Parsons First Year Journal: Issue Three - mix-ups & mishaps

...living in a body that’s inside-out and backwards. In a place where colors taste like cardboard...

— Holly Barbaria

First Year Journal Team

Editor - Brie Bouslaugh

Editor - Danielle Jackson

Designer - Rodger Stevens

Director - Jess Irish

Associate Dean of First Year Program - John Roach

Director of First Year Program - Juanli Carrión

Associate Director of Operations - Luke Davis

First Year Program Administrator - Mikayla Makle

Printer - Conveyor Studio

Cover image - Linda Li

Parsons School of Design

New York, NY

Spring 2026

At Parsons, we are proud to champion artists as authors. In the First Year Program, students are encouraged to use writing to immerse themselves in ideas that may enrich and enliven their creative practice. One needn’t study journalism or literature to be a writer. The process of writing–to make sense of one’s experience; to document the creative process; to describe a visual phenomenon; to synthesize research–is a practice that’s open and available to all.

In this issue of the First Year Journal, we embrace, even celebrate, mixups and mishaps–the perplexing, daunting, bemusing misunderstandings that catch us off guard. Students share how life’s most perplexing experiences can be contemplated, embraced, and overcome. In this edition, we weave together different understandings of the mixup: from the surrealism of getting lost as a child, to the pleasure of peoplewatching, to the disorienting experience of mourning. In some cases, an artist realizes the failure of their own perceptions; elsewhere, it is the writer who is deeply misunderstood. The contributors to this edition have also mined the strangeness of the creative process which uncovers mysteries unknown even to ourselves.

In art as in life, the mixup has been a great source of inspiration. The screwball comedies of yesteryear, chaotic accounts of city life, a sense of serendipity–each share the unpredictable encounter as their source. We invite you to embrace the tenuous uncertainty in these pages, and find a bit of inspiration of your own.

Sincerely,

The Editors

Danielle Jackson and Brie Bouslaugh

Contents

Olive Zhang Tears of Joy?

Christian Hutapea Between Two Places

Prisha Ghuste Coordinates of Memory

Lia Lin Child of the Ocean

Yan-Yi Ku Open Heart Couple

Selina Xu A Memory in Blue

Seb He Beneath The Surface

Chuyu Xie I Seem to be a Wildflower

Yealynn Cha Independence

Marielle Hewitt 52 Cards from “The Indigo Deck”

Taeyu Park Everything Is Fine

Mimie Pinpakornkul Chekov’s Gun

Isaiah Blest McDouglas Shallow Breath

YiFei (Linda) Li The Endless

Clara Eis

Clara the Clairvoyant (Oracle Deck)

Ruchi Singhal Transcript of 8:15pm Sunday Yoga Class

Sara Drobova Perpetual Movement

Gina Lim The Daughter of a Sage

Chloe Xie Post-Eruption Air

Betty Shanefelter Uprising at the Bloody Tower

Owen Kim Seiple Dufflebag of Poison

Holly Barbaria Burning Blisters

Orion Moreland A Precious Thing

Maria Kopsina Self-Portrait with a Closed Curtain

Ben Sackinsky Napkin

Sara Fox An Eternity as Syrinx

La-kayla Solomon Birthday Bike

Giorgia Zhang Fruit Labyrinth

Esther Chang Seconds, Minutes, Hours

East Sisay Fictional Memoir: Matthew

Anna Kim My Family Are Animals

Jiayi Song Me-Me-Me

Aileen Khy To Celebrate Roommates and Dorms

Jin Huang Upsides Downsides

Eliana Greco Home(sick)

Zhaoxi (Michelle) Chen Migration

Jinyi Liu Stitched Mistakes

Andrea Sanchez Artiles Haunted

Between Two Places

Christian Hutapea

The entire summer before I left home to start at Parsons, I counted down the days. I kept imagining what life might look like beyond Guam: bright streets, crowded energy, and a kind of ambition I hoped might shape me. That picture carried me through the waiting. When I checked my bags at the airport, the excitement shifted into anxiety. It felt like the tightness I experienced during my International Baccalaureate exams a few months earlier. After wanting this moment for so long, I suddenly questioned what I was rushing toward.

Saying goodbye to my friends made everything feel heavier. My chest tightened and my breathing turned uneven, and for a moment I wondered if leaving was a mistake. Even so, I hugged them, promised to stay in touch, and boarded my first flight to Japan. From Tokyo to Newark to Manhattan, something softened inside me. By the time the taxi pulled into the city, the fear had thinned and the move finally felt real.

My mom, brother, and sister helped me settle in, and during their short visit we walked around the city together. At one point my sister asked,

“Is there anything you want to see, Chris?”

