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school
FA L L ’ 1 9
August Heat and October Hail
I
t was the kind of cold that made you wonder if you had any body parts below your knees or elbows, the kind of cold that ripped apart your skin, the kind of cold that made you consider starting a fire using the technique you saw on TV one time when you were five. I was huddled together for warmth with my fellow marching band members behind the bleachers of the football stadium, waiting for our turn to perform at our final competition of the season: East Kentwood. We were little orange and black penguins in our new uniforms, trying to conserve body heat and keep our instruments from freezing entirely. My silver plated trumpet was so cold that it hurt to hold it in my hands. I tried holding it between my legs, causing it to almost fall on the concrete. If it had landed, I feel like it would have shattered. My best friend and section leader, Kylar, stood closest to me, clutching his gold plated trumpet close to his chest and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Just glancing at him brought back all of the memories we had made together. I choked down my tears; I figured if they fell they would freeze on my face. Kylar was a senior, and this was his last competition. My last competition with him. “Are you ready for this?” I asked, standing close enough to could count each individual freckle on his face. There were a lot. The unmerciful wind whipped his bright orange plume this way and that. “I don’t think so.” His sigh spiraled like smoke up into the air, and was whisked away by the next gust of wind. I put my arm around him, and he embraced me. I focused my eyes on a lock of his curly red hair, so similar to mine. Trying not to cry, I thought of all the brutal summer sectionals when Kylar pushed me to my limits. I remembered the games at band camp, when our stomachs hurt from all of the laughter, all of the late night conversations on the band bus that ended in tender and encouraging words. This was the end of all of that. My mind pulled me back to one particular summer sectional in early August of my freshman year, when I didn’t really know Kylar that well yet. I noticed the stern expression on his sunburned face as he led us through yet another round of “marching suicides.” Marching forward and backward over and over again at 160 beats per minute was not anyone’s idea of fun, but Kylar’s, “You’ll thank me later” still rang in our ears. 8 The weeds in the field where we
marched tickled my nose, and I could hear entire armies of insects attacking every inch of exposed skin. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and back! 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and forward! 1, 2, 3 …” Kylar’s voice pierced through the muggy August air, and when I thought I simply couldn’t take another step, I heard his call. “Band, ready, halt! Stab and close!” I stayed as still as I possibly could at attention, despite the fact that a mosquito was assaulting my mouthpiece. I still remember Kylar’s words to me at the end of that night: “You did a great job, I’m proud of you.” I wish I could have some of that August heat right now, I think to myself, pulling away from Kylar’s embrace. I looked into his blue eyes just as the hail began to fall across my glasses, threatening to block my view of him altogether. The force of the wind almost took my words and sent them into oblivion. “Just give it all you got. Everything you have, put out onto that field today. All those hours of work need to shine in these next seven minutes.” I almost added, “That’s what you always tell me,” but I didn’t need to. Kylar knew, and his face quickly transformed into his trademark grin. “I taught you that.” He laughed as he elbowed me. “Don’t forget when we’re out there today that I taught you everything you know.” “I won’t ever forget.” My tears almost fell then, but I got distracted by our band director’s urgent cries. “Get under the bleachers, guys! It’s coming!” I turned and saw the hail coming down even harder, and the noise of it hitting our buckets got annoying really quickly. Every rap on my head was a reminder of what we were about to do. “We’re still marching, so don’t even think about going home!” A fresh gust of wind blew through, and I could feel my plume threatening to pull itself right out of my bucket and fly away into the cold air above the football stadium. The hail was now mixed with snow, and the temperature seemed to drop again. I was seriously about to start looking for some twigs to make my fire when everyone started lining up to march onto the field. “Now entering the field is the Dowagiac Chieftain Marching Band! Featuring soloists Isabella Ruiz on alto saxophone and Kylar Kinyon and Martha Schaller on trumpet!” Kylar looked back at us and held his trumpet up as a signal to stand at attention. He smiled at me in a way that made my throat freeze up. His slightly upturned lips and watering eyes said it all. It was the last time he would give us that signal. I took a deep breath to steady myself, then immediately regretted it. It was like suck-
“Just give it all you got.”
