can’t recall if I ever was holy. history burned in a white, half-life name. in the mirror, I recite mine thrice so I can calcify into an American.

biao ge, they treat us fine today, which means they do not think we are real. our hands churning a silicon machine, California tanned by American exceptionalism. which is to say that we’re still burning. chosen tokens of the free, fed only when we’re silent, exploited so Good they call us white, almost.

don’t you think it’s funny, how amorphous history becomes when its speaker denies its narrative? the Chinese Exclusion Act repealed mere years before my grandmother’s first breath; decades later, she watches on TV as her grandson’s president calls her people a virus. burning on ageless kerosene, biao ge, your exigence is unextinguished today. commodified and bruised, but we are still breathing. like the best of Americans, in tune with other marginalized groups, we need to fight for more.

yes, let them call us uncouth, political, loud: here, I declare my cause. from my ribs, I carve scarlet language so that bleeding, my words hold power

like you. booming like a battle cry for your kinsmen or home, so visceral you would have thought the sound was born from god. blazing like scavenged july 4th fireworks, not destiny manifest but an acute black hole.

how we reclaim our forebearer’s bones, mold them into temples. We, the people, subsidized for a national dream we didn’t sow, will not stop living, singing, seizing our voice.

I’ll give you that, biao ge, a prayer if not a tomb. buried foreign on Ishigaki Island, but cousin, I’ll sing you a vision of home.

paint my body at ten, floating through hot, urban decay. my last trip to china, a form of magic, the same as not real. visions of red bean, butchered mandarin, native colloquialisms covered in sesame ‘cause on the street, I’m eaten whole. the moon fills on zhong qiu jie and for a moment, I share your skin, biao ge for a moment, I believe in God.

biao ge - cousin

For further historical context, visit The Takao Club’s “The Robert Browne Story” (“The Robert Bowne Story.” The Takao Club, https:// takaoclub.com/bowne/index.htm.)

Spoken Word

Dublin High School Dublin, CA

Chelsea Guo

The Silver Screen

Breathing didn’t come naturally to me. When the midwife first held my choking body against her chest, she was the one to announce to Ma the bad news; there’s something unnatural about the pathways that snake into my lungs. I imagined my trachea wrapping around my larynx, pulling tight, muscle tissue fraying like a limp ribbon close to breaking. The midwife told Ma to watch me or I would suffocate.

Ma tells me this as her hands open a red pomegranate with practiced efficiency, pouring the small kernels into my lunchbox. Didn’t even have time to take a piss. You took ten years off my life.

Growing up, Ma says I cried like a demon; I could hear her tense up next to me at night, unable to fall asleep. One evening, I tried to hold my breath as long as I could, letting the pressure build in my head; I reached up to the ceiling, making squares and rectangles as dust motes twined around them. Silent as a ghost. Looking at Ma next to me, it seems like she slept lighter.

The apartment is small – cozy some of the time, insufficient most of the time. When Ma falls into place beside me in bed, she always sleeps as far away as she can, the blanket stretching taut around our polar bodies. I saw Ma putting in earplugs one evening, the little white buds disappearing into her ears. I imagined the lack of sound, how it might seem like static. The thought ushered me into sleep.

At 3 or 4 am in the morning, I felt her move close enough to wrap her arms around me, close enough that I am pressed deeply into her chest. I imagined being merely present, not feeling or breathing, an object to be cradled. Pressure builds around my body – I think of a pomegranate popping open, the white rind splitting down the middle.

I always told her I loved her back then; one of the few times I heard her cry was when I said things like that, her hands releasing to cradle her face. Years later, I realized that she was always tired – her throat raw from wrangling orders, her feet blistered, scraping against pleather, her body tired of listening to my cries.

Ma never stopped saying that she was lied to. She was cajoled into coming to America with me still curled up in her womb, when my biological father still existed in our lives. Where is the gold? The glamor? This is not the American dream.

Never mind that she didn’t leave the big city; she chose to stay where we were, picking up odd jobs and acting gigs that left the house vacant for hours at a time. After all, Ma is a beautiful woman – black hair snaking down her back, pouty red lips. Looking back on it, I guess she never actually gave up on that elusive dream.

I remember sitting on the staircase, watching her check her makeup in the mirror, dabbing the powder onto her face until it packed white – like dead skin stretched over a pale skeleton. A snap of the eyeshadow palette meant that she was leaving – the front door closing tight and ignorant.

It was the hardest part of my day; sometimes the hours would slow down to a minute crawl, and I found myself reaching into her cabinets. Red silk blouses, brown cashmere sweaters, discarded denim vests. I put them on – admiring how they looked on me. Red for Empress of China, cashmere for temptress on the streets of Milan, denim for country pop star on Madison Square Garden.

***

Daniel joined us suddenly, one evening – I was ten. He was sitting at the dinner table, in the position I would often find him in, chin propped on his hands, staring resolutely at the clock, as if

San Jose, CA

he were watching time slip by. No matter when I saw him, he had that expression.

Ma spent less time with me now that she had him. They seemed to fit together like two ill-fitting puzzle pieces that had worn down over time, so that if it wasn’t perfect, nobody could tell unless you got close enough. Her blonde hair against his olive skin – it was something out of a movie screen.

Apple of my eye, he called her, even though I knew she preferred pomegranates. Yet, she smiled at him through her curtain of hair, her head lying on his lap; it was the same look she sometimes gave me, heavy-lidded, like she had just woken up from a deep sleep. From the stairwell, I pretended it was me in his place.

Ma said that he would get her roles. I imagined him pulling roles out of his pants pocket, doling them out like candy to anyone who asked politely enough. What a gracious act. It seemed to me, that if I smiled well enough, set the table without asking, he could get my Ma those roles she so dearly sought.

Yet, it wasn’t Ma that got the roles . It was me.

“She cannot even breathe right,” Ma glared at me pointedly. “You expect her to act?”

“We won’t know until we try.” He shifted his gaze to me, and I swallowed. I wasn’t used to him addressing me directly. “And we need more child actors..Could you say these lines?” He pushed a stack of white paper towards me, asking me to find meaning between the scribbles of ink.

I don’t remember what they were, or whether I said them well, but it was satisfactory for Daniel. That was the night that everything changed.

***

“There’s nuance to saying the same words.” Daniel looks me over to see if I’m paying attention. “I want you to try this,” He points to a set of dialogue at the bottom of the page.

You lied to me. You lied to me.

I glance at the words, wondering if the scriptwriter had made a mistake and printed them double. Ma, who is in the midst of tidying up the kitchen, looks at me pointedly, gesturing at the pages in a shooing motion. I try the words once, letting them fall out like fish out of water, gasping for air as they lie choking on the pavement.

There is a long pause after this, and I wonder if the two of them are disappointed. Instead, he heaves a sigh that raises the hair on my neck. Ma doesn’t even bother to look anymore – she just keeps sweeping the floor.

“You need to feel it. Imagine you’re actually in this scenario. Someone’s betrayed you – how would you feel?” He’s looking at me expectantly.

“Upset?” I offer.

He nods, seemingly satisfied with this answer. I’d heard Lily say that her parents were actors – she was training to be one as well. She said it was just like riding a bike; one that brought us swarming around her, begging her to tell us more.

You want this don’t you? Ma had asked me last night. Yes. I thought. I want this more than anything.

Good girl, Ma said, although when she turned around, she looked anything but happy.

***

“Your first audition is going to be tomorrow,” Daniel tells me one evening. “I’ve already talked to the casting manager –you’re basically a shoo-in.”

Ma smiles happily at this news and they share a chaste kiss, necks tilting up to the sky, the light illuminating the curves of their bodies. I am happy too - but secretly. I hold this fact close

Short Story

Lynbrook High School

to my chest where something is blooming. Daniel chastises me to remember what he always says about acting.

Deep breaths. Use it to your advantage when showing emotion.

Acting is about embodying the emotion – not about pretending you’re someone else.

I do my best to save a spot in my mind for these reminders – but Ma had given me that look of love and told me how proud she was of me, and this seemed to take up most of that space. We’ve invested a lot of time in you, she says.

***

Daniel is gone as quick as he came.

He’d promised us that after my first five successful roles, it would only get easier. We believed him – until his promise vanished as quickly as he did. From six onward, it seemed that the roles dried up, leaving behind a bed of caked dirt and nothing else.

Ma broke the news quickly, like peeling off a band-aid. I got rid of him, she said one evening, after I came home from school and she had returned from wherever she went. I never saw him again after that, and I wondered what she’d done to make him disappear so seamlessly.

Even though she smiles at me sweetly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, something uncomfortable that I cannot name starts to carve its way into my chest. I think again of a pomegranate being opened, the rough skin that used to protect the precious red kernels inside, and how it’s so easily discarded.

Are you angry? Ma asks, reading the look of discomfort on my face. Don’t be angry. He was no longer useful to us.

I shake my head, because angry is not the right word for this. I am more upset. ***

Blue light spills out from a closed door and there’s music; it’s muffled, like blood oozing out from an open wound. When the door bursts open, we are free-falling into the tooloud music and the buzzing lights. Ma finds someone to look at, eyes half-lidded. She is soon gone, their bodies meshing in the sweaty room.

This is how she does it; she finds men who fall prey to her easy charms, the opulent diamonds on her wrist, the curve of her pomegranate lips. Being an actress has brought me another skill that I didn’t know existed before – I can tell when people are acting, and that’s what Ma is doing. She gets the men; I get the roles. That’s how we work.

What surprised me is how quickly “we” became me and Ma, the enigmatic duo. We went together to castings, she touched up my eyeliner as I practiced my lines. We got coffee together after a wrap – hand curved around a cup that may or may not have coffee in it, condensation tickling my fingers.

All our hard work paid off, she says. I’ve got everything I ever wanted. And I smile, because that’s what people do when they hear something like that. ***

The director is exactly the type that I try to steer clear of. He demands perfection to an irritating degree, but Ma’s dating him, so I have to obey. I push my nail into the plastic pomegranates and bananas even though I’m not supposed to, taking pleasure in the crescent-moon imprints I leave behind. (The camera won’t pick up on them, anyway.)

When we move on to the next scene, I am given a real pomegranate. It sits on the palm of my hand – I dig into it, feeling the spritzes of red juice run down my fingers. CUT. The director complains about something miniscule and I feel my temper flare, but I tamp it down. Like I said, I’m a good actor.

The director cuts the scene for the tenth time; Ma takes me aside to have a talk.

I need you to be more focused. I need to impress this director. Her hand is on my back, rubbing circles on my shoulders, acrylic nails digging into tender flesh. One half of the pomegranate is still in my hands – it’s trailing down my arm. For a second, I think it looks like blood - ruby red and raw, split open like a geode. Do you understand?

I taste red, spilling over my tongue, bitter in its acidity. I know just how to hitch my breath so that it sounds like I’m apologetic. Yes.

Good. I love you, she says. But I think we both know that she’s acting.

Addison Hill

Beaconbreak

CHAPTER ONE

Fletcher

There are seventeen windows in the brothel where Fletcher earns her keep.

Of those seventeen windows, eight are stained glass, tinted to hide the worst of Beaconbreak’s vices. Three bracket the parlor where women line up in the morning and share meager meals after lockup. Three more are boarded with plywood from last year’s cyclone season. Two are on opposite sides of the brickand-mortar building’s attic, spyglasses from one end of the island to the other. One is in Fletcher’s quarters.

Her view is unchanging: the South Pacific Ocean tide pulls up like marionettes, thick clouds skitter across the sky, grids of clotheslines flap in the tired wind. There’s only a pause in the grit and grime when she strikes the flint wheel of her lighter, a flame leaning to meet her prayer candle’s wick. The flame’s gradient reflection steals away from the inky night for as long as Fletcher stays on her knees at the altar beneath her window, one hand over her forehead and one hand over her mouth in traditional Albanonian prayer.

She has nothing left to give her god, not even her body. She’s already given that to too many people. Her body is no longer hers, reduced to a needle that heightens her client’s pleasures like bags of water in exchange for crumpled wads of cash that smell like shame.

In Beaconbreak, shame is currency. Only the fishermen and factory workers keep their dignity, and that’s with oil and fish guts on their overalls. Everyone else is lost to the slums, the brothels, the crushed-up pills, earning money in the only way they can.

For Fletcher, that means peddling herself to lousy, touchy clients for her survival. The talent at Birdie’s Cage all come from the same place. They curl up in the fetal position underneath a ratty blanket on the ground next to a rusty dumpster until Birdie Blanche herself finds them. Birdie prunes and adopts, feeds and shapes, transforming shivering skeletons of girls into her birds. Her aviary of prostitutes, tamed to her liking.

The dinner bell tolls downstairs, a hollow noise to signify a hollow meal. Yesterday, it was cherry brandy and leathery chicken breast. Today, judging from the smell coming through the vents, it’s soup that’s more broth than anything else. Fletcher pulls her thin black hair into a loose ponytail, and slips down into the parlor.

A haze of cigarette smoke and smog hangs downstairs. Floral wallpaper peels up around an imposing fireplace that still has ash from last winter in the hearth. Clay birds perch on the mantle, one for each of the girls in the cage. The murmurings of those girls linger in the sticky air, their spoons already scraping against porcelain dishware. They don’t pray before dinner, and if they do, it’s not attached to any deity. It’s certainly not attached to Albanon. It’s just mutterings shot into the darkness, an appeal that one day they’ll wake up anywhere other than Birdie’s Cage or the shithole island it belongs to.

Leonne, the peacock, is talking to Bonnie, the goldfinch, about a market on Backwash Bay that sells candles that smell like your soulmate. They’re two of the newer girls who still believe they’ll be wanted by anyone or anything by the time they can afford to buy themselves out of this place. Fletcher knows better, having been around the longest.

She thumbs a fragment of aqua sea glass in her pocket and fishes for the scarce red lentils floating in her soup. Only Maia, who’s still so new that she hasn’t been assigned any clients

or a bird, bothers trying to strike up conversation with Fletcher. “Is that from Backwash Bay or the harbor?” Maia asks, leaning over Fletcher’s shoulder.

“Backwash” is all Fletcher says before pocketing the glass and tunneling back into her suit. Maia gives an overenthusiastic nod. In time, Maia will stop being curious, will stop asking her meaningless questions. She’ll learn that Fletcher is Birdie’s swan and everyone else is just Birdie’s birds . She should take a step back, start spending her afternoons off wondering how she can expand her clientele instead of wondering how she can break into Fletcher’s circle which is really more of a straight line.

Fletcher tilts her bowl to her lips, draining it until only residue remains. She makes meticulous work of unfolding the napkin crane next to her goblet and uses it to pat her lips dry. The rest of the birds still peck at their meals, the parlor filled by the racket of utensils meeting chipped porcelain.

A renewed gust of wind rasps through the crack in one of the windows, blowing some of Leonne’s cigarette smoke into Fletcher’s face. They’ve started singing sea shanties now, rocking back and forth in their rickety wooden chairs. Fletcher scoops her utensils into her empty bowl and narrowly dodges Maia swaying into her. She makes her way to the tiny kitchenette and sponges her dishware clean, her hair hanging in lousy stands around her face.

It’s quiet, too quiet, except for one room, filled with raucous, out-of-tune singing of the girls and their crashing footsteps. The rest of the brothel is still, as if waiting to breathe until told. “All right, that’s enough.” Birdie’s voice, honey-smooth even with her age, strokes the girls into obedience. Birdie knocks at the doorframe of the parlor, and Fletcher can picture her waving them up to their quarters. “It’s an early start tomorrow, songbirds.” That’s all Birdie has to say for them to stampede into the kitchenette, half-smoked cigarettes hanging out of their lips, piles of dishes jumbled together in their arms.

Combined, they make quick work of the dishes – soaping, scrubbing, rinsing. Just when Fletcher is about to slip upstairs to the firm mattress on her floor, Birdie holds up a slender hand and makes a come hither motion. “You stay.”

They stand there in familiar silence, the bird and her falconer, as the footsteps fade. Fletcher sinks into the plush wingback chair, arms propped up on her knees as she leans forward.

The interaction is ritualistic yet unorthodox in all the ways that matter. Like always, she passes Fletcher a wine-flavored cigarette and gives her a light. Birdie has her own pack, cinnamon, that she plucks one from, slotting it between her thin lips and sucking down a drag of smoke. Birdie can never bring herself to sit down while talking business.

The Street of Lights, Beaconbreak’s pleasure district, isn’t designed for those who look up to their competition.

“You wanted to talk,” Fletcher says, gesturing at Birdie as she twirls her cigarette in her hand. “Talk.”

Birdie strides along the walls of the room, a hexagon around Fletcher. She runs her sharp, claw-like nails along the butt of her smoke. “They’re looking for you.”

Fermented-tasting smoke forms a tangled vineyard in Fletcher’s lungs when she takes a drag. “They always have, and they’ll keep looking.”

Birdie shakes her head in disapproval, eyes slitted.

“Albanon’s Order has not been kind to you, my swan.”

Neither have you, Fletcher wants to say. She might be the eye candy that Birdie brings along to her business meetings, the most sought-after girl in the cage, and the one everyone suspects

Birdie will choose as her heir, but none of that cancels out all of the times she’d been taken advantage of for Birdie’s benefit.

Fletcher seals her lips tight around her cigarette.

“Helena isn’t a woman who stops until she has what she wants,” Birdie says. “And she wants you. Her watchdogs have been crawling the street, more than usual.”

Albanon’s most popular prophet, Helena Osborne, is not known for being merciful. Growing up in the order itself, Fletcher saw it all.

“The last thing I need is for my cage to get dragged back into Albanonian affairs.” Birdie halts in front of Fletcher’s seat and yanks up her shirtsleeve, revealing the work of faded powder and color corrector. Markings, thirteen tallies on the inside of Fletcher’s wrist. She jabs her finger over the tattoo. “This is a liability. It was a liability when I took you in and it’ll keep being a liability.”

Fletcher doesn’t even try making a move to draw her arm back. It’s been clear from the start that what Birdie wants is ownership over her swan. “You haven’t given up on me.”

Birdie strokes the inside of her wrist, trailing a razor-sharp nail along the inked skin. “You’re the best I’ve got, little swan.” She never once shifts her gaze from Fletcher’s tar black eyes, eyes so dark that she’d been told they could swallow people whole. Birdie, though, knows how to float, most often at the expense of others.

Fletcher tips her head at her. “You didn’t keep me to tell me Helena is breathing down my neck, did you?”

“Smart girl.” Birdie lets Fletcher’s arm slip from her hold; it folds like origami in her lap. “In the interest of the cage, my swan, I’m limiting your clients until further notice. The wrong person sees that tattoo of yours and you go right back where you came from.”

Fletcher’s mouth caves to an imperceptible twitch, and her fingers curl.

There’s always been a timeline on this — Birdie’s possession over Fletcher, her body, her life. The moment Fletcher gets enough money to buy her way out of Beaconbreak, she’ll be boarding the first cargo ship she spots and drifting away to Fiji or Indonesia or Australia or anywhere but the damned island she was born on. Since the bird call of Fletcher’s presence, all velvety chemises over soft skin and ruffled feathers, became landed in the cage, business has boomed more than ever.

Fletcher should’ve known Birdie wouldn’t let her go so easily, with or without Helena lurking in these alleyways and their gutters.

Jawline sharper than a blade, Fletcher says, “It’s nothing, Birdie. She’ll crawl back underneath whatever Backwash rock she belongs under the minute after Recovery Day passes.”

“It isn’t worth the risk, and you know that. What’ll become of you if Helena finds you, little swan?”

Fletcher already knows the answer. Helena finds her in every nightmare, somewhere between when her head hits her flat pillow and when she wakes up gasping for air, clawing at the brick walls so hard she breaks nails. It’s always blood flicking from the sharpened blade of an ax, split skin and cracked skulls. She averts her gaze from Birdie.

“Thought so,” Birdie says, brushing Fletcher’s cheek with the back of her hand. “Go wash up. And re-dye your hair – I’m starting to see your roots.”

Fletcher only nods and rises from the chair, drawing her ponytail tight enough for it to tug at the base of her neck. There’s no use in convincing Birdie to throw her anything more than bone in the form of a greasy client. There never has been.

If she listens closely enough as she treads up the stairs and tunes out the rest of the noise in her head and the drunken hollering of tourists, she can hear the South Pacific Ocean mauling the coastline.

Being put on this island was the first thing to ever happen to her, and she’ll be damned if getting off of it isn’t the last.

CHAPTER TWO Gillian

“We shouldn’t be here,” Gillian says.

Here is the underground network of tunnels she’d only become aware of five minutes ago, a reticulum below the barbs of Beaconbreak’s slanted streets and rooftops. She hovers with one foot above the dusty ground, fingers still clutching the rungs of a rust-eaten ladder.

Ripp doesn’t respond to her, only stares with a bland look as he raises his brows. “I didn’t come all the way out to Stackside for you to chook out, Gills.”

“I’m not ‘chooking out’.” Gillian makes no move to step off the ladder. The ground below is a junkyard of litter, crushed Styrofoam cups, shredded receipts, and needles galore. It’s a far cry from her comfort zone of early bedtimes and making skewedeyed sock puppets to entertain the child population of Albanon’s Order.

“Sure you aren’t,” RIpp says. He waves his flashlight across her body, which clings to the ladder in the way a koala hugs a tree. Her baggy cardigan slips off of one shoulder, and some of the yarn snags onto the closest rung. “What’s this, then?”

Gillian wrinkles her nose at him and finally drops the rest of the way down, flicking droplets from puddles of day old rainwater. “It’s called not breaking curfew.”

“What’s this, then?” Ripp repeats with a lazy smile.

“An outlier.” Gillian smacks her flashlight against her palm until it fills the rest of the tunnel. Pipes run horizontally along the brick walls. A stray moth flaps by, vanishing through a gap in a pyramid of cardboard boxes. There’s the faint dripdripdrip of water from the distance. “Is this even… safe?”

Another blank look from Ripp, as if to say, ‘really ?’

“Nothing on this island is.”

“Albanon Above,” Gillian mumbles into the heel of her palm. “I should never go anywhere with you again.”

“I’m playing with you,” Ripp nudges her as they start the walk down the tunnel. “These are technically the order’s transport tunnels. I’ve been here, like, a thousand times. Same as your aunt, back when they still used these things. Best view of the night sky on this side of the pond. For someone who lives in the damn building, you sure don’t know anything about it.”

Gillian swallows to pop the bubble of hurt that rises all too fast in her throat. Aunt Elizabeth might isolate her from the order’s innerworkings, but she likes to think she knows enough. She knows the names of all the kiddos that bumble around Topknot, the order’s base nestled on the highest point of Beaconbreak. She is aware of what recipes make the best offerings for Albanon when she needs him to brighten her day, and she is always welcome at the front of service while Helena and Elizabeth exchange blessings.

Gillian shines a beam of light from her flashlight around the tunnel. “I’ll have to tell her to clean up the place.” She follows after Ripp.

“These used to be old service tunnels,” Ripp says, splashing his way through the puddles that are almost too thick to be puddles. Gillian keeps close behind him, curling and uncurling her fists in the sleeves of her cardigan. “Back when things were just getting started. Hence why nobody really remembers them. Or cares to try.”

She rarely thinks of Beaconbreak in its earlier days. She knows it was lost, like a paper boat set off course, scarcely populated and left alone until Albanon grew it from nothing, his invisible hand hovering over Helena’s shoulders. The very deity meant to signify destruction and remorse is the same one who instilled purpose within all of them from the very beginning. Beaconbreak may be dirty, but it’s everything Albanon wants it to be. That’s why Gillian’s eyes water only a little during the rare times she steps out into the hazy streets, bookended by smokestacks and strays.

Ripp’s eyes never water. He floats on a houseboat on the harbor that she’s never seen, waking up and falling asleep to

the white-capped lullaby of the waves. He fishes for his father during the day, and is always where he shouldn’t be during the night. He smells of sea salt and linens, far from the pomegranates of Topknot or the reeking sex of the Street of Lights. He’s a Beaconian, born and raised, and one of the few that still has his self-respect.

They move down a greasy ramp made of unevenly poured gravel, the kind that jabs through the soles of their shoes and makes them scuttle just that much faster to the end. Footslogging through the muck, Gillian bats mosquitoes away from her scruffy red curls.

Ripp claps one in his hands, bug guts smear across his calloused hands, its crooked legs intersecting with his palm lines.

“Almost there,” he says, ducking underneath a bent pipe. Glass crunches underneath Gillian’s sneakers, and she cringes.

It’s when they reach a fork darker than the rest of the tunnels that Gillian starts, “Are you sure– ”

“Positive.” He faces her, walking backwards into the abyss as he throws his arms out. No bats swoop down to bite off his nose, no phantoms seize him. Dark curls rake across his forehead. His lips are pried open in a conspiratorial grin. “Wanna see the stars or not, Gills?”

Truthfully, she’s never seen them. Not in the way they’re intended to be seen, blazing on black. From her view at Topknot through a slender window, she’s only seen the trash fires lit by cigarettes thrown out before they were put out.

She thinks it’s easier for him to want more. He can see what’s beyond the surf.

“Yeah,” Gillian says. “I do.” Ripp snaps his fingers and turns. She gnaws on the inside of her cheek as she sploshes after him, the smell of dust and mildew only getting heavier.

After another right turn and a half, Ripp’s footsteps slow and his lips pinch.

“What?” Gillian follows his line of sight to a heap of crates settled across the path. They’re covered by a dusty, white sheet that’s slashed in a few places. The stockpile, whatever it is, looks as big as an average city block, extending down the length of the cramped tunnel. Behind it, Gillian can see glimpses of the night sky through a hole in the crumbling wall.

“That wasn’t there a few weeks ago,” Ripp says, slowly pointing at the crates.

Gillian gives him a sidelong glance, holding her satchel to her side. “I thought these tunnels were unused.” Ripp only half-shrugs at her as he steps towards them. “So did I.” He takes his flashlight between his teeth and raises himself onto the crates

“Wait,” Gillian tries, reaching out and walking back at the same time. “Let’s think this through. We don’t know what’s in there, who it belongs to–” It’s no use. He’s already halfway up the stack, pulling himself up box after box. Gillian grips her flashlight tighter.

Ripp waves a hand, mumbling around his flashlight, “It’s fine. Just gotta–” He grunts. “move this out of the way…” He’s on all fours now, ramming his shoulder into the crate at the summit. All of the strength that he puts into reeling in fish goes towards moving it. “Almost got it,” he huffs out a breath.

Once more, he forces his shoulder against the crate, except it doesn’t just move out of the way. It topples down the rest of the stack and hits the ground with a crash that echoes throughout the tunnel systems. A plume of dust floats up from the crates and the sheet that covered them. Gillian flinches as Ripp falls backward, propping himself up on his elbows.

“See?” He gestures at the shine of the stars through the wall, but that isn’t what Gillian’s looking at. “You have no faith in me – I got it.”

No, she’s looking at the sticks of dynamite emptied from the crate.

“Ripp?” she says, voice breaking as she staggers back into the wall behind her. Her head falls against the bricks and her ears start ringing.

Skinny fuses hang from the mouths of the sticks of dynamite, strewn across the concrete.

Ripp rolls over, his flashlight falling from his open mouth and shutting off the second it hits the ground. The tunnel grows darker. Gillian’s own flashlight is heavy in her hand. She down stares down at the crate, which is busted and faded by dust, stamped lettering blurred into the wood grain.

“Shit,” he says a little breathlessly, as he climbs down the remaining stack. He crouches at the edge and overlooks the spilled crate. The familiar dripdripdrip continues, but it sounds closer now. “Is that real?”

Gillian’s voice is strained. “It can’t be, right? Why would it be? It can’t be.”

Ripp stands fully upright, balancing on the lowest level of crates as he shucks off the sheet covering the rest of the pyramid. With the dust rising from the stack, Gillian can already envision it. An explosion, ropes of fire chewing through ashy land, sparks twirling in the drafts of wind. He casts the sheet to the side and cracks open the first crate.

More dynamite.

Ripp wets his lips as he leans back, pushing up his sleeves. She steps forward, but her toe doesn’t have the time to hit the ground.

“Careful,” Ripp’s arm darts out to stop her from getting any closer, as if one spark wouldn’t collapse a fourth of the island in a heartbeat. Gillian feels it, now, lungs throbbing and eyes watering from everything but the smoke that carries through every inch of this forsaken island. She casts herself against the wall again, hand wrapped around the pipe the same way it’d held the ladder on the way down.

Head hung, that’s when she sees more of the words on the crate, punched-on, blocky lettering: Stackside A. She tips her gaze up and finds that the rest of the boxes are labeled the same — Stackside B, C, D.

“There’s more of these tunnels? Right?” Gillian asks, gnawing at the side of her cheek. “Out by Backwash and Fisheye?”

“More than that,” he says with a slow nod. “But yes, that’s the gist of it.” He sighs.

“Do you think…” She doesn’t have to finish the question for him to nod again.

Gillian grips the pipe even tighter, until the rust that’s already flaking off has welded to her palm. She feels cold, colder than she should be in her wool cardigan in the middle of a summer night. It’s the sort of cold that treats her body like a maypole, wrapping around, around, and around her body. They unravel faster than a whip when she blurts out, “It’s just the order who has access to these, right?”

Ripp’s face sets. “The order and anyone who lives on the harbor…” He trails off, eyes flitting to her. Gillian’s nose burns, and this time, it isn’t from the wet-cotton smoke that incessantly dampens the island.

The dynamite, red and angry, stares back at her. Mariners and harbourmasters couldn’t afford what was in the crates in front of them. Not with their salaries.

“Gills–” Ripp tries as her hand slips from the pipe, the hollow twang of metal thrumming in her wake. “It’s probably nothing.” He’s quiet, throat bobbing behind the words.

Dripdripdrip

Gillian wouldn’t have noticed her hand shaking if not for the shuddering of her flashlight. Wind scrapes the crates on the way in and stirs the discarded white sheet. She smooths her hands down her sides and shakes them out. “How much dynamite does it take to blow up an island?”

“A lot – Gillian, you have to realize how crazy this sounds–” She throws her hands out towards the crates still piled up against the wall. “Is it? I mean, we’re looking right at it.” The stars she was meant to see are dwarfed by the pitter-patter of her heart.

Albanon has always been something of a destroyer. His commandments never avoided destruction. Their god is a vengeful god, but he is no liar. And Albanon was not lying when he said, “and one day, I shall bring upon the world what the world once brought upon me.”

She barely manages to talk over her pulse in her throat. “It’s in his commandments — one of the seventeen fouls — that this island will darken.”

“But he never said when,” Ripp finishes for her.

Pain builds in her heart; her skin itches underneath the confines of her cardigan. She shouldn’t even be thinking of this, not when Albanon wants the best for her. The world is already damned past saving, and if Albanon rules that things would be better off without it, then he’s right.

“It is,” Gillian says after a moment, chest wound as tight as her thoughts. Ripp cocks his head at her, and she adds, “Probably nothing.”

Ripp bends down and cautiously scoops the flashlight into his palms as if it’s a wounded baby bird. “We have to pick it up,” he says, flicking his flashlight back on and waving it in the direction of the spilled dynamite. “In case they come back here.”

Gillian flinches at the insinuation. Long forgotten are the stars and the spotlight of the moon. There will be no meteor showers or aurora borealis; there’s only ever been a black hole, and it’s sucking her in the more she looks at what’s on the ground.

“I can handle it.” Ripp sidles past her with a pat to her shoulder. He builds a house with the dynamite in a way, stacking them together like bricks before slamming the crate shut. With him hauling it up to the top of the stack and sputtering curses, she’s sure that splinters have speared his skin. She’ll have to pick them out later with his fishing pliers and pretend that neither of them know where they came from.

“Okay.” He hops down from the stack while dusting off his hands on his jeans. They both look to the sheet, a wrinkled mass on the greasy tunnel bricks.

Gillian tucks her upper lip between her teeth. “Put it back,” she says. “Just… just put it back.”

Ripp moves slowly, grabbing the sheet, shaking it out. The dust frees itself. He strings the sheet up the same way Gillian’s seen him float buoys through the harbor: with a stable hand in tumultuous conditions. He shuffles back to her side, a silent question in his eyes.

“What?” she asks, brows furrowed.

With a sigh, Ripp meets her eyes. “How much do you actually know about the order?”

Gillian strokes the sleeves of her cardigan, stomach tingling. “I… well, it’s all for Albanon. It’s always for Albanon.”

He only shakes his head and turns around. “Let’s go.”

The walk back to the harbor is silent, and Gillian can’t see a single star in the sky.

CHAPTER THREE Gillian

In the dining hall, someone drops a plate. During service, a power surge makes the lights flicker. While Gillian performs a spooky puppet show, a kid lets out an ear-piercing scream. Every time, she braces for impact. Suddenly engaged in a game of tug of war, she’s the rope pulled taut between sides. She awaits the explosion, the rubble that will bury her body. It doesn’t come.

It’s been three days since the tunnels, and she’s hardly slept. On the first night, she flipped through Aunt Elizabeth’s magazines. On the second, she reorganized her seashell collection twice (once by color, and once by size). On the third, she simply stared at the ceiling, belly-up like a beached whale.

With half the night burnt away, Gillian tells herself that all she has to do is prove herself wrong. She laces up her beaten-up sneakers, zips up her baby blue jacket, and slips a magazine in the window to keep it cracked open behind her. Elizabeth is gone more often than not these days, off spreading Albanon’s way in the more condemnable alcoves of Beaconbreak. Usually, she mourns the absence of her aunt, but tonight, it makes slipping onto Topknot’s roof and using the gutter like a firepole all the easier.

The light from the neon signage rolls over Gillian from one end of the island to the other. Slanted buildings, full of crooked

windows, squeeze the thin streets; scaffolding leans on the new properties. Buskers are on every corner with guitars in their laps or standing still, their skin painted gold as they pretend to be statues. There are no cars on an island this small, but it still stinks of exhaust. She dodges swearing, drunken pedestrians all the way to the harbor, where the neon only fades a little bit. It leaves nothing except for the flapping of fishing nets and patter of the tide on the docks.

There’s a spot below the dock, nestled just underneath a rotting plank of wood, that should be oozing clay. Instead, it’s the ladder down into the tunnels.

Gillian doesn’t hesitate to climb down it this time. The tunnel is more familiar now, the bricks still greasy with algae and mosquitoes still nipping at her. She fishes from her pocket the crinkled map of Beaconbreak she’s had since she was a child. North is Stackside, but that isn’t where she’s going. She’s going east, below the underbelly, to the Street of Lights itself.

There won’t be dynamite there. She might as well have dreamed up the events of three nights ago in her head. Again, all she needs to do is prove herself wrong.

Gillian, used to the slime that clings to her sneakers, makes quick work of setting out to do so. Fear prickles the back of her neck, so much so that when a bunch of moths flutter out of the grooves in the pipes, Gillian whips around so fast she almost drops her flashlight. The further east she goes, the tighter the tunnels get, tapering until she gets to another ladder.

She steadies her breathing and goes up onto her tip-toes to haul herself up onto the first rung. With the flashlight notched between her lips like Ripp had done, she cranes her neck to get a glimpse of what’s next.

The pit in her stomach tells her to expect an explosion, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, it’s only a woman, ghostlike in the most tormented of ways. She’s just a stretch of white, pale skin against the gloomy backdrop of the tunnel. The sole exception is the black braid on her shoulder. Her white coat, fitted to her lithe figure and lined with swan feathers, brushes the ground with each breath she takes. Dark eyes flit from Gillian’s gunk-smeared sneakers to her frizzed-out hair.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the woman says, voice slow and rough and almost familiar. Her boots stick to the filth on the ground but she keeps moving until she’s looking down at Gillian’s bug-eyed, flushed face. For a moment, Gillian expects the woman to slam the toe of her boot into her fingers until they crack and give, sending her toppling off the ladder. Instead, she rolls up her sleeves and lowers a slender hand in silent offering.

Her heart thudding dully in her chest, Gillian swallows down the lump in her throat as she looks up at the extended hand. She moves her flashlight into her free hand. “I… I swear I was just looking around. I was bored.” It isn’t the truth, but Beaconbreak isn’t for honest people. “I don’t mean any trouble. I’ll go.” Gillian drops down a rung, rust catching at the lines of her palms.

The woman hooks a finger around the collar of Gillian’s jacket and pulls her up. She’s stronger than she looks and can haul Gillian to the next level without so much as breaking a sweat. Gillian shimmies over to the wall then jams her hands under her armpits as she hugs herself.

Up close, she can see more of her. The web of red splotches tinting her neck, the pearl earrings in her ears, the specks of dirt on her showy coat. Her roots are the faintest platinum blonde as if someone kept trying and failing to dye it fully. There are creases between her furrowed brows that remind Gillian of something, of someone, and her gasoline eyes are just calling for a match.

Gillian huffs out a breathless laugh when she sees it, that trickle of recognition. She shakes her head, trying to take another step back, even if she only finds more bricks. “You’re dead.”

“More or less,” she says with a shrug. “Helena tried.”

Gillian leans against the pipe next to her, blinking rapidly and then squeezing her eyes so tight that she sees faraway galaxies in the back of her eyelids. She feels dizzy enough that her

knees might buckle. “No, no, no. You’re dead. She said you didn’t make it. You didn’t make it.” Gillian staggers forward, thumping her fists against the woman’s collarbone. “You’re not a god , Harper.”

Her jaw ticks. “I’m not. And it’s Fletcher now.”

Harper — Fletcher, apparently — used to be a regular at Topknot. She was the twelfth child of Albanon, a death sentence. His Fouls have always said that seventeen children are to be bestowed upon Helena and that one of them is his vessel. The ones who aren’t vessels die during the attempted transformation on Recovery Day, a process that only Helena knows and nobody comes back from. The rules are simple: once Albanon gets his vessel, he ends the world and all the suffering that comes with it.

It’s been four years since Fletcher’s Recovery Day and four years since she vanished from Topknot’s ever-winding hallways. It seems she replaced them with the ever-winding tunnels below the city.

Gillian had only ever seen her in passing, apart from that one time she’d given Fletcher a batch of cookies she’d been baking. Fletcher was always too busy training to be a good vessel for Albanon; there wasn’t time for anything else, something that everyone at Topknot respected.

“Nobody survives that, Fletcher. Helena – she’s always said… it rips you apart. You’re either a liar or a miracle.”

“Here, those are the same thing.” Fletcher says. “Besides, if I told you what happened on my Recovery Day, you wouldn’t believe me. You’d just run back to Elizabeth and bawl to her about what I’ve been up to for the past four years. I’m a liar and a miracle either way.”

Gillian sways, putting some distance between herself and Fletcher. She only recalls the dynamite when she’s already asking, “What’s with all the dynamite under Stackside? Is it for the order?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. It’s something Helena would do.”

“You think… she’s going to… destroy this place?”

“Again, something she’d do. Recovery Day is fast approaching. It’d make quite the celebration.” Fletcher licks her lips and swats a mosquito off of her shoulder. Her lips are pinched into a thin line, her makeup smeared.

Quite the celebration. She sees the explosions against the oxblood-dyed banners, the streets cracking and buildings pitching. She sees a version of herself that can’t tell the difference between confetti and ash. She sees Helena – Helena baking bread in her sundresses, Helena leading service, Helena tucking her into bed when Elizabeth is gone, Helena who wouldn’t do any of that.

“Helena’s a good person,” Gillian says. “She takes care of us. She took care of you, too. You should feel bad, after all she’s done for you.”

Fletcher kicks a stray plastic bottle out of her way. “I do.”

“Does she even know you’re alive?” Gillian asks.

“She doesn’t have to – it wouldn’t change a damn thing.” Fletcher runs a hand back through her hair and shucks off her coat, tossing it over her shoulder. “I’m leaving this shithole, and if you’re smart, so will you.”

Gillian’s nose wrinkles. “You can’t do that.”

Charlie Hill

Design St Mark’s School of Texas Dallas, TX

Untitled Wood, leather 2022

Eloise Hill

The Smoke of My Mother’s Sons

1. Joseph

Joseph takes the first shift at around six in the morning, driving east on I-20 toward D.C. I see his eyes in the side view mirror, and they blend in with the gray blue sky outside the window. It’s his favorite kind of weather, the stratus clouds sinking right into your bones. The slight breeze and the humidity wrap around you like a rain jacket as you come indoors from a storm. Sometimes I don’t understand my brother.

We make it to Florence, and Joe pulls into Buckee’s. My dad always laughs and says that turning a gas station into an attraction is a purely American phenomenon. There are way too many people here, or maybe there are too many Buckee’s pajama pants and Buckee’s tiny bikinis and Buckee’s rainbow heart necklaces and Buckee’s pickled quail eggs. Joe loses me in the crowd for a bit, but he finds me right before we check out with our breakfast sandwiches.

Outside, he asks me to take his bandana out of his North Face backpack. I reach into the backseat, slinging the forest green bag into my lap. He starts the truck up, and I stumble on a pack of Marlboros while going through the bag. He must have known I was going to find them.

“So, you started smoking?” I ask, and he goes on about how the risks don’t mean anything to him. They don’t mean anything to me either. I wonder if he really isn’t as calm and carefree as I thought he was. Through the cardboard box, I smell the dried tobacco. I don’t think I like the smell.

I tune out the Bon Iver and say something that I’m not quite sure I can get out, but I know I have to; it has been bottled up for too long. Something about being on a nine-hour road trip makes me talk about anything and everything.

“Do you ever wonder why Dad never told us the whole truth when we were little? And like now, are Mom and Dad ever going to trust us with the things that matter? He sat us down to tell ‘the truth’ but there is a big difference between ‘your mother is mentally ill,’ and ‘your mother is hearing voices and is going through a psychotic break.’ And you know I was in elementary school, I wouldn’t have really known what psychosis actually meant for her and us. But God, I’m sixteen now, you’re eighteen, and I want to know what sent my mom into a fight for her life and sanity.” I say it all in a rush.

“I don’t know, Ellie. I think Dad isn’t used to being able to tell us things. It’s not easy to drag in all that stuff from the past.” I nod and we talk about how much we love the Big Thief song that just came on. We don’t just have to talk about our family, most of the time we’d rather talk about anything else.

Near dinner time, as the sun finishes setting, we stop at another gas station. We still have a couple of hours until we get to our aunt and uncle’s house. I fill up the tank of my dad’s white Nissan truck and look up to realize that I’ve lost Joe. Something starts squirming in my stomach. When I shut and lock the driver’s door to the truck, I stare at a frozen patch of grass in the distance. I can just see the outline of Joe’s rambunctious curls and the red light at the end of a cigarette. I sip my coffee and burn my tongue. I won’t be able to taste anything for the rest of the night.

Before this trip, I thought Joe might be the perfect son. The grades, the friends, the sports, the ambition, the willpower. But Joe slowly walks back under the overhead light of the Exxon, and there is darkness behind his eyes. He hops in the passenger seat and takes a sip of my coffee.

While I drive, the dark sky glows above the city and the interstate. Off to the side of the road, where the trees spill into

the heavens, there is no clear line between the earth and what’s above. The trees and the sky and the roads all merge into one pulsing thing that is probably alive.

2. Isaac

“Do you even remember when she was sick?” Isaac asks me one Sunday afternoon as we slowly eat our Bojangles for lunch in our mom’s Honda Pilot next to some random field.

“I really only have just three or four main memories from elementary school. But all the memories, the ones I keep coming back to, they have to do with her. Do you remember anything?” I ask, smearing the grease from my mouth.

“I remember most of it. I guess you were younger than the rest of us. It probably affected you more. You were so small, and it was traumatic. Sometimes your brain can’t quite comprehend stuff like that.” I don’t believe Isaac when he says this. None of it was traumatic. Other kids I know go through stuff like that all the time.

He tells me the one thing that I am most anxious about: I carry a heavier weight than the other children I know.

But I think to myself: I might be more fucked up then everyone else, but I’m just as fucked up as him.

I cling to the familiar place in my heart where my brothers and I are similar. I cannot be the only one affected. But most of all, I just want to not feel like myself.

The smell of wildflowers and grasses makes my nose run a little and I recall the smell of burning incense across the hall in Isaac’s room. I sometimes wished I didn’t know my brother as well as I did. Isaac told me that he used the smell of sandalwood to cover up the weed. I nodded like this wasn’t a big deal, and because I wanted to be older than I was, I asked where he had it. I think I’m glad he didn’t tell me. The same earthy scent floats around us as Isaac and I drink sweet tea from Styrofoam cups in the Honda.