I realized I did not need to choose. I had months ahead of me, and they only had days. My ticket here was one-way. To my sister, I would still return home.

My first night alone felt strange. It was filled only by the odd white noise of the AC and the sound of my own breathing settling into a new space. Soon enough, the days began to move.

I wandered through different neighborhoods: indoor cycling in NoHo, sitting alongside the piers on the West Side, and gallery hopping in the Lower East Side. By the end of the week, I could feel the city’s rhythm in the way people moved around me.

Guam is slower and easier. Growing up there gave me time to find good friends and allowed my family to live comfortably around beautiful scenery. New York stands in contrast. In one week, I ate dinner beside runners circling Central Park, watched Jessica Pegula and Marta Kostyuk practice during the US Open fan week, and heard an opera drift through the World Trade Center station.

Guam taught me who I am.

New York pushes me to grow.

Child of the Ocean

Lia Lin

I live by the South Pacific, where the ocean folds itself into my dreams, its salty breeze brushing my skin. I listen to the waves, their patient, endless breathing, their rhythm vibrating softly beneath my feet. Sometimes I dive deep, swimming with whales, their voices like secrets I almost understand, their smooth skin brushing against my fingertips. I read tarot cards and follow my six senses, tracing symbols with my fingers, catching faint scents of incense, listening for patterns hidden beneath the surface. My country is diverse, a mosaic of people and voices, bright markets filled with colors and spices, turmeric, cinnamon, chili, and clove, their scents rising softly in the warm air. even if the trees outside express nothing but silence. In museums, I get bored— the past feels too far away when the present keeps pulling me forward. I am a child of the ocean, of my mother, of the world. I ask the same question each night: What is the meaning of life? The waves never answer, but they keep returning.

Open Heart Couple

Yan-Yi Ku

Then came the conception of the LOVER and the BELOVED. The LOVER, the most doting lover there can be, always looking to save the beloved. The femininity every female should strive to be, unaware, the most beautiful person in the world, optimistic, naive, wonderfully graceful in everything they— he— she— it— did, plays all kinds of music, the sun to the BELOVED’s orbiting earth.

The BELOVED, the damsel, yet the independent, yearning for love from the LOVER. They— he— she— it— is the epitome of brooding, witty like an angel, cantankerous, sings-like-anightingale, stand-offish, masculinity. Too overtly cautious, scared to be hurt or worse, to hurt. They are the perfect match for one another. They are one halves of a whole. They were the only thing in the world to the other. The only person that existed to one another. There was nothing in the world but each other.

But before their love could blossom, one day, the BELOVED was taken from the LOVER by the CALAMITY. Angry, for not being included, angry, for being slighted, angry, for not being able to have such a beautiful love such as the one the LOVER and the BELOVED shared.

Nonetheless, the rebellious BELOVED was lured in by its curious allure, with its ghastly, muscled appearance, despite the LOVER’s protests against nearing the CALAMITY. The moment they touched one another’s flesh, a sharp, abrupt pain pricked the BELOVED, the small touch of their index finger against the CALAMITY rips a chasm in their hand, and they fall into a deep, unawakenable, profound sleep for a hundred years.

They are taken in the CALAMITY’s arms. With their conviction strong, the LOVER began chasing after the CALAMITY. But, the CALAMITY left blooming rose vines and bushes behind it, blocking their way to the BELOVED. Fighting the thorns and vines that appeared in their way, the LOVER was determined to reunite with the BELOVED. Tearing away at the cellulose walls, ripping it to fine shreds, peeling the thorns away. With the LOVER’S unrelenting love and affection for the BELOVED, was the world able to bloom into the story it was meant to be.

The LOVER could see, feel, taste, smell, touch, things that they never could before. Yet, there was an aching, bulging hole in the LOVER’S heart where the BELOVED should be. At long last, in the LOVER’S heart of hearts, they knew that this step was the last before the LOVER could see their lover.

The LOVER gently pushed the door to the BELOVED’S bedroom open and was met with only the most beautiful sight. Sunlight seeped through from the BELOVED’S windows and laced curtains, dancing on the BELOVED’s fluffy, soft bedding. This surprised the LOVER, as they didn’t know the BELOVED had such a preference for delicate decor. The wretched feeling within the LOVER’S swollen heart swelled even more when they saw their lover, telling them, “Take the rose by the stem, and prick the very same finger the BELOVED was, drawing blood. And press the blood languidly against the BELOVED’S lips, and await their awakening.” Just as their heart told them so, the BELOVED awoke to the waking world once more.

Instantly, the BELOVED took the LOVER into their arms, in a loving embrace, reunited after a hundred years of sleep and insomnia. With the LOVER’S blood still on the BELOVED’S lips, the LOWER claimed the BELOVED’S lips as their own, in which they eagerly reciprocated. The LOVER and the BELOVED’S

skins both began to melt, their hair intertwining with one another, their organs combining, their blood mixing into AB, their bodies synthesizing with one another, becoming one.