by Martha Schaller, Dowagiac, MI ing in the entire arctic tundra, and every breath I took after that was like inhaling a glacier. Later I learned that the wind had been blowing at a whopping 30 miles per hour during our performance, and it was a miracle that the sousaphones didn’t drag their players down with them. The heavy bells swung back and forth with every gust, reminding me of a pendulum on the verge of breaking. Every step I took, I was afraid that I would crack my head open on the turf that was virtually frozen over. The hail harassing my trumpet was a constant bother and my glasses were in danger of falling off, but I shoved those worries to the back of my mind. I needed to do this, to give it all I had. For myself. And for Kylar. To be honest, I don’t remember much of what happened during the performance (except for seeing my life flash before my eyes when a sousaphone player swayed so far to his right that the bell of his instrument almost hit my head). I do know those seven minutes were a few of the quickest in my entire life. That last command for horns down gave me goosebumps on top of goosebumps. Our drum majors clasped their hands at their sides, standing their ground, but their eyes gave them away. I could see their tears welling up and freezing on their eyelids and cheeks. The snare drum tapped to lead us off the field, and I tried to take it all in even though my body was screaming at me to just run away to some place far away from here, some place warm. I wanted to go back in time, back to those days a year ago in August when I had my marching career with Kylar ahead of me, instead of behind me. The parents and supporters who braved the hail, snow, wind, and brutal temperature stood waving their blankets and cheering us off the field. I knew there were some tears in their eyes too. The snare drum kept tapping, and I thought I caught a whiff of hot dogs coming from the concession stand. I couldn’t feel my arms and legs at all, and I licked my lips, tasting blood. Then I turned around, to where I knew Kylar was in the line. As he moved his trumpet in time with the drum, he caught my eye and smiled at me. When our eyes locked, I saw the near-frozen tears all over his freckled face. But seeing his smile melted something deep inside of me, and I felt a little bit warmer. If there is one piece of advice I want you, the reader, to take away from this story, it’s to find someone who can make your heart melt even when it’s cold outside. So cold you wonder if you have any body parts below your knees or elbows, the kind of cold that rips apart your skin. And for goodness’ sake, learn how to make a fire. It might come in handy one day. ✦
Sitting iin Sitting n Six Sixth xth H Hour ou ur
school
We are We a re writing notess on the Am American merican ggovernment. overnmen ent.. That is to say, “we” as as in “oug “ought ug ght to be ‘we’” ro oom or “everyone in the room except exce c pt for me,” or per perhaps, rhaps, more realistically, reaalistically, “approximately 65% of the students in thee room,” or something of the sort. sort. I’m quite sure we un understand nderstand the difference between betwe ween n the executive executivve and legislat legislative tiv ive branches, brannches, because beca cause we were wer e e discussing diisc s ussing last presidential debates last nnight’s ightt’s pre resi re s deent ntial debate t s te before class befo ore r cla ass began. began.. We We know k now this, this th is, and you, y u, the teacher, yo teacher, must st know k noow this, and and yet curriculum is curriculum, so we sit for 1 period, 45 minutes, 2,700 2,70 2, ,70 700 seconds every everr y day, ev just just s in case anyone doesn’t remember, “L” laws, “L” is legislative, legislative legislation la “L aws, “J” judgement, “JJ” is judicial, judicial judge judgemen nt, and an the executive branch is the other one, with wit the, well, President, and such. It is sixth hour, fitting fittting for this class period, at least lea e st for me, because beecause I understand the United States government clearly, clea early, y and my brain needs some rest before seventh hour: Honors Algebra H norss A Ho lgebra lg ebbraa IIII I am nnot ot upset, I’m m no nnott ev even en pparticularly a ti ar ticu cula cu larl rlly bored: boore red: d: this thhis is is an enjoyable enjjoy yab a lee cclass, lass la ss,, ss but lunch lunc lu nchh ju just st hhappened, appe ap pene nedd, and a d an we were chatting werre ch chat atti ting ng and and llaughing augh au ghin ingg and and eating eati ea ting n just ten minutes ago, and we’re full and sleepy, and, it just, um, puts things in perspective. perspecti t ve.