Six months later, in his tapestry covered room, my mom finds Isaac’s old pen in the deep corner of a desk drawer. He’s gone off to college, and I’m home on break from the boarding school he just graduated from. This is the second time my mom’s found my brother’s stash, and I can feel hopelessness radiating from her. She doesn’t know how to help him. All she can do is warn me: “Please, just don’t ever let yourself become dependent on anything.” It is a plea, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that it is too late. I smoked weed for the first time a month after moving into boarding school. And that day, I felt like there was motion all around me, and that motion was the shadow of my brother.

3. Jack

I watch the smoke rise from the burning logs high into the sky, making the stars look a little hazier above my backyard. Jack sits across from me in a metal chair. When I look at Jack, I have to squint through the smoke, and he seems a little blurry all the sudden.

I try to think of a question to ask him about college. Every time I bring up his internship for the aerospace professor, I get a little lost. Instead, I ask him if he is planning any rock climbing trips.

“I’m trying to take a group out to Kentucky and do some bouldering there. I’ve got about five people signed up so far.” I give a little “Oh, fun,” in response and don’t have anything else to say.

Creative Nonficton

Jack’s dingy black Nike running shoes have holes in the sole and rips in the polyester. His refusal to get new shoes bothers our parents, but I smile every time I think about it. I see the same half-joking petty sense of stubbornness in myself. He’s had the sneakers four years, since his freshman year of college.

Jack moved out for school when I was in 7th grade, and something about the calm of the house in his absence made it feel less like our home. He wasn’t fourteen anymore, trying to convince all the siblings to help him build a catapult. I wasn’t nine anymore, trying to copy everything my brothers did and said. But now he’s three feet away from me, and I don’t have a single thing to say to him. It’s not like I don’t know who he is, but I just can’t wrap my head around who we are together. What do siblings look like 104 miles away from each other? What does it look like when we finally see each other after months apart? And what happens when this smoke gets too thick between us, and we can’t see each other at all?

4. Joseph, Isaac, and Jack

An orange haze fogs up the backyard as smoke embers rise from the old gas barrel and fly off into the setting sun. I can see my mom’s friends through the back door window, and they are looking down at the ancient red sofa, just out of sight. My mom lays there, probably telling them something I’ll never hear.

Joseph, Isaac, Jack, and I play in the yard. Isaac is up in the treehouse, lying in the hammock that sways in the invisible breeze. It isn’t really much of a treehouse, more just a platform between trees that we built a couple of years ago out of Jack’s old astronaut-themed loft bed.

The rest of us gather around the hose. We push it deeper and deeper into the ground as the water pressure pushes the sandy soil away. Eventually, we bury it about six feet into the ground before realizing that the soil at the top has hardened, and we won’t be able to pull the hose back up.

“Wait, is it gonna—is it gonna come out?! Okay—well I’m not going in to tell dad,” Joe says.

“Ellie, why don’t you just go in. They won’t care,” Jack said. Jack was wrong. They did care. We ended up having to cut off the six feet of hose. Somewhere in the middle of Lexington, South Carolina, right behind the old high school, is a buried bit of hose that will never see the light of day. Sometimes I just sit and think about that and wonder whether the green bit of polyester is gonna fossilize down there.

Later in the evening, the last bit of wood burns into ash and floats into the sky to dance among the stars. A white and cloudy and nostalgic light falls over my brothers and I as we swing our legs off the edge of the treehouse and stare into neighbors’ yards.

Her friends are still over. We are told to keep out of sight for a little while or just stay quiet in our rooms. I have a book outside, the second Harry Potter, but the outdoor light and small fire aren’t bright enough to see the page anymore.

I watch the outline of my dad fill the back door. He cracks it open and yells out that we can come back in if we want. I breathe in the night air and try not to inhale the gnats that fly all around the four of us. After I climb down from the ladder, I stay in the yard for a little bit to watch the last of the fire. The old oil barrel has been out here for years, so long that it has small holes and the rim of it is corroded with rust. Little cracks in the metal open into wider unanswered holes of what my mother told her friends. I look over at Jack.

I don’t realize this then, but I will never talk to Jack about this moment, or any of the other days and nights we stared into the distance, watching our mother’s life corrode and twist and burn. It will be an unanswered hole in what we saw as kids and our lives. The holes in the soles of those dumb black Nikes will never mend. He will have to buy new shoes. Hopefully, he will keep that ratty pair; he’ll need a way to remember those years of his life.

And I don’t realize this then, but I will follow in the footsteps of Isaac, for better or for worse. I will watch wave after wave of depression curl around him, like his hair wrapping in and around itself, trying to make up its mind. And I will find myself in that same place. We will talk about this, and maybe somehow, we will find another way to live and feel in this world.

And I don’t realize this then, but in my freshman year of high school, Joe will drive me to school on all those hazy, humid mornings. We will drive on backroads, and we will speed around the curves to push the dewy fog off the road. I think that’s my favorite kind of weather, the rising sun lights up the blue gray sky to match my brother’s eyes.

Hoshiko Hsu

Fruit Plates as Apologies

I was born on November 19th at Northwell Hospital as a silent baby girl. In my first waking moments, I was rudely awakened and pushed to tears by a doctor, who spanked me to see if I was alive.

Unlike the last one, I was.

I was born to a mother and a father, both immigrant parents who were a blend of Taiwan and Japan, and no blended siblings.

At first glance, my mother wasn’t sure if something had gone wrong during the C-section. “You looked so dark, almost like you weren’t even Asian,” my mother had said. Even after the nurses wiped the blood off my face, she wasn’t sure if they had somehow switched me up - out - with someone else. She now blames it on her excessive consumption of coffee.

My mother was afraid of giving birth. She had tried it before, and it hadn’t gone well. I think she was afraid she would fall asleep and wake up with her baby dead in front of her again.

A few years before I was born, my mother had a stillbirth. Her baby was meant to be a girl, like me, but older, and probably better. She was the baby my parents had tried for, had wanted, and had cried over with joy when the pregnancy test came back positive. They were about forty-nine at the time and were afraid time was running out.

I’m not sure what my older sister would’ve been like, though my mother sometimes describes her to me. I don’t know how it’s possible for either of us to know, since the baby, according to my father, was sucked up into a tube and thrown out.

When I was five, my mother showed me the ultrasound photos of my would-be sister; they were dark, hued with shades of black and white.

“She was so smart. And she didn’t kick, like you,” my mother had murmured to me, gently touching the paper with her calloused fingertips and tracing over the outlines of the little legs, the small arms, the round head. “You hurt me a lot.”

There’s a word in Mandarin that specifically means ‘older sister’ that my mother would use to refer to her. That’s how it is with all sibling nouns, different words for older siblings and another set for younger. English doesn’t have this word, which meant my mother always added on younger or older when talking about her siblings, and has led to how I think of mine.

“my sister, older.”

In pinyin, the word is jiejie. The same J that’s on my birth certificate, and the same word that would always echo responsibility, confidence, and success; I would’ve been my older sister’s meimei, the younger sister, if she hadn’t died. Because she is dead, I bear the responsibility of the J in my family. The pinyin for ‘younger sister’ in Mandarin is spelled as meimei. My mother’s name is Mei, which describes her well. She herself is a middle child, younger than more kids than older in a lineup of seven children: she did not want a younger child, another responsibility.

So my sister would’ve been older. She would’ve been tall and slim, would’ve had long black hair tied back in a ponytail the exact way I hate having mine and the exact way my mother loves. In my mother’s mind, she was the daughter my parents wanted.

My own conception was an accident. The first time my mother told me this was when I was about 6. She was peeling lychees for me, braving the spiky skin without any gloves.

Smiling playfully or sheepishly (I could never decide), she whispered, “Your birth was an accident.”

“An accident” I replied, unsure of whether she knew English well enough to understand the meaning of what she’d said.

“Yes, an accident.” She looked further down, snipping at the stems of the lychee bunch with her green kitchen scissors. “But a happy accident.”

I believe that that’s how my parents felt, initially, that Buddha had blessed them with a new baby girl to make up for the loss of the original one.

When I stare at my mother’s calloused hands from hours of gardening and typing up reports, I wonder if she still thinks of me that way.

***

I started preschool when I was three at Our Lady of Grace Montessori in Manhasset. According to my father, I left quite an impression upon the teachers when the first thing I did after clambering out of the car was to hug the principal, Sister Kelly.

My father credits that gesture to my kindergarten acceptance, but, really, it just would’ve been rude for the nun to push away any young kid headed to Montessori.

Our Lady of Grace was an independent Catholic school filled with mostly white kids.

At the time, I didn’t understand race as much as I do now, but there was always that lingering feeling. A glance sideways, a cautious question as to what languages I spoke, and could my parents do a presentation on Chinese New Year?

Though of course, as a six year old child, these comments were often disregarded in favor of episodes on Cartoon Network and Shopkins collectibles.

The first time I was made acutely aware of race was when a girl joined my first-grade class. Her name was Emma, just six months older than me with a head of dirty blonde hair and sapphire ringed eyes.

She always came to school with a tied bow in her hair, never in pants and always in a dress. Her lunch was always neat, no liquids to be accidentally spilled unlike the metal canteens of miso soup my parents would pack for me.

Yet the most defining difference between us was our eyes.

I wanted her eyes. I had never seen eyes like hers before – that specific shade of marbled, deep blue that the dolls in the toy store displays could only dream to imitate.

A few years later, I bought my first mascara from my local CVS with Lunar New Year money.

I remember standing on my toes to reach the mirror as I tried to swipe the wand onto my lashes like a Youtube tutorial instructed.

But no. Mascara wouldn’t apply on straight lashes, only smear onto monolids and make my eyes look as if I hadn’t slept in a few days. Not Emma. Not curled lashes. But I wanted to keep trying.

When I first expressed this to my mother, she looked at me like I was crazy. “I want to look like Emma. What can I do to make myself look like Emma?”

“Emma? She’s not anything special, you’re special. You’re much prettier than her.” “That’s not true Mama, and I want to look like her. I want to dye my hair.”

“Dye your hair- are you crazy? You’ll look like a mop, no, you’re not dying your hair.” “But I want to look pretty!”

“You came from me and your father. Are you saying we’re ugly?”

“No, of course not, but-”

“Then you’re pretty.”

That was always the end of it. Whenever I expressed the same sentiment again, she would get incredibly angry and would either storm off in a huff or slap my hand to silence me.

It wasn’t her fault. She was upset, upset that she had worked so hard to provide for her only daughter in a country that was foreign to her, only for that daughter to be ungrateful about the way she looked: To her, my insecurity was my expression that our family wasn’t good enough.

My parents are proud people. They had grown up impoverished; my mother, like her older siblings, was forced to work for her own tuition to art school in addition to tuition for her four younger siblings.

I think if they had had more freedom to grow up as they wanted, they would be less cautious. In my mind, my mother is a famous artist, opening multiple art exhibits across the U.S. and Japan, getting inducted into the art world, and being celebrated by hundreds as their inspiration. She would also have a garden, with dozens of roses and pink hibiscuses, and a pond filled with orangegold koi fish; she would have quiet.

In my mind, she would be happy, but when I imagine her happy, I can’t fit myself or my father into that mental picture. Rather than follow their creative passions, my parents formed a tech company in the 1980s that made, at one point, thousands of yuan in profit.

“But it was all ruined. It was our mistake to move to the U.S,” my mother said to me, cutting the stems of the lychee root with her green kitchen scissors.

I told her that I hoped it wasn’t, and that we were happy here now, together, because if she regretted moving, did that mean she regretted having me?

My mother didn’t seem satisfied with my words, and continued, “But we could’ve been so powerful in Taiwan.”

My mother mourns the loss of what could’ve been. She mourns the loss of her daughter, the loss of her company, and the loss of her control. When my mother punished me, it was her attempt to

regain control of her life, and mine; it was her way of trying to lead us to a safer path.

My parents had opened two restaurants when I was about two, called Skyline Diner and Star Diner. They were probably thinking of their American dream when they named them, thinking they were reaching for stars that finally seemed possible to reach.

But when you reach and grasp too high, you lose your balance and you fall. I don’t think our family fell; but I think we stumbled and tripped.

I remember waking up to my parents screaming at each other, my father often yelling “I’m done! I’m done, I can’t handle you anymore!” and my mother yelling back with an arbitrary complaint about something like the state of the dishes.

I grew to resent her for this, learning to avoid my mother when she was angry. I learned that if I heard her screams, it was time to go around the house and pick up any stray socks lying around to avoid a long lecture that would inevitably lead to a screaming match. But recently, I was looking through a photo album she had given to me.

“Take it, look through it. Tell me which ones to keep, which ones to throw,” she had said, thrusting the white binder into my hands.

So I sat on the floor of my bedroom and flipped through plasticcovered pages, running my finger lazily down faces of distant relatives overseas. Then, I came across a photo of my mother standing in front of the Eiffel tower, and was struck by her face and notably how similar it was to mine.

That night, when I went to wash my face with hot water and a face towel (a habit she had taught me), I looked at my nose. Then I looked at my cheeks. And I looked at my eyes. And only then did I understand.

***

Mom, now I know that you’re so hard on me because you’re afraid. No matter how many times you look at my face and lament that my chin is too long like my father’s, I know that part of your legacy lies with my sister – that part long dead and, with it, a part of you. But the other part of your legacy lives on with me, and that twisted sense of deja vu you felt during my birth is one you feel every day, dreading the day you send your legacy onwards. Because you have lost so much, you’re afraid you’ll lose me, too. Mom, you’ll never lose me.

I grew up suppressing arguments and conflicts with a mother who I felt sometimes loved me and sometimes didn’t, a mother who was only trying to make the best of everything, a mother who had worked hard and birthed a child who didn’t know how to be grateful, how to apologize, or how to tell her that she understood how she felt.

But in my heart Mom, you’re happy. In my heart, you’re a famous artist who has opened dozens of art exhibits and presented countless paintings. And in my heart, I’m in one of your exhibits, the one closest to you and also the one that you would never go to.

In one of your paintings Mom, I am a stroke on your yellowed paper, brushing over a faded character and creating the next.

Naomi Hsu

Split

Inspired by Brenda Miller’s

“Split”

Here is what I know about my body: I live in a balledup fist with mind and guts spilling out between the cracks of callused, experienced fingers, dripping onto wooden floors until I have been squeezed and wrung dry of my fluids, my form deflated, merged into my owner’s skin to the point where my body is no longer my own. Please: I stay silent to listen. I stay silent to listen, and my body chokes and shakes from holding its breath. I open my mouth to say something, but I can only watch as my skin dries up and cracks, and then, I split. ***

For as long as I’ve known, I’ve loved my mom. I don’t mean this in the conventional way, I mean that I love my mom the way you love the first person who called you pretty and never love anyone quite like that ever again. Resting my head on her lap as she scrolls through her emails, I trace my fingers along the dips of her knees as a way of transcribing the words, You’re everything to me, or, Let’s stay like this forever, or, It’s not like this with anyone else.

But to love something irreplaceable means to live in fear of loss, to go to any extent to preserve what you value, to bend and still and split whenever its index finger beckons you to.

One summer, when my mom tells me to come to the kitchen, I feel its cold, hardwood floors tense underneath my feet before I realize I’ve even gotten out of my bed. She turns around and extends her palms towards me, and I look at them to see half of an apricot sitting in each, skin bleeding in shades of sunset orange and red. I take one half, she keeps the other, and in unison, we sink our teeth into the sweet, tender fruit, sucking on the wet, vulnerable flesh it offers inside.

Later, after dinner, I catch my mom with the apricots again. She holds three in just one hand and turns on the faucet to allow the water to run over their skin, cleansing them of any impurities. Then, she lays two of them on a paper towel and places the third one between her fingers. As I stack dirty cups and plates, I watch the way she strokes the scalp of the apricot—as if to console it—and presses her thumbs gently against the stem end of the fruit—as if to say, Be quiet.

I blink and then she inhales and angles her thumbs downward so that they fully sink into the small body secured within her hands, pushing through the meat and past the pit, allowing the sweet tears to dribble down the vein of her finger till the fruit splits.

I am the kind of daughter that my mother loves to instruct, the kind that is most susceptible to her control: clueless about how long to heat up the leftovers, unsure of where the extra rolls of paper towels are kept, too poor at navigating the roads to be a good driver, too unlucky to have any success in the kitchen.

I tried to make fried rice once, but when I was chopping the green onions, trying to split them into small, green rings, I could hear my mom clicking her tongue and feel her eyes trailing my skin; they were always roaming, always searching, always itching to pounce forward and dig their claws into my back to share their not-so-positive appraisal of my stance, my choice, my form. That’s why I often longed for the days when I’d come home after school to find no one waiting for me at the doorstep, no cars parked in the garage, and a calendar that displayed a little green banner to indicate that my mother had her own boss to attend to. Home-alone afternoons were rare breaths of air, open kitchen hours to experiment with my culinary abilities without having to

turn around. Nothing I cooked was ever particularly successful, but nothing was a total failure, either, so long as my mother wasn’t there to deem it one.

When I cook, I’ve tried to ask my mom to stand just far enough from me so that I have space to breathe; but my mom is growing old, and her bones are softening, and it is getting easier for her to fly away at even the slightest touch. That’s why more often than not, when she places her hands on top of mine, whispers in my ear, 妹妹 1 , 你看2你看, and guides the knife in slow, short motions across the green stalk, I let her.

***

I want to know more about myself without leaving my mother behind. I want to get a boyfriend without losing my first love. I want to dye my hair without my mom thinking it’s ugly. I am not scared of the risks that come with being my own person. I am not scared of breaking my own heart. I am only scared of breaking hers.

Maybe it’s better this way.

***

I don’t know who I am if not my mother’s good, obedient daughter. She has brought me up to be more popular with parents and teachers than with any group of classmates. Always the well-behaved kid, always the mini adult, always so mature for her age; never the funny friend, never the teenage definition of cool, never the friend magnet. I don’t know what to do other than obey my mother’s every word, lapping up her instruction and praise like a desperate, abandoned dog. I don’t know how to wear a crop top without feeling ashamed. I don’t know how to hang out with friends without thinking that I should be home focusing on my schoolwork. I don’t know how to not be a baby, how to not be coddled, how to live separate from my title of 妹妹 , how to run away from my mother’s infamous words, What are you going to do without me in college?

And I can’t seem to answer any questions of Who are you? or What do you think? or What should you do in this situation? without whipping my head around and looking for my mother in my answer. No thought is ever my own; my mother’s is always the default. My body is more hers than it is mine, but it’s too late now to escape this framework she carefully molded me into, applying pressure to my weak points and massaging my bare skin while whispering lessons into my ear just before bed; and then when I woke up, I would look into my mirror and fail to find myself, fail to find anything other than her wants and beliefs threatening to quiver, convulse, and shatter at any given moment. When I die, I imagine that my hollow corpse will turn to glass, and anyone who is there to witness my death will be able to see through me and understand that there is nothing there; I will fall onto cold, wooden floors and fracture into millions of clear shards only to die bloodlessly and without protest.

I think we instinctively fill empty things until they are brimming with the illusion of substance and purpose; diaries with words that will solve nothing, bookshelves with books that we will never read, and closets with clothes we impulsively bought that our mothers will never allow us to wear.

When we ache, we reach for temporary satisfaction and bandage the places on our bodies where our burdens leak, allowing these thin layers of protection to wither and fray before reaching for the box again to replace them with new ones. We never stand up, tear the bandages off, and allow ourselves to bleed until we no longer can, until we have to die or until we have to start over.

Creative

In my dream, the last time I see my mom, I am leaning my head on her shoulder and we are eating apricots on the sofa. I turn my gaze towards her, and I gather my final breath before I say the words, I am willing for you to hate me if it means I can get to know who I am.

My mother has never looked at me before, but in this dream–in my dying memory–she slowly twists her neck to stare at my scalp. Her eyes are not full of that all-knowing stare, but instead, a watery shine that is brimming with desperation, bewilderment, and fear. She raises her hands, but they don’t cut through the air as they usually do, instead they flutter towards me, slow and imprecise. I wait, curious what she will do, until I recognize it: she strokes my hair and softly presses her thumbs into the crown of my head, as if to console me. She whispers, Please don’t say anything, and then, she inhales, preparing to dig her fingers into my skull and push them through the rest of my body.

But before I am split, I put my hands over hers and pull them away from me. I detach myself from her shoulder, unraveling our entangled limbs so that I can stand up and walk away.

In this dream, my heart is so dense that I don’t think it can break, my body so full of substance, of purpose, that I don’t think I will turn back around. I can hear a soft cry disperse itself throughout the hallway as I manage to get to my bedroom before I feel my body give out on me, knees buckling and gaze unfocusing. I haven’t realized that I’ve hit the floor when I close my eyes and begin to think about how I am going to start over.

I wish that I could stand in the kitchen, the knife hefty in my hand, my fingers wrapped tightly around its grip. I wish that I could bring it down firmly as if I know I’m right, as if I know anything at all.

But I was the daughter that my mother loved to instruct. She would watch me for as long as it took for my faults to reveal themselves, her gaze traveling all over my body, invading my space, stealing my breath. She would walk over, her chest so assured underneath her worn-out blouse, put a hand on my shoulder, and turn me just a bit, with the slightest motherly caress.

Here , 妹妹 , she would say, her guidance a gentle murmur to the heart. Here’s how it’s done. She would stand behind me and grip the knife in both our hands; she would raise it high above both our heads—the metal a blur of motion, of light—, and she would show me the proper way to split.

Victoria Huang

Where is the rest of you1

I try to remember the story so many times—the story you tell me of Zongzi, Bà.

There was a Chinese poet, Qu Yuan, who lived 5,000 years ago. Or was it 2,000 years ago? He drowned himself in the Miluo River— or was it the Yellow River—after being exiled by the Emperor. To make sure the fish wouldn’t eat his body, the people threw zongzi into the water. The fish gorged themselves on zongzi until it ran out. You told me that if the fish ate his body, he wouldn’t be intact, his soul wouldn’t ever move on. You told me that if parts of him were missing, parts of his parents died.

I tried to make zongzi for the first time when I was eight. Nǎi Nǎi soaked dried argy-wormwood leaves in the water all day and didn’t let me touch them, lest they slice the palms of my hands open. 2 At first, I was only allowed to unroll the ball of twine and to cut arm-length pieces off with the only pair of dull kitchen scissors that wouldn’t nick me even if I jabbed them into my soft yellow skin. I used to think cutting meat, shrimp, and vegetables with the same pair of communal kitchen scissors was unhygienic. Now, I reach for a barely disinfected sewing needle to poke tattoos of tiny Darwin fish into my calf.

Eventually, you taught me how to marinate thick slabs of pork belly by gently sliding it into a pool of sugar and soy sauce, mirin and salt. How to soak short-grain rice overnight, only use Koshkari brand. You were wrong. It’s Koshihikari, not Koshkari. You taught me to sprinkle jujubes—raisined, pitted, and crimson— into the same bowl, letting the water soften the wrinkles. I like to imagine that the pits of the jujubes have grown into big jujube trees now, that their offspring stand tall against thieves who try to steal their fruit, even though I know so many fresh jujubes have willingly dropped already.

Our bodies – from a single hair to a bit of skin – are formed from our parents; we must not injure or wound them. This is the foundation of filial piety. These were your words to me. I once told you I wanted you to donate my organs, my pen hovering over the form at the DMV. You stood there looking offended. “If you pick that box, then let you die. There is a line to wait for your parts. Someone else get the heart your mother work hard to make for you.” I pretended to check no.

I am not filial. Not filial like those good daughters who call their grandmothers, who bow to their elders, who receive cards with two hands instead of one. I am not a good daughter. I wonder what you would do, knowing that I mindlessly poured steaming congee down my leg, or knowing that I pull out my hair whenever I get frustrated, or knowing that I let the riptide carry me far beyond the wave break and feel the kelp wrap around my ankle. I feel small and weightless and gone. I wonder what you would do if you knew about the boy who told me he didn’t want the zongzi, he wanted the flesh, and I cut off a part of myself and gave it. I wonder if you knew that I felt I would die soon. I wonder if I would be forced to wander the earth like Qu Yuan if I do. I wonder if you felt that I wanted to kill parts of you.

I worry you aren’t complete because of me. You’ve lost all that color you once had. If you eat sesame, your hair will be black, you once said, but yours is white. You’ve grown quieter, too. Patient. Reflective. I try to pray that you are still you. I pray because I have to pray. I do not pray out of will anymore. I do not go to church anymore. I am not a good daughter. I’m scared that you’ve begun forgetting things. I still know who you are, but there are holes in your mind, holes eaten away by the parasitic fish of the Miluo River. I want to cut those fish open and scoop the organs out, rummage around for the lost pieces of you.

In the car, a few times every day, you listen to your same daily history podcasts, the ones with the different voices, and you repeat the same childhood stories, the same folktales that raised me. I sit quietly listening, ears open, refusing to forget a detail, making sure that I don’t lose a single word. I want to stop the bleeding of your memories with short grain rice wrapped in argy-wormwood leaves. I used to ignore you, trying to melt into the passenger seat and be anywhere else instead. I would pretend to be asleep, tired of your voice, drawn instead to the radio like a child addicted to sugar, but now I’m left with the cavities. Yesterday, I asked you to play the song “Dà hǎi”《Big Ocean》again, the song you used to play for me so I would fall asleep, but you looked at me confused, until I began humming the tune.

I’m scared that your hearing is getting worse—you’re already deaf in one ear. Whenever you ask me where I’m going, I must repeat myself at least twice—one time in English and one time in Mandarin. Once, you told me that you would forget all your English when you retire. I am scared I will one day forget all my Chinese. I am scared I’ll never be able to talk to you again. I am scared that one day you’ll no longer whip up formulas in under a minute when I ask for help on my math homework. There was a time I found you sitting silently in the dark studying my chemistry textbook with only a lamp to light the process of titration an hour after I asked you to teach it to me. An hour after I had already figured it out. I’m scared that these parts of you are being eaten away.

I never tried to know the rest of you. The parts of you that weren’t me—and now they’ve already started to peel away, meat off a bone.

I haven’t made zongzi in a while. I’ve grown used to the flavor of the ones that Mā’s friend drops off every year, every dragon boat festival. Those do not have the thick marinated pork belly slices. Those do not have the double salted egg yolks. Those are plain. Once, Mā told me how you and Nǎi Nǎi made the best zongzi. She told me how the steamed ones were always better than the boiled ones, the rice always stickier. You like the boiled ones, because the rice crumbs don’t glue your lips together. I like the boiled ones too. I want to like everything you like. But a part of me likes how the multi-tiered steamed bamboo baskets softly puff, not like the big metal pressure cookers that whistle hot steam into the vents.

I want to make zongzi again. I want to flatten my palms into the cold, calming rice. I want to tangle my fingers in beige twine. I want to fold argy-wormwood leaves into soft pyramids. I want to grow tired of how you tell the story of zongzi. I wish you would tell me again.

Tell me the story of Zongzi just one more time, Bà. This time I won’t forget.

1 Dear Bà, 2 Ironically, argy-wormwood leaves are used to stop bleeding in Chinese medicine.

Annie Johnson

Grotesquerie

My senior year, two weeks after the start of spring semester, I received $20,000 in the mail.

Except, the semester might’ve actually begun three weeks prior, and the letter was actually an email, but then, I’ve never been a completely honest person. I’m not sure what it is about me, but my whole life, I’ve felt this odd aversion to sincerity, this inclination to fudge the little details. Maybe I’m a sociopath. Or maybe it’s just another of those funny quirks of mine.

The $20,000 is completely unrelated to all of this. I won it in a scholarship months ago. When I got the news I had won, I had to excuse myself from Calculus class so I could go scream out in the hall. It was less a scream of joy and more one of vindication. Besides the money, the Clike Scholarship granted me the kind of flower for my resume that thousands of try-hard teenagers across the world would fight tooth-and-nail for. My entire family told me that it wasn’t possible – it was an organization of visionaries, executives, Olympic athletes, nepo babies, not Ohio queers who couldn’t even shell out money for a decent headshot. But I had done it. I had won. And now, all that was left to do was reap my sweet reward.

Me and the other central Ohio scholars all carpooled to the CMH early one February morning and gathered outside terminal 4B, waiting to be whisked away to an all-expensespaid scholarship weekend in Atlanta, which was required for us to collect our cash. Barron, from New Albany, rolled his eyes as Shreya, from Westerville, rattled off each individual thing she was excited about: the city, her roommate, her first ever flight in a real airplane. Barron grinned and raised his eyebrows at me as though he expected me to participate in his mockery, as though he saw me as his secret ally in his personal little war against cringe. Finding him vaguely grotesque, I looked away. At least, when we boarded the plane, we all had the good sense to sit in separate aisles and pretend not to know each other.

The entire 90-minute flight, I stared out the window and nursed the mounting anticipation in my gut that can only be compared to what European colonizers must’ve felt upon their voyages to the new world. Like I was being shipped off to new, untamed, and unbroken territory ripe for the conquering: no longer was I the little girl who filled up notebooks with horse facts and was bullied off the seventh grade tennis team for being ‘too off-putting.’ Now, I envisioned myself a seductress, flirting with deception, ready to sink my teeth into the surface of the social scenery and tear away at the choiciest flesh. Hear my fakelaugh? How convincing it is? There’s a certain rhythm to it, like, ‘hee-hee-hah’.

I proved my social prowess minutes after arriving at the convention center: I hit it off with the first guy I met, a scrawny scholar from Boston named Asher who reminded me a lot of my favorite home-grown twinks from back up north. The two of us fucked around through every aspect of orientation. We giggled at the guest speakers, we scorned the PowerPoint presentations. When our fellow scholars shared their anxieties about making friends, we traded knowing looks, pitying them because they hadn’t found what we quickly discovered in each other: an ease so instant it seemed designed just for us.

Ridicule was the basis of much of our bond. It was cruel, though sort of inevitable. The other scholars were wildly unsubtle: 150 stuffed-shirt New York City feeder-school caricatures, all bemoaning the fact that they were accepted into every single Ivy League (How could they choose?) and comparing the reach of their nonprofits. Their presence filled the moldy, windowless air of the convention center rooms with a sort of haughty anxiety.

During introductions, one boy claimed his hobby was ‘traveling’ –this summer, he and his friends had plans to go skydiving out of a hot air balloon in Greece.

“Why can’t people just be normal?” groaned Asher, and I silently memorized the statement so I could write it down in my journal later.

Later that night was the fabled Clike Scholars banquet, a bougie affair decked out in white tablecloths, LEDs, and the most forks I’d ever been subjected to in a single meal. The CEO of the Clike Scholars corporation stormed the stage like it was Wrestlemania – “Whooooo’s ready to make a difference?”

I was assigned a table with three other scholars, along with several upper-level manufacturers at the Clike Corporation. In the middle of buttering my roll, I dropped it into my lap.

“Hey, it’s still good, right?” I joked, putting it back on my plate.

One of the scholars shot me a look. “Are you serious?”

“Um. No, ha, obviously.”

Somehow, Clike managed to bag a semi-famous guy as guest speaker: a bestselling author who wrote books with titles like ‘EXTRAORDINARY: The Secret To Success’ and ‘UGLY MONEY: What Billionaires Don’t Want You To Know’. I forgot his name as soon as they introduced him, but he was a compelling speaker, pacing around the stage and using a lot of gestures.

“The future is in the hands of the young!” he cried, sweat flying off his upper lip. “The time to act is now! The world is depending on you! Feel the rush! Feel the urgency!”

The scholars around me rolled their eyes, but I actually tried to will myself into being inspired by his words. Some corporate executive poured a shit ton of money into this event with the sole goal of inspiring my young mind into achieving something great (and maybe a bit of money laundering was also involved).

But, really, all I could muster was a vague sense of nausea. While everyone applauded, I looked around for Asher. I spotted him at a nearby table, hoping he’d sense my desperation, hoping the force of my eye contact would make him turn around, but it didn’t. He just kept staring straight ahead.

I hoped it wasn’t a sign of something.

The whole thing reminded me of what had gone down last year with Riley, my former best friend. He was the only person I ever cried to over the phone, and thinking about him filled me with a strange urge to drive an ice pick through the soft part of my skull. I must’ve wasted about a thousand hours and a million poems trying to understand what had happened between us, trying to get to that thing at the root of it all, but all the ink in the world can’t explain away a sheer lack of interest.

Would Asher think it’s weird if I wrote a poem about him not looking at me?

I decided not to ask, since the mere existence of the question in my mind made me feel destined for a padded cell somewhere without windows.

As we left the banquet hall, a short, perky scholar cornered me: “What’s your name, again? We’ve talked a couple times today, and it’s just … I’m sorry, can I get your Instagram? You seem really cool.”

“... Me? Cool?”

“So cool! You’ve got a mullet, you’ve got those badass rings … you’ve got it all.”

Her name was Betty; we exchanged handles and agreed to meet for breakfast the next day. The whole interaction left me dumbfounded, but incredibly satisfied. It was as if all my doubts were suddenly nullified by her adoring face.

Creative Nonfiction

Dublin Coffman High School Dublin, OH.

My whole life, I’d embodied the antithesis of cool. It was contrary to my DNA. I still remember the very first time I’d felt good about a social interaction: I was 15, in the middle of an interview for a private arts school. Over Zoom, I posed, and contorted my vibrant face as the interviewer laughed over and over – “Oh, what a charming young girl you are!” she exclaimed, and it felt how I imagine sex must feel for normal people, like something perfectly orchestrated, perverse, and oh-so-gratifying.

What a naive young thing I was then. By 17, I was a complete and utter slut for social norms, like a hooker on the streets: “I can be whatever you want me to be, baby. Watch as I joke about the weather and make appropriate amounts of eye contact.”

The last night of the scholarship weekend, at the Clike Scholars Prom, Asher and I achieved true liberation. We bumped hips and stormed the dance circle, jerking our bodies in crazy ways. I screamed along to Nicki Minaj and Lady Gaga until my voice was raw. I was so sweaty my eyeliner streamed down my face, leaving dark trails. I had never experienced anything like this before. It was euphoric; it was orgasmic. And yet, in moments of stillness, between songs, during those few empty split-seconds of silence, I was overcome by the overwhelming urge to break down in tears.

My junior year, I cried every time I got home from hanging out with my friends. Once, while Riley and I were walking home from pep band, he lent me his flannel – I was inconsolable for hours after. At the time, I couldn’t explain it. Several Google searches (‘why does having fun make me sad’ ‘why do my friends make me sad’ ‘why am i sad’) yielded no results.

Now, February of 2023, I was just beginning to puzzle out a speck of an answer. Earlier in the weekend we were forced to attend an ‘Openness Workshop’, where a middle-aged white guy challenged us to confess something deeply personal to a small group of our fellow scholars. The boy whose ‘hobby was traveling’ told us all that his father was a drunk who beat him every night. Betty came out as bisexual.

When it got to me, I revealed to the group something I still had a hard time proving to myself – that I was autistic.

“I’m in the middle of being diagnosed,” I told them. “It’s still very new, but I try not to let it define me. In fact, it’s sort of like a superpower. It makes me better in a lot of ways.”

I didn’t know what I expected to happen. I had hoped that saying the words aloud would change something, or at least provoke some kind of reaction. But, instead, everyone in the group just looked away, or twiddled their thumbs, or coughed, or yawned, or tried to fart as quietly as possible – that is to say, everything moved on with little fanfare.

What would Asher have done if he were in that group with me? He probably would have spoken up. Said something really soothing and profound, something that made perfect and succinct sense of all of the confusion inside of me.

I never got to tell Riley I was autistic. Maybe that was the explanation for everything that happened. He left before I got the chance to figure out what was wrong inside me.

I decided to tell Asher the night of the Scholars Prom: “We should stay up late,” I suggested, as we stumbled away from the dance floor. “Pull an all-nighter in the convention center. It’s our last day together.”

“Girl. My flight’s at five tomorrow,” he laughed.

“I’m serious. Please, just stay awake with me. Who knows when we’ll get to see each other again?”

As soon as we got back, we staked out a table in the convention center: us, Betty, and a few other scholars we had picked up along the way. The energy was low. People mumbled to each other and scrolled on their phones, dreading their early wake up calls the next day.

I tried to strike up a conversation: “Is that Subway Surfers, Asher?” I asked, spying on his phone screen.

“Oh my god, yes. You know I had to download it just for the flight.”

“Dude – I have it right here, wait, let me pull it up.”

“Hot take,” Betty chimed in, “Temple Run is better.”

“That is an absolutely absurd take.”

“Come on!”

“I fuck with Temple Run.”

“Is that the one with the jetpack guy?” another scholar asked.

“No, that’s Jetpack –”

“Jetpack Joyride! Holy shit!”

The table suddenly exploded into nostalgic conversation:

“Do you guys remember Color Switch?”

“Oh, fuck, wait – what was that one game with the –”

“Club Penguin?”

“No, that’s not quite it …”

“I don’t know about y’all, but I sank easily a hundred hours into Minecraft as a kid.”

“Dude, yes! Minecraft! Oh my god!”

“Still obsessed with Minecraft.”

“Oh, wait, I have the best story about that.” The whole table quieted. Beat. I laughed: “So my mom - she’s a psycho, right? - she read all these articles about how computers rot your brains. So she went, like, totally batshit one day, and just deleted all of the games off our home computer. All of my Minecraft worlds, totally gone. Completely devastating. It was like … my personal 9/11.”

A dramatic hush seemed to fall over the room. The lights flickered as if on cue. A few people laughed awkwardly.

“Uhm … What the fuck?”

Next to me, Asher snickered.

Betty tried to change the subject. “... So, what times are everyone’s flights tomorrow?”

Asher let a small chuckle escape. “My mom deleting Minecraft from my computer was my personal 9/11,” he repeated. “Oh my god.”

“Asher …”

“No, it’s just - it’s just - hehe - Why would you say something like that?” He slapped the table. “Like, seriously, what was running through your mind?”

I chuckled. “Uh –”

“Asher. C’mon. It’s not that funny,” said Betty. “Look, it’s getting late, we’re all tired, some of us probably don’t even know what we’re saying. I know that I’m wiped out. Maybe it’s time to –”

“My mom deleting Minecraft from my computer was my personal 9/11!” Asher started cackling hysterically. “I mean, seriously, where did you even hear that?”

“Uh, I saw a Tiktok with it – Have you guys seriously never heard that before?”

“Um …”

“Wait, no, I swear it’s like a trend,” I said, quickly. “It’s like, someone will be like - like something bad that happened, or they’ll put - like - y’know? My friends from home, they – here, let me pull up a text, or something.”

“What kind of people are you hanging around with, Annie?” said Betty, disgusted.

“Ah … hah. Yeah. It’s, um, kind of fucked, I guess.”

“It’s just – Ahahaha!” Asher clutched his sides. “It’s the way you said it!”

“Asher, can I walk you to your room?” I asked.

“No - Wait - I wanna –”

“Let me walk you to your room. I’ll walk you to your room.” I grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the convention center, up the elevator, down the hallway. It was my first time in his hotel room. His bed was neatly made. He was still howling with laughter.

“Fuck - I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “It’s just … way too good.”

“Hehe. Yeah.” I rubbed my arm. “I knew it was wrong as soon as I said it. I tried to think of a lesser tragedy, to sort of soften the blow, but I couldn’t come up with any, and then 9/11 was already out of my mouth, so …”

“You’re a riot. I swear, girl, you say the craziest things. Sometimes when I’m with you, it’s like, ‘What the fuck is wrong with this chick’, y’know?” He flopped down on the bed with a contented sigh.

“... Is now a good time to mention I’m autistic?”

He sat up. “Wait. Really?” “Yeah.”

“... Ohhhh! Oh my god!” He chuckled and smacked his head, like he had just been told the answer to a particularly obvious riddle. “But you do such a good job at hiding it, though. Like, seriously, I could barely even tell.”

Beat. It was quiet. Asher made a kind, pitying little noise. “Awh. Annie … C’mere.”

I sat on the bed beside him, and he took me in his arms, squeezing tight between my shoulder blades. I was afraid to hug him back. Certain that, as soon as I moved a muscle, he would break away and run.

“Asher?” I said.

“Yeah?”

“I lied earlier. In the airport, outside the terminal, when Shreya was rambling and Barron raised his eyebrows at me, I didn’t look away. I grinned. I grinned back at him. It wasn’t even a choice, really. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Asher held me tighter, pressing my head into his shoulder, and that was a lie, too, because he didn’t do that, and I didn’t say that.

I don’t think I said anything at all, really.

I just sat there silently. Trying not to breathe too loud.

After a moment, he let me go. I walked back to my hotel room, and I put myself to bed.

I only got three hours of sleep that night. The whole time, I was dreaming of the picket lines. Jesus freaks and granola moms and quack doctors all dressed in various shades of almond, shouting about how we need to cure autism now, their voices a great and terrible cacophony.

In real life, I hated these people more than anything on earth. In the dream, though, to my horror, I didn’t unleash my righteous fury on them, didn’t swear or defy or show my distaste. Instead, I dropped to my hands and knees like a disciple and pleaded: Yes. Cure me. Cure me the fuck up. Rub me with your crystals. Diffuse essential oils straight into my skin. Inject me with something to make me lovable. Or un-inject me, I don’t care. Just make me painless in the way that others are.

And, if this were real life, they’d probably say something like ‘You’re too pretty’ or ‘Fuck off, faker’ or otherwise trample my limp body.

But, because this was a dream, it didn’t matter what was real.

The mommy-moms lifted me up into their arms, they cradled me in a cocoon of warm shawls, afghans, incensescented hippy-skirts, layers upon layers until it was so dark, I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or closed anymore.

And, when I finally emerged from my shell, everything suddenly felt so much less embarrassing.

Jun-Ki Kim

Design

Peddie School

Hightstown, NJ

The Last Building in Tuvalu Digital Render / Illustrative Diagram 2023

Ela Kini

Open Letter To The Soldier

teach me

how my father killed a man, how he softened his jaw into mourning prayer, tugged a grapefruit from its rind and swallowed the scent of dying. stained his teeth with flesh. he smokes a pack, then tells us we burn like sage. tells us so easily that death is all we hold to our name. in the same breath, my father tells us he has many faces, and often slips on pavement and scrapes his wounds into womanhood. my father tells us this of the times in which he becomes weak, skull curdling between his own hands, back against water in preemptive eulogy. my father cannot swim. when he drowns, because death is not so easy, the water sweats into cabernet. this is another word he does not know how to say. he shows me my name as it is written. after the war, my father is no longer illiterate and that is to say, he has stolen the letters of every man he has broken into bones and mouths lost in open prayer. in glass, we see our reflections, see the ghosts, see our mirrored mouths hollowed into o’s. night drowns in the lost body of my long-returned father. tongue fermented by old liquor, my father begs us not to be buried in a glass casket, not to see himself as ghastly. with this, I realize the man fears only his reflection. I wonder what we will tell him perched over his unmoving body. I will beg: teach me how many ghosts the parted lips of a corpse can raise, meager as children, teach me how hell softens into our sins. how I whisper hello to the smolders of a graveyard. in the end, he beckons fate openly, finishing his war as it had begun. I learn this is all my father knows: burning.

Poetry

Hunter College High School

New York, NY

Livia Koh

trajectory:: (x4.2 y3.3) i write you the letter / i am afraid to touch. / in it, / i ravel memory. take my pain & confess, each repentance more terrible / than the last. // outside, it is midwinter— the leaves still won’t fall. // i cling onto things imagined, / dissolve mirages & turn myth. // above, the sky leaks blue.

//

(x5 y4) the moth always goes towards the flame. // when i saw you in the aftermath / the star / in my stomach / ripped my throat apart. // there was so much to unsay: we watched the universe implode & called it childhood. / but now it’s just pulsing nebula. / you black hole. you thirty-second day. / your breath is like a relapse. // time refracting / at your touch.

//

(x5.5 y5) forgive me. / i didn’t want this martyrdom— sainthood paints me in ugly light. / on the altar / pain became a blasphemous thing. / my body breaking / beyond repair. / who knew i would feel like this? so much, so soon. // the sunset punctures / like damnation. // i splinter / on the stage. / i am weeping / in the chapel. / listen. in this one, i go on / & nothing / is beautiful / without you.

//

(x2 y1.5) in my headspace // there’s an oasis. i call it the gate / to hell. // you stand by the pool /gleaming & haloed. / the seraphs turning serpent. // through the journey, all my bones break. / my heart / in the water. // no exit / but the doorway. / if i’d seen the windows, i would have shattered /glass.

//

(x?? y??) one day, / i will say it without flinching: / i still love you.

parallel:: (x2 y1) the night she tried for implosion / i could not breathe. / i wanted to find the truth & kill it, bring us back / to each other. // second chances running / like ichor. // my retribution in the knife.