It was in that moment, when they had become one, did they realize, they were the CALAMITY upon the world. Yet, not even before, during, or after did a horror settle within the CALAMITY. They felt an overwhelming ecstasy, together as one. Conjoining into one body, they realized why the CALAMITY had swept in so swiftly, so catastrophically.

It was all in an effort to relive the endless euphoria being one, was.

My love, my love, my love. The COUPLE murmured sweet nothings to themselves, cradling themselves in a fetal position, enjoying themselves before they set out to repeat the same tale again.

A Memory in Blue

Selina Xu

When I was fifteen, I hitched an impromptu ride with a classmate after a poorly managed carpool schedule left me stranded at school. Despite never having interacted before the incident, the two of us quickly became friends over those fifteen short minutes. We both knew that our paths would eventually branch away from each other; how could they not, when our very beginning was the result of an unintended mix-up? But over the years we did have, he became a person who irreversibly altered the way I viewed both myself and the world around me. Like many others, I once believed that my misery was the driving force of my creation. Yet the beauty I saw in his kindness trumped anything I’ve ever drawn from suffering. I loved him by accident, and it changed my art. I suppose that is the same as saying: I loved him by accident, and it changed my life. In my most vivid memory, he is bathed beneath the blue of twilight. His features are foggy; I had forgotten my glasses. I remember looking up at his face and knowing that I was going to miss him forever. I find a strange sort of peace in that knowledge.

Beneath the Surface

Seb He

Soft splashes of water cradle my feet dangling off the side of the pool, I watch my friends from the other side.

Can I catch up to them? I’m scared to swim.

The water feels so cold. A glimmer of dull red slowly approaches my periphery. The small body, with flattened, draping fins, swims in circles around my leg. It lethargically, repeatedly drifts, slowly turning left, passing over my left foot, turning right under my knee and passing forward in front of my right foot.

In an endless loop, the betta’s sunken fins weakly graze my skin. Its red, small, sickly scales scrape against my leg. It hurts.

Small cuts form as it continues to swim my flesh stings as the water rushes into my wound, like a wasp drilling deep into my body.

I move my legs away from the fish. It continues to follow me, I want to take my body out of the water and run away.

But what would happen to the fish? Would it swim until it died? It probably also has friends it’d love to be with.

Stuck in an endless loop, I try to guide it away with my legs. However, it clutches to me for safety. Like a fruit fly hugging decaying sour fruit. I could not simply swat away the fish. It continues to cut deeper every turn.

How could I stop it?

Redirecting with my legs doesn’t work.

I take a step in, and the water feels warmer. The fish moves with me.

My body slowly creeps forward, and the water rumbles deeply as I fight against it. The fish follows me closely. With each step forward, my body slowly becomes submerged.

The water tugs at my skin with icy hands as the frozen numbness frames itself as warmth. The water is at my chest, threatening to claw itself to my neck. The dirt and grime tickle my feet as I continue to go deeper. The water is at my neck.

It gets closer to my mouth.

I can’t breathe. I have to keep my face up high.

The sound of laughter breaks my panic. My friends are in arm’s reach; they are so close. But if I try to get any closer, I’ll drown.

The fish swims slowly; it doesn’t want to go alone.

I need to go with it.

Allowing the air to fill my lungs, I close my eyes and put my head underwater.

I Seem to Be a Wildflower

Chuyu Xie

I seem to be a wildflower, growing between the cracks of a wall. The two tall walls beside me are my natural shield, my quiet guard. No storms can touch me here, I only need to grow safely, slowly, year by year.

Through the narrow gap I see: the blue, the vivid, the radiant light through that slender opening comes a silent letter of invitation, calling me to step outside, to see the world with my own eyes.

And so I go. Alone, I go.

My stem reaches outward, little by little. I bathe in sunlight I’ve never seen, I am caught in a rain that almost blows me down. Yet never once did I wish to hide back in the comfort of the crack. I know I belong to this wider land, grass are my friends, insects are my partners.

Without noticing, I have grown up into the very shape of that wildflower. I’ve left many comfort zones created by my family. I do understand their protection, their worries, but I don’t want to be a seed in the dirt, peering always at a fragment of sky.

So I go, on the way to the world, I see wonderful views, endure painful moments. Watching the magnificent sunset in a whole golden forest, I feel a sense of inner calm, leaping into a huge crowd and interviewing a stranger, I find words just flowing naturally out of my mouth. Hurt deeply by my best friend, instead of folding into regret, I dare to get over this toxic relationship.