Photo by Kailey Nichols, Burlingame, CA
I fe well, feel, we well ll, very very ve ry eexistential xist xi sten enti en t al ti or something som omet ethi hing ng of ng of the the like like in sixth period, perr io iod, I fe unexpected ffeel el a kindd ooff un unex expe pect cted ed rrecognition, ecog ec ogni niti tion on,, one one which whic wh ichh doesn’t does do esn’ n’tt seem seem tto o flo flow w fr from om aanywhere nywh ny wher eree in particular, particu c la lar, r, yet powerfull nnonetheless, onethele on less s, of what life can an hold, hol old, d, a gimmer, a glimpse, glim gl imps pse, e, during lunch, lunchh, and the understanding unde ders rsta tand ndin ingg of the the ppain aiin that that will wil illl arise aris ar isee in the the ffuture, utur ut ure, e, next year next hour… hou our… r… oorr ne next xt yea ear orr whenever it will be, but sit, sixth but I si it, t iin n si sixt xthh period, peeriiod od, relaxed, rela re laxe xed, d att ease, ease ea s , among friends, amon am ong fr frie iend nds, s, a ggood ood teacher, oo a ni nice, bright nice ce, br r ig ight ht classroom, cla lasssro room om, surrounded calm, surr su rrou ound nded ed bby y ca calm l , where wher wh eree our ou only on goal goal iss to learn things I al already know. lre read adyy kn know ow. byy Jared Jar ared d Goudsmit, Gou o dssmi mit, t Kirkwood, MO
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school
FA L L ’ 1 9
Art by Ellen Zhao, Van Nuys, CA
We Changed
I
by Ashley Zheng, Clyde Hill, WA
rushed off the train, excited about finally getting a chance to reconnect with my old friends in Shanghai. I couldn’t contain my smile as I hurried my mom along toward the exit. Every second wasted was a second away from my friends. I prayed that the taxi we called would arrive soon, that every car in front of us would move faster, that every stoplight would be green. I just wanted to be there already! Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. My three guy friends meant so much to me. The four of us attended the same American school in Shanghai together. Surprisingly, the demanding, stressful year of eighth grade became my favorite school year because of them. They were the ones who took time from their crammed schedules to help me edit my essays. They were the ones who reassured me when I was worried. During that one year we became closer than friends I had known for years. Evan was a hardworking math and programming genius who was always on top of his academics. He was also a talented writer. I remember how once, with surgical precision, he helped me cut down my six-page English assignment to three pages, condensing it to its essence. Johnathan was everyone’s personal therapist; there was seemingly no one he would not help out in a pinch. He was the person you would call whether you were being chased by a grizzly bear or you got your period 10 while wearing a white dress. We first
met in my SAT prep class, which was a blast because of him. From competing in trivia, to intense sessions of Dancing Line during breaks, to walking across the street for ice cream, together we survived the stress of high school applications. We counseled each other when it became too much. Finally there was Tim, the one I could always rely on to reply to texts almost instantly in our group chat. Whether the rest of us were trying to guess his crush or just needed someone to rant to, he was there. We met in debate class. Tim was an eloquent speaker, as well as funny and engaging. I admired how his speeches and rebuttals could be assertive and explosive, while he remained logical and calm throughout. We became a close network of support in every way. From playing an escape game as a team of four to sharing our favorite books, we all contributed to the group and learned from one another. Over time, we rubbed off on each other so much that our catchphrases, the ways we interacted, and even the way we texted became similar. We decided to meet up at the mall across from our old school. When I saw the place again, nostalgic memories flooded my head. There was the bakery where I used to buy the next day’s breakfast, the pizzeria where so many birthdays were celebrated, and the iconic juice stand with incredible mango boba smoothies. It’s true: you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. As I walked into the Family Mart, I remem-
Texting made everything so much easier