//

(x4 y2.7) i, openmouthed, / pleading. // underbelly slit / like a fish. // i missed her / beyond belief. / wanted / the impossible. // between the lines / so fractured / we were intangible / to the touch. // she was softer / than a secret. // severance, / broken & wretched / split us both / alive.

//

(x1 y.5) i wanted to return to the beginning. everything starts / with water. // i separated my heart— the ice, / the sea. // she took to the wind & learned to sail. // i, something forged / of silt. / the glass & storm. // blind in the darkness. // years later, when she spilled ashore / taken to fire & to pain, / rain bulleted through earth / & wood.

//

(x5 y3.5) the rain makes me collapse. / how much was expected of me? // one drop, many. / the physics /

of precipitation // everything was a trajectory / into ascension at the precipice // i took the fall / without grace // some days, i had a beak / instead of a mouth: i didn’t know how to speak / so they would listen.

// (x7 y5 5) by the time she scars over, we ’ re just memory. / i let her go like water.

throughline (imaginary plane):: i miss you & i miss her & i am turned away from the sun & still i cannot go back i can’t & i can’t & i can’t. / we can’t go back to what we once were & i want to choke on the truth instead of living with it. / & beyond the wounds gashing across my heart & hands & heart everything i want to say about us has turned to a parenthetical / in the darkness, regret is our silent god he collects us & swallows us whole in the darkness / & these days, when i’m speaking to you, i don’t know who i’m talking to / do you see how easily we grow apart? / do you understand how far i have reached just to return & leave again? / my dear & my darling & my hand i cannot reach, i want you to hear this. / love isn’t dead, i swear / we just didn’t know how to let go without tearing ourselves apart in the process

Kelley Kwok

Three Generations of Hungry, Burning, Chinese Daughters

Grandmother (婆婆)

My grandmother is a strong and fierce woman. She talks loudly and spits in the streets. She makes me fried rice and complains that I’m too skinny. She reaches her vein-made hands for my own, and I feel her sagging soft skin heavy from years and years of work. She laughs with her teeth when I can’t respond to her in Chinese, and she watches with a hawk’s eye when I boil the noodles, making sure I don’t overcook them.

“You are smart,” she says to me, “You can study well and get a good job.”

She leaves what is unsaid in the red envelopes she shoves in my hands. Here is money, so you can buy something to eat and stop being so skinny. Here is money, so you have a chance at saving yourself.

My grandmother likes car rides and stares out the window. We pass by Burger King and McDonald’s and the sad little mall thirty minutes down. She does not look back because the land across the sea is a foreign one, and she does not know what kind of different life she could have lived if she had just stayed. This is America, and she likes American food. Burgers and fries are like luxury, and she treats me to meals and only eats half.

I see a sacredness in her tired, half-glazed eyes, worn and wrinkled, and wonder what it’s like to see for so long. See this world and see this family, flailing and soaring, falling away and branching apart. I stand with her in front of the graves, observe as she dutifully pushes the incense sticks into the dirt, and with shaking hands lights them on fire, watching the burning little crisps turn white at the edges. I watch her bow three times, palms together as she mutters the same sentence over and over every year. I hope it is nice up in heaven, I hope you send us happiness and good health, and that the children study hard, and that they all grow up well.

Mother (媽媽)

My mother is a strong and fierce woman. She voices her opinions fearlessly and laughs without grace. She cries at night and scolds me for not doing the laundry. She says my fingers are too long but my body is too small. She tells me to stop being lazy and study hard and grow out my hair. She tells me to take breaks when I need them, but not really.

My mother got her diploma, without knowing the barest drop of English but three heavy words: Hungry, America and Dream. She bore it on her shoulders alone until she had to think about Family. And now she has a house and a husband and two children and a job that gives her money. She bought a Christmas tree and strung up the lights, built a garden in the backyard and made the plants look nice, bought endless scents and candles to bury the scent of her burdens, trying to make the most of this heavy American dream.

I watch her cook the meals she learned on YouTube and see a disappointed desire in her eyes when she sees me play piano or swim, because she never had the chance to learn. I watch her work and make a million different soups and it’s not until later that I realize she is only strong in a way that is lonely.

Daughter (女兒)

I am not strong nor am I fierce. I keep my thoughts to myself and draw on my hands and bury my face in a beautiful book so I can pretend to be beautiful too.

Everyone says I should study hard, but they never tell me how much is enough.

I am scared of the word coward.

I think I am supposed to feel strong because I am young, but I am just an overcooked noodle. Noodle daughter and noodle friend, trying to figure things out in this structure of spinning destinies that makes me dizzy.

When my mother tells me about how much she regrets letting me quit Chinese school, I put my headphones on even though the music feels like sin. I let it baptize me and make a million excuses about how my GPA matters more than a language I will spend my whole life grieving.

I am second generation Chinese, third generation of this family’s daughters, and a quintillionth of the beginning of time. I have never been to China, but I feel desperate to touch it. I know only three heavy words in Chinese, and those are 家 (home or family), char siu bao (roast pork bun), and yet bat bong (one hundred pounds)

Sometimes it feels like I have to hold up the heavy legacy of my mother and my grandmother with these three pathetic words. Life is one large whirling spiral, cycles and cycles of generations, one after the next: when a life ends, it doesn’t truly end, because I am just one small dot trapped in a never-ending circle. I live to pass on the torch, pass it on so I can light up the incense sticks, pass on my mother’s house, and try to make my very own dream, and when I fail, I’ll reach a place far enough from the pain to pass it on. I will pass on the torch to tell someone to study hard so they can break this rotting iron circle. The torch burns, and it burns a daughter, too hungry to feel the hurt.

Three generations of Chinese daughters, and I am selfish to decide to be the last, burning out the fire before I can pass it on. Three generations of Chinese daughters, and I wonder if anything can ever change.

Jennie Kwon

Design

Chadwick International School

Incheon, South Korea

Freshly Display

Adobe Illustrator, Photoshop 2023

Olivia Le

my american alphabet

is evidence of the offenses I now plead guilty to, a list of felonies counting since my infancy. I can criticize the Latin lords and the fault of cartographers, but it cannot change the rhythm of my American, my iambic pentameter: English delinquent. Assimilation is all inside out ‘cause the immigrants yearned acceptance and now their children want vengeance but all I feel is absence. All I feel is shame like epistrophe like every family reunion where I am interrogated, like my dumb silence while being interrogated by the Ông Bà Ngoại that gave up e v e r y t h i n g for me— interrogated, where I am charged with a second-gen crime every time I speak.

But at this dining table, I can open my mouth and ignore the weight of my tongue when here, we are too busy savoring the bánh xèo to confuse flavorful (ngon) with full (no). The unspoken upholds our promise where our heritage is in the hands of a chef and our food is every bridge, shortcut, and ship, the Ché held in the pocket of our stomachs, in the Eden of our liver.

Stories wake in the salty wonders of Nước Mắm where an ocean and her tears are cupped beside each plate. Voices rebirth in every spoon of Bún Bò Huế that scalds my throat.

There was always a reverence for what only hands could create but our whole bodies remember.

No matter what words I use they cannot say all there is to be said and all there is to be held, but I can taste it for myself, take it into my very being. This is the love I know that no language can even begin to translate.

Ông Bà Ngoạ i - Maternal grandparents

Ché - A kind of Vietnamese dessert

Nướ c Mắ m - Vietnamese fish sauce

Bún Bò Huế - a kind of Vietnamese soup

Spoken Word

Orange County School of the Arts

Santa Ana, CA

Aden Geonhee Lee

Mirrored Breathing

you had lungs in your palms & unhooked ribs but now you inhale the edges of my whispering like how you laughed when I stopped remembering you again, unrecalling me, but yes you as if missing would keep us made, you gone like corked breathing, no you hiding to forget less, to render the garden you made me burn last spring and there’s no shame you told me as I took your pair of lungs which means you were more alive than the rest of us because you can’t decay any more, right? you replaced your neurons with flowers: 1. you r palms wrinkling into ___, 2. you r left eye shines moonless, and 3. you r silence today is different from how you don’t speak when it matters which fills/empties you me

Poetry

Phillips Exeter Academy Exeter, NH

Ariana Lee

Women 我们

I created a game to play in Chinese class: Finding the hidden symbols in each character. I could see the upside-down four in the character for five: 五 I saw the multiplied 木 in 森林. My jaw dropped when I noticed the 口 in 吃. I wasn’t piecing together a puzzle, but puzzling over how the pieces formed and reformed. How it took too many strokes to form a word for stroke: 撇. How 撇 is like the American penny, which costs more to make than it’s actually worth.

Class after class, I learned 中文 through repetition. But I don’t remember ever learning about China in these classes. Instead, pinyin. Stroke order. Calligraphy. I don’t remember ever learning about America in English class either. Instead, grammar. Dangling modifiers. Comma placement. Punctuation!

A stack of stationery was a pile of possibilities. Mixing languages gave me new pieces to play.

我们 = Wǒ men = Wo men = Women

我们 = Us

Therefore, Women = Us We are women. We form and reform with the pieces.

Theory: Bodies absorb governments like languages— the younger you are, the better your mind will accept them.

I have trouble accepting.

长 = 长

长 = Cháng

长 = Zhǎng

Cháng ≠ Zhǎng

St. John’s School Houston, TX

But if you place 长 next to 弓 or 月, it takes on a different meaning. If you place a woman in China or in the United States, her body takes on a different meaning. Under the one-child policy, the Chinese government forced women to get abortions. After the overturning of Roe v. Wade, the American government forced women to give up abortions.

No matter where she is, the government sees a woman’s body like stationery, like empty space to write over. They write MINE,

Poetry

but I have trouble seeing how any of it is mine. Theory: For a woman to live, her body must create its own language.

In my game, I try to find a way out from inside of each word.

I tweak the e to an a. Station ery to station ary. But Stationary = Stuck I can’t

move. I can’t find a woman in freedom, not even a hint of 女 in 自由.

I fail to find my body in bodies of text. I only see the men in government and the invisible woman in liberty, despite her body holding its statue. I miss the human in human right.

Governments play my game differently. They insist on the baby in woman, leave the baby once in hospital, mistake hospital for hospitality, but I know hostility when I see it.

I write 我们. I write women But no statutes will hold us.

I write 我们. I write women But the law strikes through our language.

I write 我们. I write women But my lines have already been crossed. Our lives have already been crossed out.

TRANSLATIONS

五: Five

木: Wood

森林: Forest

口: Mouth

吃: To eat

撇: A name for a type of stroke in Chinese calligraphy

中文: Chinese

我们: Us

长: Can mean “long” or “grow”

弓: Bow

月: Moon

女: Female

自由: Free

Chloe Lee

we used to / yesterday

i found a cardboard box. inside was a cat, now living between my bed frame and the mattress. if you find the box in the attic, it was for a grappling hook. i keep finding songs for the shower, and you continue to call it spite.

during my shift last night, i kept spilling, so many times that my white converse became a watercolor black. the chromatography of my spills split into layers like the tops of mountains, green to purple. in the foyer, i untie my shoelaces

from the knot and my hair from the low bun, and you say you knew all along that i would wear your black shoes in the end. but i never borrow from you. my shoe, i scrub its canvas skin and nothing is really erased. hot water steeps and rubber stinks,

Oakton, VA

the steam clouding my face. i am still learning: soft cats have claws, long hair tangles. this metal sponge is a rat-tailed comb, piling a mess through each motion, growing louder and unable to loosen. while i am stuck on the sharpie-d soles that stained our little toes

purple, you grow. not taller but riper, telling me how i can no longer blame the way we are on a pumpkin in november. you say our lives are growing too long, we will trip if we do not trim away. my hair droops down, hovering over the dark soapy water.

you would say this is all foreboding, the cat scratching at the wooden boards. but you remind me of the community swimming pools and america popsicles, too much for me to change. a chlorine filled humidity that soaked up to my skull.

when i dipped my toes from the ridges of filters and you did not come running at me with flip flops barely sliding off beneath you, i knew summer was over. i do not choose between holding on and growing up. as summer fled, you never taught me how to

wash my swimsuit, so i brought out a shovel next to the mailbox and i buried it.

Poetry

Oakton High School

Jayden Lee

Looks Like Love

At some point—I can’t pinpoint exactly when—my dad and I stopped conversing with each other. That is not to say we don’t talk: he usually offers up criticisms like, “Your flute playing sounds really bad today” or “That’s not how you should have sung that part. It should have been sung with more emotion,” even as I bring home award after award. For the sake of the peace of the household and my own sanity, I grit my teeth and bite my tongue rather than respond to his criticisms.

While I can’t remember when it happened, I have a pretty good idea of why it happened. My dad is a first-generation Korean immigrant, and English is by no means an easy language for him. As I got older, he insisted on only speaking English to me to improve his grasp of the language. What was seemingly a noble effort on his part, however, soon developed into a total communications disaster. His English (I have heard said) had improved, but not a lot, while my Korean was shoddy, at best. To make matters worse, I have a habit of talking very quickly and slightly incoherently. We speak English to each other but end up frustrated and angry that the other person doesn’t understand. Important communications are conveyed through my mom, the medium and interpreter.

To make matters worse, my dad is a stereotypical guy, extremely brusque and unable to express his emotions. When I was particularly upset one day at the terse way he addressed me, my mom cracked me up by telling me, “It’s not his English; he sounds like that in Korean, too.” My mom tells me stories— the lore and legend of the household, if you will—of how in my infant and toddler years my dad doted on me, and how he’d rush home after work and we’d play endless games of two-personone-golden-retriever baseball in our backyard. She even showed me pictures and videos of those times, stored in digital form on her computer. I was shocked—in each one, there was a younger, happier looking dad who actually smiled down at the giggling, younger me in his arms, or held me tightly while we laughed for the camera. The Norman Rockwellian images of family I always dreamed of had existed; I was just too young to realize it.

What had happened? I couldn’t remember the last time he put his arms around my shoulders, patted me on the back, or even paid me a small compliment, let alone communicated something beyond a mumbled grumble. Yet, these snapshots of the past clearly painted a picture of an affectionate dad and a loving son.

Ah, those were the times… if only I could remember them. I have no idea why the relationship changed and when I stopped caring. I do remember moments from those younger years—when I still tried to bond with him. I spent a good amount of energy trying to wrangle praise out of him, hoping I would hear those two elusive words: “good job!” The dime store psychologist in me knows that even as a child, I equated those words to three other ones: “I love you.” I remember during ice skating camp in 2nd grade confessing to my mom that I was practicing extra hard, even forgoing my lunch and break times, to become a really good skater. I wanted Dad to be proud of me on the final day of camp when all of us performed for our parents.

On that last day, I heard my mom admonishing him under her breath in a fierce whisper-yell—in Korean so I wouldn’t understand—for his lack of support and enthusiasm, begging him to say something nice to me—”do you have any idea how hard your son has been learning to skate, just to impress you?”

My mom always ends her stories with an empathetic note: that he is just old and tired now and that I should be more understanding. But all I have is today, the present, and the present holds no memories of the age she speaks of. I am left only with

bitterness, resignation, and a lot of resentment. I can’t think of a time when he wasn’t a little annoyed, or a little tired, or a moment when I felt his love.

To be fair, the dissatisfaction in this father-and-son relationship is a two-way street. My dad feels left out of dinner table conversations when my mom and I talk about the day’s events at bullet speed, our dialogue laced with idioms, metaphors, and cultural references, with multiple topics from different conversational threads being rapidly weaved in and out like a multicolored garment woven on a schizophrenic loom. But they are the kinds of conversations that only make sense if you actually know what’s going on in my life and have been talking with me on a routine basis. He couldn’t follow it—not only because of the English, but because he does not actively participate in my life. Sometimes, my mom will kick me under the table to get me to slow down so he can understand, but my own resentment precludes the kind of gracious consideration I would normally grant to other people.

His unhappiness with me manifests in his fantasies about how nice it would be to have a daughter: he tells everyone—the waitress in our favorite Korean restaurant, the person in the church pew next to him, the lady in the grocery checkout line behind him—that he would prefer to have a daughter. He says it in Korean as if I hadn’t memorized the words by now. Though I tell myself not to let the words get to me, without fail, they become claws that squeeze and tear at my heart. Perhaps I am more like him than I know; I cling to stoicism so no one knows how much those words hurt.

As I dove headlong into puberty, and my responses turned monosyllabic, I am sure he compared me even more to the sweet and talkative daughter who lived in his head and always had a ready smile and a willing ear for her daddy.

Eventually, I came to terms with his lack of affection, his preference for a daughter, and our inability to communicate. Then one day my mom bought me a pair of snazzy-looking brown leather boat shoes. Excited, I wore them to school the very next day with a pair of no-show socks she also gave me as I attempted a clumsy, if not enthusiastic, foray into the fashion world. After a lifetime of sneakers, my feet were surprised, to say the least. In fact, they were so surprised that the heels started chafing and then bleeding. My female friends, assuring me this was par for the course, taught me a new word—blister—and emphatically stated that true fashion goes hand-in-hand with pain. By the time I headed home, with blood stains on my shoes and fresh blood still oozing from the blisters on both feet, I was limping and cursing the suffering I had to endure to achieve sartorial savvy. I also was feeling very sympathetic for girls and their high heels. As soon as I crossed the threshold of my front door, I vehemently kicked off the shoes, one after the other, leaving them to drop wherever they happened to land.

My mom—sensing disaster with that innate talent all moms seem to possess—rushed down from her room to the front door and instantly understood the situation. She reacted in typical mommy mode: she fussed and cooed like the proverbial mother hen, cleaned and bandaged the heels, and wiped the blood from the shoes as best she could. Her loving attention was a salve to my pain. My dad’s reaction was also typical—he passed by on the way to the kitchen, seeming to take little notice of my predicament or my mom’s ministrations, and kept walking toward his destination: the refrigerator.

Later that night, I passed by the front door when something caught my eye: my almost brand-new boat shoes,

Creative Nonficton

Langley High School McLean, VA

neatly arranged side by side, with a very heavy tome—an old Yellow Pages—lying on top of them! My puberty-addled brain surged with anger and annoyance. What thoughtless person carelessly dumps a big book on top of someone else’s shoes! I stomped over to remove the offending book when my mom stopped me.

“Wait a minute…” She walked over to the shoes. The two of us leaned over them like a senior detective and her junior partner at a crime scene, examining a dead body for evidence.

The senior detective connected the dots first, “Oh…” her voice quivered ever so slightly. “What is it, Mom?” I was concerned at the odd tone of her voice.

“Leave it be.”

“—Why???”

“You’re looking at love,” she said. “Your dad’s love,” as she patted my shoulder and walked away.

“Huh?” I peered closer, trying to see what my mom meant. It took me a moment to discern that the placement of the Yellow Pages was not random—the book was positioned in a way to bend the heel tabs back so they would no longer rub against my heels when I wore them.

I insist on blaming it on puberty, the tears that welled up in my eyes and threatened to spill, the tightening of the throat and tingling of the nose.

I felt the depth of my dad’s love, wordless and gruff as it is, laying heavily on my chest, not unlike the thick tome pressing down on my shoes.

It was then that I realized my mom’s more obvious, vocal expressions of affection weren’t the only kind of love; my dad’s silent actions spoke just as loudly, if not louder and more precious for their rarity.

I learned a valuable lesson that day: that love takes different forms for different people, and that its beauty is in its many voices. My dad’s gruffness doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me. He just could not vocalize his affection because of his own nature and the language barrier. I realized that even his criticisms were an expression of his love: They were saying, “I love you and want you to be the best you can be at whatever you do.”

The father-and-son relationship has progressed after what I like to call the Bloody Boat Shoes Incident. Communication is still a struggle for us. He gets mad when I use idioms that confuse him, make jokes that go over his head, or forget to pause for breath when I’m explaining things. But I know where he’s coming from now, and once I opened my eyes and my heart, I saw signs of his love everywhere—in the way he keeps leaving his oldfashioned polo shirts on my bed because I have nothing nice to wear, in the way the driveway has been magically cleared of snow before I leave for the school bus, and his terse “Eat” as he hands me the last banana. I would, of course, prefer a pat on the back and enthusiastic words of praise, but I know I can’t change him. I can accept his love for what it is, and try to show him my own love, in his own love language—so now I listen when he gives me unsolicited advice and try to respond and see the value in it. It makes him happy that I am listening to his advice and acting on it. It makes him feel loved and respected.

We may speak different love languages—and indeed, no two ever sound alike—but we can be open to understanding each other’s love, if only we try.

Kirsten Liang

Like a Butterfly

1. Embryo

Butterfly eggs are incredibly small and range from 1-3 mm in diameter. The eggs are laid on certain plants by the adult female butterfly to ensure that the young, after hatching, have something on which they can feed.

I don’t recall much of my early childhood because back then, nothing felt real.

Instead, my memory fed on photographs, tattered like dead moths’ wings, that my parents tugged out of yellowed albums, don’t you remember this ? and stories told through chuckles that I’ll never get to share. But I’ve heard about the person I used to be. I think I was happy.

2. Larva

Larvae, after hatching from the egg, will eventually pupate to become the adult butterfly. This is the caterpillar’s main feeding stage: they eat almost constantly and grow at a rapid pace.

Scabbed knees were once badges of honor in my littlegirl mind. I cartwheeled down hills full of thistles, transformed myself into a soaring swallowtail in ballet recitals, and munched on frozen strawberries for the sake of challenging my sensitive teeth. My jelly-smeared thumbs pressed smiles into Play-Doh faces and my violet tongue mouthed sugars and songs and sonnets. My body was beautiful because it was a vessel through which I experienced the world. Maturity felt so distant that when I peeked at my mother, looking for glimpses of adulthood–the stretch marks, the repugnant rolls of flesh, the pressing weight of a bulbous chest– it seemed none of it would ever catch up to me. I recall the way my science teacher’s jowls drooped when she told us that by the time a butterfly is ready to die, its wings are torn and ragged because each time it flies, a few scales are shed. I, too, was constantly losing parts of myself–a misaligned molar, a tangle of hair, or a skin cell scratched away. When I felt lost in the green breeze of girlhood, I gathered dreams on my fingers like butterfly eggs: I could be an artist, an astronaut, a singer, or a dog shelter owner; the years seemed to stretch out endlessly like a field of unplucked dandelions, all wishes free for the taking.

My parents endured my bizarre insistence on wearing wings and alligator-weed crowns to school. With lined faces, they shrugged when strangers raised their caterpillar eyebrows at the shimmery outfits I wore in public–the self-indulgent uniform of an overly exuberant child. My birthday celebration was the focus of that year. A new tutu, the color of blossoms or butterflies, was purchased, a theme chosen, and invites and decorations bought.

Could there be anything better than growing up, growing into all the moments waiting for you?

3. Pupa

The pupa, also known as the chrysalis, is a hardened, protected structure that the caterpillar forms around itself in order to safely undergo a complete metamorphosis into its adult stage.

Middle school was a battleground for my many converging personas. I couldn’t pass by a mirror without glancing at my reflection. I wasted days picking at inflamed skin, obsessing over the roundness of my thighs, gripping my misshapen buttocks in front of a full-length looking glass. As a young girl, I was grateful for my light, teacup proportions that allowed me to carry myself weightlessly, spin, and sing. At thirteen, I couldn’t see myself as a girl, or a woman, or the owner of this body; I considered myself something else,

something monstrous, like a tapeworm twisting its way through a nameless victim’s body.

Within me grew a distaste for anything ostentatious and feminine. I rejected dresses, skirts, and the pastel colors that my parents forced upon me. I hated the gaps between skin and bone, fabric, and pimpled cleavage. As a culturally confused TaiwaneseAmerican girl, I knew I was ugly by Western standards. My friends laughed when they drew eyeliner on my eyes and the color tucked itself into my monolids. By Eastern judgment, I was hideous. Instead of the pale, creamy complexion prized in Taiwan, my skin was pocked with marks along my thighs and zits covering my back, like caterpillar spines.

When I was little, my friends attempted to categorize me as a girly girl or a tomboy, and I stubbornly refused to call myself either. I seemed to know myself then, and understood that gender and a color can’t define who you are. But later, during darker times, I hid my curves and calluses and desperate tears as I tried to carve myself into the sacred stratosphere of boys and men. Many arguments arose over what I would wear to the eighthgrade spring dance: I wanted a black suit, and my parents refused. A frilly (preferably bright-colored) dress was the proper attire for a pretty, classy girl.

Instead of sleeping, I’d lie awake at night, ruminating or sketching the bodies of little girls, of my less-developed peers, of strangers on the internet, and of myself, before the emotional and physical wreck that was puberty. All my dreams were gory messes of mutilation: what if I cut off my breasts, what if I shaved two crescents of flesh from my hips so they could be narrow again, what if I peeled myself out of my skin so I wouldn’t have to watch the passage of time scar my body and remind me that every second I spend–laughing or crying or cutting myself–is irredeemable?

Was it fair of me to mourn what I hadn’t lost?

My parents tried their best to comfort and distract me with extracurriculars. I joined the debate and cross-country teams, which only led me to glance surreptitiously at friends in the locker room and dream of thin shoulders in racerback singlets. No. I wasn’t being exposed to pro-anorexia media. The inventors of size 00 and XS were not to blame. I wasn’t trans. And no, I didn’t need anxiety medication or antidepressants.

I needed a tuxedo.

A fitted one, suited for a gentleman who knew exactly who he was. I wanted to crop off my long hair until I could feel the wind curl around my ears. I wanted to be taller than the hills I climbed during cross-country practice. I wanted a future more fulfilling than the empty compliments of others. At the same time, I didn’t want to be a boy. The thought of maneuvering about the world in a male body felt wrong to me, yet when I opened the front camera of my smartphone, I could only see a pasty distortion in makeup and heels.

Is it dark in the pupa before the larva emerges? Does it fear that darkness?

4. Imago

When a caterpillar has reached its adult stage and becomes a butterfly, it can fly, mate, and feed itself nectar with a specialized proboscis. The only thing it can’t do is grow.

The acceptance came gradually, like a spring breeze after winter. First, I marveled at how my hands could curl and stretch to make marks across a page with a pen. How my ears could feel songs and whispers across their conch-shell surfaces of cartilage. Why should I waste time trudging through heavy thoughts when I could be laughing, painting, or looking up at the sky?

Creative Nonficton The Westminster Schools

I still pause in front of mirrors, scanning my pupa for flaws, but these days I try to smile at my reflection. I fell in love too, twice. First was with a beautiful boy who loved my body, and second with a boy who loved me for the invisible wings on my back. I see myself as more than a pair of legs and lungs and breasts, and I found a female friend who teaches me how to live as a goddess instead of a woman with a weight on her back. And something mellowed within me too, hollowing out the ennui that had filled my head. Something soft sprang up, ribbonlike and loving, whenever I smiled or reached for someone I love. I found myself, for a moment, in the last week of middle school, sitting cross-legged in front of a full-length mirror. Before the spring dance, I shared secrets with my mother and listened to music as she helped me apply makeup. My mother looked over at me and mouthed, “You’re so beautiful.” My mother is also beautiful– she read to me every night until I learned to do it myself and she lets me cry without having to explain. My father too is beautiful–he tucks me into bed some nights and takes me for evening drives. I appreciate this; I love this; I live for this. “It’s about time,” he reminded me from across the room. When I strapped myself into my shoes, bits of gold eyeshadow drifted down from my skin and dusted the floor, glinting in the evening light. Like the scales of a butterfly. Still, with every passing age, I’m plagued by new questions. Most of all–How much of me is already gone?

Amy Lin

fruit skinning

my mother refused to teach me how to flay a pear from head to toe until the day the sun said i was thirteen. it was what her own mother did back when she was me back in yunnan.

but after thirteen, she would still smack the knife from my palm & insist: nono, someday there is no one left to do for you. then her hands, small enough to fit into my fist, would emerge with a ceramic cradle sweet sliced flesh.

one day i came home, trembling with good news & she beamed & she poked her gift between my teeth. i wiped sticky juice from my chin.

two years later, someday peeled away like the pear skin i flay now.

Lauren Lin

Sunsets

For Grandma

Dear God,

I used to envy the stars. Burning oblivions, ablaze in beauty

Humming sweet while we wither Bitter.

So I watched

With creases in my eyes

Wishing I could escape

To that quilt of comfort

But now I know

When I gazed to escape

I was looking for you, God. For Grandma.

Because you can’t hold one without mourning the other.

And now,

I clasp her hands in mine

They’re cold

Not like ice, nor like silver

But cold like the wind that takes A bite.

My chest aches under its teeth

Grandma

What is more radiant than the sun?

I remember

How the wind knelt to her smile

How the sky bowed to her arms I remember

She sits, hunched over her prune juice Grandma-

But she can’t hear me.

She takes a breath

The way the sun retracts its hands

She takes a sip

The way the sun dips its fingertips

But when I call

She watches the wall

The way the sun buries behind clouds

And when I ask her to remember

She stares and blinks

The way the sun flickers before the storm

And seeing the wrinkles on her face

I see the rain as it snuffs the rays

And hearing her cough

Breath caught on time’s belt

I see the sun shake behind the hurricane

I remember the way she saved

White chocolates wrapped in gold

I remember the way she prayed

Castilleja

School Palo Alto, CA

To you, 上帝, at her bedside

When I see her now

Shadow clamped to her flickering throat

When I hear her crackling voice

Clouds swallowing her once-gleaming eyes

I can’t.

My eyes burn watching her

Watching the sun

Is like tasting the tea when you know it’ll scathe

Like holding the snow when you know it’ll melt

Like stroking the bee when you know it’ll sting

Like letting love cut deeper. When you sink in its arms

So I can’t.

But I look out the window

To find her in her garden

She shines faintly

But brighter than any star

So I pray

Hands to chest, eyes raised

Dear God,

I don’t want this poem

To bleed obsolete

To drop me from its arms

When one day I look to the sky

Groping its caves for you

And see Nothing.

Because I’m her Honey Bunny

Her sam guan ding bo buoy

Closer to her heart

Than God to heaven

Because you can’t let one go without mourning the other.

Night is coming I know.

When it wraps its wings in flight

The sun will bow to its feathers

Plunge into darkness I know.

When night takes its throne

Shoves the sun from the sky, It will fall.

I know.

But yesterday Grandma smiled

And for a second

The sky glimmered blue

Yesterday Grandma held my hands

And the clouds parted by light

Spoken Word

Yesterday Grandma kissed my cheeks And the sun peered through.

And today I clasp her hands

Hold her wrinkles in my fingers

Trace her gray hairs by my knuckles

And tomorrow Night will come To swallow the sun whole

But there’s something beautiful Even as my throat tightens My hands tremble And my eyes wet

There’s something beautiful About watching the sun Even as it sets.

Chloe Luterman

Tehmina Malhotra

Dreaming Through Games Painting on photography 2023

Lundyn Massey

Bait and Tackle

They say rain is the best weather to go fishing. Gramps used to tell me it has something to do with how when the rain hit the water it looks like bugs landing. I’m not positive his theory is correct but I do know that getting pulled out of bed at seven a.m. because it’s going to rain later is not something I have any interest in. The chilly air along with the gray clouds has put a sort of damper on the world. Like someone put a blanket over a lamp.

We’ve been driving for the past 90 minutes and the only words Dad and I have said to each other are, “Do you need to pee?” and “No. Not really.” I did need to pee. I just didn’t feel like causing too much of a hassle or dealing with butt-fuck-nowhere dirty bathroom stalls.

The seats of Dad’s car are stained with years’ worth of Bud Light and Dr. Pepper. He’d packed one of each for the car ride down. A carbonated peace offering. Glancing at Dad and looking out the window, I gaze at the cars and trees whizzing by. My fingers drum rhythmically on the car door.

Keeping his eyes on the road, Dad breaks the silence. “Could you please quit that?” I continue to stare out the window and drop my hand to my lap, heat rising to my cheeks. Again, I steal a quick glance at him to try and read his expression but his face doesn’t give away his thoughts. The next half hour continues like this.

Dad parks the car and gets out, slamming the door behind himself. Begrudgingly, I open my door and clamber out. My shoes land right in a puddle, mixing around with sludge and holographic oil.

Shellfish Pier is more of a forgotten dock than a pier. There’s a sign that arcs over the beginning of it, spelling out its name with two happy cartoon lobsters pinching toward the letters. A soda bottle blows across the parking lot, which adds to the general poor aesthetic of the place. There’s only one boat docked with a single person fishing off it.

Dad yells out, “Catch anything yet?”

Reeling in his line, he smiles and leans his pole against the pier. He walks over to my Dad and shakes his hand, using his other arm to pull him into a hug, “Nothing yet. But as soon as we’re out to sea we’ll have buckets worth. Good day to go.”

Thunder rolls in the distance, distracting me as Dad calls me over. “You remember Ronnie don’t you?” he asks, glancing at me. Fuzzy but happy memories swim in my brain. Learning to bait a hook. Gutting a fish for the first time. I haven’t seen Ronnie since I was ten. It wasn’t for any particular reason; life was just busy, or at least that’s what my parents say.

I say, “Yeah, I do. How have you been . . . sir?”

Ronnie chuckles. “No need for ‘sir’ you can just call me Ronnie. And thanks for asking. I’ve been good.” He pauses and I muster up a smile to give him. Ronnie continues, “I haven’t seen you since you were this small.” He lowers his hand comically close to the ground. “How old are you now?” he asks.

For a moment, I survey Ronnie. He’s wearing an army green fishing vest that has more pockets than necessary, along with khaki shorts, a sweat-stained white shirt with the sleeves cut off, black galoshes, and a fishing hat with little hooks poked into it.

“Almost sixteen,” I reply, and his jaw drops in mock surprise. He starts back up, “Almost sixteen? Damn, they really do grow up fast.” Dad laughs and changes the subject, “So, should we get going?”

Ronnie jumps and says, “Right, right.” They walk over to a boat and it takes me a second to realize I should follow.

While Dad and Ronnie catch up they get the boat ready to undock. Dad softly whacks my head with his cap, “I said it’s time to go.” Oh. I hurry onto the boat. Ronnie rings a bell and the boat breaks off from the dock as the motor begins to whir.

Clouds cackle in the sky as if to say, “Haha, I’m going to ruin your day.” I sneer at the clouds. There’s a flash up there, almost as if they were returning my glare.

Instead of pondering clouds, I go explore the boat and map it out.

There’s an itty-bitty bedroom and an even tinier bathroom as well as a storage closet. In the bedroom, there’s a picture of Dad, Ronnie, and me. Both of them are pre-beer-belly and my hair is a light shade of blonde compared to my current mud color, which must mean I’m less than nine in that picture. It should also be noted that the little girl in the picture’s hair falls just past her elbows. A feeling of discomfort bubbles within me. I hate seeing photos of my younger self.

Especially when they’re displayed.

The unruly mess on my head ends mid-ear nowadays. Mom gave me forty dollars to go get a trim. Instead, I used it to pay for gas on the drive back from my friend’s house where I got him to cut my hair in his bathroom.

All things considered, the boat is nice. It has definitely seen better years but it’s held up since I last boarded it. I walk back up to the main deck and see that handprints streak the walls indicating numerous drunken falls down the stairs. The image forces me to hold down a laugh as I emerge from the cabin. Ronnie stands at the helm, turning slightly as I approach.

“So, uh, what are we fishing for?” I question. “Anything that bites.” Ronnie guffaws at himself.

My mouth tightens, “Oh, cool.” The windshield in front of Ronnie is open, allowing salty air to blow in our faces. This in combination with the lack of sun and rain that has started to sputter down in light sprinkles makes for a very cold boat ride. Ronnie takes notice of my shivering.

“I’ve got some jackets below deck if you’re chilly.” Ronnie smiles at me.

I look for what to say, “Agh, thank you. I might just have to take you up on that.”

Dad walks up as I’m leaving and I slow my pace to catch whatever they say. To my utter horror and dismay, Ronnie says, “Quite the tomboy ya got. You let her wear those clothes? She looks like my son and his friends.”

Dad grumbles, “No, but it don’t matter much. Can’t be that upset about it anyhow. Kids are gonna do what they want anyhow.”

“Yeah,” Ronnie sighs knowingly. The sound of a beer being opened can be heard and Ronnie asks, before I actually descend to get the jacket, “Hey, get me one.” I can’t help but overthink what Dad said. His words were innocent but I scramble to detect any hint of something else, repeating it over and over in my head.

Most of the time I try not to let myself be bothered by these kinds of comments. But recently things have felt different. Every little jibe and harmless remark has been building up and I’m scared I’ll explode soon.

I grab the coat and quickly scurry back to main deck. Unsurprisingly, the weather hasn’t gotten any better in the one minute I was gone. I’d even go so far as to say that it has gotten worse. God, I hate fishing. Well, I don’t think I actually do. Some of my fondest memories, specifically with Dad, are of fishing.

I remember the first time we went together. He held my unsteady, pudgy hands and showed me how to use bait and tackle. Gramps had been there too, sitting in a camping chair on the edge of the dock. I remember the last time we went together - right around the time Gramps had gotten sick. Gramps stood to help me and he fell down; the dock shook with the force of the weight of his whole body. In those years, Dad and I would

constantly get into fights. Even after Gramps started getting better, the fighting with Dad didn’t.

Maybe it has something to do with me not being “daddy’s girl” anymore. He and Mom want me to be this ultrafeminine straight girl who does the dishes…or something like that. I’m supposed to do the laundry and raise beautiful bouncing grandbabies. I mean, I do my laundry - I’m not helpless.

I can’t talk to my own father anymore. I don’t go to either of my parents about my “feelings” - but I don’t go to Dad for anything

Our interactions are limited to small talk whenever we bump into each other while roaming about the house. That, as well as breakfast and dinner. We have an unspoken ritual on weekdays. Every morning we both wake up before Mom; him for work and me for school. I make him an Eggo and sausage or microwave bacon, and he’ll make coffee.

Black for him but he puts creamer and sugar in mine because he knows I think black coffee tastes like dirt. Then we just sit there in silence and eat breakfast, forks clinking. One time I overslept and had to scramble to not miss the bus. When I walked into the kitchen, Dad was gone but there was a cup of coffee sitting on the end of the table.

Man, I wish I had coffee right now. I had a cold brew at the Dunkin’ Donuts we pulled through at the beginning of our journey but that did not suffice. I don’t think I’ll be getting one any time soon considering we’re on a boat.

The waves are tossing us back and forth beyond the usual sway of boats. It brings a queasy feeling to my stomach as I rejoin Dad and Ronnie and ask, “Are you sure we shouldn’t head back? The weather’s kinda… Really bad.” My hair whips in the wind

“Ah don’t worry kiddo, I sail in stuff worse than this all the time,” says Ronnie with one hand haphazardly laid on the wheel and the other holding a beer in a Baylor University koozie. Lightning cracks a mile or so away from us, making me doubt Ronnie. He continues, “What happened to Scared-Of-Nothing-Melanie?”

I clench my toes, “Ah, haha, nothing. I’m not scared I just don’t know if this is the best idea in the world. That’s all.”

Ronnie grins at me, “Sounds like she’s scared. Eh, Frank?”

Dad laughs, “Yeah Mel, it does sound like you’ve gone a bit chicken on us.” He smiles at me. He smiles at me.

I must look like a startled baby deer, “Aw let off,” I say as Ronnie laughs with Dad. It almost feels like I’m a kid again.

“Frank, can ya take the wheel? I’m going to give Melanie a little ‘how to’ since it seems she’s forgotten everything about fishing.” Ronnie mocks me in a friendly way but it still gets on my nerves.

Dad stands up and does that middle-aged kinda old guy grunt, “Sure thing.” I’d give him a pleading look but I don’t think it’d do me any good. We walk to the back of the boat where some fishing rods are secured in holders on the rails. The sea has become even more violent, foam swirling and dark water splashing onto the boat. The waves tilt us side to side making me almost fall onto the deck.

“Careful there,” Ronnie says as he removes a fishing rod with a neon sardine-looking bait from its prison. The floor is wet from the waves and the boat tips harshly, causing him to lose his footing. “So, you got a boyfriend or something?” he asks.

I side-eye him, “No,”

“Oh, huh. Well, a pretty girl like you oughta have boys lined out the door. You just not interested?” he says, as he ties the lure to the line.

I pause, unsure of how to respond, “No, I guess I’m not really looking for that kind of thing.”

“You got a girlfriend, then?”

I go rigid. “What?”

“Oh you know, we’re beginning to have more folks… like that. Trending with the youth and all. Lots of people go through some kind of phase in their teens. Lost a girl to it once.” My fists clench as he trails off. I think I’m going to tackle him or at least punch him. Before I even have the time to ball up my fist, I watch his face turn from accusation to shock as he slips and tumbles off the back of the boat.

“DAD!” is all I say–no, scream. He comes running, and does not see the man in galoshes who had been there a second ago.

“Melanie, where the hell is Ronnie?” Dad yells.

“He– Down– Look!” I flail and point to the water. Ronnie has not surfaced.

Just then his head emerges from the depths, and his lungs gasp for air. Dad runs to get a life preserver and throws it into the water towards Ronnie. Dad is panting. “Alright, I’m gonna need you to help me reel him in. It’ll be like fishing. Think you can do that?” I nod. Ronnie grabs onto the life preserver and the rope goes taut. Rope burns begin to form on my hands but I have little time to think about it as the waves try to sweep Ronnie away, pulling the rope even tighter. His legs kick wildly but it’s not helping much. I imagine I’m breaking a sweat but it’s hard to tell with the rain. Dad’s face is so red I imagine he is too.

With one final tug, we pull Ronnie back onto the boat, shivering but alive. For a moment he just lays sprawled out on the deck. I can’t blame him. I’d probably be doing the same thing. He slowly gets back to his feet, seeming distrustful of the floor.

“Well, you sure don’t just look like a boy. You’re strong as one too.” Ronnie chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. It does the opposite.

“Fuck off,” I say in a weird jumble of under my breath and yelling. They both start to say something but I cut them off, “I just helped save your ass and all you can do is pick on me and make jokes. That’s all you’ve been doing this whole trip. Don’t think I didn’t hear all those comments, ‘quite the tomboy ya got’. Why is everyone so obsessed with what kind of shirt I wear or how my hair is cut? Just leave me alone.” The words spill out faster than I can register having said them. Both Dad and Ronnie look stunned as I turn around and storm to the front of the boat.

Behind me, I hear Ronnie yell, “Young lady! Get back here! Frank, did you just hear what your daughter said?” Salt begins to sting my eyes and I pretend it’s sea spray. It takes exactly six minutes for Dad to come sit beside me.

“Ronnie’s drying off downstairs. He’ll be back at the wheel soon so don’t worry about that,” he comforts.

“Aren’t you going to tell me off for going ballistic on your friend?” I start to look at him but instead, stop at his shoes.

Dad laughs lightly, “He was being an asshole, I’ve got to admit that.” He chuckles. “And I’ve seen him be even worse in thirty years of knowing him.” My mouth tightens. “That probably doesn’t help. Look, Ronnie can be… a lot. But I do want to know why…” he sighs and scratches the back of his head “Mel, I’m not the best at these kinds of things. Talking about feelings, I mean.”

There’s a long pause before he speaks again, “I just want to know what’s going on with my kid. You’re my baby girl and–”

I look up at him, eyes meeting his, “I’m–” I stop and clench my fists in the jacket and thump them on the boat. “I don’t know how to say it and I don’t want you to not love me anymore if I do.” Snot dribbles from my nose and I feel disgusting. I’m going to disgust him.

“I could never not love you, baby.” Dad looks at me with sincerity.

Finally, I blurt it out, “I’m trans.” This pause is even longer than the last. My stomach feels choppier than the water. There’s a lump in my throat and I’m resisting the urge to flee. The issue is that there is nowhere to go.

For the longest moments of my life, Dad sits rigidly. Then his shoulders slack and he pulls me into our first hug in years. It’s the last thing I’d expected. We sit like that, for a long moment.

“Well,” he says, “Gramps always wanted a grandson.” His tone is… joking.

“Dad, that’s so bad.” I laugh. Dad ruffles my hair and as I look into the distance, feeling the wind whip my face, I’m not so mad about the storm anymore.

Jada McAliley

Photography

George Washington Carver Center for Arts and Technology Baltimore, MD

Reflection

Film Photography, Double Exposure Darkroom Print 2022

Ollie McCrary

Hearing-Aids Are My Wing-Man

A few days ago I called my dad and I was like, “Dad I think I’m gonna need hearing aids”, because I had gone to a hearing clinic, and in the middle of the test they took off my headphones because they thought the test was broken because I wasn’t responding to any of the auditory stimuli. In reality, I just couldn’t hear any of it. So I texted this really special girl and she was like “How’d it go? Heart emoji, heart emoji, heart emoji”. And I texted back and I was like “They’re telling me I have to go see another doctor. Sad face emoji, sad face emoji, rocket emoji”. Then I was like “Oops wrong emoji, I meant sad face emoji”, and she was like “Haha yeah, but actually really that’s so sad” and I was like “I know”, and she was like “You never have trouble hearing me question mark emoji”, and I said,

“That’s because your voice is the perfect frequency”.