On the way to the world, whenever my heart begins to waver, that wildflower appears again, urging me to keep going, not look back. Little by little, I have come to love, love this vast and vibrant world, and to love the self who dares to run toward it.

Independence, pencil and digital imaging, Yealynn Cha

52

Everything Is Fine, digital illustration, Taeyu Park

EVERYTHING IS FINE

Taeyu Park

It has to be. I have to be. If I falter for even a moment, the world will collapse on me. All I’ve ever done will be for naught.

EVERYTHING IS FINE

Here’s today’s To-Do List:

Take pills > Eat food > Brush teeth > Go class > Eat food > Do work > Play game > Eat Food > Tomorrow’s list > Brush Teeth > Go Sleep

[Repeat indefinitely]

EVERYTHING IS FINE

Take pills

Can’t, they don’t have any in stock for me.

Here’s today’s To-Do List:

Call pharmacy > Eat food > Brush teeth > Go class > Eat food > Do work > Play game > Eat Food > Tomorrow’s list > Brush Teeth > Go Sleep

[Repeat indefinitely]

EVERYTHING IS FINE

Here’s today’s To-Do List:

Call pharmacy > Go class > Eat snack > Call pharmacies > Do work > Play game > Eat Food > Tomorrow’s list > Brush Teeth > Go Sleep

[Repeat indefinitely]

EVERYTHING IS FINE

todays to-do list:

call pharmacies > class > call pharmacies > play game > eat food > list > call pharmacy > Sleep [repeat]

EVERYTHING IS FINE

todo:

call > class > call > game > eat > call sleep repeat […]

“Your work is great! How do you keep up with this workload?”

“everything is fine.”

“Could you help me with this part? I don’t understand it as well as you do.”

“everything is fine.”

“You were doing so well before, but you’ve fallen behind on your work. Something needs to be done about this.”

“everything is fine.”

[calling…]

*If you are calling about an emergency, please hang up and dial 911.*

“id like to speak to a representative.”

*We are unable to refill your prescription at this time due to a stock issue. Is there anything else you are calling about?*

“id like to speak to a representative.”

*To check your prescription status, press 1. To refill a prescription, press 2. To hear the options again, press 0.*

“id like to speak to a representative.”

*If you are finished with your call, please hang up.*

“id like to speak to a representative.”

*On a scale from 1 to 10, how satisfied are you with this service?*

“…”

[end call]

“…”

“everything is fine.”

“it has to be.”

Shallow Breath

Isaiah Blest McDouglas

Water fills my lungs

Barbed wire pierces through

Stay quiet

Stay calm

Cold breath kisses my lips

waterboarded lobotomy

Ice caps of fallen angels

Collapsed lungs at the sight

How can I scream with no air?

I begged the water to remember me, but it only mirrored the ones who erased me.

Shallow breathe

When inhale and exhale

forget each other.

Amphibious irrelevance

I flood the guillotine with thoughts

Silence suffocating slower than grief

Shallow breath

They told me to breath softer

Humming the blades I was forced to swallow

Fragmented ice shards as I breakthrough

Charades of light blinded by the ones that cut me down

I begged the water to remember me

But it only mirrored the ones that erased me

Echoed martyrs

blood congeals into ritual

A hymn of quiet defiance

I breathe in elegy

I breathe out glass

My name trapped in glacial vowels

And still with no air left

I wait inside this shallow breath

Transcript of 8:15pm Sunday Yoga Class

Ruchi Singhal

Follow my instructions. Breathe. In, out. In, out. In, out.

Close your eyes. Place the first digit of your longest finger of each of your hands on your eyelids. Tell me – what is in there?

Untold words. Tears have more salt than water. Memories that only the crashing windows recall.

Move down. Breathe again. One, two. One, two. One, two.

Place your hands on your throat. Brush over your Adam’s apple, pulsing under your skin. What lies there?

A rasp. Try to say it. The words get caught in your throat, destined to never leave. Swallow them back again.

Alright, everyone with me? Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

Within this cage of bone lie your thrashing lungs. Make sure it’s the heel of your palm pressing down. What do you feel writhing in there?

A guttural scream, perhaps; or a shattered sob, if you’re lucky.

I think you know the routine. But, for your sake, I’ll keep guiding you. One, two. One, two.

The best way to feel the churning insides of your stomach is to rip the skin open. But that’ll take some time to learn, so we’ll settle for pressing your fingernail into your belly button just hard enough that it throbs, not enough to draw blood. The acid should rise until it feels like love that you don’t know how to digest.

Wonderful, we’re at the last section. Let’s breathe one last time.

Trail your hands down, slowly, until they press against your knees. Make sure your hands cover them as fully as possible. You should be able to feel phantom scrapes and bandages, reminiscent of the scent of a childhood long-lost.