bered buying rice rolls and barbecued chicken, Oreos and Hi-Chews. The same cashier was still working there, the one who always smiled and talked with me. But when our eyes met, his no longer lit up. His lips no longer lifted into a smile. I was nothing more than a stranger to him. His memory of me had faded away. I felt my stomach tighten, worried this was a harbinger of more disappointment to come. I took a deep breath and tried to shake off this foreboding feeling. It didn’t matter, as long as I could see my friends. The entrance bell rang, and I glimpsed a familiar haircut over the top of the aisle. Johnathan! He’s here! I felt anticipation, excitement, nostalgia. But something else was buried deep inside me too, something nervous and worried, trapped inside a bottle that began to slowly unscrew its lid. “Hey!” I smiled. “Hey,” Johnathan replied. Silence. Already? “So … how have you been?” It’ll pick up, I told myself. I was never much good at starting conversations anyway. While we were awkwardly chatting, Evan came in. He took me by surprise. In one’s memories, the people you leave behind never change. In my mind, he was still the one we would tease playfully about his height (or lack thereof) and how he wore his rotation of approximately five T-shirts. Now I marveled at his height. He must have grown a good four inches. It seemed like someone had stretched him out. He was taller and thinner, with a longer jaw. It’s only natural, I tried to reassure myself. Everybody changes. Besides, what was one year of separation? Just a measly speed bump in a road that stretched out forever toward the horizon. We tried to catch up, talking about all the things that had happened to us since our lives diverged. Johnathan had finally adjusted to his new school. I was glad he made it past his initial late-night depressing texts and complaints about his grades in Spanish. Evan got accepted into a boarding school after his second try, and I was truly happy for him. For an instant it felt like we were back to the time when we all studied like crazy together, sharing our stress over boarding school applications and our excitement over our acceptance letters. But soon the answers became a little shorter, and the silence between each question became a little longer. Before we knew it, we were struggling to make conversation. My head began to spin. Texting made everything so much easier. There were no awkward silences, no expectant glances. No need to come up with a topic simply just to talk. Had I become a stereotypical teen who could only communicate on her phone? All these thoughts filled my head in a simple second of silence. ➤➤
school
TEEN INK
Stop, Drop, and Give Optimism a Try by Serin Koh, Fort Lee, NJ
W
e students know that the birds begin to sing around 4:00 a.m. With endless nights, stiff shoulders, and that science test you spent all night preparing for, being a student is far from easy. School places academic expectations on students, society teaches negative ideas of failure, and people push social pressures. As we head into the new year, some of us can already feel the heat of competition and the incoming stress – which are most certainly not welcoming. High school can seem like a block of brick, containing anxious, competitive and stressed students – an image that is equally not welcoming. The American culture itself is swollen with pessimism. In 2017, a survey claimed that only a puny six percent of Americans believed the world is improving. In fact, as many as 49 percent of high school students claim to feel stressed – an eye-opening number that proves how much stress and negativity is dominating students’ lives. Yet these numbers do not just stand alone. From watching a news report about a school shooting to being in an unhealthy relationship, pessimism comes from American culture itself. Almost everything radiates negativity, from an advertisement urging you to lose weight, to competition between students, to bills that are waiting to be paid on your desk. So what is pessimism, exactly, and how do we fix it? Pessimism is the tendency to exaggerate the negativity in reality. It is the fear of, and worry of the future and it creates those “what-if” situations. What if I don’t get into college? What if I humiliate myself in front of my class? Optimism, on the other hand, is often misunderstood. Optimism is not the same as smiling all day or being overly joyful. Instead, it is the ability to realistically work past a problem and to strive toward your goal. Some think that pessimism is what motivates us to avoid those future problems we are worrying about. Yet with optimism, we are left with more confidence to achieve a desired outcome, such as getting a decent grade on a final or making a new friend in class. Optimism fuels us to achieve new goals at the next level, and it doesn’t instill anxiety into our lives. Optimism also offers a more productive method of approaching challenges. Rather than pulling out your hair over a math problem and giving