And really what I meant to say was that her voice is pitched just enough for me to not have any trouble hearing her in a quiet room, but what I guess what I really really meant to say was that,

It’s no trouble at all for me to love you.

I mean, on some days, when winter starts and the trees tuck themselves behind terribly cold clouds, it’s trouble for me to show you how much I love you but, it’s really no trouble at all for me to love you.

In San Antonio, Texas, 2017, there’s a boy on a first floor apartment with rats in his walls. He lives on the corner of Brees and Heights. The apartment is nestled between the alley and the community pool that he and his Dad wrestled in before Dad slipped on a bloody tampon and a needle.

When the sun sets and Dad leaves, Mom offers her son the last cut strawberry. When he picks it from her palm, it comes up red and tacky. He asks his mom what she’d like to name the strawberry. She says “He’s not living”. He says “You called him a he”. She sighs and says “His name is yours” and when he asks what that means, she says “There is nothing in the world more valuable than the last of your most perfect thing”, and he licks the juice off of his hand. His mother wipes his lips, then his eyes, then his cheeks. She holds him like he is her last most perfect thing.

At night, the boy taps morse code and waits for the patter of the rats’ footsteps. His mom sets up the glue traps that he’s in charge of disposing of. When he does, he names each one. David starved.

Louis chewed his leg off.

Emiliana used all her strength to pull her baby out of the stickiness. These things–too small to ask for mercy, or a warm body, or a mother–the boy on the first floor apartment mothers their bodies, because what is a boy if not a small body asking for a mother and learning how to be a caregiver from all the wrong people.

But what I mean to say is that I love you like it is right,

I love you like the first time I saw a cow give birth in the middle of Santa Anna, Texas in 2019. When the sun planted itself across the horizon, dark and blazing fires across the dry grass, and my father’s starched jeans. The baby was perfectly black and coated in placenta. Its eyes not yet open, its nose pink, its ears plastered against its fur like the world was too loud, already. When the mom pushed her babe to move and noticed it wouldn’t breathe, she dragged him with her for a month, until eventually she stopped eating, and my Dad walked the shaken body to a burial.

The mother stopped at the foot of the grave, she cried like she was human. She cried for days. She cried like a mother.

The first time I saw my mom really grieve, she locked herself in a bathroom and pooled piles of garbage onto her body in the shape of her daughter until it weighed like a hundred pound teenager and she could barely breathe, and she wouldn’t eat, and she was just a shaken body, She told me loving a child is like loving something intangible, it’s like grasping at plastic spoons and asking them to breathe, but only getting the taste of your own placenta on your tongue.

But what I really mean to say is,

I loved the sound of cold water rushing above my stomach the day you pushed my shoulders into the creek.

When you whispered “Do you trust me”, and I wanted to say “No”, because I felt like a boy in 2017 licking strawberry off his fingers making a suicide pact with his mother.

I felt like a rat chewing off her own limb to save something greater than herself, I felt like a detriment to your mother. Like I couldn’t give her enough apologies to make up for the fact that her child was seventeen and in love with a boy, and she would surely soon be framing pictures of you with bangs and chubby hands and a toothy smile and covering her body in your old coats from Pre-K and first day of school outfits until it was the weight of you.

And I wanted to say that I was sorry for taking away a little girl and loving her like we had lived a thousand and one lives together, when really, she was just seventeen. But you pushed me under the water, and you whispered “Do you trust me”, and usually I can’t hear people when they whisper, but your words were so painfully sharp in my ears.

Your voice fitting the frequency. And so I said yes, and let you push me under. And when I came back up, the sun was below the treeline, and some cow on some farm in some state was dead, and some sister was dead, and some mother was crying, and your mother was crying, and your words were perfectly sharp in my ears, and I had never loved someone so painfully alive.

Amber McLeod

REVIVING HAYWOOD

PILOT - COLD OPEN

EXT. TULSA OKLAHOMA, MARCH 31, 1921 - NIGHT

Tulsa, a town once filled with booming black businesses and successful men and women, is now visibly in flames. People are running and screaming, clearly in distress. Angry white rioters throw objects at windows and vandalize everything in sight.

INT. THIRD FLOOR OF THE HAYWOOD HOTEL

Two Black men in old fashioned suits are helping people out of the burning hallway, directing them to the stairs. One of these men is George Haywood, a 25-year-old small, framed man around the height of 5’9. The second man is named Authur Covington. He is wearing similar attire, and is also 25 years old, although slightly taller than George. The two lead the last (presumed) person out of the hallway. Flames continue to engulf the opposite side of the corridor. The dark sage carpet, yellow wallpaper, and furnished molding deteriorate before their eyes. The sound of roaring fire almost consumes the voices.

GEORGE (yelling)

Is this the last one?

AUTHUR

It should be, let’s get outta’ here!

The two continue rushing to the staircase until they stop abruptly. The voice of a young boy is barely heard, crying out from one of the many rooms.

YOUNG BOY

Mommy? Help! Help!

GEORGE (urgently)

Make sure everyone gets out safely. I’ll get the boy.

George squints his burning eyes and begins to traverse the opposite side of the hall. Authur grabs his arm with haste.

AUTHUR

What are you doing? I cannot let you go back there!

GEORGE (struggling to breath)

Authur it’s ok--

AUTHUR

It’s not! You must get back to your family as soon as possible. Let me handle this for once.

Authur runs deeper into the hall before George can respond.

AUTHUR (yelling)

Where are you? I’m coming to help!

Authur wheezes as he disappears into the smoke. George begins to cough. With no other choice, he goes down the stairway and out the side exit.

EXT. OUTSIDE OF THE HAYWOOD HOTEL

After leaving through the door, George runs about 10 feet away until he stops abruptly and pats his pockets. He breathes a sigh of relief when he feels that his pocket watch is still present. He takes it out and opens it, revealing a black and white picture of a beautiful dark skinned woman. He clutches it to his heart, puts it back in his pocket, and continues running.

EXT. ALLEYWAY NEXT TO CONVIENCE STORE

A Black woman with a little girl (presumably her daughter) are being harassed by a rioter. He has a firearm in his holster around his waist. The man is cornering them and won’t let them pass by.

MOTHER (nervously)

Please, just leave us alone.

RIOTER (snobbishly)

Why should I? It’s not like your people did any good for us!

The rioter laughs. The woman hides her daughter behind her back.

MOTHER (quietly to herself)

Please God, protect my daughter.

RIOTER

Rambling to God huh? It’s too late for that now.

The rioter puts his hands on her and the girl backs away. The mother struggles.

MOTHER (desperately)

Ella, run!

The girl follows suit and dashes past the man, running into the street. A Ford Model T screeches as it halts suddenly. Ella falls to the ground and starts scooting backward.

George still running down the block, spots the girl frozen on the street. He sees yet another car approaching her but at a faster speed.

GEORGE (calling out)

Hey!

Ella doesn’t hear him. George runs into the street, quickly scoops up the girl, and runs to the sidewalk just in time before the car can hit them. They stop in front of a pharmacy.

GEORGE (placing the girl down)

Are you ok little miss? Where are your parents?

ELLA

My mama, she’s in trouble!

Ella points across the street to the alley where her mother is struggling with the rioter.

GEORGE

Listen here. You are gonna’ go into this store right here and wait for me. I’ll meet you in there soon.

But my mama--

ELLA

GEORGE

I will protect her, now go!

Ella runs into the pharmacy and George runs back into the street, dodging cars and ignoring angry drivers. He makes it to the alleyway.

GEORGE (to the rioter)

That’s enough now, you better stop!

The rioter pauses and pushes the mother away. He walks over to George, his eyes immediately fixated on him.

RIOTER (impatient)

Or what?

GEORGE

Just...leave this woman and her daughter alone.

George looks at the mother and nods his head in the direction of the street. The mother nods back and she runs away.

RIOTER (highly agitated)

And who might you be?

GEORGE

George A. Haywood, owner of the hotel down the block. I’d suggest you and your friends head back to your side of town.

RIOTER (laughing)

You think you’re all high and mighty because you’re a business owner huh?

GEORGE

Not at all. I just think YOU people need to leave OUR town.

RIOTER (angrily) You son of a--

All of a sudden, the rioter begins to attack. George tries his best to defend himself.

RIOTER (struggling)

Stay...outta’...spaces you...don’t...belong!

INT. PHARAMACY

Ella is sitting on the ground behind the cash register stand in the empty pharmacy. She hugs her knees to her chest. All of a sudden, a loud gunshot is heard from outside. She slightly jumps and puts her head down.

END OF COLD OPEN ACT ONE

INT. THOMAS DALTON HIGH SCHOOL, NEW YORK, JUNE 2003

Located in a fictional town in New York, Everett Haywood a.k.a. EV, is doing a presentation for her English class. She is a 16-year-old African American who is about 5’6. She has cornrows and is wearing her school uniform--a dark blue polo shirt with beige khakis. There is a display board on the teacher’s desk behind her with pictures of historical locations on it. To the right of her is an old T.V. monitor on a withering stand, being controlled by a remote in EV’s hand.

EV

In conclusion, the Tulsa Massacre was a horrific event in history that continues to be overlooked.

EV uses the remote to switch to a picture of the town on fire.

FOCUS TO THE CLASS

The students are visibly bored, and some kids are seen sleeping on their desk. The classroom is compact yet overcrowded and filled to the brim with dispirited pupils. The desks and walls are worn down and their brown faces gleam with sweat as they melt in the thick summer

CUT TO BLACK.

EV

The lives of so many people were lost that day. We don’t even know the names of most of them.

EV flips through black and white pictures of victims from the massacre. She stops at George Haywood.

EV (passionately)

This man right here was my great great grandfather. His name was George Haywood. With the help of his family, he was able to establish the Haywood Hotel in Tulsa, Oklahoma which became extremely successful in his day. I can’t imagine what he and everyone else went through that night, solely because of the color of their skin.

A boy named Roger, with his legs folded across his desk laughs.

ROGER (obnoxiously)

Wrap it up Rosa Parks.

The class laughs.

A teacher stands besides EV (Ms. Williams) She is a Black woman in her late forties who is a bit taller than EV. She also looks bored out of her mind listening to the presentation.

MS. WILLIAMS (sternly)

That’s enough class. And Mr. Robinson, I wish you would keep it up with that mouth of yours. I’m sure your mother would love to come up here and discipline you in front of the school again.

The class “oohs” and “aahs”. Roger sinks down in his chair.

MS. WILLIAMS (annoyed)

Continue EV.

EV nods and flips to a picture depicting a group of Black friends.

EV

This is why it is important to give back to the community, to ensure economic stability and support. Investing in our businesses, volunteering in our neighborhoods, speaking out against injustice! These are all essential actions to be taken as soon as possible.

EV then goes through pictures of the corresponding celebrities.

EV

Famous Black celebrities like Oprah, Michael Jordan, George Foreman, Samuel L Jackson--

MS. WILLIAMS (swooning)

Denzel Washington! Can’t forget him.

EV

Yes...of course, Denzel Washington! These are icons that I presume you all look up. As Black people with much influence it is important that they continue to spread awareness and invest back in our community.

FOCUS ON CLASS

The students still look as bored as they were before.

EV

Now don’t get me wrong, while it is important for these people to

use their privilege, there are also things that we as students can do.

EV clicks a button on the remote to change the picture but it doesn’t work.

EV (distracted)

Like we could uh...

The screen turns static. Ms. Williams starts hitting it.

MS. WILLIAMS (mumbling under her breath)

The school board said they would replace these things months ago.

EV

Uh, one really easy thing to do is join the Black History Club--

EV is cut off by the bell. Ms. Williams gives up on the T.V. and unplugs it. All of the students have dashed out of the classroom, even the ones who were asleep.

MS. WILLIAMS (to students)

See you all tomorrow! And don’t think you can act how you want just because the school year is almost over!

Ms. Williams swiftly goes to her desk to put her belongings in her purse.

EV (to Ms. Williams) So, did I do well?

MS. WILLIAMS (distracted)

Yes, you did great.

EV

So, great as in A- or A+?

MS. WILLIAMS

Miss Haywood, I have a lot to do right now...I’ll let you know as soon as possible...look the bell just rung, you should start packing up.

EV follows Ms. Williams’ instructions and puts her materials in her backpack. When she’s finished, Ms. Williams is organizing and sifting through papers.

EV

But just one more thing--

MS. WILLIAMS (stressed) What is it now?

EV

I just want to know if I got that scholarship.

MS. WILLIAMS

Oh Lord, I almost forgot--

Ms. Williams takes out a paper from one of the desk’s compartments. She hands it to EV.

MS. WILLIAMS (indifferently) Congratulations.

EV reads it over quickly and smiles, jumping up and down with joy.

EV

I got it! I’m actually gonna’ go to Washington D.C.! Can you believe it?

Ms. Williams walks over and leans down to EV.

MS. WILLIAMS

I wouldn’t get your hopes up.

EV

Excuse me?

MS. WILLIAMS

Don’t get your hopes up. Do you really think anybody from this town that looks like us actually “makes it out”?

EV

But...I don’t think you understand. I’ll have a chance to talk to really important people about our neighborhood and perhaps--

MS. WILLIAMS

Listen carefully. I’m saying this because you’re one of the most passionate students I’ve ever had. Running fundraisers for the school, being president of the Black history club, volunteering at local hospitals...but once you’re born into the system, you can’t escape it. It doesn’t matter who you’re descended from.

EV’s smile fades. She stares at Ms. Williams with eyes reminiscent of a black void.

MS. WILLIAMS

If you have nothing else to say, then you can leave. I don’t get paid overtime.

EV grabs her display board and exits the classroom.

INT. THOMAS DALTON HIGH SCHOOL HALLWAY

Tasha is waiting outside of the room for EV. She is EV’s best friend, eccentric and loyal to the very end.

TASHA (excited)

Happy last week of school !

EV (forcing a smile)

Happy last week.

The two start walking down the hall.

TASHA

Can you believe sophomore year is finally over! For a whole two months we don’t have to worry about rude teachers, moldy lunch, or brown fountain water!

EV (distracted)

Sure.

TASHA

Girl, what’s wrong? You’re acting like someone just died.

EV

Sorry, I’m just a bit out of it.

TASHA

Yeah, this school does that to you...wait, did you get the scholarship?

EV hands Tasha the acceptance letter and she observes it.

TASHA

No way! You did it girl!

EV

I did, literally after almost every teacher in this school told me that

it wasn’t worth it to apply.

TASHA

Well, you sure showed them! Wow, it says here that you’ll get to tour the capital and go to a benefit dinner with politicians?!

EV (nonchalantly)

Yeah, it’s pretty cool.

TASHA

Hold on, you just got the news of your life. What’s with that face?

EV

I don’t know if I’m cut out for this.

Tasha halts in the middle of the hall, EV follows suit.

TASHA

Are you kidding me? Miss “model volunteer,” “social activist” Everett Haywood?

EV

This is different. It feels different. What if I’m not what they want?

They?

TASHA

EV

The rich white people who created this thing! What if my work doesn’t stand out?

EV--

TASHA

EV

And even if I do go, it’s not like anything will change around here.

TASHA (looking at paper)

Girl, who else gets this opportunity? Come on, they’ll be paying for airfare and hotel stay! The last time I went out of state was through a road trip to visit my great-aunt Louise. And my dad ran outta’ gas in a sundown town!

EV

But just because--wait did you say sundown town? How the heck did you make it out alive?

TASHA

I’ll tell you...after you come back from the D.C. trip.

EV (whining)

Hey!

TASHA

I’m serious. Do you think change happens by staying in your own community? You gotta’ get to the system itself, and it ain’t here. Tasha hands the paper back to EV.

TASHA

What would George Haywood do?

EV observes the interior of her school--paint chipping off the walls, stressed out hall monitors, gossiping students complaining about their sour teachers.

EV (still looking around)

He would leave and go after what his heart wanted, chasing after his wildest dreams, and defying the odds that were thrown against him since birth.

Tasha puts her hand on EV’s shoulder.

Then he would come back, and take his people with him. EV and Tasha continue walking down the hall. A picture of the Haywood Hotel in its glory days from the display board falls to the ground.

CAMERA PANS DOWN TO PHOTO ON THE TILE FLOOR

Without catching anyone’s attention, the photo mysteriously begins to disintegrate into ashes.

END OF ACT ONE

Sophia Amalia Medina

The Love Boat

It is in the space between men’s legs and bottles of rum that I search for something I lost, or perhaps never had, day in and day out. I do not quite know what I am searching for, but I suspect that once I find it, I will know, and I will feel whole. Each night, I am plagued with a tightness in my chest which has accompanied me for the past twenty years. My mother would call it soledad1 , and she’d make me her classic sancocho2 stew with extra vegetables and a hearty broth, and give me two slaps on the cheek, and tell me to find a wife. But she is not with me now, and I am at the stage of my life in which I know I will never want or have a wife. At this moment, I am trying to sleep, but I am restless. My apartment is humid, so I open the window and climb onto my rusty fire escape that overlooks Jackson Heights. My gaze is drawn to one building, in particular, not because it visually stands out—it does not, it blends in with the mass of concrete roofs—but because I have made many memories in that building and it was a cornerstone of my early twenties. I do not know what is different about this night, but something within me is open and raw, and I tenderly poke at the pain. I look at that building—it used to be called the Love Boat—and I, for the first time in a while, allow myself to remember.

I first discovered the Love Boat bar on a detour of my typical commute home. I had been asked to take a late shift at the supermarket, and by the time I finished, it was roughly 10:00 p.m., far too late to rely on buses. I begrudgingly decided to walk home, and about halfway between the supermarket and my apartment, I came across the Love Boat. It sat on the corner of 77th street and Broadway— the outskirts of Jackson Heights. An average-looking building, it had a trapezoidal shape, two stories of brick walls and skinny windows, and a black-and-white, striped awning above the front door. In the daytime it would have been unassuming, but late at night, it was ostentatious, with bright lights illuminating its windows and booming Latin music flowing out of its slightly ajar door.

I was twenty years old, naturally curious, and, like most people that age, desperately yearning for some excitement in my life. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick look. Maybe I’d have a drink, and if the booze was good, I’d take note to return some other day, then continue home.

So I entered, and I was immediately engulfed by the unmistakable scent of alcohol, sweat, and euphoric adrenal joy. The building was small, but packed with men— drinking, dancing, conversing, kissing— and I was overcome with a feeling I can only describe as a cocktail of desire and fear which washed over my body like a waterfall and settled with an electric tingle in my lower stomach. I held my breath so I wouldn’t drown in those feelings, in the desire to join the men, or in the fear of that desire, the fear of myself, of being associated with them, of what the world would think of me. Of what my mother would do to me. I couldn’t bear it.

Wide-eyed, I turned, opened the door, and promised myself I would never step foot in the Love Boat again.

I’ve always been good at lying to myself.

For weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking about that damn bar, about what I had seen, felt, inside of it. A primal longing within me had awakened, “what-if’s” bloomed beneath my skin like poppies. I dared not to pluck them. I feared that once I smelled them, I would be irreversibly corrupted. So I buried them— as I had done when I was twelve on the boys swim team, when I was fifteen and saw a homosexual get jumped, when I was seventeen and my friend, Pablo, looked at me with those eyes of his — I buried those feelings with shame, stubbornness, and a twisted sense of hope that I might finally be able to move on.

And I did move on.

Until I found myself standing at the door of the Love Boat once again, on a sweltering night in June 1985. Until, hesitantly, bravely, I stepped inside.

On that first June night inside the Love Boat, I did not know what to do with myself. I sat at the bar and had a Mojito, then a bottle of rum, then several shots of something strong and bitter. The drinks were cheap, but they added up, both in cost and fervor, and I quickly became mind-numbingly drunk. It is because of this that I remember this night in bits and pieces— fragmented moments, conversations that dissolved into a bubbling blur of faces and feelings seasoned with the tanginess of alcohol-soaked lime. I remember a pang of nervousness. I remember it fading into anticipation, and later, arousal, and I remember the man who made this change so.

He sat on the wooden bar stool to my left, sipping his drink and occasionally glancing at me with a gaze so intense I could feel it burning into my skin. His eyes were dark. They blinked in slow motion, black silken eyelashes casting a soft shadow over his shining brown skin. When they narrowed, a few crinkles kissed their corners. I felt my lips part. I looked at his lips, a deep mauve color, moistened from his drink, and I tried not to wonder how they would taste. They stretched into a sharp smile and his head fell as he chuckled. He said something, his voice fuzzy and low, spotlighted against the background of hazy salsa music.

I’d like to think that he and I had a long and deep conversation then, about our grandest dreams, or our deepest secrets, or our theories about money laundering and suspicious activity in the city. And perhaps we did. Perhaps he told me about his broken relationship with his father, and we bonded over the troublesome experience of becoming a man without a decent man in our childhood to teach us. I’d like to believe we fell in love, even a tiny bit, before we stood up from those bar stools and took things further, because somehow, I think it would make what followed feel less dirty. Maybe some other night I might have dwelled on this thought, and I might have twisted this memory around in my head until it was tangled and new and wrong, but now I just shake my head. I close my eyes. I return to the memory, to the heat of it all. A picture of his body fills my mind.

He stood and offered his hand out to me. I did not know why he offered it, but I took it, and it was rough, and so hot that its warmth spread all the way up my arm and into my chest, along my neck where it looped around my Adams apple, finally settling in my face. He led me to the dance floor and held my hip. He spoke again, and most of his words dissipated in the musky bar air, except one, which left his lips like a puff of cloud from a cigar. He exhaled: Joaquín. His name.

The salsa song picked up pace. First came the congas, bongos, and timbales, then the claves, guitar, trumpets, — the music rang with an exhilaration I felt in my bones. Joaquín led with Cuban style, a flourish on the basic step, he guided me through turns and place-switches. The music flowed through his muscles and into mine as he moved me to step on each beat, and I felt the notes vibrate in my bloodstream. I spun faster and faster. Sweat droplets rolled down my sideburns. He tugged me to his chest, and there was that heat again, burning me like a wildfire with smoke that smelled of cologne and rum. I was intoxicated. The room was still spinning.

Then, his face turned, his lips brushed against mine, and “diablo,3” I uttered.

And the trumpets blared.

Short Story Scholars’ Academy Queens, NY

The cage that held my heart within my ribs broke its lock. Freedom beat through my veins and I was irrevocably addicted. No one in that room cared that I was kissing a man. And for the first time in my life, neither did I.

Shame did not live on Joaquín’s tongue.

I do not know how long we kissed, but it felt like both an eternity and a second— simultaneously too much and not nearly enough. When our lips parted, alcoholic bubbles floating up to the ceiling with each uneven exhale, I found that the scenery had changed. We were no longer surrounded by other men on the dance floor. My back was pressed against cool tile. The sink faucet behind Joaquín slowly, painstakingly drip, drip, dripped tiny clear droplets into its ceramic bowl, and I could hear each one. I tried to breathe and inhaled rum. It burned as it rushed down my windpipe and swirled around my lungs. Joaquín’s hand, made of hellfire, reached into my jeans, a question posed on his fingertips. I felt myself nod, and I leaned into him. He did things to me, there, in that shadowy, small bathroom in the back of the Love Boat. I let him. I wanted, and I let myself want. I thought, if this was what corruption felt like then I would willingly burn in the next life. The ghost of the phrase “el diablo4” danced on my lips.

Later that year, when the summer heat turned into a dreary chill, my nights spent at the Love Boat became less frequent and less pleasurable. It felt like the world was closing in on me. My apartment, and the supermarket where I worked became my sole companions. My mother called from time to time, mostly asking if I had been eating well, if I had gone to church, if I would visit home soon. The answers were always: yes, no, maybe next weekend. Then we would say, te amo5, and the call would click to an end, and I would once again be surrounded by  a quiet static, a subtle sadness. One December night, it snowed, and I sat alone in my apartment, the echoes of Christmas joy filtering through my windows, and I longed for company. I threw on my jacket and headed out to the bar.

When I arrived at the Love Boat and its familiar brick walls came into view, I instantly felt sick. The walls had been defiled by ugly splotches of black and red spray-paint, filthy words spelled out in the characteristic cursive of street graffiti. There were violent threats, various phrases of hate speech, references to hell. Each one cut deeper and deeper. I was enraged at whoever would dare do such a thing: intrude on a place that had become a sanctuary to so many. I was enraged that they had come to the bar with weapons, but no face, with the cowardly intention to hurt without consequence. I was enraged that I had let them hurt me.

My hand hesitated at the doorknob. “F*g” was written in dark permanent paint across the wooden door. If I chose to enter, I felt I would absorb that word. It would forever be spraypainted across my chest, and no matter how hard I would scrub, I would never be able to remove its cancerous ink from my skin. The silent chill of shame pierced my body. Goosebumps crept onto my arms. I slowly gripped the knob, took a deep breath, and walked in.

The music of the bar played quietly, almost entirely drowned-out by the voice of a man in a shabby black suit with a microphone in his hand. The men were not dancing as normal, rather, they were sitting on bar stools, leaning on each other and on the tall circular tables, and listening. A hushed, solemn, energy extended across the room, and I almost jumped at the sound of the door closing behind me.

“The Reagan administration calls it a ‘gay plague— gay cancer.’ People are dying. At this point, over 12,000 of us have lost our lives.” The man paused, then repeated, “Twelve thousand! And the administration doesn’t care because of who it is that is dying.” His shaking voice reverberated off the cocktail glasses and brick walls. He ran a trembling hand through his curly hair. He scanned the room, taking in all our faces, making sure that we had truly heard him. His gaze caught mine, and

there was an intensity to it, a gravity that grounded me to the humbling and terrifying awareness of my mortality.

“We are in a plague. They are right about that, and if they don’t care to do shit about it, then we need to take care of ourselves. We need to learn how to protect ourselves.” He pulled a small condom packet out of his pocket. “I’m sure you all have seen these before.” The crowd hummed with soft chatter. Somewhere in the back, someone laughed, then coughed to cover it up.

“Use them,” the man said.

He spoke a few minutes longer, and when he finished, applause filled the room. He placed the microphone down on a bar table and went around answering questions. The men started to talk again: about the speaker, about AIDS, about Reagan and his press releases. I heard someone say that the speaker— whom I learned was the activist Guillermo Vasquez— was a victim of AIDS. I heard another man whisper that Reagan had refused to speak the disease’s name to the public for too long.

In the stool next to me, a man dropped his head into his hands as his shoulders shook. I felt the instinct to comfort him, but I did not know what was kinder: to let him cry, free of embarrassment, or to offer him the comfort of a well-meaning stranger. I knew I would feel extremely self-conscious at being seen in such a state, but I also recognized the desire to be heard and comforted by someone else. I hesitated, then reached out to touch him.

When I did, he lifted his face and looked at me. The wrinkles above his brow bone, the lines under his eyes carried a grief unlike any I had seen before. My hand rested on his arm, still. Cautiously, I said to him, “Talk to me.” So, with an unsteady voice, he did.

Emilio— that was his name— told me about his two best friends, about how they had built a life together in a small apartment on the edges of Elmhurst. He told me about their days riding bikes through Elmhurst Park, about their nights singing and cooking Sudado de Pollo6 together on their electric stove. He told me about the light his friends brought into his life, how it was the three of them against the world. And, tears on his eyelashes, he told me how they died. Both of them, of AIDS. He held their hands when they left. He wished he could have gone with them. “Eran mis ángeles7,” he said.

I believe that there is a certain kind of grief that cannot be treated with saccharine words. So I held him as he cried. In my embrace, I tried to convey: I hear you, and I will carry your words with me, and I’m sorry.

He left me with salty stains on my collared shirt, traces of his forehead’s warmth on my neck. He downed a shot and declared he would be leaving then, and I could not bear the thought of him wandering home alone, drunk and sad at such a late hour. I hailed him a cab and paid with the last two dollars in my pocket.

I took one final look at the Love Boat for the night, at all the men who had returned to dancing and kissing after Guillermo’s speech, and a great sense of powerlessness fell upon me. And so, although I had left Christianity years ago, I prayed to whoever was up there: for Emilio, for myself, for Guillermo Vasquez, for all the men in that damn bar. We all yearn for love— the love our parents wouldn’t give us after they saw what we were… the love we still won’t give ourselves. We search for it in each other’s throats, between each other’s legs, within each other’s souls. The world tries to take it from us. The world does not love us and our bruised skin and bleeding hearts; it calls our love a plague. But our love is beautiful, and halfway out that bar door, I prayed, I prayed, I prayed, that someday, the world would see that.

I truly and deeply saw that once I fell in love. The moment I touched him— we were dancing merengue8 together when we met— I felt like wax slowly being heated, and I melted into him, and we danced, and our bodies became one.

I was shocked by the sound of my voice when I asked for his name.

“Cristobal,” he said. I felt the immediate urge to repeat it, to turn it over on my tongue, to taste its syllables until they tasted familiar.

“Cristobal,” I echoed. “I am Armando.” The merengue8 song ended and we stilled

“You dance well, Armando,” he said, politely.

“ Gracias9, Cristobal.” I paused, then inquired, “you from Santo Domingo?” “Sí10, what gave it away?”

“I knew I recognized the accent. I am as well. Beautiful city.”

“ Sí10,” he said. “I miss it deeply. This area, it’s nice, but...” He smiled, perhaps a bit mournfully.

“Recently moved here?”

“Just a few months ago. My family is still back home. I’m staying with my uncle, working in his colmado11 , but I’ve been trying to get out more. I feel cooped up like un gallo12,” he laughed. “Even the windows have caged rods. I gotta get out to breathe.” He was so close. I was breathless.

“Do you,” I swallowed, “do you want to get outside for a bit? To breathe.” He smiled again, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

We turned the corner, walked a couple blocks down to this small park with a few benches and short trees. We sat, and Cristobal exhaled and looked to the sky. I closed my eyes, listened to the music of the neighborhood: the mechanical hum of air conditioners and cars, the lilting music from people’s open windows, the broken segments of conversation from passers-by. Above us, an airplane rumbled.

“Always wanted to be a pilot,” Cristobal said, his voice low and reflective. He spoke only in Spanish. “Was a childhood dream of mine. Once, when I was around seven, my father took me to this grassy area close to the airport, and all day we sat and watched the planes rise and land, like giant mechanical birds.” He seemed lost in the memory. His eyes were glassy. He opened his mouth, a tentative thought hanging in the air between his lips. “I came here on an airplane,” he said. “My hope for what America would be was riding on the back of its tin-feathered wings. However, this country is not all I expected. Winters are cold, as are most Americans— so obsessed with destinations. The fruits are not fresh. I am alone.” He shifted. “I liked the plane ride better than the arrival, I think,” he said, simply.

It took everything within me to find the courage to speak. “I suppose,” I began, “sometimes the space in between is more meaningful than the destination. Because when the future is ahead but has not arrived yet, all you can feel is hope. There is no room for disappointment. For reality.”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes.” Then, he turned to me, and he said, “What about you, Armando?”

It was a very open-ended question. But I knew what he was asking— for a piece of my soul, as he had just given me a piece of his. I figured I could avoid the question, say something shallow, sputter my way through a half-truth and move on to a different topic. I was usually very reserved; I prided myself on that. Yet, there was something about the way he was looking at me that made me feel naked, and very afraid, and inexplicably eager to trust him.

I remember I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out. I sat there, and I struggled to choke out words. Cristobal watched me carefully. He leaned in and softly nodded. I nodded with him, closed my eyes, and found my voice.

“There was this one day when I tripped outside my school and scraped my knees and cried. I was eleven, and eleven-yearolds cry, right? That should have been normal. But the other boys in my class…they thought it wasn’t. They said they were too macho to cry. They attacked anyone who was not macho too.” I winced at the memory, at the many scars those boys had left on me throughout my childhood and adolescence.

“I came home with scabs on my knees and bruises on my arms and chest. When my mother saw me walk in, dios mío13, I felt so ashamed. She was not the type to hug, but she questioned me, and she patched me up, and she sat me down at the dinner table with a

huge bowl of sancocho2 and said ‘eat.’ She watched until my bowl was empty and my stomach full.” I lingered on the thought of her.

“My mother wanted me to get out of there. ‘Follow the American dream,’ she’d say to me. You gotta make yourself a good life: get a decent job, find a nice woman to settle down with, go to church more.’ And I tried, believe me, I did. I moved out when I turned eighteen, worked at a restaurant, went on some dates with the church girls she set me up with. Hurt myself trying to live for her, trying to be who she needed me to be.” I paused, and I was burning under his gaze so I looked to the stars.

“Most of the time,” I swallowed the knot in my throat, “I haven’t got a clue who I even am.”

I felt the weight of that admission as soon as it left my lips, and it terrified me that it had been spoken. I wanted to reach out and grab it, force it back down my throat and into my chest, back where I had hidden and kept it for years. I hated that it hung there to be seen: by him, by the trees, by the stars and the cityscape.

“I don’t know who you are either, Armando,” he said, a thoughtful pause after the phrase.

He placed his hand on top of mine. “But I would like to.” He scribbled his telephone number on a handmade paper airplane. To this day, 24 years later, I still keep that paper airplane on my bedside table, next to a short lamp and a photograph of the two of us from the year ’91. In the photograph, we are curled up together on a worn-in couch in his apartment. We never officially moved in together, but I spent enough time there that his bathroom had an extra toothbrush and his wardrobe included some of my clothes. He and I spent a good few years together, sharing the same space, before he decided he missed his family in the Dominican Republic, and went back to visit them, and never returned.

He ended our relationship with a rose bouquet and a home-cooked meal right before he left. He told me New York felt too concrete for him. Said the buildings were too close together, the city was too full of metal and billboards, and not filled enough with family and warmth. What he didn’t say was “come here, with me.” I would have, had he asked. I think, to some degree, he knew that. I sit in those words unspoken right now. I feel around their empty space, reaching for some sort of clarity.

I think Cristobal knew the Dominican Republic would never be a home to me. But I would have pushed that aside to be with him, even if it meant losing a piece of myself in the process. He and I both lost something in our separation.

With a heavy heart, I cherish the time we had. I loved him more than I’ve loved anyone or anything else, ever before— more than I’ve loved myself. Our relationship was short-lived, but I’ve come to realize most beautiful things in life are.

In my fifty years of life, I have seen the world take shape and break and shift. I have seen buildings go up and come down, street signs be renamed and renumbered; New York is a living breathing creature that I’ve watched evolve.

Around ‘95, the Love Boat closed. It was replaced by United Travel World Agency: some small business that sold plane tickets and Lord knows what else. I remember walking past it one night, seeing the “closing” sign, white and jarring, pasted across its wooden door. A group of men who had originally come to drink and dance were huddled around the doorway, chatting, laughing, and mourning all at once. I tried to socialize with them, but my mind was clouded with static and an overwhelming sense of loss. I walked back to my apartment in a daze. I didn’t cry.

When the bar closed, many of its regulars left. I attended a handful of funerals, Joaquín’s—may he rest in peace— was one of them. I watched people walk down Broadway with protest signs made of cardboard and paint, rioting for potentially life-saving AIDS drugs, for visibility, for tolerance. On the television, I watched doctors speak out about AIDS as public opinion slowly transformed. On the corner of 77th Street and Broadway, where the Love Boat had been, I watched a road sign go up commemorating Guillermo Vasquez. I stood there, staring up at it, until it started to rain and

my body got soaked. Baptized. Reborn. The next year, gay love was legalized. The nation roared. My soul ached.

I am one of the lucky ones who has been allowed to wrinkle and gray. When you’ve had a life such as mine, each fine line is a gift, a declaration, that I am still here.

I am still here.

I am sitting on my fire escape as I turn this thought over in my head. I’m not sure how much time has passed, but the night has chilled and there are fewer cars rolling down the streets. The lights of Jackson Heights below me blur. Visceral tension erupts from my chest and I curl into myself. Years of grief wash over me; I am ripped open, my soul laid bare for the stars above and the streetlights below to see. And I cry. I cry until I am worn smooth. Until the grime has washed away. Until I, in my entirety, am all that is left.

Translations:

1 soledad is ‘loneliness’

2 sancocho is a traditional Latin stew with vegetables

3 diablo is, in this context, used as an exclamation rather than a noun; a cuss phrase

4 el diablo is ‘the devil’

5 te amo is ‘I love you’

6 sudado de pollo is a Colombian chicken stew

7 Eran mis ángeles is ‘They were my angels’

8 merengue is a dance originating from the Dominican republic

9 gracias is ‘thank you’

10 sí is ‘yes’

11 colmado is a Dominican local store

12 un gallo is ‘a rooster’

13 dios mío is ‘my God’

Nathan Meyer

Photography St. Mark’s School Of Texas Dallas, TX

The Fugitive Digital photography 2021

Ian Negroni-Martinez

Balsawood, chipboard, wooden planks, moss, Procreate, Adobe Photoshop 2022

Jenna Nesky

Dusk

Dusk. I hear a voice tap my bedroom window, and it belongs to the moon, a low crescent.

It is answering after the injury of some years a question I asked once. But before I tell you what I am, the moon says, tell me, child, what are you? Only a poet. That’s what I say. Then the moon

does answer— I’m a poet too. A love poet. I don’t ask what a moon can love, or how a moon can write poems.

I ask, Do your poems rhyme? Mine do, sometimes, against my will. How distant words seem, when rhymes are removed, from other words. Like planets. I prefer that type of poetry, I think, is what I tell the moon.

But the moon never heard of free verse. My poems, the moon says, come as ballads. Have you ever been in love?

I have, I whisper, felt a gentle rhyme involving dawn and lost, yes. But the girl I loved did not know—

Then I look, and the moon is just the moon, voiceless, the white curtains fluttering a little.

I’ve been writing poetry, I realize, I’ve been talking to myself. But it’s okay.

The girl I loved did not know yet that I was autistic.

Baltimore, MD

Poetry

George Washington Carver Center for Arts and Technology

Rani Ogden

American Folklore

“Lo fantastico como nostalgia [The fantastic as nostalgic]” says Julio Cortazar.

The magic that’s written across our fingertips, the stories that pass from the strands of our hair to our pillow, the histories of our forefathers imprinted on our tongues, like secrets, are the nostalgia of our childhood. In our everyday routines, sitting at a desk doing math equations or wedged inside a black-and-white cubicle, we long for the days when the grass was not grass, but lava, when the coffee was not coffee, but potion, when the shadows were not shadows, but spirits. We peer into our past in search of our own small fantasies. They say, the longer you believe in magic, the better it is, but I think, whether we admit it or not, all of us do — we just call it religion or science. We accept the unknown and cling to the comfort of ignorance, as if that isn’t the kind of magic that runs through our fictions and realities like the invisible strings that hold us up like marionettes, tilting our heads up to the moon and stars, our mouths agape like fools.

Don’t you remember your grandmother running her fingers through your hair at night, her breath calm like red fire, her temperament sweet as a jackhammer, spewing fallacies while the bony hands of ancestors held her up once her feet grew tired? Don’t you remember her pruned finger pressing tightly to every bead of her mala as she breathed in, breathed out, breathed in again, something holy, something divine? Do we know if she believed “lo fantastico,” the angel’s chariot she saw in the sky as a child that guided her bright pupils home, the apparition who whispered in her husband’s ear, “A bomb is coming, go to your wife,” as her water broke on the dirt floor of a Punjabi village and the little girl with memories of a past life tucked somewhere safe, somewhere calm and cerebral, truth or lies? Who am I, who are we, to dissect their stories like ravenous animals. Where is the nostalgia that coats your eyes like glass, helping you remember?

From a young age, I believed in magic. I was a queen. I believed that the blood of Scottish aristocrats, maybe even royalty, circulated through my body. At least, that is what I’d always been told by my Indian family

“Remember that Scottish Castle our family owned?” I asked my father a few months back

“What are you talking about?” he responded, lifting his spectacles from the Times to look me in the eye.

“You know, the one that the McIndoes owned?” I responded “Honey, the McIndoes were servants,” he said, returning to his paper.

I had spent all this time believing that my father had come from Scottish aristocracy. Now I began to wonder how this idea had implanted in my mind. I remember meeting my greatcousin McIndoe at a family reunion in Connecticut and he showed me a picture of him and his wife in front of a massive castle in Scotland. I guess I always assumed it was theirs. But even prior to that, there had been this running story on my mother’s side that I was descended from Scottish aristocracy. To the Indian side of my family, whiteness was a power beyond their reach, one that they constantly tried to emulate by lightening their skin, watching American movies, eating burgers, going golfing.

I was Fernanda del Carpio from One Hundred Years of Solitude, the girl from the Colombian highlands who believed she was a queen only to be married off to a gluttonous Macondon man, who ensured that her queenly powers extended no farther than the closed doors of her household.

I don’t think it was just my whiteness that made me yearn to think I was somehow descended from royalty. I think it started with my name, Rani—a name that means queen: The name that

made me imperious, exacting, and belligerent, all at once, as if my destiny was not printed on my forehead like a scarlet letter but rather stamped there, as a calling to greatness.

It’s no wonder that as a child, I lived in my princess dresses. I had a treasure trove - from Snow White to Belle - all the dresses of the fair skinned, soft-spoken beauties, none of the warrior queen Rani of Jhansi whose name I carry. I pinched my cheeks cherry-pink like Snow White’s, disappeared into books like Belle, longed for the golden hair of Rapunzel, the small waist of Jasmine, and Ariel’s voice.

Then again, I was also a soldier queen, an aggressive, arrogant, willful warrior who got her dresses muddy as she rolled in the wet grass.

As I grew older and retreated further into myself, breathing deeply with each running stitch between my lip, my battle scars and armor seemed to fall to the abyss like picked and fallen scabs.

But maybe I don’t need to look farther for grandness and courage and beauty than in my grandmother’s own house and the small room that looked almost like an Indian temple. Packed into a tiny crawl space, the room is big enough only for my grandmother’s bony, five-foot, two-inch body. Pictures on the walls show the faces of idealized gods - Dhurga on her Tiger, Laxmi with her many arms, Krishna with his pale blue skin. Their faces and figures blur in mind, like characters you remember from a childhood storybook’s over-watered paint that has blended that has folded into the saltwater and blended into the papyrus.

As I sat next to my grandmother, feeling her breath, and watching her mouth round into an “om” that vibrated through the depths of her throat, I felt another legacy coursing through my blood, not of royalty, but of equal majesty. It played out like a vision of my grandmother sitting at the foot of her grandmother. She gazes at her as if she were a priestess, one who cradles the hand of god and whose wrinkles tell stories grander than those fairytale fantasies of dragons and queens. All I need to do is listen and I will hear them.

Creative Nonficton Horace Mann School Bronx, NY

Rina Olsen

Canefield Dreams

1.

Ha-Wai, Ha-Wai (Hawai’i, Hawai’i)

It had been five days since her arrival in America, and her husband had still not come to collect her.

The night was warm. A blanket of humidity smothered the island, and the cuffs and collar of her hanbok were plastered to her skin. She swung her legs on the bench in front of the dark, shuttered immigration station. A forced movement, not one of leisure. The bench was too hard—how could it be anything else, anyway, after she had sat there for five days, only getting up to relieve herself?

She shifted and turned her head both ways to look for some sign. From the dock, the beach spread wide and far, an unending ribbon of tarnished gold that wrapped around cliffs— umber giants draped in jungle, reaching intimately toward the night sky. Rings of smoke rose from a warm kitchen somewhere far from reach.

Other than that, there was no sign of life, much less a husband.

As if anyone would take her now! There was no way for her to check her appearance (looking into the water didn’t count) but she knew that five days under the Pacific sun, doing nothing but watching the sharp, glinting ocean, had drained her, leaving only a beggar in her place. Sighing, she stood and stretched, leaving her threadbare valise slumped against the bench. Crossing the length of the dock, she peered over the edge into the water, her face reflected in the inky waves; they seemed to flirt with her as they splashed up, hoping to grab her and drag her into a new world, away from this one.

She hadn’t even wanted to come here.

And now you are alone , she thought, staring at this quivering version of herself down below. All alone

There were no ships headed homeward. She’d already wasted many tears on that bench, tears she had been unable to hide from the longshoremen and bewildered ship passengers. They were as helpless to help her as the friends she’d made on the ship were, those friends who had already married, in a mass ceremony, whichever man had ordered them from across the sea.

There was no home for her here. Her home was in Mokpo, back in Korea.

The only way to get from Mokpo to Oahu was to sail. The only way to get from Oahu to Mokpo was to swim. ***

Tua was hunting tonight.