Well done, everyone. If you did it right, you should be unable to breathe and your heart should be pounding hard enough that everyone in the room can hear. The colours should swirl in your vision until you can see them when you close your eyes.

Have a great evening. I’ll see you all next week.

In Note Speckled Memorium, mixed media, Gina Lim

The Daughter of a Sage

Gina Lim 1.

Ode to being a silly and iiiiiii…diotic girl!!

Ode to being young and presumptuous, so incredibly sure of the world around you.

And ode to chasing dreams too unfathomable and indiscernible for little hands to hold.

It is said so much it might as well be written, that to be young is to be cluelessly free, blissfully unaware of life’s brute nature. And how strange it is. I believe myself to be intrinsically aware of bitterness because I feel I was born into its heartache.

I guess this assumption goes hand in hand with what we are constantly warned of, doubted by, and underestimated for. But oh to be frivolously witless! With every ring of laughter bursting from my mouth, an uncertainty lingers.

One day, I will look at my neck and notice its creases. My hands that were once smooth will be calloused and crimped, And I will be jaded. Marinated in memoriam. When that day creeps upon me in sleep, I wonder… will that jubilant laughter, laughter painted with the secrecy of youth, have faded from me? I suspect that my elders are right. Experience is wisdom, and yet. It does something seemingly sinister to people, making them angry, or alcoholic, or traumatizingly misconstrued. But I still feel that this fate couldn’t possibly apply to me, in any way, shape, or form, I feel so devoted in my ways! I could never let it go.

2.

It was at the short end of nineteen that my family and I would discover my mother’s very special cancer. A tumor had begun its infestation under the guise of another small intruding, but not deathly, condition. We were quite hopeful for remission. But hope is a fickle thing.

First, it was hope that a treatment used for her specific cancer would shrink the tumor. It did not.

Second, it was hope that instead of that special treatment, standard chemotherapy would shrink her tumor. It did not.

Third, it was just hope that somehow, she would miraculously pull through. She did not.

It was at the short end of nineteen that she would pass away in the spring.

Up until this point I was still very doubtful of the spiteful words emphasizing my naiveté, but it was only after my mother passed that I realized how mindless I was. My mother was the foundation in which I made sense of true and false, the proof that validated my existence. It was the most humbling reality that brought me to my knees.

I had begged God. God!

Of all people!

For her warmth to stay as I pitifully glued myself to her body. Her death showed me that I knew many things, but not the depth for which they existed. I went to her for my memories, for answers, for truth! And now that it has been stripped of me it feels as though all of me was never mine.

And today, today, I saw her in a dream. She was so far away, I could only make out her silhouette, but I knew in my dreaming bones that it was her. I knew that after this dream I would never have the chance to embrace her again. And so I ran.

With sediment falling and scraping beneath my feet, my breath gasping and heaving for respite, my body flailing like a rag doll, it was animalistic. It felt like I had been running for hours, but no matter how fast or hard I pushed off the unsteady ground, I couldn’t seem to get closer. “Why isn’t she running towards me too?”

“WHY AREN”T YOU RUNNING TOWARDS ME TOO?”,

I cried but nothing came out. I reached for my throat and felt small hands, and I realized how large she looked. The sound of an eerily familiar melody rings in my ears, my heart pounding to the ticks of a metronome, I suddenly remember my mother scolding me over the piano once again, and as if by fate, I fell to a crash of keys.

The fall woke me, my face slick with sweat and tears. Even in my dreams I chased for her and the knowledge she had that I would never glimpse into again. But how could I grasp something so unfathomable? She was my own non-conforming Sage.

Post-Eruption Air, mixed media on paper, Chloe Xie

Post-Eruption Air

Chloe Xie

The air thinned as I sat on the rooftop of my Airbnb, raindrops beginning to blur my vision. After the eleven-hour flight, I felt relieved to be settled in the place I’d call home for the next week. Hawaii had been my family’s favorite place to visit on Earth, despite the great distance from Canada.

The day after we arrived, my family and I explored the dry roads of Kalaoa, Big Island, stopping at an empty beach. My father briefly told us about the volcano that erupted a couple of years earlier, which we could see in the faint background, not too far off. The water was muted with miniature, gray crabs climbing across the smoothed-over rocks. I trekked along the barren shores of the ocean and over top of black, dried lava. The natural, curved dips in the ground allowed the crashing waves to flow through them with elegant ripples.

As I continued wandering alone, I caught sight of a laughing couple, arms interlinked. The two of them hopped between the lumpy ruins of the volcanic eruption, meticulously pointing out and picking up certain pebbles. The small stones they chose were chalk white, a contrast to the wrinkled, black surface. I watched as the woman carefully set the stones together into a heart shape, a bright smile on her face. Even with the sun sweltering above us all, it felt as though the light rays beamed upon her.