up, positivity keeps us open to finding solutions, like speaking with a teacher. As stressed high school students imprisoned by today’s political, corporate and societal negativity – and as the literal future of the country – it is important to conquer pessimism. There are three simple ways to achieve an optimistic mindset. According to psychiatrists at the University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center, the first way is to spend less time on social media and watching the news. Seeing other people’s seemingly perfect lives can degrade one’s self confidence, which would then lead to seeing the negative in their own life. Too often, the news covers gloomy stories about political flaws, crimes, and scandals; it is rare to see a positive and kind world through a news network. The negativity we see on television and on our phones can only increase pessimism in our daily lives. A second option is to write in a journal every day about the overlooked positive things in life. Whether it is something as small as waking up before your alarm or saying hello to your favorite teacher, record and reflect on positive and gratifying experiences of your day. These notes can improve your outlook on life, as well as bring you closer to optimism, confidence, and good health. The last option is to meet new people with optimistic personalities. Just like how a friend’s mannerisms can rub onto you, their emotions can also influence you. Pessimistic company will expose more negativity into your daily life. Optimistic company will release positive energy. Having someone optimistic around you will naturally curb your pessimistic instinct. This doesn’t have to mean cutting connections with your pessimistic friends – it simply means expanding your network a bit; maybe you can inspire optimism in your friends’ lives as well. We students overlook so many things in our little worlds. With homework, tests, friends, and social media crowding our lives, it is extremely easy to ignore a beautiful sunset, the small spray of a tangerine after peeling it all at once, the smell of coffee in the morning, or the discovery of your favorite movie just beginning to play on television. Next time you’re up at 4:00 a.m. studying for that science test, it might be nice to take a break and listen to the birds just waking up. ✦
There are three simple ways to achieve an optimistic mindset …
With another ring of the Family Mart doorbell, Tim dashed in. Calling everyone by their nicknames, he brought liveliness back to a dying conversation with his festive spirit. I felt relief. Why? I screamed at myself internally. Why wasn’t it joy or excitement? Just relief? We all headed over to a newly built Japanese fast food restaurant, a chain that I loved when I was younger. We sat down and ordered, but before long the awkwardness began to swirl around me. A smile at the brink of collapse is the hardest to muster. My bottle of emotions began to crack. I dug my heels into the floor and gripped the chair with my sweaty hands. As the others began to talk about the assignments they had due to-
morrow, it hit me that I barely had anything in common with them. I was looking for something that was already gone. Every word they spoke was a pair of scissors, snipping away the strings of our connection. Could a year of separation possibly be an unexpected jagged cliff we drove off, unable to ever return? A wall, cold and impenetrable, dividing us instead of uniting us? My heart raced, and my ears stung. I slowly began to shut down and withdrew myself from the conversation. Everything was going wrong. This wasn’t the sweet, heartwarming reunion I had in mind. They were my friends. But it all seemed to be falling apart in front of my eyes. My bottle of emotions shattered, and glass
shards flew. Fear. Disappointment. Embarrassment. All I had to offer were fake giggles. I tried to pretend that we were still connected, that we still had a chance. But I knew. What we once shared had ended, and the strings that once connected us seemed to be tied in other directions. We were now more comfortable at a distance, engaging in a virtual friendship over texts. The worst part was that distance had helped continue our friendship, but a reunion was what severed it. How ironic. They say “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” But I knew it would take a lot of crying before I could smile again. ✦
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FA L L ’ 1 9 Photo by Leah Choe, Fairfax Station, VA
Of Starlight and Solitude by “Lara,” Sugar Land, TX
I
’m 30,000 miles underwater and I’m drowning. Or, I would be, if my lungs had remembered they needed air to breathe. Everything’s sort of peaceful: murky, muted. The water runs over my thoughts and whisks them away with the current. I didn’t need them down here anyway. The night sky moves outside my window, and I imagine myself reaching up towards it. There’s usually a book, and there’s always the moon. It starts when the sun goes down. I can feel it in my bones and in my soul that it’s going to be one of those nights. There are hugs and goodnights and the assurance to my parents that I’ll try to get some sleep, but my room has me in her gravitational pull, and I can’t keep her waiting any longer. So I order my aching feet upstairs, force them in front of each other. A heavy feeling lassos my heart and tugs. School tomorrow, foreboding and awful and terrible. It can’t happen yet, so I keep it at bay the only way I know how: an all-nighter. They’ve become a habit, and I’ve developed some tendencies. First, I pick 12 a good book, one that’s been shoving