Lazily he kicked through the water, the enormous lamaku torch flinging a halo of light on the tide surrounding him. Strapped to his back and arching high over his head, the lamaku doused the stars and kept the night at bay. It lit his hunting grounds, the reefs, and coastal shelf, and set aflame the scales of the triggerfish lined up in a neat row on the spear he held aloft. It lit his way home to Oahu, where a different flame would light the stove on which his sister would cook the fish.

He approached a cluster of rocks jutting up from the sea, and grabbed them to pause for a moment’s rest. The water lapped at his naked torso as he bobbed in time to the waves. Salty air rushed into his lungs.

A movement snagged the corner of his eye. Curious, he turned his head. His muscles tensed. On the rim of the light playing on the water, a dark mass churned beneath the surface. His fingers tightened around the spear. Sea snake? He raised the spear a modicum, even though the blob was still far enough away that he faced no immediate danger.

It doesn’t look like a sea snake…

A pale hand shot up from the waves. A gasp flew from his lips as the hand flailed in the air, drops of seawater flying up in explosive fireworks, before splashing back down in some crude form of a stroke. Foam swirled over the dark blob wobbling under the unpredictable waves until it was dragged away from the light.

Tua clung to the rock and watched the blob undulate out of sight. The water lapped against him, tugging at him coyly. Follow, it seemed to whisper.

Like a tangle of seaweed. His eyes trailed after what looked like the blob. Beyond the light’s reach, it had melted into the darkness of the ocean. Except for…

…that hand.

Quickly he unstrapped the lamaku from his back and laid it, still burning, upon the jagged rock so that the flame balanced over the water’s edge. At his touch the fish slid right off his spear, resting limply beside the torch. Spear in hand, Tua turned, took a deep breath, and dove.

Tonight, he’d go hunting once more. ***

Her head slipped beneath the waves. Silk skirts tangled around her kicking legs, their weight dragging her downwards. A vortex of bubbles consumed her, barely visible as she struggled to see through salt-stung, slitted eyes. Leaden arms cleaved the water sluggishly. Her eyes fluttered, then closed.

And just like that, she was back in Mokpo.

Wasn’t she? The water was still deep enough that her feet hadn’t brushed sand, but the coastline couldn’t be far away now. How she knew this, she couldn’t tell; all she knew was that, somehow, she could tell. In a few moments her head would breach the surface and she’d spew seawater from her lips in the same way she’d done as a child, looking for crabs to catch and eat.

Married women must never return to their homes. Her father’s words echoed in her ears, drowning out the lullaby of the sea. Never come back to Mokpo

What he hadn’t added was, Until we are liberated.

Her father was a staunch believer that Korea would one day be liberated. He had never told his children so, but she knew. The invitations of family friends for dinner, friends who had gotten in trouble with the Japanese soldiers patrolling their streets: the late-night conversations with her mother, their voices rising and falling like bobbing waves. Overlapping, one over the other, measured and calm, as if the words were weightless.

We cannot send her away.

She is eligible. She is wanted.

Wanted. Well, clearly he’d been wrong about that.

She opened her mouth to laugh and a volley of bubbles burst from her searing lungs. Water rushed into them, scorching her nostrils and filling her chest. She flailed. One hand shot out of the water and grabbed at the air before slapping back into the depths.

Burning on the inside, freezing on the outside.

Her legs kicked feebly, arms sinking to her sides. The light—was that moonlight?—slid from sight as she convulsed, trying to force out the water but only sucking in more with each gulp. Until she didn’t.

The bubbles went one way. She, the other.

***

Tua’s arms arced through the darkness, legs propelling him through the void and towards the blurry shape below. Steadily he drew closer, and as the blob grew clearer, he continued counting the number of strokes he was from the surface: eight, nine, ten…

Novel

Saint John’s School

Tamuning , Guam

He reached down and seized what felt like seaweed. His fingers, seeking a better grip, brushed against a hard, round surface.

Hair

And a skull.

He shuddered. A head, a woman’s head. Was she dead? He suppressed a shudder and pulled her upwards, his other arm looping around her midriff.

Then he turned and kicked up towards the light. ***

She was on a rock. Or something. She could feel the rough surface digging into her tender back, prodding her out of unconsciousness.

From somewhere came a noise. She didn’t bother prying it apart into words. She couldn’t have, even if she tried. Not in this state.

Mother?

Her eyelids came unstuck. She blinked as light filled her world, an orange glow that illuminated a tanned oblong shape above her. A face. It blurred in and out of focus—a man’s, a man whom she didn’t recognize. He clearly wasn’t Korean, she could tell that much.

“Hello?” he said slowly, exaggerating syllables. “My name is Tua Kahanui. Do you understand me?”

Her first thought was, yes

Her second thought was, this isn’t Mokpo.

The sea surged up from her throat and she vomited, spraying Tua and herself and the rock. She rolled over and heaved, cloudy liquid blooming in the ocean. Her organs strained as she retched, vomit gushing down the rock and into the water.

Tua pounded on her back a few times, trying to be helpful, then combed her wet hair back and held it in a neat cord for her until she was done. By this time, he’d recognized the clothing she was wearing: a hanbok , traditional clothing that he’d seen worn by Korean picture brides when they stepped off the ship. But only then. Once they touched American soil, they were required to wear Western clothing. “To help them assimilate,” according to plantation owners.

So she must be one of the Korean picture brides. There were always more Japanese picture brides than Korean ones, but the few Korean laborers who were here also needed wives. The ships from Korea were rare, but not nonexistent. Why, one had just arrived—a week ago? A few days ago? He couldn’t remember. This woman, whoever she was, must have been on it.

By now she was on her back again, exhausted. Her face was pale enough that the veins on her forehead were faintly visible, and her chest heaved as she tried to catch a breath. She studied him curiously, but made no attempt to speak.

“ Chingu,” said Tua carefully, still not quite sure if she could understand his English. Something clicked in her eyes. Excited, he pointed at himself and repeated: “ Chingu.” Friend.

Had she nodded? He couldn’t tell.

“I’ll go get help,” he said uncertainly. It was worth saying something, just in case. He couldn’t bring her back alone, not as she was now. He needed help. “It’s not far to Oahu. Just stay here, okay?” He nodded at her hopefully, and she dutifully copied his gesture.

He picked up the lamaku and started to strap it back on, then realized she would be left without a light. If he took it, she might think he’d left her. He set it back down, next to the fish, but picked up his spear. This he would take.

Tua perched on the edge of the rock and smiled at her over his bare shoulder. “Just stay here, okay?” he repeated, motioning with one hand for her to remain where she was. She watched him but did not return the smile. Whatever. Surely she’d gotten the message. He twisted around and pushed himself into the water.

First, the cold surge into his bones. Then, the calm. He remained still, letting the temperature seep into his body, before kicking in the direction of the slumbering island.

2.

Yume Mite Kita Ga (I Came Chasing a Dream)

“She says her name is No-Eul,” announced Mir, returning to the kitchen.

“Noel?” This came from Iolana, who looked up from frying her brother’s catch.

“Noel works, too, I guess. That could be her American name.”

“Noel…”

“Seol. Seol No-Eul. Noel Seol.”

“Noel Seol,” repeated Iolana under her breath, committing it to memory. She pressed the blushing flesh with her wooden spatula. The sizzling crescendoed, fading a little bit when she took the spatula off, then returning with a vengeance when she flipped the triggerfish over. Plumes of steam hurried to cloak the lowhanging ceiling.

The kitchen was barely more than a stove, cupboard, pantry, and scratched table, but the smell of freshly cooked food and radiating warmth seemed to compensate for the size. At least, it did to Mir. It wasn’t his kitchen, or his house. He lived in the unit of barracks allotted for Korean laborers, a fifteen-minute truck drive away from the Hargreave sugarcane plantation, and these could barely be called “houses.” He was always simply grateful to visit the Kahanuis’ tiny yet comfortable household. It might be a point of shame for the Kahanuis, to have such a small house, but not for Mir. Never for Mir. To own land, own a house, and live on your land in your house with your family and not have to work another man’s land to survive—never for Mir.

The door squeaked open and in came Tua, now clad in dry linen trousers but no shirt. He looked up at Mir and grinned wearily. “So you talked to her?”

Mir nodded, and told him her name.

“That’s all you found out.”

“Well…” Mir glanced at the pan of fish. “She also let me borrow the photograph of her husband. I told her that I would show it to you, see if you could recognize him. So we could tell him his wife is here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small square of black-and-white film. Iolana tapped her spatula on the rim of the pan and set it down, then leaned in with her brother to study the photograph. She shook her head. “I don’t know him. Tua?”

“Looks kinda familiar. Laborer?”

Mir nodded. “I took him to the store a couple of times, to get muscle balm. Maybe that’s where you saw him.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Eh. That’s one way to put it. I guess I knew him well enough to be one of the first to hear the news.”

“What news?” Tua asked.

“He died last week. Drank himself to death.”

There was a pause. “But—that girl—” Tua glanced over his shoulder at the door.

“I didn’t tell her,” Mir said quickly. “Even if I had, she wouldn’t have believed me.”

“Then how do we…” Iolana looked from her brother to her friend. “I mean, she can’t become a U.S. citizen without being married to one, and if her husband is dead…”

The Kahanuis were familiar enough with the system to know that the woman—No-Eul, Noel, whoever she was—was both married and unmarried, depending on which country she was in. In Korea, she was already married, as her name had been entered into her husband’s family records before immigrating, and that alone counted as a legal marriage. However, this was most certainly not a legal marriage under American law, which was the reason why laborers and their picture brides usually held a mass wedding ceremony right on the docks where the brides disembarked, or a nearby church or hotel, before going to the immigration station. If no ceremony had been conducted for a picture bride, then there was no way she could become a U.S. citizen. Not with the stringent laws on immigration nowadays.

“She can’t go to the barracks. They’ll notice her there,”

said Mir.

“Maybe we can keep her here for a few days,” Iolana suggested uncertainly.

“What, harbor an illegal immigrant?” Tua exploded. “Without anyone finding out?”

“We can tell Mom and Dad at breakfast.” She didn’t mention Grandfather, but he hadn’t aged very well and was past the point where he could register the weight of the situation clearly. “They’ll see that it’s right. Only for a few days, ‘til we figure out what she can do. It’s the right thing to do.” The more Iolana warmed to the idea, the steadier her voice became. This was a woman in need. She would help her, woman to woman.

“She doesn’t even speak English.”

“Yes, she does,” piped up Mir. “She just doesn’t feel like it right now.”

The fish sizzled insistently on the pan, and Iolana drifted back to the stove. “Fine,” Tua sighed, and leaned against the table with his hands in his pockets.

Iolana slid the fish onto plates, one, two, three, four. Her parents and grandfather were already asleep, so she hadn’t bothered to cook for them. Dinner had been earlier, but whenever Mir was able to come over after a long day on the plantation, they always had something else. “I’ll take one to Noel,” she announced, setting two of the dishes onto the table. “You two go ahead and eat.” She picked up the third dish, leaving the last one on the counter for herself, and swept out the door and down the hall to where they’d put up Noel. ***

No-Eul did not touch the fish immediately. When Iolana had left, she let the steaming fish remain on the floor in front of her while she wallowed in her own thoughts, barely feeling the warmth of the dry clothing she was borrowing.

Sitting cross-legged on the rattan mat, thoughts crowded her mind. One word stood out: useless

If her husband didn’t want her, she was useless. She was nothing in this foreign land: she could not become a citizen, she could not make money, she could not live in a house…the list went on.

But why ?

Why had her husband abandoned her? The matchmaker’s photograph of this man burned before her mind’s eye, searing itself indelibly into her memory. She could remember the glossy snapshot being pushed into her hands for the first time, and seeing a young, attractive man in a three-piece suit beaming up at her as he leaned jauntily against a waxed automobile. Swathes of land unfolded behind him, tall sugarcane stalks towering over him to brush the sky. Far in the background, she glimpsed something else: a large American house—perhaps—set far away from the fields, the sweaty workers, and the beating sun. A wealthy man, very wealthy, the matchmaker had told her family. Your daughter will send lots of money back home.

The brides had wondered about the possibility of drowning, while they were still on the S.S. Pearl. They wouldn’t talk about it outright, but every so often during that entire week, one could hear it mentioned in the hushed conversations over dinner, the little whimpers at night, the thrilled gasps as they stood at the bow and watched the sea-spray fling itself against the ship’s sides. Always, always, the fear of drowning. Sometimes, even, overpowering the fear of marrying a stranger in a strange land.

We won’t drown. This had come from Sun-Ha, who, unlike many of the girls, was excited to become the wife of an American citizen. Just look at how rich and handsome these men are! We have so much to lose if we drown!

No-Eul had peeked at Sun-Ha’s husband, once. He, too, had posed in front of a sugarcane field, gazing blankly into the camera, dressed smartly in a three-piece suit and cap-toe shoes.

“They all look the same,” her best friend, Yan-Byeol, had remarked.

“What?”

“All of these men.” She’d looked down at the photograph of her own husband, then thrown a pointed glance at No-Eul’s. “They’re all posing in similar clothing in front of a sugarcane field,

either next to an automobile or a house.”

“So?”

“Are they all rich? Do they all own sugarcane fields, automobiles, big houses?”

No-Eul had shrugged. “America is the land of opportunity. They must have been able to earn it all. And maybe it’s the custom to take pictures in front of one’s wealth over there.”

“Have you noticed that not one of them is tanned?”

No-Eul had given her a strange look. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s hard to see with the black-and-white film, but their skin is as pale as ours. It’s like they never go out into the sun. Why would they stay pale, when they live on a tropical island?”

“Yan-Byeol, you’ve got it wrong.” She’d chuckled and shaken her head. “They’re the wealthy landowners, not the plantation workers. They don’t have to go out into the sun. They have other people do their work for them, and make money off it, so they can simply stay in their big American house. All they need, now, is a wife for that big American house. That’s why.”

Yan-Byeol still hadn’t looked convinced, but she didn’t press the matter. For some reason, though, No-Eul had kept replaying the conversation that night when she’d struggled to go to sleep.

She ought to have realized, like Yan-Byeol had, that photographs could be some of the most discrete liars.

When they stepped off the ship that Sunday, No-Eul could remember seeing the faces of the prospective husbands for the first time. Wrinkled, browned, dotted with sunspots. Deep lines in their brows and around their mouths. Gaunt stubbly cheeks, rubbed by callused hands. Some were balding, some had graying hair, and still some had wispy hair that reached down their jowls in the ghosts of beards. Their bodies were thin and overworked, not robust as they’d appeared in the photographs. They were overripe fruit, fallen from tree boughs and splitting on the earth; sweet, sweet juice leaking out to make tender hands disgustingly sticky.

They weren’t elderly, just…old. Old beyond their actual age. They were not landowners but laborers, and the years spent sweating beneath the relentless Pacific sun had turned them into old men faster than the years could. They looked to be in their thirties, forties—nearly too old to become husbands and fathers. The average bride here, on the other hand, was not yet twenty. It was a swindle.

Confusion rippled in a silent wave throughout the group of women. No-Eul caught Yan-Byeol’s panicked eye as the men came forward. Get back on the ship.

A cry went up from the women as one man recognized his bride and caught her wrist, pulling her away from the group. A few began to back away as the other men pushed through the throng, combing them for the right face. One struggled as she was led away by one wiry laborer, and another was caught just as she was trying to board the Pearl. “Let me aboard!” she cried at the deckhand as her husband caught up with her.

The deckhand shook his head. “No return ticket, no trip.”

“You’re Do Yan-Byeol?”

No-Eul whipped around at the deep male voice. A man who looked to be in his mid-thirties stood before Yan-Byeol, holding up the black-and-white snapshot of her gazing solemnly at the camera in her best hanbok . She nodded, silent.

“My name is Im Geon,” he said, with a slight bow. “You are my sajin shinbu. Please follow me.”

And then Yan-Byeol was gone.

Beyond the thinning hedge of bodies, both male and female, No-Eul spotted Sun-Ha. It appeared she’d met her husband. Even though Sun-Ha had been one of the bubbly, excited girls on the ship, she clearly wasn’t anymore, recoiling when a man—who had to be at least forty—leered at her, holding up a photograph that could only be hers.

No-Eul turned away, looking around for whatever man might be heading her way. No one had yet approached her. Yet. She still clung to the belief that this man, what was his name, she couldn’t remember, surname Won? This Won, she clung to the

belief that this Won was a young wealthy landowner, and he was different from all these laborers. Maybe she had gotten lucky. Maybe this man, this Won, had been honest with his photograph and information, and in a minute or two she would be married and bound for the big American house on the sugarcane plantation.

She’d looked around, a slight sense of relief enveloping her in the humid afternoon. No one has claimed me yet. Then reality hit her: Every man present had found his bride but no one has claimed me yet.

Panic churned in her chest. Everyone else was already heading for the mass wedding ceremony that was to be held somewhere nearby. There were no men left at the dock. She broke into a run, stumbling a little, and nearly flung herself at the little windowpane at the immigration station. “Excuse me,” she said, and the white man in a uniform behind the pane looked up at her with lidded blue eyes. “My husband isn’t here to collect me.”

The man reached up and rattled down the window shutter. No-Eul blinked, taken aback. Eyes stinging, she retreated to a bare bench facing the docks and sank onto it, shoulders hunched. She needed to think, to wait. Yes, that was it. Think and wait. Maybe he was just running late. He was late, and she had to be patient and wait for him. That was all. Just late.

Don’t think. Just wait. ***

By now, a delicate skin had formed over the pale fish sauce. The steam had long fled. Cautiously, she picked up the chopsticks and broke the soft flesh into pieces, and put one in her mouth. It might as well have been sand. She forced herself to chew and swallow. Repeat.

She wondered where Yan-Byeol was. She could remember those twelve days and nights spent on the Pearl with all the other girls, giggling and whispering in the darkness, and how she would nestle close to Yan-Byeol on their sleeping mats, the way her younger sister had done back when she still shared a room with her in Mokpo. Yan-Byeol had always been a sister to her, ever since they were children. It was most especially now, in the folds of these foreign Pacific nights, that No-Eul felt the strongest need to be close enough to Yan-Byeol to hear her steady heartbeat, a reminder that she still had a friend close by.

3. Nagasu Namida Wa (Now

My Tears Flow)

It had been a week since her arrival in America, and by now she was beginning to fully adjust to the cycle. About halfpast three o’clock in the morning, Yan-Byeol left the pot of broth simmering on the stove and slipped silently out of the kitchen–if you could call it a kitchen. It was just a two-room bunkhouse: the front door led into a room with a table, two chairs, and a stove and a pantry against one wall; a washtub sat in the opposite corner with a curtain hung up in front for privacy; open the door to the right of the table, and there stood a cramped bedroom. It was a dingy place. She’d nearly teared up with disappointment when her husband brought her home for the first time. It couldn’t be more different from the big American house she and the other brides had imagined on the ship. The permanent smell of sweat and dry soil clung to the bare walls, and at night the rustle of insects beneath the floorboards kept her awake. At least, they had on the first night; all the nights after, she had been too tired to be kept up by faint noises or her husband’s snoring.

Please, No-Eul, if you’ve married, please let your husband have been honest in his photograph, she prayed as she tiptoed into the darkened bedroom, past the bed where her husband’s formless silhouette lay. A nagging, nasty feeling that No-Eul was still missing churned in her stomach: No-Eul had yet to arrive at the barracks. These barracks in particular were reserved for Korean laborers, and it was rare, perhaps impossible, to find a Korean living elsewhere on the island. But No-Eul might have gotten lucky; her husband may indeed be a rich landowner with a big American house.

No-Eul, where are you?

Carefully, so as not to disturb her husband, she opened the chest of drawers and shed her nightgown and underclothes. On went the long underwear and the leggings that she had to bend down to button up. She fumbled her way into a plain, durable cotton blouse, then pulled on a long skirt and fastened her cummerbund around it. Her hands slipped into the arm protectors, which appeared to be fingerless gloves that almost reached the elbow, before reaching down to pull on a pair of socks. The boots sat patiently at the front door.

Fully clothed, she approached the bed. “ Yuhboh.” She shook him gently. He groaned, and she shook harder. “ Yuhboh, we must leave for work in an hour.”

He grunted and rolled over. His eyes pried themselves open and blinked up at her, his puffy bags accentuated by the dim lighting. “It’s that time already?” he asked thickly.

She nodded. “Breakfast is almost ready.” She helped him sit up, then returned to the kitchen to give him some privacy. She tasted the soup, and judging it satisfactory, took it off the stove and filled two bowls.

Geon emerged from the bedroom just as she finished setting the table. “Egg drop soup?”

“We got eggs from the neighbor.” She didn’t tell him that she’d traded every ounce of sugar in their pantry for them. Eggs were precious. He didn’t need to know.

They ate in silence, their munching and slurping measured by the rhythmic ticks of the clock. Through the thin wall, they could hear the couple next door arguing again: a male and female voice overlapping, the blurred scribbles of whatever they were saying in rapid streams of Korean. They were not like this, Yan-Byeol and Geon. No, they were not “in love,” as Americans might call it; they had little affection for each other, and only touched once their bedroom door was closed and safely locked. But they did not dislike each other, and Yan-Byeol shuddered at the realization that she could easily have been assigned the other wife’s husband.

Or No-Eul.

“ Yuhboh.” Yan-Byeol leaned over her bowl. Geon looked up, and she met his gaze. “There’s something I need your help with.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but his eyes did not leave her.

“My friend—she came over on the ship with me, but I don’t think her husband collected her. She wasn’t at the wedding ceremony—“

He interrupted. “If you’re thinking of looking for her, it’s a bad idea.”

She blinked, startled.

“You’ve no time. You work the entire day on the sugarcane plantation and come home exhausted. Our only day off is Sunday, and that’s meant for worship. Even if we don’t attend church, you still have to go out shopping for our week’s food, or do the laundry, or clean the house. You’re busy,” he said, not unkindly. “I’m sure they’ve made sure she’s safe. You’ll only waste your time worrying about her.”

Yan-Byeol bit her lip, struggling to keep her disappointment down, deep in her stomach with the soup. “But could you at least speak with some other plantation owners, and see if any one of them is her husband?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll do that. But don’t keep your hopes up.”

After breakfast, she put their bowls in the sink and together they laced up their boots at the door. Outside, a grubbyfaced child was sitting at his front door, minding the chickens that clucked outside the barracks. He looked over his shoulder as they left their unit, then turned back, facing the dirt path that unfurled from the barracks and across the dried, browned grass to where the trucks rumbled restlessly.

Already silhouettes were filling the truck beds. There were three trucks, all driven by Portuguese laborers, each one smoking a cigar in the driver’s seat. Thin threads of smoke spiraled out the open window. Yan-Byeol and Geon went to the closest one and boarded; the others shifted to make room for them.

Hunched over for balance, they picked their way through

the throng of bodies. “Im,” came a man’s voice from Geon’s right, and a shadow tipped his straw hat in greeting. “Song,” Geon returned, and sat beside him without even looking at his wife. The two fell into conversation.

Yan-Byeol bit her lip. “Excuse me…” she started to say to the woman who had scooted to make room for Geon. “I’d like to sit next to my husband.”

The woman raised her head. Wide, dark eyes shone in the dusty face. Chapped lips parted. “Yan-Byeol?”

No-Eul.

She could tell, despite how noticeably her friend’s appearance had changed in the space of a week. Her clothes clung to her body, and her cheekbones stood out more sharply from the now-tanned flesh. “No-Eul,” she whispered. Suddenly the truck no longer seemed so crowded. “How did you get here?”

No-Eul shifted to her left, jostling the woman next to her. “Sorry,” she muttered. The woman sucked her teeth and moved over, gathering her skirts around her with a snap of her wrist. YanByeol dropped into the spot next to her friend. “Well?”

No-Eul peered out from beneath the shawl tied around her head. “The big American house…” Her voice cracked, and she swiped a hand across her eyes. Dark wells of sadness.

Yan-Byeol could only imagine her disappointment when she’d arrived at the barracks. “I know. Me, too.” She looked around, casting about for something else to discuss. “Your husband…?”

“Is talking to yours.” She gestured at the man who had spoken to Geon. Song.

“So he collected you after all! That was good.”

No-Eul looked at her feet, and Yan-Byeol’s smile faltered. “He’s not,” No-Eul said quietly.

“What?”

“My husband—or at least, I’m told—” —she sniffed— “— that my husband drank himself to death a few days after we set sail. Mir Song is my… replacement husband.”

Replacement husband. A strange thought tickled at YanByeol’s mind. “Did he see a photograph of you before you arrived?”

No-Eul frowned, caught off guard. “I don’t think so.”

“Was he in want of a wife? Or was he too poor to arrange a marriage for himself?”

No-Eul gave her a strange look. “Everyone’s poor here. He’s one of the richer ones, but only because he saves most of his money. His plan is to return to America. He thinks a wife will only slow down his plan.”

From somewhere came a gecko’s cluck. “Return? So he was in America before?”

“He won’t say much. He only agreed to marriage so that I could receive legal citizenship, and in exchange I could cook and clean for him. It isn’t a marriage like you and the other brides have.”

Yan-Byeol turned this over in her mind. In the lapse of silence, the women suddenly realized that while their husbands’ murmurs and head-nodding hadn’t stopped, the conversation had obviously quieted. No-Eul felt her face grow hot, and Yan-Byeol busied herself with arranging her skirts to let another laborer pass in search of a seat.

Somewhere, a train whistle blew. The Japanese laborers would be on that train, sitting in silence with their wives on their way to the sugarcane fields. The Filipino laborers would be at the railroads, breakfast sitting heavy in their stomachs as they worked on the tracks. The sun was not quite up, only just beginning to burn the underbelly of the sky. But its color was still far away, near the horizon, and on the far side of the island where it was beginning to congeal around the outline of Diamond Head. The night still clung to whatever dominion it held over the world: dark clouds hung low over the trucks, the unit of barracks, the plumeria trees that were only dark plumes lining the roads, their porcelain blossoms still concealed from view. Smoke was beginning to churn from the sugar mills, plastering a sickly sweetness to everyone’s throats and nostrils, an echo of the cigar smoke unraveling from the Portuguese drivers’ lips.

The Korean women took no notice of any of this. They sat in the truck bed, shawls tied tight over their bent heads, their

husbands’ low, quiet conversations softening the impatient growl of the trucks. It wasn’t exactly comfort, but it was all they could get on this island. That was as good as comfort got.

The last laborer scrambled aboard. The tailgate slammed shut, and the truck’s rumble ran up into a roar. The tires screeched, and mud flew as the truck lumbered out into the main road. Together the laborers swayed as one to the movement of the truck, almost like the palm fronds in the wind, but not quite.

Christina Pan

Redeye

The train from Changsha to Wenzhou only runs redeye, so by morning at Wenzhou you’ll see the three-days unshaven businessmen return to their wives, the widowed taitais with their plastic gloves and elastic hats searching for five yen bottles, and the drifters wandering about to their next temporary home.

I’ve gotten myself a nice window seat, but what does it matter; there’s nothing to see in this darkness. It’s the type of night where gazing out of the window only shows you your own reflection, and before you realize it, you’re looking at someone you can hardly believe is you.

I sent in my notice to my boss last evening, thirty minutes before the train’s departure. I didn’t give him a reason. I just sent him a simple message, thanking him for completely nothing.

I prefer for my boss and the rest of the workers to never completely know what happened to me. I want them to think about me when they see my empty chair next to Weiyuan’s, when the stove grillet is empty, when the next trophy wife throws temper tantrums because the food isn’t cooked well enough to her standards, and when our darned little noodle shop opens and closes every morning and night, because she’s gone and packed up her entire life, taken it to the next city, because of what Mr. Boss and every little shit thinks is good and moral behavior.

Weiyuan. Weiyuan has this face you can never quite place. You know how some people have those faces, the ones that are quite plain, but not exactly ordinary, so that every emotion that crosses their faces makes them look like a new person? That was her. Is her. I fall into bad semantic habits when I’m writing on trains and my handwriting sprawls and ink bleeds all over. I hope you can forgive me for these occasional lapses. If some things are only half-truths. If other things are only my limited view of what happened, and who Weiyuan is.

You know, it’s always so hard to get to know a human being. Novels always go on about what characters do. What jobs they have. What they look like. What they own. What they like. Who they like. What they talk about. What happened to them. Never who they are.

I just want to curl up into Weiyuan’s mind and sleep for a bit. I wonder if she thought about me at all before she decided to leave Changsha. She probably didn’t. I tend to think too much about other people to the point where I lose a bit of my sense of self.

I was that student who knew everyone’s name in class but no one knew mine. Pretty rare, for a big city guy. I grew up in Beijing. After I took the gaokao, I ended up at Tsinghua University, much to the surprise of my parents. I was always a good student, though I never particularly enjoyed school or university or the way professors conducted their lectures. Even the highest-level professors had this unique ability to make the most intriguing content seem soulless. I found it much more interesting to study the behavior of my classmates.

There was Su Nan, the girl whose side-part was cut just slightly too short so that every time she tucked it behind her ear it would slide out again; Liu Ch’uen, who always sat next to Su Nan and would always scratch behind his ear like he was looking for lost hair, despite his buzz cut; Chih-yung, who always sat with one ankle above the thigh, proud and stiff; Professor Zuwei, who was usually slouched up in front of the lecture hall but every time he looked at Chih-yung his back would straighten back up, as if a flame had reignited in his eyes.

There was no course for behavioral study, much to my disappointment. The closest thing to that was psychology, and psychology majors were dominated by the students whose

Stuyvesant High School New York, NY

families could afford to support them after they graduated and found themselves jobless. I was a sophomore at Tsinghua studying engineering when I decided to drop out of university to become a chef. Everyone thought I had flunked out of university or that I was deeply depressed or that my parents had died in some sort of freak accident. None of those theories was correct. I was simply deeply unsatisfied by how detached I was from my studies and my life so much so that I decided to take an actual job rather than continue being a student pretending to care.

Of course, I had to leave Beijing. My parents were too ashamed. They started telling their friends and even my grandparents that I had dropped out of Tsinghua because I had a rare medical condition that was deadly and contagious. Instead of attending university, I was supposedly being studied at a lab, and my parents were being reimbursed for my noble efforts in offering my body to help scientists in their push to solve this rare, made-up disease. The money that my parents receive is the money I earned from Changsha. When you’re a chef, the money isn’t shabby if you know how to budget, especially if you know how to treat your patrons right. I send money home monthly. They don’t know where I am or who I am anymore. I think they’re at the point where they actually believe that I have this rare illness and that this money is payment for the medical trials.

When I came here, I knew nobody in Changsha. But when you’re from a big city, going to a smaller one isn’t much of a problem. I came to Changsha with two suitcases and the clothes on my back, and after a bit of hassling, I found a little apartment, and eventually got a job cooking at a noodle shop. It turns out being a chef is a lot like being an engineer. You have to precisely calibrate everything: the intensity of the flame to cook the meat into a cool simmer; the angle and velocity at which skim milk and whole milk fall into coffee to make the patterns that young couples swoon over; the right grip to chop tomatoes into soft, translucent pieces, like skin after a too-long-shower. There’s a certain rhythm to cooking that kicks into place once you go at it long enough, like gears in machinery. At some point you operate on instinct, so that even if you are cooking blindfolded, you can, more or less, make the same dish.

Restaurant work was infinitely more satisfying than sitting in a lecture hall and solving mathematical equations for hours on end. But it cost me the simplicity of being a student. I didn’t have to think about anything but my studies back then. But if I had never become a chef, I would have never met Weiyuan. You know the quality that every movie star has when they’re gazing at the camera lens but they seem like they’re looking at a long-lost face a million miles away? Weiyuan’s eyes were always like that. I’d talk to her and she’d look at me, but I never quite got the sense that she was always completely there. She rode a Yamaha YzF to work every day. She was also from Beijing. I could tell from the first day she came into work and opened her mouth, and from the motorcycle that she could only have bought from a Beijing auto dealer. She’d chain her Yamaha to the pipe running along the shop’s backdoor so whenever someone had to use the back entrance for a quick getaway, they’d have to deal with Weiyuan’s baby first. That’s what she called it. Her baby. The Yamaha was this burgundy color, but she decorated the side of the motorcycle with glitzy stickers, some from thrift shops and others that she’d just hand-glued on. I drove that motorcycle only once, when I had to drive her home after she passed out, hammered after just a couple of pints of lager we’d popped open to celebrate a particularly fruitful closing night. Her Yamaha had this smooth, seductive edge to it. There’s not another car or

Short Story

bicycle or motorcycle I’ve ever driven that’s managed to top it. I’m no driver, and certainly no engineer at this point. But I can tell you that driving her Yamaha was like starting up one of those toy race cars that speed back and forth between tiles before they zoom off into the distance, free and untethered.

You can tell how some people live their day-to-day lives. It’s a skill I’ve refined since I quit university. You get to meet a lot of people being a chef and being a drifter moving from city to city, and you start to piece together key bits of information based on their orders, their clothes, their habits while they wait for their food - whether they twiddle their thumbs or shake their leg or cross their arms or simply extend their hands out, like some sort of stray cat waiting for food.

But you can never tell with Weiyuan. It’s like she has no scent, no tell. She smells like nothing. She’s just drifting like this plenilune veil that we have at the backrooms, which covers the windows that overlooks another building. The veil isn’t opaque; theoretically, you should be able to see right through it. But there’s this illusory white boning stitched all over the silk, so that any image of the building becomes an optical illusion; it gets distorted and you can no longer tell if the brick of the neighboring building is part of the pattern of the fabric or some sort of hallucination.

Weiyuan was studying to be a novelist before she dropped out of university and became a waiter at the same noodle shop where I first met her. She’d lasted one semester at Beida before she quit, supposedly because she found the literature courses too restrictive. The professors only talked about classical Chinese writing. She wanted to study contemporary literature because that was what she wanted to write not some ancient scripture explaining why the parents of a family deserved a daughter who would marry well and rear two strong sons.

Me and Weiyuan were alike. We both dropped out of university after we’d worked so hard to get into top schools in Beijing. We both devoured novels at the end of every shift because it made us both feel more human, more like an active part of civilization than the workers around us who got wasted on TsingTao lager after hours.

I probably read a tenth of the novels that Weiyuan had read. One night, after we talked about our favorite novels during an overtime shift, she invited me over to her apartment. I marveled at her bookshelves, which took up a third of her inexpensive studio apartment, the only kind she could afford on her meager salary. This happened one time. And then another time. And then I started going regularly to her place. I’d always sit in the back of the Yamaha, of course. I never drove, except for one time Weiyuan got drunk. I do pride myself on the fact that, as far as I know, no one ever rode on her baby’s backseat but me. I’d usually spend the night at Weiyuan’s after our shifts, and then we’d just return to work together. After a month or two, I moved in completely.

I didn’t have many things of my own, the result of straying from the customary path – respectable university, respectable job. I had only the clothes on my back and the two suitcases I hauled from Beijing. I lived in a dingy apartment in Changsha. Weiyuan visited once and declared that I would be better off selling that junk of a place and to start living with her. Her place wasn’t much to look at either but it was clean and didn’t reek of urine. Most of my neighbors, were on parole or were recently released from mental institutions. I felt a blend of pity, disgust and sadness when I saw them, not so unlike how I feel when I spot a stray dog. . Sometimes I gave them leftover food from the noodle shop. It was only when Weiyuan came over that I noticed how acclimated I had become to the smell of piss and dirt. I sold my place and started living with Weiyuan. I repaid her by cooking most of the meals we ate at home, if we hadn’t already stolen scraps from the restaurant that day. We lived together for around a year. Most days we’d wake up, read for a bit, eat a bit, then go to work, ride back home on the Yamaha, sleep a bit, eat a bit, read a bit. The pattern repeated itself until Mr. Boss found out. I don’t think he told the entire shop what was going on, but it was bad enough that Weiyuan had to flee. Mr. Boss fired

her, then threatened to kill her if she didn’t leave Changsha. That would be enough, he said, to at least save face. He told everyone at the shop that she was ill and her disease was contagious and incurable. Funny thing, I thought, how Weiyuan and I were so alike. Weiyuan went off to Wenzhou on her Yamaha, backseat empty. I understood why she had to leave, alone. But here I am, running after her.

Because we were both girls, we never thought twice about getting caught. Homosexuality is something that men think only applies to them. I’m not quite sure why that is. Did you assume, too, that I was a man? I wouldn’t blame you. I did say I was a big city guy earlier. Semantic error. Sometimes, I wish that my brain was male, but I know that my body and soul choose the form of a woman. It’s not because I think men are more logical or steady or more inclined to become engineers. Hardly. It’s because it’s the only way that I can write about Weiyuan without scrutiny. If I had never included this paragraph, leaving the reader blissfully ignorant, the simple enigmatic qualities that Weiyuan possessed might have been enough to submit a character study about her for the Mao Dun prize, or some other snooty literature award. I could write more and more about how beautiful I found Weiyuan. Isn’t that the basis of so much of literature? The undeniable, blinding beauty of a woman that makes all men go batshit, start wars and conquer continents? That is Weiyuan - the softness of her lychee skin after a bath, the way the amber from her irises melts into the sky at sunset.

But that’s not what I love most about Weiyuan. I love her undeniable determination, despite predictions that her trajectory, like mine, was aimed for the gutter. Who could’ve known that two bright prospective students, one a future engineer and the other a future novelist at Beida, would end up gay and on the run? But Weiyuan didn’t give a shit. After Mr. Boss found out, she told me she was going to Wenzhou. We’d both come to Changsha from Beijing because we were drifters. Another city wasn’t too much of a stretch. About ten months before we got caught, Weiyuan had been intensely studying Wenzhounese for her novel, which is set in Wenzhou. The protagonist works at a brothel near the Jiangxin Temple, where the Ouijiang River pulses ominously. It came in bits and pieces, her novel, like shards of incandescent light that might take ages to piece together, but you just know will come together regardless of how jagged each piece of the mirror was, because the light was so intense, so blinding, that everything would explode otherwise if it hadn’t already come to fruition.

I’d learned a bit of Wenzhounese, too, so Weiyuan and I could talk freely in Changsha, where almost no one understands the dialect. Wenzhounese is so unlike any other Chinese dialect— it sounds closer to Japanese—that it is sometimes called the “devil’s language.” I can’t fully understand it, but Weiyuan loved Wenzhounese like she loved the Yamaha YzF she brought with her. Or she loved it like she loved me, the person she left behind.

Night is starting to shift into day now, and my reflection grows fainter and fainter. I’m starting to recognize myself. I’m looking at the horizon, and the sunrise is amber, and I feel like I’m gazing a thousand miles away. I’m almost to Wenzhou.

Seren Park

Visual Arts

Korea International School Seongnam-si, South Korea

Mitosis Laser-cut wood and acrylic panels 2023

Max Pearson

Airport Bones

On February 3rd, 2023, customs agents at the Detroit Metropolitan Airport conducting a routine x-ray of lost luggage discovered the skull of a young dolphin hidden in one of the bags. Bones and airports have always gone hand in hand. Fossils are often found when digging foundations, private collectors

jump at a chance for a philanthropic display and executives love a good educational feature between the starbucks and the gift shop. My personal favorite airport bones

are the ones in O’Hare, a massive brachiosaurus fossil that oversees the terminal. I like him because he’s not a real dinosaur. He’s a conglomerate of fiberglass molds, and the skeleton of the creature that he was based on is sleeping soundly in some basement. Most bones on display in airports, private collections, even museums, aren’t bones at all, they’re replicas. Not only that, but they’re inaccurate. The parts that haven’t been excavated are approximated by teams of artists, broken femurs are patched together, missing teeth are added back in. That could happen to you, one day.

That fingertip that you lost chopping broccoli can be reglued, your scoliosis can be straightened, the extra bone in your foot is a removable anomaly. In the interest of a comprehensive and educational model, each quirk can be scrubbed away and replaced by the human standard. When they dig you up a couple thousand

years from now your bones will be put in a box in the archives while your polished, prettier double is gawked at by sticky children.

Maybe they’ll take some creative liberties–stretch out your torso, add in a few extra arms, drill in an eye socket or two–in the wrong hands,

you could become the next piece of pseudoscientific evidence proving that homo sapiens were actually arachnids,

skittering across their airport terminals to fly from one web to another, one bag in six of their eight hands, occasionally dropping one containing a contraband dolphin skull.

Emily Pedroza

The constellations sank

when I was seven. Here’s a secret: I bottled my tears in my grandma’s glass marble jar—thinking all things that glistened were stars. That wishing was as easy as stringing damp breath into a whisper.

I used to fear the moments before showers: the bathroom’s cold tile, air vents rasping. But once the water warmed and lights coalesced into glossy globes drumming against skin, I wanted to fold the heat into my chest, swallow the memory. There’s sweetness in silence. The way the brain spins to fill itself, a sticky substance dissolving under touch. I see you in mirror splotches, craters of chipped walls, and now tea leaves. My ama dragged me to divination courses where I learned to tongue the cracks of palms like spines, suck salt dry, and stare into honey-rimmed teacups. Where I was supposed to see an unclenched fist

I saw you—your shut eyelids, soft chin, your crooked clavicle. When the teacher shut off the lights to set crumpled paper aflame, I lifted the cup to my lips, burrowed its leaves under my tongue, teeth—then swallowed.

Poetry

Lynbrook High School

San Jose, CA

Myesha Phukan

alternate names for unmarried married indian women

after Danez Smith

Mountain View High School Mountain View, CA

1. freed, because everyone knows freedom comes with a price, so now she sits with a white price tag dangling off of her shoulder

2. that one unfinished chore on the chart, the unchecked blank white box, shining starkly among a sea of other, bloodier boxes

3. the black garbage bag with the red ties that’s been sitting in his house for three weeks, the one that he’d kill for a chance to throw out, but he can’t get rid of because the garbage truck only comes on the last wednesday of the month

4. an unextinguishable flame, except, maybe it is extinguishable because it wanes when a man knocks on the door

5. a lump of coal in a fortress of diamonds that no one wants to parade around, because they haven’t turned it into a diamond yet, but it’s already been 16 years, so maybe it’s time to throw it out

6. melancholy music playing on a perfect summer day, but perhaps it’s not perfect because he hit play on “funeral” by phoebe bridgers

7. threads fraying from a sweater that your grandmother made you because daggered nails keep digging into it, picking at the cable knit fabric until, eventually, it unravels

8. an un-bindi’d forehead hidden away in a locked room

9. simply a shame, because her mother never wanted a girl in the first place, but even after praying to god, if there is a god, a burden came out instead of pride

10. censored letters, his thick black sharpie running through every other sentence, because god forbid she tells the truth

11. pitied only by the rats in the walls because the sounds of his constant slaps and bottles breaking make them jump

12. the “grand prize,” something to be won, but if he wins, she loses

13. fruit tartlets sitting in a glass display at your favorite bakery, but right after he bought it, he dropped it so hard the pastry cracked, and the strawberries needed closed caskets that hid the shoeprints on their skin

14. blood reflecting on shards of glass, since the second the door closed behind her, he threw a mirror at her feet, each cut reflecting one year of bad luck

15. unmarried, married, indian women

Taarena Rathore

Photography

Plano East Senior High School

Plano, TX

Rosin

Digital photography, Adobe Photoshop 2023

Gabriela Rey

MARTHA’S PARAKEET

EXT. MARTHA’S HOUSE.

Play or Script

New York, NY

Victorian. In decay. It looks like it used to hold rowdy parties before its owners decided upkeep was too much of a hassle. Two pink plastic flamingos stand at attention near the door. GEORGE (13, MALE) goes up the steps and knocks on the door with a brass handle in the shape of a woodpecker.

MARTHA (FROM INSIDE)

Slide your search warrant under the door, or I cannot, WILL NOT open the door for anyone! Speak to my lawyer! For the last time, I do not have any illegal birds --

GEORGE What?

The heavy door swings open.

MARTHA, (70s, FEMALE) a short and stout woman with long gray hair and glasses answers the door. She doesn’t say anything. George tries to fill up the awkward silence.

MARTHA

Oh. You’re not a cop, right? You know you have to tell me if you are-

GEORGE

Um. No, I’m not.

MARTHA (she smiles) Wonderful. Proceed.

GEORGE

I was playing with my friends, and my soccer ball landed in your backyard... can I get it back?

Martha starts to laugh.

MARTHA

Oh! I was in the middle of training my new parakeet, Jasmine, to sing, that I didn’t see it land! Of course you can come in. A bit of warning, however -- do not make eye contact with the birds. They don’t like strangers. Especially males, for some reason.

She whispers, as if she doesn’t want the birds to hear.

MARTHA (CONT’D) They don’t like their energy.