In the following days, I found myself revisiting the same spot. Checking on their artwork, enjoying the seaside’s presence, and soaking in the quickly passing days of paradise. Three days had gone by as I continued my repetitive routine, but this day was spoiled. I felt the sweetness in the air run out as I witnessed the man return without the woman. He hastily kicked apart the same pale rocks, destroying the delicate heart she had made. The air was rotten. I never went back to the same spot again.

Uprising at the Bloody Tower, digital illustration with pen, Betty Shanefelter

Dufflebag of Poison, digital illustration, Owen Seiple

Burning Blisters

Holly Barbaria

An ekphrastic poem based on “Four Darks in Red” by Mark Rothko.

Heat scorches my feet and my eyes start to blur. A sheer hatred joins forces with love and fear. A volcano in Hawaii spews lava. Air scratches my nostrils, as they beg for moisture.

I’m living in a body that’s inside-out and backwards. In a place where colors taste like cardboard, the canvas scratches my eyes like sandpaper. A meek glow splashes in a sea of dullness.

I see that the movie is coming to an end, but I still want more. There is undeniable pain and suffering that comes with knowing I can’t change what is right in front of my eyes.

Moving on from my dry and crunchy surroundings, I begin to see potential. The crumbling oil may start to reveal a brighter scene. The red is now blue, and the black becomes white. The sky is recognizable again.

A Precious Thing, rice paper and glue, Orion Moreland

Self-Portrait with a Closed Curtain

Maria Kopshina

Born, I was born, parents divided at two, Grandmother and Grandfather–their arms became my fortress, their love–the only crown I’d worn.

The chessboard mapped my fate in black and white, the books whispered like ancestors, their quietness was not punishment, but prayer. Each book a lantern, each word a seed I planted in my heart.

At school I walked quietly, my glasses catching every cruel reflection, their laughter forging bars of a metal cage around my fragile silence.

Yet old-scented library became my sanctuary, its pages unfolding like wings, lifting me beyond the reach of scorn.

At sixteen the world demanded a choice: a mother drifting deeper into shadows, her laughter thinning like smoke, her gentle hands reaching but never holding.

A father standing steady as stone, yet beside him a woman whose eyes measured me as rival instead of child, her silence cutting deeper than words.

Once I feared the dark, its silence a heavy cloak upon my chest.

Now I draw the curtains myself and rest in its velvet calm, what once haunted me transformed into a cave of hush.

Across the ocean I was born again, a second skin unfolding with the language of courage. My teenage voice was trembling as candle flame at first, then rising like light breaking water.

I thank my mother for her fragile beauty, I thank my father for his guiding flame, and I thank those who offered me shelter, for memory and resilience now dwell together in me.

Now I am sitting with pen in hand, behind closed curtains, grateful for shadows, grateful for my current resilience, grateful for light, grateful for being–my portrait drawn in ink and silence.

Chaos of the Brain, digital illustration, Sara Fox

Birthday Bike

La-kayla Solomon

Walmart in Manhattan felt like a stadium pretending to be a store, endless aisles stretched beneath white lights that buzzed like wasps. The floor gleamed shiny, reflecting everything above it. My light-up Sketchers squeaked with every step, the kind of squeak that announced me louder than I wanted. I drifted away from my parents, pulled by bright plastic packaging and doll faces with stitched smiles that didn’t blink.

Then I saw it. A Doc McStuffins bike dangling from the ceiling, held up by thick chains. It hovered above me like some untouchable prize in a claw machine game, swinging tauntingly. The handles were wrapped in glitter, catching the overhead light like tiny stars, and pink and purple tassels spilled down from the grips, swaying as if the bike were already in motion. Even the seat shimmered, a shiny cushion that looked too perfect to ever be sat on. I stood still, staring, trying to picture my hands gripping its handles, my feet pedaling, the rush of air that wasn’t there yet. My eyes kept tracing its outlines, hypnotized, building whole scenes in my head of how fast I would go, how unstoppable I’d look. I knew I wasn’t supposed to wander off, but the bike pulled me in like a magnet, louder than the rules my parents had given me.

When I finally turned, the aisle had emptied. The hum of strangers’ voices replaced my parents’ footsteps. My chest tightened. I spun in circles, scanning, hoping to catch a familiar shirt, a familiar hand. Every face blurred into another. The artificial lights grew harsher, the shelves taller. My throat locked up.

I bolted. My sneakers slapped the tiled floors as I darted past towers of cereal and Lalaloopsy dolls stacked too high. I ducked into a half-empty shelf lined with paper towels, pressing myself into the metal frame. I curled in, knees up, hiding, trying not to breathe too loud. The tears came anyway, hot and heavy, soaking into my sleeve.