its title to the forefront of my thoughts. All my favorite books have been read in one night. Second, I ignore the clock. It’s no longer my friend, counting treacherously down until my time is up. Third, I look at the moon. She’s known me all my life. She knows what’s in my heart. She might be the only one who does. My world narrows. I become more human. The pieces of myself scattered across Sugar Land, across high school hallways and roadways and sidewalks, move quietly over cold, tired suburbia and greet me at my windowsill. The homework sitting in my backpack shrivels up, or falls apart, or spontaneously combusts; all I know is that it’s not getting done, and the thought of that fills me with a fierce, desperate feeling of victory, like I’m fighting back against the armies of administrators who think they have a say in my future. In the morning there will be talk of Chemistry grades and English quizzes, the voices of my peers thudding softly against the dull ache in my heart, chipping away at me. I’ll have to picture a lighthouse in Iceland or a cabin in Alaska. I’ll have to go somewhere else, see the Northern Lights from my balcony,
I’ll have to pull an all-nighter
live simply in my mind with my books and my fireplace and my cable-knit sweaters. I’ll have to pull another all-nighter. Sometimes, when the room is flooded with warm lamplight and there’s a train moving steadily to far-off places, I think I really could do it. I could fold in on myself like origami, paper-flat, and sink down into the page and the words and the story. Run between the ink and find my eternity-place, a quiet spot to exist forever. I’d close the book behind me, let the cover fall with a muted finality. Look for me on the shelf: I’ll be hidden. I’ll be home. I don’t have to go to school tomorrow if I’m not here. And the moon shines so brightly that I convince myself it’s possible. There are all-nighters when it’s not so alone. When a friend of mine is staying up late to study, and the laughs from our Skype call fill the empty space. When I message my Decathlon team, sharing parts of my book and thoughts about anything, reminding myself of my found family and of our siamese hearts, forever beating in time with each other. I lean out for love and they catch me. I was wrong about the moon. She’s not the only one who knows me. There are all-nighters when I feel like I’m sinking. Like my feet got stuck in the bank of the muddy Mississippi, and I can’t do anything but watch as the current climbs over my head. On those nights, my intentions are painfully obvious, and my book feels like a flimsy distraction from the fact that I will be drained the next day and I will have late work to accompany my headache. And I think about the other kids my age, protagonists of their own stories with hopes and dreams and fears that are unknowable, and I wonder what they long for when it’s 3AM, and they have a project due the next day, and the riverbank is pulling them endlessly down, and the only two things in the world are their head and their heart. Somehow, it makes their voices seem less acerbic in the morning, less like a scalpel and more like a tentative, outstretched hand. I hear the panic and the worry and the wavering doubt behind their probing questions, and I want to meet their hand with my own and run away to somewhere cold and quiet and free. Inevitably, sunrise drags itself across the sky, pulling with it an ensemble of soft colors and thin clouds. Things look different in the daytime, and reality seeps back into the corners of my vision, fuzzy and not quite real. I’ve finished my book; I knew I would cry. I bet it’s all my brain will be able to think about at school. I shower and dress on muscle memory, already looking forward to the afternoon nap I’m destined for. I know what stretches out before me. I feel a delay in my reaction time, and a heaviness collects behind my eyelids. I’m hungry and hollow and worn out. But my heart is fuller than it was last night. ✦
school
TEEN INK
My School Uniform
A
t my school, a private, all girls school, uniforms are by far the most important thing according to the teachers and administration. Monday: Today is a non-uniform day but I decide not to dress down. I would rather wear my uniform than be called out by a teacher because I am wearing leggings and my shirt is not fingertip length. “Everyone who is wearing leggings stand up.” says a teacher in one of my classes. Girls wearing leggings reluctantly stand up and all but one of them is giving a Friday Morning Service. Every morning when I walk out of morning meeting, I am met by a series of teachers eyeing me. I think to myself, “Is my skirt too short? Is my shirt not fingertip length? Is my shirt tucked in? Are my socks the right color? Am I wearing the right shoes? Did I remember my blazer?” These are the things going through my mind as I walk to first period. Tuesday: Today is a dress day. Oxford button down, plaid skirt, blazer, black shoes, solid white, purple, or grey socks, and NO nike sports socks. I get to school and realize that I have forgotten my blazer. Assembly rolls around and I along with a few other unlucky girls are told to stay after. “This is a warning” one teacher says, “The next time you get called out you will receive a Friday Morning Service.”