George hesitates.

MARTHA (CONT’D)

Oh come in, come in! You’ll be fine...

George steps into the home, uneasy.

EXT. MARTHA’S HOUSE.

GEORGE (now 18, MALE) goes up the steps of the house with a bag of birdseed in his hand. He knocks on the door with the same woodpecker brass handle.

MARTHA (FROM INSIDE) Password?

Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts

GEORGE Semiplumes.

The door swings open with vigor. Martha (early 80s now) seems even smaller, thinner, older. Soft jazz music plays in the background: I’ll Be Seeing You- Billie Holiday.

MARTHA

George! Look at you, all grown up! How was your graduation? I’m getting ahead of myself -- come in, come in!

George and Martha sit in her living room.

GEORGE

I brought you birdseed, thought it’d be more useful than some cheap college merch. I learned in class that birds need certain, uh, nutrients so I also brought some oranges--

MARTHA

How lovely, George. Thank you. Ever since the surgery I’ve been scared of leaving the house. You know, don’t wanna break my other knee.

She coughs, clearly sick, but tries to lighten the mood by laughing it off. George’s face drops in worry. They hug, a silent understanding. Martha’s eyes well up. George is like the grandson she never had.

EXT. MARTHA’S HOUSE.

Furniture is sprawled out on the lawn. A moving van is parked on the curb. Empty bird cages sit open on the grass.

GEORGE (now 28) goes to use the woodpecker knocker and instead is met with a bare door, painted white. George knocks. A wedding ring rests on his left hand. A few seconds pass without a sound until a REAL ESTATE AGENT (40s, FEMALE) opens the door. She dresses in grays and whites and thin- rimmed glasses.

Can I help you?

REAL ESTATE AGENT

GEORGE

Thank you. Um, I’m looking for Martha? Old? Short? Has weird birds?

She shrugs, indifferent.

REAL ESTATE AGENT

If you’re looking for her stuff, it’s all outside. We tried reaching out to her family but--

George pushes past her and enters the house in a daze. It all hits him like a truck barreling at him at 100 miles an hour.

Cardboard boxes sit on the floor. Green floral wallpaper covers the walls, now peeling. George’s eyes begin to water, seeing the place so empty. He runs his hand along the upholstered couches and chairs, now covered in plastic. A half used bag of birdseed (same brand he brought) sits on the ground. He half laughs, half cries. He opens one of the boxes and takes out the record player and an album: Billie Holiday. A post-it note is stuck on the front that reads: GIVE TO GEORGE. He places the stylus on the record. I’ll Be Seeing You begins to play. One of Martha’s parakeets flies in from the front door and begins to whistle the tune. George smiles.

CUT TO: BLACK.

Kaydance Rice

breakup poem as exercise in epidemiology

in 1854, a guy named john removed a water pump and suddenly everyone on broad street stopped getting sick. and suddenly everyone

could breathe again because they thought cholera was spread through the air but it wasn’t, it was spread through the water. and when the black death broke out,

all the sick people ran from all the sick people because they didn’t know they were sick yet, but that’s why it spread. it wasn’t the fleas, at least not entirely. all of this, of course, you know and all of this, of course, you told me in the hospital after you od-ed for the first time to make me feel better. i just didn’t

know if you remembered. and nosocomial is the word for when a disease begins its spread in the hospital but you knew that too. you did forget. i’m told dead and dying

aren’t the same thing because being sick doesn’t mean you’re dead or dying it just means you’re close because the only viral disease with a 100% mortality rate is rabies and i forgot to visit you the last time you were in the hospital because hospitals are the best place for disease to spread and so they do and every doctor i’ve talked to doesn’t know why my lungs don’t work or how my body shuts down sometimes and you called it stress but now i’m not so sure and it’s maybe like bleach wipes or hand

sanitizer and you always kept them around because they’re inhalants and i always kept them around because i hate the idea of germs living on the tips

of my fingers and eating away at my skin. in 1854, a guy named john had a theory that if you took away the only constant, you’d get rid of every constant. in 1854, you chewed on your nails and painted mine and told me that i would look so good if my skin didn’t get so pale in the wintertime and i just wore more lipstick and everytime i go to do my eyeliner, i think about you and what you’re thinking about and the last time i texted you, you didn’t respond which is stupid because i’m the one that’s supposed to be angry. except i’m not even angry because today,

i’m sick and i’ve gone through three boxes of tissues in two and a half days. and the first time i watched you get high, i didn’t stop coughing for a week and the last time i watched you get high, you told me how pretty my eyes are. and how you hope the last thing you breathe is acidic and sour. and you won’t even need

to think anymore. and even if nothing else is left you’ll always have that breath and that smoke and lately i’m starting to think every poem i write might

just be about you. because every poem i write was in 1854 on the well pump, infected with cholera until you, a guy named john, removed it and burnt it and died of cholera yourself.

Rana Roosevelt

Feral

Each year I’m catcalled

I must lower the age coming out of my mouth

I am 15, I am 14, I am 12

No matter how low I go they go lower

Kneel down to me, like I’m a child on their knee

Sneer out hey sweetie, beasts in heat

Roar from allies like rabid dogs

Sniffing my scent like a slice of meat

I cannot hide– but I must cower, mouth sour

Retaliations buried beneath my tongue

Tucked between my gums

I must slink behind cars, ears back

Head down, eyes red

And when he gets close enough

Breath hot round my neck

When I feel his gaze trace below my head

I must bare my teeth

Adorn my face with frantic pearly smiles

My only defense to simply accept

Cats who bite the hand get the needle next

I don’t want to be next–

I wish I could rip off my face.

This slab of skin, sculpted by a god since forsaken

The hollow shell that eats my soul in submission

That spills with permission written round the lips

Blooms and beckons like a lustful beacon

Red and hot, bright crimson pools

When all I want is to go to school

My body puts me closer to an animal than he’ll ever be

When he’s the one who needs a leash

But I’m the one behind the bars

This meaty monster that eats my heart

So I’ll curl my fingers deep into my flesh

I’ll feel the hot red life run down my bones

Each tear more moments left alone

I’ll wrench it up from the chin

The fluttering eyelashes, the rosy cheeks, They’ll wrinkle together on the concrete

I’ll rip off my face.

And the blood will spew like fireworks across his eyes

And he’ll scream, and I won’t be a little girl

I’ll be the scariest thing he’s ever seen

And he won’t understand, because

If a woman isn’t pretty then what is she?

And I’ll cackle as each ligament cracks

Arteries arching, finally freed

The bones of my jaw will jut out like piano keys

As my provocative clothes are drenched in Sweet red victory

And my school bag drops to the side of the street

I’ll split my neck down to my pumping heart

The mound of muscle no longer muffled by Feral parts

And I’ll let my arms fall to my sides

I’ll stare at him with my lidless eyes

And he’ll make up some excuse–

He’ll try to resist, grip his keys in a fist

Or wish for someone to hear

And then, only then

Will he feel my fear

Spoken

Isabella Rotker

Decomposing Nocturne

The sun slips behind my dorm room as my abuela’s1 voice crackles through the phone. Estas trabajando hasta los huesos2 she says. But I’m okay with a little dirt under the nails, with aging two generations ahead. On Saturdays I water the houseplants and know that if my father hadn’t stopped practicing, I would be forbidden from all of this. Shana tova3, I tell her and hang up the phone into darkness. The water leaks out of the flower pots. This is the kind of domesticity that keeps me sane––every Friday the candles are lit in my abuela’s apartment. I sink into my bed and feel the weighted blanket fall through my skin. Yom Kippur is approaching. My abuela apologizes because she still wishes I was Jewish. Whatever remains when I’m gone will have made this beautiful enough to be worth it. The coffee grounds fizzling out in my mug. The madman’s night sky. Whole holidays dedicated to grieving, and then drinking. I take my medication and watch leaves die. Like Bronte, I trap myself between the daybed and whatever comes next. I comb the carpet. It’s okay to be a little crazy, my therapist says as my hands rattle in her office. I tell her I still blame my father for not letting me be named something beautiful and for not having something ancient to follow to the grave. Anything, I think, is better than this. I dream that a pharaoh or perhaps Hashem4 shovels dirt over the sun––I have never been good enough for such holiness. I wake up and realize the sun has turned into Zoloft and proclaim myself an emosurrealist. The grass turns brittle and white. Distant stars flicker like candles. Obviously Judah knew he had enough oil for 8 days. It’s the darkness that mattered. 1 grandmother 2 You’re working to/until the bone 3 Good

Eunji Ryu

Etude for Joy

Play or Script

Westview High School

Portland, OR

SCENE 1

KNIGHT MANSION, RURAL MIDWEST. EVENING.

Lights up on a grand piano at center stage (lid open). The rest of the stage is completely empty. OSCAR, a short teenage boy, enters from stage right, goes to the piano, sits down, and begins to play a sequence of twelve notes over and over, holding down the sustain pedal.

OSCAR (while continuing to play)

What do you think, sir?

KNIGHT (offstage)

Excellent, dear.

Blackout.

SCENE 2

Lights up on the piano, which is now draped in a black velvet covering. A few plush armchairs and vintage lamps are arranged in the vicinity. Four teenagers (ANNA, MARK, JAMES, AND LACY) stand in a circle around the piano, whispering to each other. OSCAR enters once again from stage right, pulling a suitcase, but hesitates before reaching the piano.

ANNA (TO OSCAR)

Hey! What’s your name?

OSCAR

Oh, I’m... I’m Oscar.

ANNA

Hey, Oscar. You can come over here, you know.

She beckons teasingly. MARK, JAMES, and LACY stop whispering. OSCAR joins the group.

ANNA (indicating)

I’m Anna. This is Lacy, that’s James, and that’s Mark.

OSCAR

Nice to meet you. Um, what do you all play?

ANNA

Violin for me. For fourteen years, since I was three!

JAMES (leaning lazily on the piano)

I’m violin too. Thirteen.

LACY

I play cello. Eleven years for me.

MARK

Flute for ten years.

PROFESSOR KNIGHT, an old man with patchy white hair, enters from stage left, carrying a huge stack of sheet music. ANNA and JAMES run over to help him, while LACY, MARK, and OSCAR linger behind.

KNIGHT

Anna! James, Lacy, and Mark! Oh, and who is this?

This is Oscar.

PROFESSOR KNIGHT gives OSCAR a once-over before breaking into a smile.

KNIGHT

Ah, of course! Our pianist! So good to have you here. Welcome to the five hundred and ninety-seventh iteration of the Knight Mansion Music Summer Camp, dear.

OSCAR (after a pause, trying to do math in his head) Wow. Thank you... sir.

PROFESSOR KNIGHT exchanges a glance with the others minus OSCAR. He walks to the piano and pulls off the cover with a flourish.

He plays middle C once, with his thumb. The note rings out for several moments. LACY hums the tone under her breath. JAMES crosses his arms and bows his head. MARK closes his eyes. ANNA just smiles.

KNIGHT (choked-up)

Ah, beautiful as always.

MARK Oscar?

OSCAR (taken off guard) Yes?

MARK

Can you play something for us?

KNIGHT (in his normal voice)

Now, now, we’ll see our young pianist for his first masterclass tomorrow morning. For now, settle into your rooms for the night. Sleep well.

The kids exit stage right. PROFESSOR KNIGHT exits stage left. Blackout.

SCENE 3

ELEVATOR & DORM ROOMS. NIGHTTIME.

Lights up on JAMES, MARK, and OSCAR in an elevator. JAMES presses elevator buttons with his back to the audience, obscuring the buttons from view.

MARK and OSCAR stand side by side. OSCAR fidgets. MARK stands stock still.

OSCAR

So, do you know what floor our rooms are on?

MARK (wearily)

The fourth floor.

OSCAR

This building has four floors?

JAMES It has twelve. Dumbass.

A mechanical A plays four times as the elevator rises.

MARK

Here we are. There’s only two rooms, though. I don’t think we were expecting you. But you can share with me, anyway.

OSCAR

Thank you.

MARK and OSCAR step out of the elevator and enter MARK’s dorm room on the right. JAMES exits stage left.

The dorm room has a bunk bed, an open closet, and a desk. MARK’s stuff is already laid out in the room. OSCAR kneels to unzip his suitcase and unpack his things.

Oscar?

Yes?

A beat.

MARK

OSCAR

MARK

What are you doing here?

OSCAR (confused)

You said we could share the room.

MARK

No, I meanhave you been to this music camp before?

OSCAR

No, actually. Is it an annual thing? My piano teacher nominated me for the camp. I don’t really know much about it, but...

But?

MARK

OSCAR

Well, lately piano...it just hasn’t been the same.

MARK (slightly disappointed) Oh.

OSCAR (organizing his things and changing into pajamas as he speaks)

Yeah. I’ve been playing for twelve years, and I used to really, really love it. But after I got to a certain level and started entering competitions, and taking piano exams every other month, and just constantly worrying about how I measure up... I feel like I’ve lost what it used to mean to me. I feel like I’m just playing notes, whereas before I was making music. I feel like I’m just hitting keys without a real purpose, or, no- for some kind of extrinsic validation instead of my own personal joy. I just... I want to have real joy in my music again.

Sorry, you didn’t ask to hear all that. I don’t know, is that stupid?

MARK

No, not at all. I know exactly what that feels like. You just do it over and over, because you have to, and not because you want to.

OSCAR (brightening up)

Exactly! You really do get it. Do you think being here will help me? You seem like you’ve been here a few times before.

MARK

I have. And about whether it’ll help you with your problem... you’ll come to see, Oscar. I think for now, we should sleep.

OSCAR (yawns)

Agreed. Blackout.

MARK Goodnight.

OSCAR Goodnight!

SCENE 4

PERFORMANCE HALL. EARLY MORNING.

Lights up on the piano, back on center stage. The rest of the stage is completely empty. OSCAR enters stage right, carrying a binder of sheet music, and bows. Applause as he sits at the piano and opens the binder. LACY, JAMES, and MARK are seated in the audience. More applause as PROFESSOR KNIGHT enters stage left, bows, and sits by OSCAR.

KNIGHT

Have you had a masterclass before, dear?

OSCAR

Yes, a few times.

KNIGHT

Then whenever you’re ready.

OSCAR takes a deep breath, places his fingers delicately on the keys, then begins to play (Chopin: Piano Sonata No. 2 in B Flat Minor, Op. 35: Scherzo). At the end of the movement, applause. As the applause peters out, complete silence falls.

KNIGHT (reverently, once silence has stretched on for at least five seconds)

In all my years, I’ve never known anyone to treat a scherzo in such a way.

OSCAR (embarrassed)

I’m sorry, Professor. I’m working on my transitions-

KNIGHT

No, Oscar. You play almost perfectly. That’s why you’re here.

OSCAR turns to face PROFESSOR KNIGHT in confusion.

KNIGHT

Those who are untalented have no value in this place.

Lights turn purple. As PROFESSOR KNIGHT speaks, ANNA repeats the same words aloud at the same time. JAMES does the same, but slightly quieter. LACY follows, in a whisper. MARK and OSCAR stay silent.

KNIGHT

You are here because you are so close to perfect, but you’ve hit a rift. Once you overcome this rift, you will achieve musical perfection to a sacred degree. I’m here to help you make that happen. But until it does, you will be stuck here, on the other side of the rift, without end and without pause. Is that understood, dear?

PROFESSOR KNIGHT, ANNA, JAMES, AND LACY go quiet. Lights return to normal color.

OSCAR

...I’m sorry, sir?

PROFESSOR KNIGHT begins to guffaw loudly, clutching his sides.

KNIGHT

Oh, dear. I may have overwhelmed you. Let’s take it from measure 12, shall we? That’ll be a B up there at the top.

Abrupt blackout.

SCENE 5

Lights remain off. Characters speak in stage whispers. The twelve-note melody from SCENE 1 plays softly offstage, over and over.

JAMES

What do we think of newbie?

ANNA

Personally, I don’t think much of him. He’s not the problem here.

Who is?

JAMES

ANNA

Dumbass, it’s Lacy. I think she’ll get it this time.

JAMES

Holy shit. How do you know?

ANNA

I just know she knows. Or at least she will by the end. I was watching her at the masterclass and there was this knowing little nod she did when Knight told newbie to take it from the B- and she’s kind of a good player, maybe Knight will take it as perfect if she has the right notes. God, she’s got it in the bag.

No fucking way.

JAMES

ANNA

I’m not fucking letting her go, James.

JAMES

She won’t go. She won’t go. How the hell would she know? How many times has she been here? Don’t tell me she’s done the whole four hundred seventy-nine million one thousand six-

ANNA

Shut the fuck up. I hate that goddamn number.

JAMES

Don’t yell at me, it’s not me who decided that’s how many combinations you can get out of twelve- never mind.

Don’t worry, Anna. She won’t be the first one. It’ll be you.

ANNA

Of course it will. I’m the closest to musical perfection, aren’t I? All I need is the sequence. No way she’s getting out with the sequence when her technique is shit compared to me. She doesn’t get the goddamn cheat code before me.

Can I trust you not to fuck this up like you did with Mark?

JAMES

Can I trust you about Lacy not being another false alarm like Mark?

ANNA

Don’t be an idiot. Mark was your idea, not mine. My intuition is always right. Can’t say the same about yours. How do you think I’m so much better of a violinist than you?

JAMES

Jesus. Fine. I’ll take care of it.

SCENE 6

DORM ROOM. LATE AFTERNOON.

Lights up on LACY practicing on the cello alone in her room. She’s playing arpeggios. She lingers on a D that sounds out of tune. A metronome ticks at moderate speed on the desk beside her.

LACY pauses to tighten her bow and rub on some rosin. A knock from offstage. LACY walks to stage right. MARK runs onstage from stage right.

MARK

Lacy, did you figure it out?

LACY (hesitates)

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

MARK

Come on, Lacy.

I... Maybe.

LACY

MARK

Listen, I can’t tell you what I just heard. But please, be careful. They know you know.

A beat. The metronome is still going.

I don’t want to be left here alone with those two.

LACY

I don’t want to be here at all. And you won’t be left alone, you have your new roommate. I’m sure he’ll be sticking around for a while.

MARK

I know. I just... does your door lock?

LACY

You’re scaring me.

MARK

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You know there’s a good way to leave here, and a bad way, right? The good way, you go home, the bad way... I don’t know what happens to you after that.

LACY

What are you talking about?

MARK

It was maybe three or four cycles ago. I almost left the bad way, but the clock reset just in time because they did it at the end of the twelve days. I woke up unscathed at the piano as the professor walked in. They know better now. You won’t be saved.

LACY (sadly)

You’ve gone crazy. It’s okay. It happened to me, too. I think it’s a normal part of this process.

MARK

I’m not crazy, I- you know Anna always has to be the best, right?

A loud knock from offstage. LACY reaches over and turns off the metronome.

JAMES

You in there? We gotta talk. I have a message from Knight.

LACY and MARK meet each others’ eyes.

LACY

Oh....I’m busy. I’m practicing. Can you come back later?

JAMES

Nah, don’t think so. It’s urgent. Open the door.

LACY puts down her bow and motions frantically for MARK to hide. MARK scrabbles into the closet.

LACY

Can we go somewhere else and talk? My room is messy.

JAMES

Yeah, whatever. Come out.

LACY exits stage left.

Blackout.

SCENE 7

Lights fade in and out as single notes play offstage to signal the passage of time. ANNA, JAMES, MARK, and OSCAR take turns playing their respective instruments onstage. LACY does not reappear. The montage ends with a duet between ANNA and JAMES, PROFESSOR KNIGHT standing stage left and applauding at the end of the piece. MARK and OSCAR sit in two chairs stage right.

KNIGHT

The lessons we can learn from duets are boundless! And here we are, as always perfectly inclined to do so with two groups of two!

OSCAR (in a whisper)

Wait, that reminds me- two groups of two? Weren’t there five of us?

MARK (looking unwell and anxious)

Are you just noticing this now?

OSCAR

Well, yeah. I’ve been so busy practicing these past few days, you know. And composing my final piece for the professor, of course! It’s going so well. You were right, Mark, this camp really did help me find my joy in music again! I can’t wait to go home and play piano the way I want to.

MARK says nothing.

KNIGHT

Are you two ready, now?

OSCAR

Yes, sir!

OSCAR sits at the piano. MARK unpacks his flute from its case, playing a low E to test out the sound. They tune and begin to play (Fauré: Fantaisie for flute and piano, Op. 79) Once they finish, PROFESSOR KNIGHT bursts into applause. JAMES and ANNA clap politely.

KNIGHT

Your harmony, your synergy-almost unparalleled! If not for our Anna and James here, I could say that was the best duet performance I’ve ever witnessed.

You’re too kind.

ANNA (smiling)

KNIGHT

Now, I hope you are all ready for your performances of your selfcompositions tomorrow. Can you believe tomorrow is finally our twelfth day? I hope you’ve been working diligently.

OSCAR

We have!

ANNA, JAMES, and PROFESSOR KNIGHT turn to look at OSCAR. MARK stays facing forward with an expression of fear.

KNIGHT (in a jolly tone of voice)

Is that so? I’m glad to hear it! I will look forward to your first composition, Oscar.

Some advice- don’t be too discouraged if it doesn’t end up the way you thought. No one succeeds at this on their first try.

Absolutely no one.

OSCAR

With all due respect, sir, I’m really happy with the way my music is turning out! I don’t think it would be a stretch to call this a success. Thank you for all you’ve done to get me to this point! I never could’ve reconnected with piano like this if not for you and this summer camp.

KNIGHT (chuckles)

Don’t thank me yet, dear.

Abrupt blackout.

SCENE 8

Lights remain off. Characters speak loudly to be heard over the twelve-note melody from SCENE 1 and SCENE 5, played offstage, over and over.

Fuck!

No way.

ANNA

JAMES

ANNA

You’re telling me newbie figured it out?

JAMES

He could just be saying shit.

ANNA

Or he could’ve figured it out. Fuck this. Get rid of him.

JAMES

Again??

ANNA (muttering to herself)

Twelve notes. Four hundred seventy-nine million, one thousand six hundred combinations. That’s a two times ten to the negative seven percent chance of getting it first try. Even less when you’re a little shit who doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. All he was told- all any of us were told, in the beginning- was to write a song. He doesn’t know he needs to put the notes in a specific damned order, hell, he doesn’t even know to listen for them in the first place. So that means newbie learned to play perfectly and figured out the twelve-note sequencein the span of twelve days??

JAMES

Who are you talking to?

ANNA

To you, dumbass! Do something!

JAMES

I could get his binder.

What?

ANNA

JAMES

We could see what he’s written...

ANNA

That’s... not allowed.

JAMES

Suddenly you care so much about rules?

ANNA

When you’re in purgatory, you only can do so much to stay in purgatory. I’m not interested in doing something that tips us over the point of no return. Four hundred seventy-nine million repetitions of twelve days- that’s still a number less than infinity.

Jesus.

JAMES

ANNA

Jesus is not with us right now. That fucking professor is. And I’m not being left behind while Oscar makes it back to the real world.

I had a life, you know. I’d gotten into Stanford. I was going to be a lawyer.

JAMES

Yeah, you would’ve been good at that.

ANNA

Thanks, James. You’re going to get me that binder, right?

End scene before JAMES can reply.

SCENE 9 - ANNA’S SOLO PERFORMANCE

Lights up on ANNA, standing by the piano center stage. She’s wearing a beautiful red dress. ANNA lifts her violin and begins to play (a song no one has ever heard before).

PROFESSOR KNIGHT is seated in the audience.

ANNA plays with astounding depth, technical skill, and musicality. She plays like a master three times her age. ANNA plays from memory, despite a familiar-looking binder perched on the piano bench behind her. She’s just that good.

PROFESSOR KNIGHT listens with rapture, swaying along to the lovely sound of ANNA’s violin.

ANNA finishes playing with a flourish and bows. No applause as PROFESSOR KNIGHT rises to his feet.

KNIGHT

My wonderful, sweet Anna.

ANNA (shaking with nerves and anticipation) Professor Knight?

KNIGHT

You played, as always, perfectly. I do so love hearing your music.

But oh, Anna. My dear. You have not crossed your own personal rift. There is still a gap in your soul. And you come to me and expect anything less than failure?

ANNA stands completely still, expressionless.

KNIGHT

You never remember these performances, correct? That’s a good failsafe, isn’t it, my dear. Well, then, let me tell you something. For my own pleasure, if I may. I do so love watching your face every time I tell you this.

It isn’t about the twelve notes. I don’t care about those. I don’t even know what order they’re meant to be in, if they’re meant to be in any kind of order at all.

It’s about you, dear.

Blackout as ANNA screams, over the sound of a violin crashing to the ground in a tangle of dissonant strings and splintering wood.

SCENE 10 - JAMES’ SOLO PERFORMANCE

Lights up on JAMES, standing by the piano in the same way as ANNA. A thoroughly smashed up violin lays at his feet. JAMES lifts his violin and begins to play (the same song as Anna).

PROFESSOR KNIGHT is seated in the audience.

JAMES plays very well. But not as well as ANNA. He trips over a few phrases, as if he’s just beginning to learn the piece he now plays. The binder from ANNA’s performance is no longer on the piano.

As JAMES finishes playing and bows, PROFESSOR KNIGHT rises to his feet.

KNIGHT

James, dear.

JAMES

I know. She was better. I messed it up- I didn’t play the sequence right.

KNIGHT

You have never once yet been able to beat her, do you know that?

JAMES (defeated)

I know.

KNIGHT

She surpasses you in every way, dear James. In the control of her bow, in the way she uses vibrato...

But no matter. Do you know what I’m going to say? Well, of course you don’t know exactly. You always forget. So silly.

James. I have the honor of inviting you to another iteration of my beloved summer music camp. I will see you again.

Blackout as another violin smashes to the ground.

SCENE 11 - MARK’S SOLO PERFORMANCE

Lights up on MARK, holding his flute and standing with his head bowed. There is a look of utter defeat on his face. Two broken violins lay at his feet.

PROFESSOR KNIGHT is seated in the audience.

MARK raises his flute and plays (a lovely song, different from JAMES and ANNA’s). He plays with prodigious skill, but there is no heart behind the notes. He plays like he’s in the midst of a battle he knows he will lose in the end.

As he finishes playing, PROFESSOR KNIGHT rises to his feet.

MARK

Nothing leaves this room, does it, professor?

KNIGHT

Why, what do you mean?

MARK

What happened to Lacy? You must know.

KNIGHT

Lacy could not bridge her rift. She came close, I must admit. She had almost learned to choose herself, to be selfish, which she had never been able to fully do before. I would’ve passed her on, had she been able to play. But of course, she fell into the rift instead of crossing it. The moment she let you hide and sacrificed herself, it was sealed.

You’re lying.

I’m sorry, dear?

MARK

KNIGHT

MARK

There’s no rift, is there? We are already sealed. There’s no escape. This isn’t purgatory, it’s hell.

KNIGHT (laughs sympathetically)

My dear Mark- why would that sweet boy Oscar have been sent to hell, as you so claim? He’s a good person, Mark. You can see this.

I... I don’t know.

MARK

KNIGHT

And no one truly does. I hope you pursue that knowledge as time loops around and around, my dear. You will have plenty of time for it.

I trust you, Mark, to let me know once you figure it out.

MARK

Thank... thank you, Professor Knight. A beat.

MARK

Professor? Professor. Do you think he came here to saveBlackout and the sound of clanging metal, a flute crashing to the ground.

SCENE 20 - OSCAR’S SOLO PERFORMANCE

Lights up on the grand piano at center stage (lid open). The rest of the stage is completely empty except for deconstructed flute and violin bits scattered around the stage. OSCAR enters from stage right, goes to the piano, and sits down.

PROFESSOR KNIGHT stands at OSCAR’s side with his hands folded.

OSCAR runs a hand delicately over the keys, softly pressing a middle C with his thumb.

OSCAR

I’m sorry, Professor. I can’t play. I lost my music.

KNIGHT

Oh? Where could it have gone?

OSCAR

I’m not sure. I’m so sorry. I could play the Scherzo for you again, if you like-

KNIGHT

No need to worry, my dear, no need at all. You can play for me another time. You will, in fact, play for me many more times.

OSCAR

I’d love to do so, sir. The happiness I’ve rediscovered in my own playing is unbelievable!

Oh, but isn’t today the last day of camp?

KNIGHT

My dear Oscar. I am so fond of you already. You will learn, in time.

Sir?

OSCAR

KNIGHT

You will not remember this conversation, but as time cycles again and again, you will come to know-

Sir!

What is it?

OSCAR

KNIGHT

OSCAR

I’m so sorry- I’m getting a call! My taxi must’ve arrived early to take me back to the airport.

I need to leave.

OSCAR stands up, pulling a phone out of his pocket.

OSCAR

Yes, I’m coming!

To KNIGHT.

I’m so sorry, sir! I hope we can stay in touch!

OSCAR runs off through a door upstage.

KNIGHT watches him go with a bewildered look on his face.

A lovely piano melody, full of joy, begins to play offstage. It is reminiscent of the twelve-note sequence from past scenes.

OSCAR (offstage)

What do you think, sir?

KNIGHT

Excellent. It’s excellent, dear.

Fade to black.

END OF PLAY

John Sanchez

Visual Arts

Booker T. Washington High School for the Performing and Visual Arts Dallas, TX

Suidae Boar Scrap metal, car parts 2022

Tyler Sastre

Design

Miami Country Day School Miami, FL

Inception – Look 15 Alternate Design Paper, ink, pencil, organza 2023

Nadyne Sattar

hymn to the halcyon

O great Elysium, prays the girl with the sunshine eyes and moonlight skin

Upon me bring the monsoon showers where she stands alone in the sea of marsh and reed the stalks stretching westerly at zephyrus’s eagerness to chase the setting sun and the sun’s last breaths creeping along the long edges of their green blades

And let the summertide winds sweep in good fortune in some forgotten corner of her cobwebbed mind turns the evening to heaps of tender coin and off traipses the dreamer in her to the crumbling marketplace to buy sugar and lamb whilst the realist feels the muddy water drenching the leather soles of her shrunken shoes

Lay the twittering doves down in the treetops across the horizon calls the lone girl’s brother her to leave behind her sodden sanctuary with the rising of the night yet she remains unhearing of the distant blood lost as she is in the echoes of the bygone

Tell the conch shells that they may cease their longing ten hundred footfalls from the sky-given girl lies the seam of wet and dry where the land arches up like some great beast’s earthen spine to rise away from the miry flatness that leaves no stone parched where the plants are tall-trunked and many-leaved and rich with a dream that those sunken below will never see

And the clouds that they may dry their tears

the girl is too small for the world that envelopes her it seems to hold her like a mother might her child with the love in the wind that makes sails billow and in the sunlight that reflects across her skin as a gentle touch but beyond the superficial is the secret of her ever-aching heart

Quiet the roar of the ocean encroaching on shore behind the horizon falls the sun at the raw close of day hence the darkness floods her eyes and exposed to the air are the grooves that hold back all the hurt collected over a lifetime of blood and bruise and broken bone

Be my people tranquility at long last the girl’s hands lay folded over her chest a shield of sorts for the smooth skin beneath because it is inevitable for calluses to bloom across her hands and feet but she still seeks to hide the rest of herself from the roughness of survival

Let live the wanderers of these winding mortal roads pleads the girl with the haggard eyes and mangled veins

Let us breathe.

Poetry

Mounds View High School

Arden Hills, MN

Samaya Sayana-Manchanda

Photography

Harvard-Westlake School

Studio City, CA

Aatma se Aatma Digital photography 2023

Gabriella Silverstein

Photography David Posnack Hebrew Day School Davie, FL

Her Hair

Digital photography 2023

Tucker Simkins

Design

Utah Arts Academy

Ivins, UT

Forbearance Cardboard, string 2023

Kurn Sundaram

elemental

dedicated to t.l.

i spoke with Fire the other day. he told me to burn every bridge i have walked on; to see a single sliver of silver smoke and pretend its a pillar of gold, he told me to hold the bones of every voiceless victim before me and wear them like a crown and to know that i am dead, or better yet– undead, undying to every vicious touch and taste i have felt and feared. he told me to light myself anew and to know that there was a matchstick between my palm and pinky and i could ignite it; putting his million meter tall facade into flames and i knew id turn to ash myself but still i told him this.

i spoke with Tide the other day. she told me that i would drown myself in a moment, more like magic than fact; she told me i could watch every whisper wane in her glory of sea glass, she told me that the ocean was larger than land and i was larger than that— she said that every breathless gasp was a thousand memories and every stain on my skin was a million more. she told me that tsunamis could echo across the globe and i could shatter all with my story but i knew that i couldnt swim and so i told her this.

i spoke with Earth the other day. i swallowed the dirt, clenching it between tooth and truth and watched as she tied me on a pole of bark unembraced; telling me that she was first to be born; to escape and stretch from seascape to mountain, she told me that she was the sacrificial sanctimonious sacred, sprawling her limbs across wish and want and tightening her tongue around every mouth speaking out against her. she preached that she was lord, both mischief and manager more real than the unreal she said that just as she could kill herself to eradicate them i could spill secrets of myself to ruin him and so then i told her this.

i spoke with the Winds the other day. i watched with purpose as they gathered above me, peering at my person. they said that they were greater

than every estimation or rather, greater than every overestimation of sky they claimed that they were the ponderers the unconscious competence that all seeked yet never saw. they told me that the wind was the most invisible yet the most invincible, born from danube dark that could build or break flame and temper sea. they said that they would uproot every planted promise that was broken, disfigure and then reconfigure every figurine sculpted before them. they spoke to me tenderly, saying that it was my word against his and i could slice and dice the layered lies of the king before me turn his cruel power into peasantry but i was afraid of his wrath so i told them this.

i spoke with Man the other day. i saw him eye to eye. i saw him scourge for food and find my larynx. and he ripped it out so i was voiceless and he asked me; who even are you. but i couldnt say anything. and when he realized this he tried to swallow me whole; and i walked back; saw his lips chapped tongue licking them hastily; and i walked back; he saw where i was molded where my joints became jelly where my bravery went blind; and i walked back; he saw me where i was he saw what was going through my mind. i watched him grin his yellowed teeth growing wider and i walked back till he was a demon no creation of nature but something far different consciousness swallowing; and i walked back; i prayed to every master i was about to meet that this king before me would burn and drown and choke on air. but i couldnt scream. i couldnt scream. it felt like he was playing the harp with my discordant vocal chords like the wind had left my body so i knocked him back and gagged on the taste of the tape he had placed on my teeth a thousand years later i blink and im in a court of law. judges standing still lying like cigarettes smoke rising from their heads so i do as the inferno once told me and pretend that its gold. i pretend that its gold that im frolicking in a fantasy of flame not skin and secrets but strength. knowing that every panting breath is a thousand memories and every stain on thi skin is a million more so when his attorney asked me again who are you i said i will not tell you i will show you and so i showed him this. i showed him how

i have spoken with myself every single day since then. i showed him every bite and blister burned on my skin i showed him every pocked part of myself where i had clawed for air where water had eaten my lungs empty when he had tried to flood me in my own shame i showed him what it was like to be trapped in a tree. past immortalized forever like a fossil you know i changed professions recently— im an archeologist now uncovering the facets of my existence that i never knew existed i showed him how i scatter constellations over my body to cover the blotches of him on me i showed him how my truth is the most invisible yet the most invincible i showed him that i have burned every bridge that he had followed me on i showed him that i am the sacrificial sanctimonious sacred i showed him that i am elemental. elemental as stone sky spark and sea i am primordial. because he cant strip my being barer than he already has and you know maybe thats why i am constructing this narrative with blood for ink and bone for paper. maybe thats why i am letting every secret spill from the clogs in my arteries. maybe thats why it has taken me years to realize that i am Fire and Tide and Earth and The Winds. to realize that i am the battle between my silence and my story. to realize that i had won when i first told Fire what had happened. i had won; not against him, but against me.

Spoken

Yeonwoo Sung

Forsan Et Haec Olim Meminisse Iuvabit

When I first read a Harry Potter book in sixth grade and discovered that the etymology of its spells could be found in Latin, I immediately wanted to learn the language. But my school, like many other schools in South Korea, did not offer courses in Latin. In fact, I realized that there were only a handful of schools that taught ancient Latin, most of them prestigious boarding schools in the United States. Perusing websites of boarding schools and reading their reviews soon became my guilty pleasure and I would daydream during class about moving to the States, where I could emulate Hermione Granger. Then, one day, my mom sat me down in her room and asked, “What are your thoughts on going to boarding school?” My answer was, of course, a definitive and immediate “yes.”

The prospect of going to boarding school led me to idealize many aspects of my future home: the campus would be as big and majestic as Hogwarts, and living with friends would be like a year-long sleepover. The thought of not having to live under the same roof as my parents also gave me a newfound sense of freedom. Compared to my mundane life in Korea, life abroad seemed exotic and new. But my decision to leave Korea was met with a mixed reception; many of my friends envied me, while their parents could not fathom why I would ever want to leave the school that got my sister into Stanford. In Korea, when an older sibling is academically successful, it is customary for the younger sibling to take the same route. However, if pursuing this path meant three more years of living under my sister’s shadow while not being able to study what I was passionate about, I had no problem abandoning what many jokingly called a “cheat code” to Stanford. The decision was a no-brainer.

While I was making my plans to leave, my excitement eclipsed my uncertainty about adjusting to a completely new environment. But as soon as I attended my boarding school’s freshman convocation, my rose-tinted specs shattered.

Since I had just moved in, I walked into convocation a sweaty mess, frazzled from lifting and unloading heavy suitcases. All the girls in the chapel were dressed in mini lace-rimmed skirts and fancy tops, tight maxi tube dresses, and floral spaghetti strap dresses with wide open backs. The boys were all dressed formally, in polo shirts and khaki shorts with their hair aggressively gelled back. Then, in the corner of the chapel, sat the parents, a group that looked intimidatingly put together and comfortable with each other. My mom was awkwardly loitering outside the group, unable to infiltrate the “prestigious circle.” But how could she? As it turns out, the parents had already met numerous times at social functions organized by incoming students and parents during the summer, which my mom and I had been unable to attend. The combination of my appearance, my outsider-status, and nervousness made me feel insecure. Everyone seemed like they belonged. Well, everyone apart from me.

After convocation, I returned to my room feeling small. I had never had problems socializing, but I think I subconsciously let my inhibitions get the better of me; I didn’t really speak to anyone during the ceremony, and my mom and I both walked back in loaded silence. But the odd combination of despondence and loneliness really hit me once my mom left. I had dreamed about coming to boarding school for as long as I could remember, but lying in bed at night, the place felt more like a nightmare. I had a choice between staying in this mental pit I had created for myself or getting out of it. The latter was obviously the better option. So, I started thinking of ways to fit in, and sports was the first thing that came to mind. I was always one of the best ice hockey

players at my previous school, so I thought I would go to trials and make new friends there.

The next week ice hockey trials began, and I confidently walked into the hockey rink, hoping to prove myself. But as soon as I looked around, I realized that I was the only non-white member, let alone the only Asian girl there. I was also by far the smallest of the girls, in terms of both height and size. But these things were out of my control, and I just thought to myself that I would impress them with my abilities. I mean, I had been on an all- boys Korean ice hockey team in middle school so I thought my experience would, at the very least, make me an average player on the team.

Much to my dismay, this idea was, once again, just an idea. The boys I was used to playing with were no match for these girls. Pucks were passed around at a speed too fast for my eyes to follow. Drills were so complicated I could only focus on copying whatever the girl in front of me was doing, but that, too, was a challenge. Most of the girls could skate faster backward than I could forward, and they could skate dribbling a puck faster than I could without one. I could feel my teammates deliberately going easy on me in drills, barely trying to steal my puck or intercept my passes. Maybe they did this to be considerate, but I felt like a little kid who was out of her depth. I waddled over to receive passes that only came my way when absolutely no one else was available. When the coach finally ended practice, I ran to my locker and sat down, out of breath and mortified.

As the school year went on, I was nagged by a constant feeling of not being good enough; it made me fixate on the ways I could change myself. Latin, which was once an important factor in my decision to come to the States, was now insignificant, a forgotten moment of my past. Instead, I became preoccupied with the way I was perceived by others. One thing I had learned while living at my new school for three months was that one’s race determined one’s clique. As is characteristic of any predominantly white school, the “blonde squad” was the largest of the cliques in our grade. By race, I belonged in the group with the other Asian girls, but I often found myself purposefully avoiding them. Whenever I saw them gathered in the corner of the room by themselves, I told myself that I would be different, that I would make an effort to fit in with the “others.” I think it was at this point that I developed a form of internalized racism. I found myself avoiding the “Asian crowd” so as not to be categorized as one of them, and I resisted joining certain clubs if that meant that I would be viewed as a “typical Asian.” If I joined the debate team and the school orchestra, would I simply be viewed as “another Asian”? Would playing ice hockey—a primarily white sport—be sufficient to cancel out this Asian-ness? Would people associate my work ethic with nerdiness? Should I act disinterested in my studies to prevent such an impression?

I spent my first three months at school avoiding the group of Asian girls who consistently tried to reach out to me, and when I wasn’t doing that, I was focused on shopping for new clothes. All the blonde girls from New York City and Massachusetts with summer houses in Nantucket dressed a certain way : maxi skirts, floral dresses, tube tops, and lace-rimmed miniskirts. What I’d observed during freshman orientation day had not been an isolated incident. So, I bought new clothes hoping to look like one of them. But when I tried them on, the clothes did not look the way I had expected. Why did they look so much better on the blonde girls even though the clothes I tried on were no different? Looking at myself in the mirror, I found so many things I wanted to change about my appearance. Perhaps my face that was the

problem? So, I moved on to makeup. I religiously watched “get ready with me” videos online and looked for ways to quickly lose weight. The more I caked my face with makeup, the prettier I felt. The hungrier I was, the better I felt about myself. As the weeks passed by, I looked increasingly unrecognizable, but evidently more pleasing in the eyes of others. My peers were telling me that I had “glowed up,” and the blonde girls commented on how much they liked my outfit, giving me the validation I had wanted for so long.

The superficial improvements I saw in the mirror tricked me into thinking that I was becoming a “better” version of myself. The academic achievements I used to prioritize became secondary to my interest in keeping up with trends. The worst part was that I thought this change in myself was completely innocuous. I simply considered it the kind of transition most teenagers probably go through when confronted with a new environment.

I began to enjoy life at boarding school a little more, but when winter break was finally approaching, I felt comforted by the thought of returning to Korea. Back home, I was not an “other,” a foreigner residing in an alien country. In Korea, I felt comfortable in my own skin, since I belonged there with the friends who knew me back when I had long, unkempt, straight black hair that I refused to put up. They knew me from the old days, when I never owned a single item of makeup and remained loyal to my everyday outfit - a t-shirt and jeans. They loved me despite my questionable fashion choices because I was not “fake,” didn’t care about gossip, and had a good sense of humor. I thought of a girl back home I used to know called Gracie. We used to snicker at girls who caked their faces with makeup and we agreed that wearing a skirt to school was the most egregious crime either of us could ever commit. In retrospect, we were perhaps being slightly judgmental. But I always felt like she was my soulmate, and even though I had changed, I thought Gracie and our friendship would withstand these new, superficial changes in me.

When I finally arrived in Korea, I felt overwhelmed with excitement. I wanted my Korean friends to tell me I had unrecognizably glowed up over the past half a year; I was most excited to see Gracie and have our overdue catch-up. I expected Gracie to be ecstatic at the sight of me, even if there was some initial awkwardness. I imagined that we’d walk around our school together just like old times and debrief each other on the past three months. As soon as I visited my old school to surprise Gracie, I waved a big hello and enthusiastically went in for a hug.

Gracie’s reaction was underwhelming. In fact, she shied away from my hug and barely opened the shopping bag I handed her full of school merchandise I had brought home from the States. I tried nervously to break the ice by casually commenting on how funny the new sculpture in the school’s reception looked. But I felt like I was talking to a wall; she remained aloof and gave me one-word answers. I felt upset, so I turned to talk to some of the other friends that were there. I entertained them by joking about how all the girls at my new school dressed a certain way, foolishly and utterly unaware that I was describing myself. I then babbled about boys and someone that I was particularly interested in, hoping that my friends, especially Gracie, would find my stories funny.