An employee’s voice broke through. He crouched low, asking questions I couldn’t answer: “What were they wearing? What number should I call?” My words came out small and shaken. He led me forward, calling out my father’s name over the loudspeaker, the syllables echoing through the store, and for a moment, I had imagined the worst: they had already left, far gone from the parking lot, and worse, without having even bought me anything.

Suddenly, the warm embrace of arms gathered around me. I clung to my mother’s waist, pressing myself into her like I could disappear inside her. The lights didn’t seem as bright anymore. The store was still big, but the rush of adrenaline and feeling as if I were swallowing my own heart was no more.

Seconds, Minutes, Hours, pencil and digital imaging, Esther Chang

Fictional Memoir: Matthew

East Sisay

Today I was alone for the first time since I had moved here. The smell of sweat and pigeon shit was no longer enough to keep me locked up in the dorms. It was time to leave. “It’s New York University,” my mom would scream into the phone after texting me my location with a question mark. Four weeks in and I hadn’t touched past Washington Square Park. It was all just too much. Too many limbs pushing thick air through the streets. Streets that doubled as sidewalks, skate parks, and death machines. I’d wonder how it was mathematically possible that everyone had somewhere to be at all times of the night. Why the view from my window was never still.

My mom reminds me she’s paying for said view more times than I’ve mentioned it. I ate the dream of NYU for breakfast, lunch, and dinner all throughout high school and I was fed well. I think it was an old Looney Tunes DVD that first put New York City on my radar. Bugs Bunny was walking into someone’s bedroom and there hung a blue sharp narrow flag with orange lettering spelling out, “Brooklyn.” There came my mother’s story of buildings, lights, and dreams all scraping the sky.

The people here refer to Washington Square Park as Wash when they go out to smoke. My roommate seems to be in a late night romantic affair with Wash but I don’t mind. Whenever I’d walk to class, I’d peek. The curiosity was always present but it just felt . . .too much. I’d imagine a mouthful of peanut butter whenever I think of it but the thought of women with tongue piercings trying to maneuver a spoonful tickled me enough to remember my priorities. So I’d pretend I’m asleep and let Matthew leave in peace.

There was no class today. I want to say that was why I went but I’m still unsure at the moment. I’d like to say that they’re harboring the world’s largest magnet and I’m the only onewho wore metal today. One way or another, I found myself sitting at a bench,

mimicking the other three hundred people here who wore metal yesterday. Whether or not I fit in, I’ll never know but I know that I pondered over that thought enough times to say it backwards. I was Napoleon Dynamite and this was the wrong movie. House Party? I don’t even know. I wanted to go back but I was done adding to the cortisol-filled breaths of room 5G01 for the day.

With every yell, I’d close my eyes. With every lowering of my bench I’d open them to see who’s sat next to me now. I had never felt more uneasy in my life but I said it was too late. I had already made this commitment to myself and my therapist said I need to honor those more.

One cigarette and a kombucha later things weren’t so bad. The five thousand people passing by me turned into one sideways Vitruvian Man and he was walking at a suspiciously slow rate. He was tall at times, a girl at times, and silver at times. He’d laugh and eat and stare. He’d make you feel like a new decoration at an old friend’s home. For three long seconds he looked like me. Two hours later he had gone away to the other side of the park where benches were the ring of the fountain and the tufts of grass green enough to lay blankets sticky with weed on. I stayed, sat, turned to the side, and watched from a distance. I swore I saw Matthew that day but he says he never left his desk.

I’m home now and it’s been a few hours since I left Wash. I can’t recall exactly how I spent it but I know that I did. I know that I breathed in a diversity of air stronger than the people themselves. I know I saw shoulders jump and faces changing as others’ mouths spoke. Maybe they were all silent and mouthing out their thoughts with the hope that they’d understand each other. I wouldn’t know. The only thing I’m sure of is that upon entering, navigating our walls, and rounded out my feet, I found the kitchen lightswitch and a red-eyed Matthew with keys in hand.

My Family Are Animals, digital painting, Anna Kim

Residents of Room 31, ink and watercolor pencil, Aileen Khy

To

Celebrate Roommates and Dorms

Aileen Khy

To celebrate roommates and dorms, we need to dance together like in that one Matisse painting.

In a circle, round and round the small common space. We do not need music as our laughter is enough; we can wear pajamas and paint our faces with a smile–and we can just dance. Awkwardly. Confidently. However we want.

I have imagined that, if we had not met each other, we would walk by without knowing each other’s names, sleeping schedules, or bad habits. It feels weird because I know them. I can recognize their footsteps and voices anywhere. I walk through my days in this city knowing little things about them.

A single keychain, a studded belt, a leather bag, and a lowhanging backpack.

Clip-on earrings, nose ring, brown mascara, and baggy pants.

Noodles, mac and cheese, pasta, and chocolate-chip cookies.

Yellow, purple, turquoise, and blue.

And their names.

I celebrate these small things because I have someone to call when I need to lug a too-big table back home to the dorms; I have someone to eat cafeteria dinner with every Monday; and I have people to laugh with on gloomy days. I find myself so lucky to have met them.

I celebrate in quiet ways as my first home takes me two days to return. It is easy to feel alone in a big city, but being in this dorm makes me feel less lonely. So I light fireworks in the common space when I arrive back at the dorms. I celebrate with color.

Even if we never talk to each other again, or realize that we were only close because of proximity, I still want to celebrate.

From the unknown names on the housing portal, the awkwardness when you start calling out their names, and the moment when you can recognize their silhouette in the crowds of New York City… they all become a part of you. So, let’s celebrate that our paths had the chance to cross the first time and for even more chances to meet again.

Upsides Downsides, digital illustration and ink, Jin Huang

Home(sick)

Eliana Greco

Even away from the sway of familiar faces and sounds of laughter, I find these streets shallow as they blend together.

These precious days once wasted–only time will tell if I’m still left in your good graces.

It used to be a town of make-believe, used to be’s or whatever. Now it’s all sleepy trees and wrinkled leaves that I thought once pieced me together.

As I lay in the nook of your shadow, here we stay, and last forever.

–

These subtle reminders act like cues, and I find my heart and tearful mind reminiscing on our goodbye.

A catch-up and slow retreat, A simple question of our fate.

Migration

Michelle Chen

Have you ever wondered what it really means to drift?

Have you ever thought that while walking, the next second you could be stripped bare, standing there with nothing left to hide behind?

I was once a fish, fighting upstream in a river battered by wind, watching the shadows of my companions disappear one by one.

I thought the riverbed would be warm, that the water would glow with a new kind of light. But it was empty Lonely like an endless corridor.

I used to believe that returning home was never meant for me. Some of us are born to drift.

I became a deer that kept mutating, running wild through the valleys, terrified of being devoured by creatures bigger than myself.

I ran across purple-red mountains, trampling on grass I couldn’t name, under a sky that didn’t recognize me, dressing my body to blend in with the hills.

I changed my skin, changed my name.

And behind me, shadows started to grow. Same body, same face.

Every step I took, they mirrored it. Getting closer.

Why?

Were they following me for a reason? Or were they just illusions of myself?

I don’t know who they are. Maybe, they’re the pieces of me I left behind. Maybe, they’re marks left by others that I carry without knowing.

I was once a stone, carried away by the flood.

Now, I am my own river.

I no longer wait for a road to appear, or for a way home. I build my own banks. I carve my own path.

If anyone asks, I’ll just smile.

Because now I will carve my name into this land.

Stitched Mistakes

Jinyi Liu

My piece Stitched Mistakes began with a feeling of discomfort. I wanted to explore why the human body, especially the female body, is so often treated as something that needs to be corrected, covered, or explained. I used fabric, thread, and paint—materials often associated with care and repair—to create a suspended sculpture filled with stitched text and fragmented images. It looks chaotic at first, but that chaos is part of what makes it honest.

The theme “Mix-ups & Mishaps” resonated with me because so much of how we understand our bodies comes from misunderstanding. Society constantly mixes up strength with aggression, beauty with perfection, femininity with fragility. These mix-ups can feel like mishaps we have to live inside— moments where we are told to shrink, apologize, or hide. In this work, I tried to transform those mistakes into something visible and unapologetic.

Each phrase I stitched came from a real emotion or conversation: This blood is not dirty. . . .You are limitless. . . . Show off your body. Sewing these words by hand was slow and imperfect, and I left the threads hanging, as if the sentences were still in progress. I wanted the piece to feel alive— unfinished like our process of understanding ourselves. I didn’t try to hide the rough edges because I think the “mistakes” in craft mirror the ones we experience as people. They show where we tried, where we struggled, and where we began again.

The materials themselves also tell the story of mix-ups. Fabric and lace, usually tied to softness or femininity, are here

reshaped into something loud and defiant. I used the textures of domestic craft to talk about rebellion, pain, and pride. The sculpture holds many small contradictions—comfort and discomfort, softness and rage, vulnerability and power. These are the mix-ups that live inside every body.

For me, Stitched Mistakes is about reclaiming what has been misunderstood. It’s about looking at the messy parts of identity— not to clean them up, but to see them clearly. When people view the piece, I hope they feel both unsettled and seen. Maybe they’ll recognize how much beauty exists inside what we once called a mishap. Maybe they’ll realize that the things we were taught to hide are the same things that make us limitless.