I also thought that mocking and gossiping about my friends in the States would create some kind of solidarity with my Korean friends. I went on and on, blind to the fact that the sort of behavior I once derided had now become my own. I was making a fool of myself. My Korean friends’ polite reactions were not enough for me to realize that they were taken aback, both by my appearance and my behavior . Gracie looked at me as if I were performing in a one-woman show, but I was oblivious to the message behind her stare. Then, I slowly realized that while I was mixing Korean and English when I spoke to them, they were speaking to me exclusively in English. This change would have been subtle to anyone else but me; we always used to mix English and Korean with each other, like a code-language that represented our shared upbringing, culture, and friendship. But this time, as I returned from the States looking and sounding unrecognizable,

they saw me as a foreigner who they couldn’t relate to anymore. I was no longer one of them in their eyes, just like I wasn’t one of the girls I saw in convocation at boarding school. I felt lost. It seemed like I had lost my identity completely. I belonged neither in Korea nor the States now, a half-something in both countries. I returned to the States feeling dejected, but I continued putting up a façade as a kind of coping mechanism. It was not until the summer of sophomore year that I finally came to my senses. I had been lucky enough to secure an internship at the Massachusetts State House, which required me to stay in Boston for a month instead of traveling to Korea. Although I was honored to work somewhere so important, Boston was the last place I wanted to spend my summer break, since I knew virtually no one there and I wanted to escape being with myself.

The first week of working at the State House was challenging, but bearable. Keeping myself occupied was the only way for me to forget about everything I was missing out on during summer, so I arrived at work on time, passively accepted any tasks I was assigned, and completed them in a timely manner. By the second week, I was getting the hang of my job, and surprisingly found comfort in the calm of Boston. Every day was the same: waking up, having a good breakfast, going to work, studying at the public library or a cute cafe on my days off, coming home to a warm meal with my mom, and leaving some time for myself. These simple, quotidian things gave me unexpected pleasure, and the routine I had created for myself provided me with the opportunity to properly reflect, for the first time, on the transformation I had undergone over the past two years.

Though Boston was 7000 miles away from home, it made me feel more at home than Korea had in recent years. It was not the geographical location of a place that determined how at home I felt there; rather, it was how comfortable I felt in my own skin, and how liberated I felt from public judgment. I had forgotten what it was like to truly be myself, to feel confident even when my face was not covered with makeup, to eat what I wanted to in the portion sizes of my choice, to feel good even when I did not put on a top that was a size too small. Ever since boarding school, I had been so preoccupied with what people thought of me that I had lost touch with myself. A month in Boston, however, brought me to my senses. I had been running endlessly and restlessly for the past two years, so long and hard that I had forgotten how tired I was and how in need I was of respite.

Then, one day, the State House held a special event for all the House interns, for which they invited an American state legislator to speak to us about his experiences. What I first noticed about him was that he was very small. A little scrawny, even. What I next noticed about him was that he was Asian, like myself. For that single reason, I felt an affinity towards him and began to pay attention. Toward the end of his speech, he took us by surprise with a final demand:

“I’m not letting any of you go until each of you asks me a question. And remember, there are no dumb questions.”

I didn’t have a choice but to think of something to ask, but my mind went completely blank. When my turn finally came, my subconscious took over, and I ended up projecting: “What’s one regret you have from high school?”

I expected a pause, a moment for him to reflect on his high school years, but surprisingly, he replied immediately.

“One thing, the only thing, actually, that I regret is that I cared too much about what others thought of me. If all of you take away one thing from my talk today, let it be this. Do what you want, work for your goals, and don’t let other people decide that for you. Each and every one of you in this room is going to achieve great things, but achieving greatness comes at a cost. You can’t have everything. You’re going to lose things along the way, but you need to learn to let it go. I call it the rule of fives. If what you’re worrying about right now is not going to make a difference in your life in five years, forget it.”

Those words were exactly what I needed to hear at that point in my life. I, myself, had lost a couple of things along the

way—things that were once the most important to me. I had lost friends, confidence, a sense of identity, and a sense of belonging. I felt so lonely at times that I seriously regretted ever coming to boarding school in the first place. But after hearing him speak, I realized that the point wasn’t to regret the choices I had already made. We love to romanticize the road not taken because we don’t know where it would have led; sure, it could have been less bumpy than the one taken, but the opposite could just as easily be true. Some things are simply out of our control, and hardships are inevitable. However, we do have the power to choose whether we allow these minor tribulations to affect our lives in the long run. This thought reminded me of a famous quote from the Aeneid, a Latin epic poem we had studied earlier in the school year: forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. “Perhaps we will be laughing about even these things in the future.” Latin, the language that brought me to this place in the first place, finally made its return…to me. Now a junior, I smile as I write this reflection of my freshman year. I have found my place, formed lifelong friendships, and feel as if I fit into multiple communities, instead of just one. Most importantly, though, I laugh about things that will have no bearing on me in five years. Treating the small bumps in life more generously has enabled me to concentrate on what really matters at the end of the day: myself and my own development. My freshman year was full of growing pains and internal struggles, but those hardships proved meaningful: They taught me to proceed forward, always keeping the big picture in mind.

Amiyuh Tobias

An (Almost) 19 Year Old’s Guide to Hiding Your Queerdentity

As a perpetually anxious and uncomfortably sheltered soon-to-be 19 year old, I feel as if I’ve effectively evaded revealing my queerdentity (queer identity) to my very small world. I’ve learned how to cope with the negative effects of my queeritis – at home, at school, at church - and feel as if I can pass on some knowledge. So, here’s a list of 19 ways that have helped me live as carefully, and queerly as possible. Hope it helps.

Step 1: be glad you aren’t one of the full breeds.

★ You know. The ones that are, like, fully gay. At least when someone asks you if you’re gay because you “just seem like it,” you can go no and actually be telling the truth. (Although, you might stutter a little and avoid eye contact.) Because you’re not gay. You’re bisexual. Pansexual. Or you smartly identify as just queer. You feel so happy that you can technically tell the truth without publicly denouncing your queerness.

Step 2: if you are fully gay then sacrifice yourself to a couple of the lamest jokes ever.

★ “Yeah. I am gay. As in happy. ‘Cause gay means happy. I’m very happy.” (Even if you almost killed yourself last night.) Or if someone calls you a f–got then you can say “Haha. So, I’m a bundle of sticks? Stupid…” (Try not to cry.)

Step 3: find a loophole.

★ Accept that you’re going to be forever on the down-low. You can hook up with as many people of the same gender as possible, have your fun, but you’ll ultimately end up with the opposite gender. That way, if you grew up religious, you still have time to repent.

Step 4: settle.

★ Settle for a really masculine chick or a really feminine guy. But then that brings forth an ethics question. Is it right to “settle” for someone. That’s pretty dehumanizing. You know that feeling. So, just settle for forever being alone.

Step 5: check in with God every once in a while.

★ “God. Hey. You still love me, right? I’ve been trying to not be gay but I just can’t help it. I hope you understand. For real. My mother always says that you make no mistakes and that you have the ultimate plan. So, was it in your plan for me to be this way? I don’t understand why you would make me like this if you were going to damn me for being this way. I’m so confused. Please show me a sign that you hear me. That you love me. I don’t know. Maybe let me wake up to a rainbow tomorrow?”

★ Doesn’t apply to atheists. If you grew up religious and are now an atheist, then I commend your courage.

Step 6: come up with valid excuses.

★ I read online once that being sexually assaulted as a kid can mess up your sexuality, so blame it on the men who ruined men for you. Or on the woman who your mother trusted to wash you in the bath. That’s what I do. Any explanation would suffice, though. It could’ve been the boy from first grade that stole your favorite sticker or that girl who made fun of your hairstyle. All valid.

Step 7: choose your battles wisely.

★ Even if they mean a lot to you. Like when your sister thinks the trans actress y’all grew up watching on TV is gay, and you really want to tell her she is not gay, but trans, don’t. Leave it alone. Or else your sisters will judge you, saying things like, “Here she goes again, trying to stick up for those people. Trying to be someone’s warrior.” To them, the words gay and trans mean the same thing.

★ Someone at some point might ask you why you take it seriously when a person gets called a d-ke or a f–got. When this happens, you have two options: play the moral high ground or completely dismiss the fact that you care personally. Sometimes, I use my race to deflect. “That’s like if a white person calls you the n-word.” But they might say it’s not the same.

★ Try not to feel attacked when you overhear your classmates spewing homophobic rhetoric across the classroom. Don’t make eye contact. They might sense the gay.

Step 8: be wary of gay media.

★ Yeah, that’s right. You’re taking that straight from the straight people’s rule book.

★ When your sister catches you watching a show like Young Royals , prepare to over-explain yourself. “I really like this actor so I

put it on.” (You’ve never watched this actor before.) “I didn’t even know it was gay. I was shocked.” Or when she catches you watching the movie Crush because you think Rowan Blanchard’s hot, and then she proceeds to say nothing and just stares, looking back and forth between your slightly mortified face and the shot of two women kissing. Quickly switch the TV off, making it clear you’re extremely uncomfortable.

★ And, for the love of God, avoid having to explain why you know the difference between different sexualities and gay terms and references. Don’t recommend a movie with gay leads because then you’ll have to deal with people throwing weird comments your way.

Step 9: be okay with fractured integrity.

★ When your mother tells you, “I’m so happy none of my kids are gay,” just nod and smile. Nod. And. Smile. Maybe even chuckle a little. Or when she turns to you and says, “They’re killing me with this pronoun shit,” after getting upset that the Krewe leaders at your new college include their pronouns in their introductions.

★ Be able to hide your cringe when your mother refers to your trans friend using the wrong pronouns and you have to figure out if this is one of those situations where you correct her or if it’s okay to be scared and stay quiet. You glance at your friend to see which option to choose and you take in their “silence is OK” approval. Then you look away from them, unable to speak, because you feel guilty and ashamed.

Step 10: assimilate or be alienated.

★ If you constantly call out the harmful things your family says, prepare for full blown arguments. Everyone will think you think you’re better than them because you’re always correcting them, and they’ll make comments like oh, we can’t say that around her or she’ll get mad or uh oh, lemme not mess with your people.

Step 11: you’ll have your heart broken by your loved ones.

★ Like when your relative is on a Zoom meeting with her gay teacher and cuts him off, noting between fits of giggles, “Mr. —, you sound like a d-ke,” and then you hear the teacher pause for a moment before telling her, “Never say that again.” She still laughs until you stop her and say, “Why would you say that? That’s really messed up.” Then she looks at you and says, “Sounds like you’re offended.” So, you subject yourself to silence and ignore her for the rest of the day.

★ Like when you have a sleepover for your birthday and invite your friends, some of them queer, one girl visibly trans. When it’s just you, your mom, and your stepdad, your mom says, “You know that girl, —? Yeah. That’s really a boy. You almost couldn’t tell could you? Yeah, he’s a boy.” And your stepdad laughs, replying, “You really can’t tell a tr—nny apart anymore.” You stop them and say, “That’s so mean. She’s my friend. You can’t say that about her,” but then they just tell you to shut up.

Step 12: you’ll be thinking you’re fine until you’re not.

★ Prepare for harsh reminders and hard lessons. You haven’t been to church in a while and you’re excited to go back. Everything starts out fine. You’re smiling, laughing, enjoying the service until the preacher randomly begins his rant on homosexuality. Damning queers, and secretly you, to the fieriest pits of hell. And everyone around you is screaming yes, Lord and hallelujah. You hope this isn’t God’s sign to you.

★ Get ready to cry. You can’t watch the music video of “Take Me to Church” by Hozier or Troye Sivan’s Blue Neighborhood trilogy without feeling physically sick and taking a moment to cry because you hate that you relate to those stories and you hate that other people have gone through the same or something similar.

★ Don’t be shocked when another law is passed that takes away your rights.

Step 13: be okay with septic jealousy, hopeless longing, and living vicariously through others.

★ Watching Nick from Heartstopper come out to his mother and be accepted makes you ugly sob. Seeing a very pretty person who is more androgynous looking than you makes you dry heave. Almost every gay couple on TV is male, pretty, and white— but you love them anyway. “I’ll take it.”

Step 14: you might get tangled up in intersectionality.

★ If your gender differs from the norm, then you might feel conflicted when it messes with other aspects of your life. You have a strong tie to your identity as a black woman, but you’re non-binary. The black community in America is heavily religious and often anti-LGBT, but you love your people. A gay man calls you the n-word and you feel betrayed; you forgot - you can be a gay person – but still be a shitty person.

Step 15: no butterflies fluttering in your belly; just stillborn butterflies in sarcophagus cocoons.

★ You thought she was interested in you, but you forgot that girls always call their girl friends the loves of their life, wifey, and babe.

★ That guy you like – he hates gay people. Especially gay men. Especially those ones. You know what kind he’s talking about.

★ A pretty girl says she’s bi, but she only dates “girls that are basically the man in the relationship.”

Step 16: read between the lines.

★ Learn to read code, even if it’s obvious. A character in your favorite novel is so queer coded, he/she/they have to be queer. The author hasn’t said so, but you feel it in your gut.

★ Sometimes stereotypes come in handy. That guy with the slightest tilt to his wrist, the girl with the filed down nails. Those might be your people.

★ Assume. It can be fun. Maybe a little unhealthy. But you get what you get. Your favorite celebrities are allies until they unfortunately tell you otherwise.

Step 17: choose your family.

★ Almost every queer person I know has this thought process. Friends mean everything. At least they choose to care about you. Family members might not tolerate you, especially since they don’t have to pretend to be nice like with strangers.

Step 18: get used to the unknown.

★ There’s barely any sex ed for straight kids at your school—don’t expect any for you. At least not any with genuinely good information. The internet might scar you if you go looking for information there. Beware of the XXX.

★ That one person might’ve been in love with you, but either one or both of you were too afraid to find out in case the other wasn’t queer and you were just being delusional. You’ll never know.

Step 19: be a forever learner and live by your own rules.

★ Maybe you searched up the proper way to be queer or to be trans or just to be. You’ll never get a good answer. So, just live and learn as you go. Try not to be guided by societal expectations and conventions, although it’s hard to ignore them. And be okay with coming to terms with your humanity. One day you might choose not to hide. Maybe you reveal it through an outlet. Like music or literature. Either way, take your time to become your own.

Laila Vasandani

Photography

Harvard-Westlake School

Studio City, CA

A Sad Reality

Digital photography 2023

Teodora Vukosavljevic

The Further South You Go, The More Depressing It Is: Što Južnije To Tužnije

Stop 1: Niš, Serbia- Barbecue with a Side of Generational Trauma

The first time my Dad told our Serbian cousins that we were planning to travel south to visit Niš, they weren’t happy for us. The relatives, sitting in a circle around a dingy living room table covered in brandy glasses and empty packs of Luky Strikes, all agreed on one point. “Don’t go!” they urged.

“Greece. Halkidiki’s cheap now! $400 for a week-eat all you can! Budva, Montenegro! Paradise. Even cheaper! Go where everyone else goes. What will you do in Niš? There’s nothing!”

Under a cloud of smoke my Dad, a benevolent, middleaged, balding potato-of-a-man, said nothing. He smiled, taking a long drag of his Davidoff.

“Isn’t he a know-it-all?” one of my uncles abruptly remarked, though my father was sitting quietly. For a moment, I felt sorry for my uncle who would never truly understand the amazing man my Dad is, not really anyway.

“Do you think Dad has a neurodegenerative disease?” my mother asked me. She was serious, and the promise of finding out what was wrong with him kept her hovering. But I knew nothing was wrong. He doesn’t have a disease. This is his version of charm: he nourishes himself with long silences, takes joy in the small breadcrumbs life offers, and enjoys the absurd. A true Serbian: the nostalgic past means more to him than the concrete present. And the future? Well, that’s not something he considers.

That’s why we’re going on this journey--no matter what. My father has always wanted to take me on a historic road trip of his homeland, Serbia, from the first moment I stepped my tiny, American, baby feet on Serbian soil. These ideas unfurled before me every time an adoring family member pinched my cheeks and called me “moja mala amerikanka ” (my little American girl). To be clear, it’s Serbia: the land of mass cigarette consumption, charcoal barbecue pits, and GOATS; tennis great Djoković, Denver Nugget Jokić, and inventor Tesla. NOT Siberia, the land of gulags and woodcutters. Serbia.

I sometimes wonder why I am forced to come here every single year of my life. On the plane, I sat between a howling baby who could win awards for lung power and a man who couldn’t keep his legs shut even if they were magnetized. Transferring in Frankfurt, I contemplated whether my parents ever considered they had become transatlantic dregs - refugee casualties of wagthe-dog wars who trek back and forth annually to their native soil. As I watched Mom stare at the two hulking men built like water polo players who lined up for our connecting flight, I saw a tear roll down her cheek. I guessed she had considered it. Two cramped flights later, we finally touched down in the fatherland. Dad, who looks euphoric, meets us outside in a twenty-year-old Twingo and proudly holds a Mickey Mouse balloon for me.

Summer is the only time we are a family like other families, the only time my never-quite divorced parents spend together. It’s an arrangement that confounds my classmates. “Why do your divorced parents vacation together? That’s insane!” How do you concisely explain your parents’ bizarre actions to anyone? You don’t. “Because we like being absurd,” I usually reply, deadpan, as if I didn’t care. Making our way south from Pančevo to Niš toward the Bulgarian border, my Dad insists on pioneering the roads of this quest he planned. I sit up front while Mom broods in the back seat. We let her drive stick shift last summer and were nearly decimated by a Mack truck. She’s relegated to the back now, annoyed.

“The history is sad but the roast is nice,” Dad says, obliviously. He’s consumed by dreams of barbecue. In Niš, barbecue is an art. Saplings are used to roast lamb. Vine leaves and pine wood cook the fish. Charcoal is used for burgers. Red peppers are roasted, peeled, and turned into an orange-red paste called ajvar. During the rest of the year, we love to buy ajvar in large glass jars at a shop off Ditmars Boulevard in Astoria, a place the fancy Manhattan Serbs frequent but pretend they don’t. Dad tells me that Niš in October smells like burning peppers and dying charcoal embers. I wish I could experience October in Serbia.

As far as ancient Roman cities go, Niš is post-apocalyptic. What’s left of Naissus (ancient Niš) is a shiny silver monument to Emperor Constantine marking it as his birthplace in front of the Niš Fortress at the center of town. Crossing the Nišava River, you enter through the Stambol (Istanbul) Gate and come upon the Bali-Bey Mosque and the Turkish hammam steam baths. Dad is amazed by it all. This is the first time he’s visited since he was a boy. Until now, he could never afford to take this trip. Walking farther, we spot the Lapidarium, an open court where ancient ruins mark an unkempt, overgrown field. Everything is unkempt here, but soon you get used to these endless ramshackle houses that shock you when you first arrived, thousands of people surviving one on top of another.

“It’s baffling, isn’t it?” Dad says. “Our fates under the Turks taught us to tend to only what was inside our gates, to play it small. Common spaces didn’t belong to us. We had no responsibility over them, only our families.”

“Yes,” I nod, pained by how much I don’t know, sometimes. The people, wrinkled, beaten down, rail-skinny, hungry, live here in their flickering poverty. I don’t understand all the reasons why Niš is known for its lively, music-loving people called meraklije , a Turkish word for “people who follow their bliss.” But where are they?

All I see are middle-aged, frizzy-haired ladies with thin lips, melting mascara, tight jaws, and white uniforms standing over charcoal grills, flipping massive carcasses of meat over and over. I don’t want barbecue. I whine, feeling first-world guilt. We pass lines of penniless people waiting for rundown buses next to a big-box store with clothes likely made in an even more depressing place far away. The words meraklije are graffitied across the side of a building, its facade deteriorating beneath the elements.

Dad, uncharacteristically talkative, launches into a diatribe about the complicated reality of life in Niš. Their adversities didn’t start with the Balkan Wars.

“Damn the Turks! If only we’d been Westernized, experienced the Renaissance, the Enlightenment…everything would’ve been different! Imagine how advanced we’d be! Who we could’ve become!” He uses these statements to make sense of his bygone struggles: teenage poverty and desperation, a youth consumed by hunger because of war sanctions. He never curses the war, only the Ottoman Turks. Dad worked twenty-hour days on cruise ships for years to get out of the country he saw crumbling around him. He survived through fierce self-reliance.

I was born long after the Balkan Wars ended, yet I still see agonizing echoes of the wars everywhere around me. We won’t be able to travel farther south on this trip to visit our ancestral home--it’s hollowed out by artillery shells. Ambling through Niš, I can’t help thinking about what my own life would have been like had my parents remained. Who would I have become? I say nothing to Dad. I’m just a witness here.

Creative Nonfiction

We check into our hotel. Mom and I are not optimistic. But we hope Dad might find something in his native country that he would be proud to show us. Our room is on the sixth floor--no elevators. After hoisting our luggage up the stairs, we discover Dad already tucked into bed, carefully studying a map he bought, anticipating the bad Wi-Fi and non-existent GPS. “Be ready in one hour! Wa wa woo weeeeeeeee!” he chortles, happily.

An hour later, freshly showered, we rush to the car where he sits, waiting.

“3:03. Three minutes late! Unacceptable,” he says curtly, clicking his tongue at us. “We’re behind.”

Driving to our agreed-upon location, I hope we’ll stop at one of the bakeries selling burek (a pie stuffed with fresh cheese and meat ubiquitous in Niš). But I realize Dad’s driving us to the Skull Tower- Ćele Kula , a stone tower with the skulls of Serbian revolutionaries, like a man named Stevan Sinđelić, implanted in cement. In 1596, Hurshid Pasha, the governor, built a tower of the skulls of Serbian soldiers. Though few remain, the indentations of the hundreds of human heads that were once there is disorienting. Standing in front of the tower, Dad makes it all of two minutes without blubbering like the baby on our flight.

“Why would they put our skulls in a tower?” he sobs, as if it happened yesterday. Five hundred years of subjugation was staring him in the face; he falls apart. We hear his whimper echoing through the museum. The elderly tourists next to us giggle.

Mom rolls her eyes, “Now he’s crying?! If only he would cry about his own life!” She throws up her hands in surrender. While I admit he’s insane, her lack of empathy doesn’t feel right, either.

“Ah, these Turks!” he howls. He is sitting on a bench outside where my mother sent him to get him out of the museum. He puts his head in his hands, like a little boy. Seeing him breaks my heart.

Because of the Turkish influence on the Balkans, some Serbians and Greeks feel close to the Turks. Chrysanthi, a Greek family friend, posted photos of herself in Istanbul and said, “We have a shared history of friendship. We Turks and Greeks are alike.” That same day, most of her family and friends unfriended her over the post. Her Greek funders pulled support for her company. She was ruined. That’s when I understood- we were never friends. We were slaves called kul. Every few years, we were forced to surrender our children as a tax, a blood tax. The word devshirme means to “collect”, and the Turks collected our children as slaves.

“Wait. Wait. Wait! They took our children? There was a child levy? What?! Why have we never learned about this? No one talks about it!” I exclaim, in complete disbelief.

“Not always. We cut off our children’s hands and fingers so they couldn’t take them. We disabled them. But, sometimes the Turks would surprise us and kidnap them before we could do it,” Mom replies.

How could the people in Niš ever be meraklije , blissful? Dad intuitively understands my outrage- he tells me to beat back my worries with a celebration (udri brigu na veselje)! He amps up the most ridiculous music he can find, something he loves to do. The music pulses so intensely the Twingo looks like it’s about to take flight. A song called, “Real Slavs” blasts at an ear-shattering volume from the car radio. “Real Slavs like Adidas! Real Slavs like Adidas!” I scream out on cue, and we bob our heads, revved up by the song and our inside joke.

“Now…. Slav squat! Goooooooooooooo!” Dad and I leap out of the car and into instant squats. Mine is better than his. I maintain my stance while he falls over on the ground and laughs and laughs and laughs. Disgusted, Mom slaps her palm to her forehead and turns down the music, ending our reverie. We leap out of our half-squats in protest. I relish his wild impulses. I’m beginning to understand him better.

Next, we head to a secret barbecue spot that Dad’s friend told him about. We park in the middle of an unmarked dirt road, and walk down a winding path teeming with auto-repair shops and reeking of motor oil, past two bushes covered in nettles. We see a door with the address we’re looking for. The windows are

covered in vertical mini blinds from the 1980’s and an ancient gray carpet that seems to go on forever. Towering men in black leather jackets sit in plastic chairs that seem way too tight for their bodies. They smoke profusely, laughing and laughing and laughing. Everyone else is screaming at a TV in the corner. We eat two cows’ worth of barbecue while watching Novak Djoković win his 24th US Open.

As I savor each morsel of beef, I hit upon a radical idea. “Should we just go to Halkidiki tomorrow?”

He places his cigarettes, his Twingo keys, and his brandy glass down on the table. “Definitely,” he says, tears streaming down his face from too much red pepper.

Stop 2: Halkidiki, Greece: $400 A Week: Eat All You Want and Swim All Day

Cynthia Wang

American Sentences on Climate Change

Today, I laced up my cloud-stepping boots to appease my relatives. I never write to them anymore, but I visit. Acquiesce to their strange demands to see pictures from before, heed their lukewarm warnings about drinking from the tap. The heat slices through the stale summer air. As much as I long to languish, the expired stars signal their blinkers to guide me home. But I still cannot forget, and they must remember: the lengthening days scorching the valleys, ugly orange skies screaming into our spineless souls, paper scars littering our soot-covered brows. Splintering our palms on rotten bark, all drenched with olive oil, we plucked conch shells from stone-crusted seas, waiting for clarion calls from above. Threading the needle through dead fibers, wishing upon dandelions to save the last of us. How divine we were, but the sun never set.

I think Mother used to love me. Loved me before the leaves turned to dust and the swallows shriveled up at dusk. I clench Mother’s fallen colored stones, one per rusted finger, and caress sheets of papyrus resting on my shaking lap. A gift. Cigarette smoke coils around my soiled hemp skirt, twisting into king vultures pecking and pecking at their next conquest, worshiping withering lotuses always married to the inkstick.

Each brushstroke unfolds into itself, crumbling into charcoal ashes as the clock strikes twelve. Maybe my family knows it’s the witching hour. I will never forget. I hug doom in my arms and do not let go.

The Harker School San Jose, CA

Evan Wang

新传统

Let it be known. We circled— barefooted—the parking lot, searching for our car, last seen by villagers to be ferrying torsos across a river. No matter, the living do what they know best. From this foreign shore I call street, I hand body parts to you for wear: a father’s shoulder, a mother’s back—the things we do for survival. At home, everyone is missing a chest, taken by a bullet tracing itself through a new frontier, and I name it immigrant. There, you wear your country’s skin well. When the sun gives, you could hang it alongside my wedding dress, but I am a boy, and you looked into my face, bruised with makeup, to remind me, so you don’t. Though I am your son, it’s too easy to forget how I ran from love, how the Chinese night eats its simple men; how these streets swallow cars whole. One thing is easy to keep, your old language I use for poems and pillow talk. Here’s one: the jade talismans you brought over from the village have made like a wishbone, and split itself home. Follow it, but you can’t—your tires are slashed. You run, but everywhere is made of streets, and everything is slashed. Come back, we are in the parking lot again, holding your son—stroking his cheek— finding in his mouth the second half of everything you’ve ever wanted. The title is xīn chuántǒng, which means new tradition in Mandarin

Poetry

Upper Merion High School King of Prussia, PA

Sophie Wang

Anatomy of Exodus

Thick boots thudding against asphalt, we were all misplaced puddles and footsteps, running and rain.

Windblown royals, we were bejeweled in rice cracker crumble and July showers. Deep booms lit up the treeline, fireworks that ran to us through the diamond paved streets, unveiling distant smoke. We strung spines of shared desperation, making chase out of the distance, making line just for breaking.

(Is there anything more American than that?) I’ve heard that the beauty of fireworks emerges from destruction, the break and burst and burn. (Can you keep a secret? In another life, you weren’t there and fireworks weren’t beautiful. In this one you tell me, “Maybe that one means surrender.”

“Or maybe it means that we’re kicking ass,” which sends a ripple of laughter through us, our own firework of noise.) I swear, when we broke through, that whole lit-up sky was so goddamn beautiful. I knew this life was full of beautiful things just like that. Head ringing, I felt that ba-boom replace my own heartbeat, rattle my ribs. The grass soaked our butts, and I knew I wanted to fill every day with us—laughing; singing; racing through fields and forests; and whatever the hell it is that teenagers are supposed to do. Let me tell you what’s going to happen: You make my ribs less of a cage. You lift my weary bones until I’m free. When we’re surrounded by fluorescent skyline, I tell you secrets only broken in the dark, so that we cannot see the way they hang in the air. Our electric mirage travels thousands of years into the future to be seen by every star.

You show me there will always be space for us on mountain- and roof-tops and we will find heaven upon every ledge and say, we were here, we were here. You give me unconditionality, teach me to wrap my fears in your safety. And when my heart is stuck in my throat

you pull it onto my tongue and show me how to say “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Spencer Watson

Showering

On the bus home from your church trip, he touches you.

He dwarfs you in size. His dark brown curls form like a ball of yarn, falling messily on his forehead. His clothes are stale and grimy because he didn’t want to do laundry at the hotel. He wakes you up when the bus stops. He rubs your feet, removing the socks that were already falling off. You stretch. He watches as you contort, but you don’t see anything wrong with his glances. He takes your shoe, waving it in front of you like a carrot to a rabbit.

You get up from the double seats where you’re splayed out and chase him to the back of the bus.

There’s a grin on his face that you’ve never seen before. He sits down. You bend over to grab your shoe from his grip, but his hands snake around your hips, until the fingertips meet at the small of your back. The hands tighten. You’re pulled onto his lap before you could think to stop him.

The next eight hours, riding home in the blazing sun, paralyze you.

You wait for your mom to pick you up. Keep your distance, sit near the bus driver instead. Watch as your mother’s green Explorer rolls through the parking lot. She hits a speed bump too fast and too hard. It would’ve made you laugh any other time. Wipe beads of sweat from your brow. She gets out, sweaty and cherry-cheeked, to unload your bags from the back of the bus. You try to help, but she nudges you away. She says you’re tired, you’re sweaty, you need rest. You think she does too, but refrain from saying that. Hop onto the tan corduroy seat.

Your legs brush against the material, making you want to crawl into yourself. When she pulls herself into the driver’s seat with a loud grunt, she asks you how your trip was. Ignore it.

After you unpack your bags, your clothes scattered on the wooden floor, follow their lead. Lay on your back, let your shirt ride up. Feel the cold kiss your skin. Let that kiss erode your memory. Feel the cold like you would have a week ago, like you would have eight hours ago. When you hear the car start outside, run and slam the door behind you. Call out to your parents as they speed off, begging them not to go. Check your phone as it buzzes. It’s date night, see you later.

Shower. Shave your legs. Try to forget him. When you slide the razor too quickly, you bleed. Ignore it. Dry off. When you put on your clothes, you feel dirty. Conclude that the only way to fix this is to shower again. Scrub hard so the clean lasts. When it doesn’t, you turn on your radio, turn on the television, open a book. Let the noise and the music and the words distract you.

Before church starts on Sunday, pull the youth pastor aside. You survey the crosses on the wall. Say a quick prayer, a prayer of protection and wisdom. Ask God to give you the words to say. When He doesn’t, confess everything: the bus, the socks, the shoe, the cold floor and the shower. She tells you you’re lying. You stare, bug-eyed, wondering how she could betray you. Think about the late nights volunteering with her. Remember the times she told you she loved you. Turn away from the crosses on the wall, the Bible in her hand. Learn from her. Vow to never tell anyone again.

When you get home, shed your dress so fast your mom thinks it must be burning you.

Take more showers. Scrub and lotion and towel off until you’re sure your own grease isn’t even there. Study the water as it slides toward the drain. Is it clean? Is the dirt departing from you at last?

Slide on your dress again, run your hands over your hips, your thighs, your waist. Pinch your hip bones. Push your finger into the gaps of your ribs. Think about how he felt, forget how

you did, that day on the bus. Choose to forgive, because that is the Christian thing to do. Try to find some God-given empathy. Keeping it a secret is easier.

See the boy every Wednesday, Saturday, Sunday. He puts his hand on your shoulder.

Fight back. Slap his bicep, push him back against the piano like an animal tired of being caged. He runs into the adjacent room, yelling for the pastor. You hear him whining about his bruise. You almost laugh. His bruise will fade.

The pastor pulls you aside. As she yells, look her in the eyes. Wonder if you look as dead as you feel.

Resist the urge to lock your door and never come out.

Distance yourself from your mother. You don’t know if she knows, but you hope she doesn’t. She couldn’t handle that right now. Your brother is having breathing problems again and your sister is a toddler. You are the least of her worries. Look at your dad, and see the boy instead.

While you shower, watch the steam evaporate into the fan above. Imagine you are the steam, escaping from the confines of the tile walls. You’ve been told he has no memory of what he did to you. Wonder how he could forget. When you pick up the shampoo bottle, your hands shake and it falls. Wash your hips, your thighs, your waist. Make a Venn diagram in your head comparing your dad and the boy. Decide they are too alike.

***

In the summer, you and your mother talk about applying to a boarding school for the arts. Research with vigor. Bury yourself in the fantasy of living away from home. Enlist your mom to help you apply. Make it all you think about. Shower to freshen up, letting your bright pink loofa suds up in your hand. Reinvent yourself.

You’ve been accepted, and that August as you pack, argue with your mom. Talk about your dad. Talk through gritted teeth. When she brings up your dislike of men like him, like the boy, let the anger rise through your stomach, your sternum, your throat, and wretch. You don’t stop until the awful taste leaves your mouth. Observe as she freezes. Collect yourself. Still your shaking hands. Apologize when she starts to cry.

Sob when she holds you. When she asks, answer. Tell her every dirty detail that still covers your body like mud. Shiver with discomfort when his name leaves her mouth. Tighten your grip on her shoulders. Tell her about the bus, the socks, the shoe, the cold floor, the showers. Hold her tight when she stumbles over her words, trying to fix it for you. Run your hand over her cheek and feel her soft, clean skin.

Your mom takes you to therapy. You tell a therapist. Under your shirt, pinch your stomach to create a small, sharp pain. The therapist asks you to stop, and you do. Wait for his reaction. Speculate whether it will be dismissive or hysterical. It is neither. It is calculated.

Over the course of the next few months, the boy requests to follow you on Facebook, then you see him at the mall, then at the grocery store, in moments when you think you are finally safe. After every sighting, you shower religiously. Let the loofa scratch your skin. Trace your fingers over the marks it creates. Use every product that’s piled on the rim of the tub. Smell the different scents, hide behind them. Clean yourself so much you itch.

When you move into your new dorm, you see parents bustling, unpacking blue tubs of clothes. The chatter intertwines with the smell of sweat. Strangers fill the halls, filing in and out of rooms. You unpack, your face heating up in the midst of this chaos.

When everyone is gone, you kiss your mom goodbye. She holds your face and lifts her finger to rub away the mascara under your eyes. When she leaves, it is silent. Open the bathroom door, line up cleaning supplies at the edge of the tub. Start to scrub. Clean the grime.

Akili Williams

Black Barbie

It’s 2010. You’re five years old, sitting on the carpet in your mother’s room. You can hear your grandmother in the kitchen, the clink clink clink of pots and pans in the background. You shift excitedly on the floor, your legs crossed, your hands fisted in your lap. In your right hand, you hold a Barbie doll, your fingers wrapped tightly around her waist, her wide grin and bright blue eyes tilt up to face you. She’s gorgeous. She’s perfect. She’s fake. She’s everything you’re not. The TV in front of you is thick and small, mounted on a deep blue storage bin. The screen isn’t the best quality, but you don’t care. Your eyes are wide in rapt attention, and your mouth is frozen open in awe. Your face is a picture of utter reverence as you watch her dance across the screen. It’s Barbie, with her long blonde locks and her thin waist. She’s gorgeous. She’s flawless. She’s fake. You bite your lips, your teeth harsh and unforgiving. You’d give anything to be just like her. You’d give anything to look just like her.

It’s 2011. You’re kneeling on a chair, fiddling with the computer, your brows furrowed in determination. You painstakingly go through every option, every hair color, every face shape, every outfit. You do not go through every skin option. You’re sensible; you choose the palest one. You lean closer to the screen, your lips pursed. You want this to be perfect. This is you; you suppose. You are supposed to create you. To immerse yourself in this world. And this character is everything you want to be. You click through all the noses once more. You pick the thinnest one.

It’s 2012. None of the other girls have hair like you. Even the ones darker than you.

Instead, their hair is pressed completely straight. You try not to think about your dreads, try not to flinch as they smack you in the face. Instead, you stare longingly from across the cafeteria. Even as your friends laugh with you, grin at you, you cannot help but notice how their hair is straight but yours is not. You want a perm more than anything. You dig one hand into your (fat) thigh and pull on one of your locks with the other.

It’s 2013. You love telling stories so much. Ever since you first took your pencil to paper, you’ve been enraptured. You can’t imagine doing anything else in your life. This is who you are. This is what you need. You draw the covers yourself, ensnaring your colored pencils in a vice grip, your tongue peeking out of your lips. Blond hair, bright blue eyes, pink lips, white grin.

She’s gorgeous. She’s flawless. She’s fake, but she’s normal The average teen. The perfect protagonist, just like all the stories that came before you. Her name is Amarissa, your middle name. It means beautiful. She’s gorgeous. She’s beautiful and she deserves it more than you.

It’s 2014. 2015. 2016. You stand in single file lines, a grin on your face as you and your classmates waddle behind the teacher. You run across the blacktop during recess, the wind blowing through your hair as you laugh with your friends. You sing songs in music, you draw pictures in art, you sit on the rainbow-colored carpet as you scribble in your notebook. You grin as you finally begin to understand basic division. You’re nine, you’re ten, you’re eleven, and you loathe yourself more than anything.

It’s 2017, and you’re furious. You’re angry and you cannot tell why. Looking in the mirror makes you feel sick to your stomach. You can hear the things they say about you, about how you look like a boy. It’s the dreads. It has to be. You don’t have a perm like any of them. You don’t keep your hair clipped back with ribbons and bows. You don’t have silky hair that lays down your back. You are fat and it hides any trace of puberty from your body, and the dreads only serve to blur the lines more. You think of your old Barbie dolls, and you wonder where they’ve gone. You got rid of them when you moved into your house. You wish you were like them. You wish you

had straight hair and blue eyes and a thin nose and small lips and and and. You sit alone at the lunch table, and you look across the room at the girls you’ve known since elementary school. You look at their straightened hair and brighter smiles and prettier voices and lighter skin. You haven’t talked much lately; you don’t know what you’d say if you did. You sat with them once and you knew immediately that you didn’t belong. You don’t wonder if they hate you as much as you hate yourself. You already know.

It’s 2018, and you’re…hopeful. You’re getting your dreads taken out and you’re sure that will make you happy. You’re sure. Pretty soon you’ll be able to straighten your hair like all the other girls. Maybe you’ll be beautiful. You’ll never be blond or tall or thin or blue-eyed or pretty or perfect or unreal. But you can be close enough. You can be better. You can be happier. You need to be happier. You sit at the end of the table with the girls you’ve known since elementary school, and you listen to their conversations as they happen around you. You watch their smiles, desperately attempting to come up with the right thing to say, and you wonder what it’s like to be them. You wonder if they hate you as much as you hate yourself.

It’s still 2018 and taking your dreads out did not, in fact, fix all your problems. If anything, it just added more. You’d never had to comb your hair before—you had dreads, after all. It turns out that it is exceedingly painful. You’ve never had to part your hair before— you had dreads, after all. This, too, is also quite painful. Your hair is made of knot after knot and you can’t tell one strand from the next and it sticks up funny after you lie down and and and the worst part of it all is that your mom won’t even let you get a perm.

It’s 2019 and you’ve learned to get over it. There’s more information on black hair than you ever knew existed. You didn’t realize how many options you had. For you, there was only one: straightened. There wasn’t much on that. Instead, there were pages and pages of love. Pure love. True love. Pages upon pages of black women loving and supporting one another. No idols, no Barbies, only people. And they loved themselves more than you thought people could ever love themselves. They had wide noses and dark skin and any kind of body and thick, dark hair that curled into itself in a wide explosion of kinks and curls. They’re gorgeous. They’re flawless.

They’re real. They’re you. You never thought that being black was something to be proud of. At first, you had no concept of it. And then, as soon as you became aware of it, it was a prison. It was a pillory, leaving you trapped and helpless as others pointed and stared. You spent so long wanting to be free, but it was never the prison, never the chains holding you back. It never occurred to you to be proud of being black. It never occurred to you. You just want to be happy, and it seems as though there is more than one way.

It’s 2021. You stay up all night talking to the girls who went to your elementary school. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. You wonder if they know you love them. Your hair flows down your back, not silky or smooth, but thick and tied into intricate braids. And you love them, most of the time. You love your kinks and your coils and your skin and your roots. You love the reality and not the fantasy of you. There is no ideal because you are the ideal. Well, most of the time. Most of the time you know that you are loved and you are happy and this is what you’ve been wanting and and and. And sometimes you close your eyes and all you can see are blue eyes and blonde hair and a thin nose and…that’s okay. You think. You’re doing better. You haven’t reached the happiness you dreamed of but that’s okay. That’s okay. You’re okay. You’re gorgeous. You’re unique. You’re black. You’re okay.

Creative Nonfiction

George Washington Carver Center for Arts and Technology Towson, MD

Adriana Winkelmayer

Triggernometry

Problem of the Day:

The given: The Triggernometry of a school shooting. Prove: That the answer should always be survival.

Measure the area of a cube: Insert a building…such as a school.

Examine the planes: Flat surfaces, untouched and – calm.

Count the squares: Doorways you might walk through For the last time–Because the subtraction starts The moment you hear a gun

The walls close into a prism Back you into triangular corners This is the Triggernometry of a school shooting. It is written in blood that you must Learn to play dead in a classroom

Calculate the positions of figures The volumes of door barricades The angles of limbs Don’t take away guns, Add them up and pray they cancel out.

You cannot convert a tragedy into politics. You cannot shape a community into a scapegoat Because “it can happen at any time or place.”

Solving this uniquely American Problem is Your best chance at surviv–

No!

This is how to survive: Run. Hide. Calculate how many thoughts and prayers before change arrives.

More children have died of school shootings in America Than in any other country, Because the formula proves that it just happens That they’re just a variable in that special right triangle: God, glory, and guns.

This is not “Problem of the Day” This is the “Problem of the United States.”

The given: The Triggernometry of a school shooting. Proven: That death will always be the final answer.

Spoken Word Emery/ Weiner School Houston, TX

Chloe Woo

My Halmoni Hears Me

I remember always resenting the time of year when my grandmother came over because I would have to start going through the hassle of crossing out the days of the month in my planner until she left. My grandma always came at the worst times. Usually, it would be in November, when I would be in the thick of school and extra sensitive because I was waking up early every day. I got angry because her visit meant I had to sleep on the hard wooden floor on a thin sheet while my grandma lay comfortably on my bed. Her anti-aging skincare bottles lay scattered across my countertop like bowling pins that had been knocked down, while my own collection sat neatly in the medicine cabinet. Every morning, I heard her ear-piercing alarm at six as she toppled out of bed, forgetting that I was lying on the floor. I made the bed while she was busy getting ready so I wouldn’t have to hear her complain about how unwomanly it was to have a messy room. Then, she would walk into my bathroom while I was changing and make comments about my body that I never needed nor wanted to hear. When she came with me to pay for my tutoring classes, she’d slap my wrists and scold me about how disrespectful it was to nod my head at a teacher instead of verbally answering, not noticing how my ears and face burned with embarrassment. But most of all, I remember my grandma attempting to “fit in” with the rest of my family. She would dress in outdated and mismatched clothes with bold patterns you couldn’t miss. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t fit in, and because of this, she made me stand out, too. She stuck out like a sore thumb or an ugly duckling, only she never bloomed into a beautiful swan.

My grandma was an unchanging, old Korean woman amongst a gaggling mass of young American teenagers who preened and jabbered and thought childhood would last forever. She would insist on following me to school, wobbling out of the car, and gripping my mom’s hand with hot rollers in her hair. I could spot that short, curly hair from a mile away. She insisted on talking to all my friends in her broken English, to which they plastered on fake smiles and nodded their heads like they appreciated it. After that, she would walk me to my classes and give me bear hugs and kisses in front of everyone before she left. When my grandma was staying at my house, I never invited my friends out of fear that she would try to socialize with them. I never understood why it always had to be me. My grandma never behaved this way around my sister. It was always just me.

I spent a large part of my life feeling inferior to my sister. When you are a younger sibling, you learn to suck it up. You never complain when the last piece of your favorite candy goes to someone else, even if you want it so badly you can almost taste it in your mouth. You learn to just say “sorry” after a heated argument, no matter who was in the wrong. You learn never to protest when your mom only buys your sister’s favorite snack from the grocery store. During New Year’s prayers, you don’t whine when you only get ten dollars while your sister gets twenty. When your sister goes shopping, you act nonchalantly when only she gets new clothes. You know that by the end of the year, you’ll end up with all her discarded graphic tees, her bras without any padding, her little cropped tanks, and outdated pairs of skinny jeans. When your birthday rolls around, you don’t stop your sister from blowing out your birthday candles. Instead, you laugh and choke back your frustration. When your sister is going into junior year of high school, you start talking to her closed door to call her down to dinner because otherwise, you’re pestering someone who’s “under pressure.” You learn about sisterly hatred when your sister excels at everything you don’t. When you finally get a ninety-eight on the biology test you studied so hard for, you don’t brag to your parents

because your sister got a hundred plus the extra credit. When your sister aces the chemistry test, you act happy, but deep down, you wonder and stress about how much you’ll have to study to get an A, too.

Toward the end of my grandma’s one-month stay, I stepped into my bathroom to take a shower. I was already exhausted from picking up my grandma’s curly hair off the floor when I saw something that made my veins pulse with fury. My cleanser and face lotion were tossed across the dirty shower floor. I don’t exactly know why that moment made me so mad. It was just a cleanser, that’s true, but it triggered all my pent-up fury.

“What did you do, Grandma?” I yelled, as my eyes and ears burned with rage. .

“What did I do, my love?” she answered, in such an impossibly innocent voice that it made it hard for me to stay mad. But I wasn’t going to let her off the hook that easily.

“Why would you use my things without even asking me?” I snapped at her.

She tried to interrupt me, but I wouldn’t let her. If she spoke in that voice again, it would make me forgive her, and I couldn’t do that just yet.

“I have to put up with so much already. Why did you have to come and make it so much harder for me? Why do you have to start up a conversation with all my friends? They always tease me about it. Why do you have to come and sleep on my bed? Like for once, why can’t you sleep on my sister’s? Why do you have to clutter up my bedroom all the time?”

As soon as those words left my mouth, I felt so bad. It was a low blow to someone whose only opportunity to spend time with me came once a year. I knew that, but I couldn’t help it. I could see her heart breaking, her eyes brimming with shame and betrayal. My gut fell straight into my stomach, and before I could apologize, she turned on her heels and walked out. I was left feeling empty and hollow.

That night, Grandma made me cuddle beside her in my bed. My room was dark, but I clicked on the lamp on my nightstand, giving the room a peaceful aura. She was wearing the soft, textured pajama set I loved so much, and I ran my hands down the fuzz. She told me she wanted to have “bonding time” with me and went downstairs and came back holding a big tub of vanilla ice cream—my favorite—with two spoons. Normally, I wouldn’t want her to eat in my room. But that day, we sat in bed and shared ice cream while I took her hand and smoothed out all the wrinkles.

I could tell she was stumped on what to say. Finally, she swallowed and took a deep breath, as if she were preparing for a deep dive, and then said, “I’m sorry my little puppy. I’m sorry I was an embarrassment to you all this time. I just want you to know that you will always be my favorite.” She spoke in a soft, warm voice that sent tingles up my spine. I loved the way her dialect came through when she spoke in Korean. The way her voice went up in the middle of the sentence and back down at the end as if she were teasing me.

Her words made me smile. I couldn’t help it; I loved it when she called me “my little puppy.” She had called me that since I was two so it felt like something that belonged to me and no one else. Sitting there with my Grandma, I finally felt like the main character in a movie, something I had never experienced. I usually felt like one of those supporting actors whose names you forget because they are irrelevant. Now, it was like I was in one of those mushy scenes where you talk endlessly, hug it out, and finally let out your true feelings.

Creative Nonfiction

I had spent fourteen years of my life stashing all my feelings inside of me. With no way to release them, they burned deep, growing stronger as they fed off my pent-up emotions. Dealing with feeling lesser than others is something that will eventually eat away at you. It was my grandma—the same grandma I had resented so much throughout the years—who helped me tap into my feelings and release some of that self-doubt. While she hadn’t extinguished the painful feelings completely, I finally felt heard. I was touched that she had taken the time to apologize and communicate. It couldn’t have been easy; apologizing to her granddaughter must have taken a lot out of her pride, but to me, it symbolized her love. I realized that if my grandma could find room in her life to care for me that much, I could prove to myself that I was truly worth fighting for. At that moment, I saw my grandma blooming into the swan I always wanted her to be. I now know that she had always been one. The way her face radiated with love and so much emotion made me want to hug her tight and never let her go. We finished the whole tub of ice cream, and, as her hands cradled my face, I fell asleep.

Isabella Wu

Peel

Poetry

Choate Rosemary Hall Wallingford, CT

My grandmother taught me four ways to peel ginger: grab a sharp knife if you have the balls to be unafraid of the consequence; find the large butcher’s knife with the blood red handle, blade thicker than the meat of your palms if you want it to cut deeper if you want to be careless if you want to feel something, and with the prudence you do not possess—it doesn’t matter because you will only scrape away the root—switch to a vegetable peeler and watch the ashy skin of your knuckles shed away; finally, grab a silver spoon taken from your very own greedy open mouth, and with the convex facing towards you, scrape in firm downward strokes—watch, as the root becomes exposed watch as it comes undone watch as it all falls apart under your inexperienced palms—back away because who are you to put your hands on a cultural ingredient whose sharpness you always hated, anyway—run to your mother your grandmother your grandfather—they say cooking is a woman’s job but your amateur hands shake and bleed under the weight of the blade—

I am: a tiny petite minuscule nonexistent Chinese girl with bangs that don’t frame her face correctly—eyes that droop downwards with the weight of homesickness and mommy issues and the rising cost of chicken breast how much money per pound how many hours to toil how much desperation to make a difference—it is Saturday night and I am sitting in what feels like a dying restaurant—who gives me the gall to say that when it is my father’s surname printed on the register, next to the smiling buddha and the waving porcelain smiling cat and all our bills in torn envelopes hidden in a drawer that I can’t see and a bowl of melon candy only for the customers— never enough for me because I am not a customer— I am: a worker a laborer an entitled knock-off half-price bargainer with something to prove—take my toils my sweat my heart my lungs my everything— in return: the idyllic American dream—is it enough will it ever be—enough— the restaurant is not in intensive care yet—think more high-dependency unit— my mother lets herself rot in the stink of deboned fish carcasses— in the acid pungency of brine and decay and decomposition in the harsh hands of the sea—suffocation of a decade of missed chances regrets and emptiness— there is no steady pulse—

In 1984 my mother came to America as a baby-eyed virgin, born out of poverty covered in grime and shame and her parent’s disapproval—chasing for a home for a loving family, safety security and pipe dreams—father was a fisherman in love—he followed her 7140 miles, across the bright lights of Europe across the Atlantic —mother views him as a naive dog who knows nothing, caught on a leash—too short to run but long enough to wrap around his neck and choke him—all he knows is how to debone a salmon bone by bone—he teaches me, gentle hands greased in fish oil and bubbled fat, fingers slipping with mucus and guts—its silver skin flakes apart in my palms, cold and slimy to the touch— the tender flesh exposes itself—each bone feels light as nothing in my palms and the steel of the knife cuts through the pads of my soft fingers with no calluses—I wrinkle my nose at the metallic

smell of decay, at the squelch of the red juices pooling out —the dead fish has encrusted eyes open wide—mouth blubbering around nothing gasping for its last breath—my own hand my own knife my own shame my own disgust—I attempt to smile at customers but there are just so few these days what’s the point they won’t be coming back—we are sandwiched in between a Wells Fargo and a McDonalds in the pits of Manhattan—yet we still failed to assimilate still dirt poor after our toils and time spent too long away from home—go back past the Atlantic past the lights of Europe— what are you still doing here—

I am a world-class peeler—my hands no longer shake when I grab the handle of the blade—the scales of fish carcass the patchy skin of potato the dirt of carrot the burn of onion the roughness of ginger—the coarse dead skin cracks beneath my palms—

peel: Bà, every moment with you is haunted by the odor of slaughter the hurt of forgotten birthdays lost in hours of overtime—

peel: I asked you, two summers ago, why you couldn’t just give it all up—

peel: couldn’t just get a real job, one that I could boast about to my classmates— peel: was it so wrong to believe that we were destined for better than this?—

peel: didn’t mother deserve better?—

peel: didn’t I deserve better?—

peel: didn’t you deserve so much better?—

peel: I couldn’t even bear to face you—

peel: I: a pseudo-American girl who has forced herself to stop speaking her own language—

peel: I: a bold-faced actor, ashamed of her lineage she could never honor—

peel: I: the guilty—

peel: I: the undeserving—

peel: I: a daughter, who just wanted the world for you for us.

Bà, the tides have changed. You are gone now, but we are still trapped here, alone on foreign land.

—peel: the root exposes itself tender & raw.

Claire

Wu

Photography

Harvard-Westlake School

Studio City, CA

Kids’ Kaleidoscope

Digital photography

Stella Wu

america pt. 2

“[T]he shootings on March 16, 2021 — in which eight people, including six Asian women, were fatally shot at three Atlant[a] spas — was an inflection point.” — Marian Chia-Ming Liu

women with my face are shot here, guttural screams as their language is peeled from their spine and broken outwards with the bullet. have you ever swallowed your own tongue? it is slimy like a crime, every taste bud palming my throat, resisting the fall into

oblivion, lodged in there, pulsing like a second heart, blood drowning my lungs until i silence.

as i bite off my own tongue i imagined the blood splatters across Atlanta

snake up my arms and force themselves through sewed lips & i swallow this red in hollow mouth,

keep my family in the dip of my stomach lining & keep myself alive. then my ma called, asking

from where my other tongue isn’t a target drawn in a yellow bullseye, & i answered her in lung-drowned exhales,

familiar words foreign in a mouth with no roots to ground it. the asian diaspora within me unwinding into whispers.

i reassure ma it’s the mask that makes it hard to speak, not the worry of inheriting these eyes and hair, features so common even i mistake the dead ones for my own. do you also see me as the target?

this question salivates & erode the chains until fear breaks free & in that moment

my tongue slithers down my throat & my stomach acid dissolves my heritage into nothing.

as i commit my own murder i think about my sisters, all the ones shot and all the ones suffocating and all the ones that passing their gun in their dying, bloodied triggers a warning, a last chance of autonomy.

cock the gun, barrel pointed at my face, pressed against my mouth, shoved down my throat, aimed at my culture, and

i pretend to be something i am not. rewrite the paradigms of my language until i forget the story

behind the syllabaries, lose myself to this role of the mime: sexless, ageless, white paint as skin.

my ma calls me about my silent death so cut off my mother’s tongue, mouth Os for love and apologies and goodbye & I

cut off my mother tongue again. the bleeding drains yellow skin pale again. & i lie to myself that i am safe again.

safe and dead and silent.

Poetry

Taipei American School

Taipei City, Taiwan

Stella Wu

one of us

Everything is made of fans. Hair spilling over plastic silk, I wear fanmade history & the lonesome bathroom stall light pans down as Ayi folds language into my mellow skin.

The white sleeves of the Hanfu billow like fans, ink splattering into history as my wrists wrung dry, and Ayi wonders if she should roll the sleeves up, wrapped like scrolls and tied in Western cuffs.

Instead, I tell her to raise the red flag from the ground, a dress bleeding from her separation from Motherland.

Everything is made of fans.

A fantastic crowd gathers in the stadium as the dao flutters us toward this fanfared parade. Here, hundreds of other children are dressed like me.

& we fan outwards, stitched into the grace of an exotic dancer before the emperor, bejewelling his concubines in a lull of femininity and fanning hair, free of the rigored braids and fancy updos under black crowns.

& I realize my body is a monture of the Han; I wonder how many wars I carried on my back. How many lives? How many eulogies? Everything is made of fans. In the early light of dawn, thousands of years ago, we kept our tongue on the handle and bled battles on the fan leaves, only visible when I am spread thin into the skeleton of Asia, a tapestry of bloodlines in thread veins.

And I am made of fans.

Breathe in fresh air walking with the masses & I imagine myself on a cliff over a battle of a hundred million faces I could see today, and I learn to make fans once more, body snapping at the explosion of wings.

Spoken Word

Taipei American School

Taipei City, Taiwan

Jerry Xiao

Exile

I.

奶奶was seven when she learned what it’s like to burn. Her hands dip into searing coal, hungering for heat. She reaches to salvage any untouched jade before it, too, is baptized by fire. Her blistering hand retrieves a fist of black stone from December cold. On rainy nights, she siphons salted air through the hollowed basin of industrial smog as tears fall from the bridge of her nose. But she does not wipe them away. Down Yangtze River, her palms scream as she rises, beginning her miles-long journey back home.

II.

Pinned and undreamt, 奶奶presses white moths into the inside of her cheek. Her summer passes slow as a mule carrying callused men through soil too acidic to farm. This is the summer we’ll learn to pump light without floodgates, where I’ll walk into the brackish river reeds and reemerge with antlers. After the sunset, we are rendered profligate, drunk on excess wine, animal fat pooling in our stomachs. When the forecast calls for torrential rain, I blanche my skin, then awaken skinless in a version of moonless night, fluttering like the white moths rifling through 奶奶’s mouth.

III.

Once, 奶奶said that each generation carries a carcass on its back. Today: polyethylene fish, glutted aspartame, crisp husk of a dying moth. Somewhere, someplace, a son brings an animal’s vertebrae to his warm lips, whistles through the elisions in its bones. He stands on the helm of a ship looking backward in time, finding ontological proof in long dead stars. Somewhere, this son catches his grandmother’s hand. Her skin is easy, warm as static.

faster, baby, faster

in Greenwich, Connecticut, the sun is burning from Canadian wildfires, skies hazy like cremation. Netflix tells me mother nature is fast nearing her limit. by noon, mothers sift for cobalt on their knees, thousands of miles away from me, babies still fastened to the mine as the earth clamps its jaws shut or just crumples. the boy i love is fast asleep. one day, i’ll write the cobalt in his phone is rusting. one day, when my eyes are no longer red from chafing against the screen, searching for him, just as he would want me to. he’s been watching girls like me, screaming take me, my god & faster baby, faster, a joke until it isn’t. my poems come faster by the day, wrested from my pores like blackheads. why shouldn’t they be searing & heartless, so long as they send me to Harvard & him to hell? every day, i write things like god, let my words save someone. every day, i imagine getting into every single Ivy League school. i’ll Facetime my grandma with the news, holding her sun-cracked skin & the blood of so many strangers in my hands. & as i’m writing this i’m thinking, wouldn’t the audience be dying to know how mothers broke their backs for the lithium battery in my phone? how my food is bloodstained & i can’t even taste it. how my water tastes like metal, flowing faster & faster from the faucet, spilling

out of the sink, how our clock runs so fast, nobody can be saved. the good part is that at least i’ll become a fossil fuel before our home is wept dry. the good part is that, by night, ChatGPT is more generous than any lover i’ve met. but by dawn, even robots hold steadfast to their tired gospel. as AI, I cannot form attachments doesn’t it know its time? time to buy your daughter a bigger cake, faster internet, stronger chemical peels. to stand for love, to eat your words, to start your fast,

to realize that every poem about exploitation is exploitative, every pore scratched to a wound. every day, islands start to look like bridges, shampoo like conditioner, & by breakfast, every town is dirty with mourning victims & laughter from newlyformed committees. mother, you spin so fast that dust settles everywhere, & all i can do is clean is my room, & go to school, & in the 12 hours & 32 minutes it took for me to write & rehearse this, 13,055 people died of hunger alone, so don’t you dare clap for me. because all i’m saying is get better. & publish me. & just make me stop & scrub faster, baby, get clean.

“Losing 25,000 to Hunger Every Day.” United Nations. Accessed September 18, 2023.

Spoken Word

Ava Ye

Atlas of Forgotten Hangzhou

西湖 | Xi Hu

Flintridge Preparatory School

La Cañada Flintridge, CA

It’s the way the three brothers are all hollowed and balancing calabashes like man buns that add two inches to their heads. In the summer the lake is suppled by lotus hats and the bridges open eyes in the water to watch the cicadas fry and the children tear off chunks of flatbread for the ducks. And the wrinkled widow cooling herself on the dragon boat, the fan in her hand stained with the story of it all.

河坊街 | Hefang Jie

You summarized, one night, the laws of supply and demand: lanterns have fringes to catch the wishes and wants tossed around the alley. Every monsoon opens a new stall: sugar painted roosters, victory cake, rubber water pouches, dragon whisker candy, hand-painted parasols, ox horn hair combs, crab-filled soup dumplings, mini gold Buddha statues, rain, sons, Dairy Queen.

梅家坞 | Meijiawu

The scent between us, spiced. Like you could float across it on a tea tray to that paper town on the jade mountain’s cheek.

钱塘江 | Qiantang Jiang

Sometime ago, the river weaved its ripples with breath and strung the thread through every heartbeat in its cupped palms. And even after kings shot arrows at its tides, and its shores were lined with suns and pagodas and vendors on tricycles selling candied hawthorn, it still croaks a language known by few: the osmanthus petals in my mother’s grasp at the crowded bus stop, 1998. 2006, the monkey doll next to me, a present from my aunt. The wide-faced moon saying qie zi for my father’s camera, 2010. All the leaves we left behind.

雷峰塔 | Leifeng Ta

A betrayal, piercing the sky.

虎跑梦泉 | Hupao Mengquan

The poet, etched into his stone cave. Smiling, eyes closed, dreaming that his reflection is a tiger and his spine holds cities.

龙井 | Longjing

The first times I saw the tin box I thought it read LONGING. I imagine the inside of a teapot to be a sea like the ones that were alive when your great grandmother was, the carcasses of leaf fishes floating, the water that smells, the ancestors that misted to the waves, and the waves that are now moonless. A sea where if the J-shaped hooks were removed, I would almost want to be there, because the water would run like steam and I could mend the horizon like hills.

Footnotes

Xi Hu: West Lake

Hefang Jie: Hefang Street; traditional shopping street

Meijiawu: tea village in the hills near West Lake

Qiantang Jiang: Qiantang River; known for its world’s largest tidal bores

Leifeng Ta: Leifeng Pagoda; in Chinese legend, built on top of the immortal White Snake Hupao Mengquan: Dreaming of the Tiger Spring

Longjing: Dragon Well; tea fields specializing in historically prized, hand-produced green tea

Daniel Yim

Poetry

Sophia Zhang

Chasing Beauty

The lights dim as the spotlight focuses on the platinum blonde woman in a gray tweed power suit commanding the stage.

“I would like to ask you a question,” She says. “Please raise your hands if you would trade 5 years of your life for the so-called perfect body.”

Almost immediately, two hands shoot up. They belong to the titular protagonist of the TV show Fleabag and her sister. Out of a crowd of hundreds, they’re the only ones who raised their hands. If I were there, I’d raise mine, too. ***

Sweat trickles down my face, my shirt clinging to my body like a second skin. My hands slip on the bright blue foam exercise mat as I pant heavily, limbs flying in every direction while I perform burpees. It’s the summer before freshman year, and I’ve set my sights on losing weight. Specifically, dropping from 109 to 95 pounds.

I know I’m at a healthy weight, but I want a thigh gap, slimmer calves, a thinner face, a flatter stomach, dainty wrists, pronounced collarbones, and a slender neck. I want to be skinny. I want it all.

So I buckle down on my weight loss routine: counting calories, doing fitness influencer Chloe Ting’s Summer Shred workout program, weighing myself daily, and drinking ‘detox’ lemon-mint-cucumber water. There is a sort of pleasure I feel when I go to sleep hungry from starving myself and sore from high-intensity workouts. Pain means I am doing things right. I look with satisfaction as the number on the scale gradually drops, as fat peels off my body to reveal the slight outlines of muscles.

Then I lose my period for 6 months. Apparently rapid weight loss and excessive exercise will do that. ***

I am 8 when my mother attacks me with a mole removal pen. While I tear up and tremble from the electric shock of a miniature tattoo needle scratching away at the tiny dark dot on my skin, her soothing voice fills my ears.

“Just bear with it,” she soothingly says. “Your skin will look unblemished and clear, beautiful, once the mole is gone. Trust me, you’ll thank me in the future.” So I do trust her. And I internally chant beauty is pain, over and over again, to distract myself from the stink of burning flesh.

The removal works. The skin scabs, and when it falls off, my mole is gone, revealing a fresh spot of tight and pink skin. I feel a bit more beautiful. Momentarily.

***

The white marble of my bathroom sink is practically invisible. Every available centimeter of tiled counter space is taken up by skincare and haircare and perfume and makeup, enough to last me for the next decade. But I always want more.

Eyes glued to the computer screen, I listen attentively as the beauty influencer sings the praises of the newest blush, of its skin-blurring properties, youthful glow, and natural yet flattering color. I look at her poreless airbrushed skin and admire the fresh coral-pink on her cheeks.

With a click, the blush is added to my Ulta shopping cart. I add a second and check out.

I always dream that the next product I buy will transform my face. That it will finally make me feel beautiful, even when the ones I’ve purchased time after time never do.

***

When I scroll on TikTok, I constantly come across beautiful girls with clear skin, ski-slope noses, hourglass bodies, and huge doelike, double-lidded eyes, staring into the camera and lip-syncing to

a sped-up song. They’re not doing anything special, but they don’t need to.

The top comments agree, filled with a stream of adoring phrases like “you’re so beautiful queen” and “i would do anything to be this pretty” and “it’s so unfair how some people are this gorgeous.” Reading these comments, and others like them over and over again, I can’t help but subconsciously internalize this yearning for beauty.

***

I think the desire to be beautiful might be something intrinsic to humankind. It would make sense—we worship beauty in nature, in music, in literature, in art—so it seems inevitable that humans would also seek out beauty in themselves and each other.

***

“Beauty isn’t important,” my mother whispers to me. “It’s so much more important for a woman to be strong, independent, capable, intelligent. That’s what you should focus on and treasure. Those qualities will last, but beauty is fleeting.”

It’s not like my mother’s wrong. Logically, I understand the truth in what she tells me. Even more than that, I understand how beauty itself, as a concept, is flawed. I’ve read and know that beauty standards are defined by people who are privileged in our unequal society. I know it’s unfair that being light-skinned, cis, able-bodied, and thin is considered more beautiful than being dark-skinned, trans, disabled, or fat. I know that this idea of female beauty is perpetuated by the patriarchy. I know that my insecurities and obsession with beauty are being manipulated by the advertising and beauty industry, as well as influencers to sell me products. I know. I know. I know. I know it all.

But none of this knowledge changes how I feel. Yes, I know that beauty standards are problematic. I know that my time and energy should go to more important concerns. Yet despite all of that, I still want to be beautiful. The desire consumes me, eats me alive. Like a moth to a flame, I dive headfirst into the selfflagellation required to become more beautiful.

***

“You’re so beautiful,” my mother tells me, clutching my face between her large palms. “You don’t need to wear makeup or lose weight. You’re beautiful just the way you are. I love you.”

“No matter what you do,” my mother tells me, frustrated as she watches me paint my nails instead of doing homework, “You will never become extremely beautiful, beautiful enough to earn a living off your looks. You simply were not born with that potential. However, you were blessed with intelligence. Play to your strengths, baobei, my treasure. Be wise here. More so than focusing on prettying yourself up, you need to focus your efforts on your studies.”

***

Humans are greedy. We always want what we can’t have, don’t we?

***

“Our family’s meimei really loves beauty,” my mother says, while talking to family friends at a Thanksgiving party.

The dark leather couch sticks to my sweaty thighs as I shift uncomfortably, listening to the conversation; I feel my cheeks blush red out of embarrassment. And when, months later, I receive a jade roller for my birthday from a well-meaning auntie, while my sister gets a book, I want to bury myself alive.

I’m not exactly sure why I feel so much shame about being image-obsessed and beauty-conscious, but I do. Maybe it’s because I grew up associating beautified femininity with shallowness, with vanity, with frivolousness. Maybe it’s because

I’ve internalized this idea that “smart people” aren’t supposed to care about being beautiful and I’ve always been labeled a “smart person” by the people around me. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid people will think I only care because I want male validation—which I’ll admit, I do to some degree. But mainly I care because I just want to fill the gaping void of self-hatred that exists inside me. It’s probably a twisted nightmare cocktail of all the above, and more.

Like Fleabag, I often worry that I’m a bad feminist for caring so much about being beautiful. I mean, my expensive 6-step skincare routine is hardly a conduit to fighting invented beauty standards. And instead of obsessing over my stubby fingers and wallowing in self-hatred, shouldn’t I be working on self-development or I don’t know, pondering ways to end the patriarchy?

I think the first step to healing might be forgiving myself for wanting to be beautiful.

In the end, the mole grows back darker and larger after a few months, the result of remnant nevus cells that proliferated until a new dark spot formed, making it impossible to remove with the pen. No matter how many times I might try my best to erase the mark off my skin, it will never leave. The only remnant of my efforts is a permanent pockmarked scar—still colored—on my skin.

Baobei: treasure

Meimei: Younger daughter

Nathan Zhao

Adam

Two twins by the water, taking in the light filtering through the forest canopy. How early we must rise to become angels. One boy strips himself of his wings and I skip pebbles on the other end of the river. Two jumps upwards until sinking. How did I know this would become my morning? That different aching of the stomach, not of hunger unless the skull of the body betrays its reason. How those boys quietly transformed into themselves their whole lives. Even as their leaves abandoned them. I cover myself with arms & the river. Now why am I naked? I imagine a bird dies once in my palms for when those two were happy and nothing more. But he holds his head in his hands like a melon ready to be cracked open. The slow beatings of my heart, the mud slowly seeping in my shorts.

Poetry Charter School of Wilmington

Wilmington, DE

Joy Zhao

Photography

Walnut Hill School for the Arts Natick, MA

YOKI er Digital photography 2023

Chelsea Zhu

Healing Haibun

Everything is in decay. Baby seedlings hang on their last breaths, darkening under the branches of a pine tree. The air smells of 奶奶’s worn-out coat, thirty years heavy of dust and dough. You sleep on grass and cling to the stickiness. Your nails peel, flake onto thick grime. And layers and layers of semicircles. Pinecones waiting to soften. When they rot, 奶奶 hides her heart in a hollow.

*

You dream about a body before you understand the body. The body and a face. The face and a teardrop flowing from the right corner of the eye, sliding diagonally as if 奶奶 is lying down on her side. The teardrop passes through a steep nasal mountain, plunging onto the lip. There, the teardrop dries in the sun.

* Stay still. Still. Still, 奶奶 walks in rest notes. The leaves are still and their sways are muffled. A symphony in silence, a ceasing day. All movement sharp to halt. Then, the voice of a morning bird projects an unsettling shakiness. You mistake it for a crow and it flies away.

* Change comes in scalene triangles, but music moves in perfect circles. Music travels over a stack of sympathy cards for 奶奶 found in a Walmart discount aisle and bobbles above memorial pebbles born by the riverbank. Everyone is still except a waterdrop. Then another. The storm begins in pianissimo staccato notes.

*

In this house, music is never followed by applause. Music is not even allowed. You make sure 奶奶 never hears you humming under the bed or dancing in the closet. You remember one day you sing in the kitchen without knowing 奶奶 is cooking steamed buns. She mistakes your voice with the running sink water.

*

Outside is dark, windows shut, the piano untouched. With the rainfall as your metronome, your nails tap the piano keys, both hands shaking in harmony. Steam rises from the vibration. The house lights up in violet violin strings. Music within every wall. Somewhere skies away, 奶奶 is breathing. You hear her. As the thunder bellows, you play your first note. You play until everything is in utero.

*

Turquoise in the nest

Robin shell cracking in shade

Three hundred tree rings

Translations

奶奶 (Nainai) - Grandma

Pianissimo - Musical term for “very soft”

Poetry

Richard Montgomery High School

Rockville, MD

YoungArts

About YoungArts

YoungArts—the national foundation for the advancement of artists—was established in 1981 by Lin and Ted Arison to identify exceptional young artists, amplify their potential, and invest in their lifelong creative freedom. YoungArts provides space, funding, mentorship, professional development and community throughout artists’ careers. Entrance into this prestigious organization starts with a highly competitive application for talented artists ages 15–18, or grades 10–12, in the United States that is judged by esteemed discipline-specific panels of artists through a rigorous adjudication process.

YoungArts award winners are further eligible for exclusive opportunities, including: nomination as a U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts, one of the nation’s highest honors for high school seniors; a wide range of creative development support including fellowships, residencies and awards; professional development programs offered in partnership with major institutions nationwide; additional financial support; and access to YoungArts Post, a private, online portal for YoungArts artists to connect, share their work and discover new opportunities.

Past YoungArts award winners include Daniel Arsham, Terence Blanchard, Camille A. Brown, Timothée Chalamet, Viola Davis, Amanda Gorman, Judith Hill, Jennifer Koh, Tarell Alvin McCraney, Andrew Rannells, Desmond Richardson and Hunter Schafer.

For more information, visit youngarts.org.

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Notable Winners

Doug Aitken

Hernan Bas

Terence Blanchard

Timothée Chalamet

Clayton

Doug Blush

Camille A. Brown

Viola Davis

Arsham

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Judith Hill

Jennifer Koh

Sarah Lamb

Tarell Alvin McCraney

Jason Moran

Eric Owens

Billy Porter

Andrew Rannells

Desmond Richardson

Elizabeth Roe

Hunter Schafer

Kerry Washington

Chris Young

Guest Artists Guest

Derrick Adams

Ayodele Casel

Debbie Allen Mikhail Baryshnikov

Ron Carter

Lisa Fischer Frank Gehry

Bill T. Jones

Naeem Khan

Ignacio Berroa

Dr. Joan Morgan

José Parlá

Rosie Perez

Paula Scher

Jeanine Tesori

Mickalene Thomas

Jeffrey Zeigler

Nikki Giovanni Renée Fleming

Marika Hughes

B.D. Wong

Endia Beal

Hank Willis Thomas

2024 Guest Artists

Chip Abbott Dance Coach

Derrick Adams Visual Arts Guest Artist, YoungArts Trustee

Carl Allen

Jazz Guest Artist

Marie Arago

Photography National Selection Panel

Sorcha Augustin

Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Leticia Bajuyo Visual Arts National Selection Panel

Jenni Barber Theater National Selection Panel

Pedro Barboza Film Crew

Germane Barnes Design Guest Artist

Ignacio Berroa Jazz Guest Artist

Corinne May Botz

Photography National Selection Panel Chair, 1995 Photography & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts

Jonathon Bowers Film Crew

Gail Boyd Voice Guest Artist

Kimberley Browning Film National Selection Panel Chair

Daveed Buzaglo Voice Discipline Coordinator, 2012 Voice

Elinor Carucci

Photography Guest Artist

Devin Caserta Visual Arts Discipline Coordinator, 2006 Visual Arts

Christopher Castellani

Writing National Selection Panel Chair, 1990 & 1992 Writing

Robert Chambers Visual Arts National Selection Panel

Max Chernin

Theater National Selection Panel

Victoria Collado

Writing Guest Artist

Nicole Cooley

Writing National Selection Panel, 1984 Writing & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts

Lucia Cuba Design National Selection Panel

Tanya Darby Jazz National Selection Panel

Chanel DaSilva NY Lab Creative Lead, 2004 Dance & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts

Marshall Davis Jr. Dance Coach

Rick Delgado Film National Selection Panel, 1992 Film

Clinton Edward Dance Discipline Coordinator

Diana Eusebio Design Discipline Coordinator, 2016 Design & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts

Peter Jay Fernandez Theater National Selection Panel

Jason Ferrante Voice National Selection Panel

Vanessa Garcia Writing National Selection Panel

Patricia Garza Los Angeles Performance Practice

Jake Goldbas NY Lab Creative Lead, 2007 Jazz

Eric Gottesman Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Denyce Graves  Voice Guest Artist, 1981 Voice

Lois Greenfield Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Chelsea Guo  Voice Guest Artist

Curry J. Hackett Design Guest Artist

La Tanya Hall Voice National Selection Panel Chair

Sam Hamilton Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Rosie Herrera Dance National Selection Panel

Reina Hidalgo Dance Coach

Robert Hill Dance National Selection Panel

Bertha Hope Jazz Guest Artist

Alphonso Horne

NY Lab Creative Lead, 2005 Classical Music

MaryAnn Hu

Theater National Selection Panel Chair

Javon Jackson Jazz National Selection Panel Chair, 1983 Jazz

Cat Jimenez

Photography National Selection Panel

Modesto “Flako” Jimenez Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Christina Johnson Dance Coach

Loni Johnson Visual Arts National Selection Panel Chair

Tanya Kalmanovitch

Classical Music National Selection Panel

Mitch Kaplan Writing Guest Artist

Dr. Leila Kelleher Design Guest Artist

Yashua Klos Visual Arts National Selection Panel

Mykal Kilgore NY Lab Creative Lead

Scarlett Kim LA Lab Creative Lead

Kokayi Voice Guest Artist

Erika Lavinia Anthropologie Design Guest Artist

Joan Lader Theater and Voice Coach

Bruce Lemon LA Lab Creative Lead

Kathryn Lewek Voice Guest Artist

Yvonne Lin Design National Selection Panel

Marina Lomazov Classical Music National Selection Panel Chair

Jeremy Manasia Jazz National Selection Panel

Dezi Marino Film Crew

Delfeayo Marsalis Jazz Guest Artist

Michael McElroy

Theater Guest Artist, 1985 Theater, YoungArts Trustee

Dianne McIntyre Dance Guest Artist

Alex Mediate

Photography Discipline Coordinator, 2016 Photography

Hollis Meminger Film National Selection Panel

Ana Menéndez Writing Guest Artist

Camila Meza Voice Guest Artist

Aaron Miller

Classical Music Discipline Coordinator, 1998 Classical Music

Dr. Joan Morgan Writing Guest Artist , YoungArts Trustee

Nicole Mujica Theater Discipline Coordinator

Rashaad Newsome Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Laura Novoa Curator

Lance Nguyen Anthropologie Design Guest Artist

Billy Porter Aon Interdisciplinary Guest Artist, 1987 Theater

Marcus Quiniones Theater Coach

Lee Quiñones Visual Arts Guest Artist

Noel Quiñones Writing Guest Artist

Aparna Ramaswamy Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Ashwini Ramaswamy Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Ranee Ramaswamy, Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Christian Reátegui Jazz Discipline Coordinator

Rebecca Rigert Dance Coach

Christell Roach Writing Discipline Coordinator, 2015 Writing

Sterling Rook Visual Arts Guest Artist

William Ruiz Morales Los Angeles Performance Practice

Anastasia Samoylova

Photography Guest Artist

Chris Sampson Voice National Selection Panel

Marlon Saunders Voice Guest Artist

Vernon Scott Dance National Selection Panel Chair

Jason Seife Visual Arts Guest Artist

Juri Seo Classical Music National Selection Panel

Jean Shin Visual Arts Guest Artist, YoungArts Trustee, 1990 Winner in Visual Arts & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts

Laurie Simmons Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Troy Simmons Visual Arts Guest Artist

Risa Steinberg Dance Coach

DeLanna Studi

Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Grace Talusan Writing National Selection Panel

Dr. Nadhi Thekkek Dance Coach

Mickalene Thomas Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Tiffany Threadgould Design Guest Artist

Demondrae Thurman Classical Music National Selection Panel

Clara Toro Photography Guest Artist

Cristy Trabada Film Discipline Coordinator, 2016 Film

Chat Travieso

Design National Selection Panel Chair, 2003 Visual Arts & U.S. Presidential Scholar in the Arts

Guillermo Ursini Film Crew

Vân Ánh Võ Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Carl “Kokayi Issa” Walker Voice Guest Artist

Kate Wallich Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Kristina Wong LA Lab Creative Lead

Bobby Wooten NY Lab Creative Lead

Stacie Aamon Yeldell Mindfulness Coach

Jeffrey Zeigler Interdisciplinary Guest Artist

Susan Zhang Classical Music Guest Artist

*as of 04/11/2024

Special Thanks to Educators

YoungArts would like to acknowledge the following educators, named by the 2024 award winners. We can only do the work we do to identify, recognize and award outstanding students in the arts with the support and effort of educators, teachers, instructors, coaches, homeschoolers and arts practitioners.

Tim Abbott

Lee Akamichi

Jacqueline Akhmedova

Alexandria Alkire

Tiffany Alvarez-Thurman

Jason Anderson

Maggie Anderson

Monica Anderson

Eric Anderson

James Antonucci

Angela Apte

Brad Arnold

Lacy Austin

Denis Azabagic

Thom Babbes

David Badgley

Sam Bae

Amy Barston

Nina Barwell

Michael Beaman

Outspoken Emanulee Bean

Donna Bender

Bobbi Bennett

Brennan Benson

Sarah Blackman

Tema Blackstone

Laura Blau

Hans Boepple

Paige Borowski

Colleen Bramucci

Colby Brewer

Susan Broad

Laura Burdick

David Burgest

Sallie Byrd

Joe Cabral

Francesca Campos

Tanya Carey

Amber Carpenter

Paul Carroll

Elizabeth Chang

Bradford Chase

Hung Kuan Chen

Michael Chipman

Haejee Cho

Peter Cirelli

Tia Clark

Ashley Clarke

Ashley Cleveland

Tom Colley

Stephanie Copeland

Chelsea Cushman

Darren Dalton

Darren Dalton

Gussie Danches

Kendall Davis

Lesly Deschler

Michael Dillow

Pat Dortch

Jessica Dunlap

Patricia Duryea

Oksana Ejokina

Jennifer Elowitch

Kate Engelkes

Kyungmin Eom

Johan Evers

Diane Ewell

Vanessa Fadial

Tim Ferguson

Jen Fong

Sheldon Frazier

Saul Fussiner

Deja Gee

Cynthia Geiger

Roderick George

Ruth Gerson

Jennifer Gifford

Anne Gisleson

Julia Glenn

Aaron Goldman

Diego Gomez

Juliana Gondek

Rene Gonzalez

Pushkala Gopal

Quinten Gordon

Mary Ellen Goree

Richard Gott

Tim Green

Tatum Greenblatt

Clive Greensmith

Julia Gregory

David Griffin

Dale Griffith

Samuel Grob

Troy Gunter

Alex Hahn

Chaz Hall

Danielle Hammack

Eric Hankin

David Hardy

Jalynn Harris

Bonnie Harrison

Moriah Hayes

Sandra Hebert

Eli Heinen

Don Henry

Jeffery Hess

Matthew Hinson

Sam Hirsh

Lily Homer

Kaley Honea

Silas Hoover

Hillary Houge

Kristin Howell

Jane Huffman

Scott Hunt

Steven Hyde

Sherry Insley

Judie Jackowitz

Robert Jacobs

Jaella Jaella Krek

Eva Janiszewski

Jennifer Jarnot

Michael Jefferson

Hans Jensen

Yen Jessica

Sean Jones

Khidr Joseph

Jamie-Lee Josselyn

Trish Joyce

Joon Sung Jun

Courtney Kaiser-Sandler

Shankar Kandasamy

Krysten Keches

Joe Kemper

Farial Khan

Pauline Kim

Anna Kirsh

Jonathan Koh

Minyi Kong

Michelle Konow

Marream Krollos

Steve Kronauer

Mariya Kudyakova

Dmitri Kulev

Jennifer Kulev

Joan Lader

Jill Lagerstam

Don Lambert

Kenneth Law

Zara Lawler

Drew Lawrence

Jonathan Lawson

Juliane LeBron

Lesley Lee

Yu Jeong Lee

Michael Lemma

Ronald Leonard

Maylynn Leporacci

Dan Levitan

Tim Lin

Alan Liu

Anna Liu

Jamese Lockett

Jacqueline Lopez

Robert Lopez

Wang Lu

Ally Lubera

Sara Lunsford

Andrew Lyman

Soujanya Madhusudan

Jeff Marchant

Roman Marchenko

Shauna Markey

Ryan Marsh

Doug Martin

Kathleen Martin

Joshua Martinez

Kyle McAvoy

Brice McCasland

Drew McClellan

Jamond McCoy

Glenys McMennamy

Joe Medina

Parvathy Menon

Mimmo Miccolis

Christine Micu

Ronni Minnis

Lori Mirabal

Rebecca Mlinek

Lilia Muñiz

Willie Murillo

Robert Murphy

Laurel Nakanishi

Shijith Nambiar

Ted Nash

Jax Neal

Andrew Norbeck

Tyke O’Brien

Julia Ogilvie

Jenny Hyun-Seung Oh

Marcus Ong

Michael Orland

Mary Oser

Marina Osipova

Karyn Overstreet

Alexandra Pacheco Garcia

HaeSun Paik

Scott Pannell

Pauline Paskali

Natasha Pasternak

Madeline Peña

Angelia Perkins

Glen Perry

Kara Peters

Chris Peterson

Greg Petito

Preston Pierce

Karen Pollard

Norman Prentiss

Nicole Quintana

Sarah Reich

Ryan Reithmeier

Jennifer Rieger

Raymond Roberts

Carol Rodland

Ricardo Rodriguez

Sara Rolater

Linda Rollo

Jan Roper

Maeve Royce

Karissa Royster

Mariaelana Ruiz

Mark Runge

Anne Rupert

Nick Ryan

Laura Salisbury

Gabriel Sanchez

Nabila Santa Christo

Nabila Santa-Cristo

Kristofer Sanz

Erica Schuller

Ginny Seibert

Christopher Sellars

InYoung Seoung

Alexander Serio

Divya Shanker

Leah Silva

Jennifer Siraganian

Jayne Sleder

Adam Smyla

Anne Sobala

David Solomon

Ingrid Sonnichsen

Nicole Soriano

Manuel Sosa

Michael Stein

Andrew Stole

Chris Sullivan

Eric Sung

Judith Switek

Kristine Tarozzi

Edel Thomas

Greg Thompkins

Allen Tinkham

Alison Trainer

Sacha Twarog

Radhamani Varadhachary

Christopher Velasco

William VerMeulen

Jon Vezner

Beth Wahl

Cindy Wald

Brian Walsh

Bobbie Ward

Zhao Wei

David Wiebers

Connie Willson

Benjamin Wolf

Josh Wood

Yiming Wu

Stella Xu

Andy Young

YoungArts Supporters

Thank you to YoungArts’ most generous donors who make programming throughout the year possible.

100K-499K

Michi & Charles Jigarjian / 7G Foundation

Barbara & Amos Hostetter

Sidney and Florence Stern Family Foundation

Micky & Madeleine Arison Family Foundation

Sarah Arison & Thomas Wilhelm

Jeffrey Davis & Michael Miller

Agnes Gund

50K-99K

Leslie &

Steven &

Jen Rubio &

Emily & Mitch Rales

Berkowitz Contemporary Foundation

Sandra & Tony Tamer

Melony & Adam Lewis

Christopher Rim Command Education

Northern Trust is proud to support YoungArts. For more than 130 years, we’ve been meeting our clients’ financial needs while nurturing a culture of caring and a commitment to invest in the communities we serve. Our goal is to find you perfect harmony.

TO LEARN MORE VISIT

We believe in encouraging the

Aon Private Risk Management (APRM) is a leading global organization that offers extensive experience in servicing the personal insurance needs of successful families and their advisors. APRM provides highly specific risk solutions through specialty practice groups including, but not limited to the Art & Collections Practice, the Global Yacht Practice and Family Office Practice. For more information please visit aon.com or contact Blythe Hogan at 212.441.2409.

Board of Trustees

as of March 2024

Sarah Arison, Board Chair

Richard Kohan, President of The Board

Zuzanna Szadkowski, * Secretary

Richard S. Wagman, † Treasurer

Derrick Adams

Doug Blush *

Hampton Carney

Linda Coll

Natalie Diggins

Kristy Edmunds

Jonathan Flack

Danielle Garno, Esq.

Rosie Gordon-Wallace

Michi Matter Jigarjian

Jason Kraus

Steven Marks, Esq.

Lauren Matthiesen

Michael McElroy *

Dr. Joan Morgan

John J. O’Neil, Esq.

Glenda Pedroso

Victoria Rogers

Jean Shin *

Sandra Tamer

Debi Wisch

Maurice M. Zarmati

Trustees Emeritus

Armando M. Codina

Meryl Comer

Justin DiCioccio

Agnes Gund

John J. Kauffman

Dr. Ronald C. McCurdy

Dr. Eduardo J. Padrón

Desmond Richardson *

Marcus Sheridan

* YoungArts award winner

† Trustee Emeritus

We envision a world that embraces artists as vital to our humanity.

The artists of tomorrow need professional and creative development support today. With the help of our community, YoungArts offers artists the tools they need to pursue a life in the arts, including a lifetime of training, funding, mentorship and community. Make a contribution today.

Visit youngarts.org or scan the QR code below.

Thank you for empowering artists!