by Anonymous, SC
Wednesday: Today is a casual day. Polo shirt, lavender or grey skirt, closed toe shoes, and solid white, purple, or grey socks. I squeeze into my purple skirt which seems to be shaped as a corset. I suck my stomach in try to button it. I put my polo on and head to school. I have a headache and I go to the nurse. While I am there, a teacher points out that my skirt is extremely short. School has just started. I have not had time to try on all of my skirts to make sure they fit. This one is so tight I can’t pull it down any further so I simply nod and apologize. When I am home I immediately take of my skirt and feel as though I can breath again. Thursday: Today is another dress day, only this time I remember my blazer. I get through first period and assembly and I have just gotten to my 2nd block. My button down has come untucked and I reach down to re-tuck it so that I don’t get in trouble. “What are you doing?” my teacher asks me. “I am just trying to tuck in my shirt” I respond. “Why don’t you go to the bathroom, you are making me and others uncomfortable. Imagine if I started tucking in my shirt in front of the class. You wouldn’t like that would you?” I am frustrated with the fact that I got in trouble in the act of trying to abide to the uniform code so I sit back down and I begin my work. Friday: Today is the final casual day of the
I’m tired of being told that my skirt is too short
week. I have PE first period so I come to school dressed in my PE uniform, nike shorts with my school logo, and any t-shirt from my school. My hair must be pulled back and I must be wearing athletic shoes. When I get to school I realize that I have accidentally grabbed a shirt that is not from my school and at this point there is nothing I can do. I am called out and told that I must make up the points that I lost from being out of uniform within a week. I am in high school. I have sports, volunteering, and many other after school commitments that I am expected to attend. Yet I must miss one to make up points because of a uniform violation in PE. It is the end of the week and I am tired of fighting. I am tired of being told that my skirt is too short or that my socks are not the right color. I am tired of teachers being more concerned about my uniform than they are about my education. I am tired of being told that my short skirt is distracting to the male faculty. I am tired of going to an all girls school where I am taught that I must cover up my body. I don’t want the little girls going to my school to be shamed the same way that my peers and I are. I want them to be treated with respect. I want them to be taught that they are beautiful and that they can wear what they want and be proud of it. I need my school to change. I need them to get with the times. ✦
Art by Elana Ho, Rancho Palos Verdes, CA
13
memoir
FA L L ’ 1 9
A Letter To My Younger Self
D
ear ten-year-old Kevin,
Let me tell you what’s going to happen to you in the next six years. Yes, you’re comfortable right now, but trust me – you’re going to be thrust out of your comfort zone, go through these things in life called changes, and come out of them a completely different you. No, this isn’t just about hitting puberty, but good job – you paid attention in Sex Ed. First off, you’re going to move to a faraway land called Palo Alto in a few weeks. You’re going to say good-bye to the only house you have distinct memories of, as well as the only friends you’ve ever known. You’re going to have to give Analis away to a family friend because the new landlady doesn’t allow cats. You’re going to attend great schools and, as a result, you’re going to get challenged. A lot. There will be people who are much smarter than you and better than you and it’s going to be weird because that’s never happened before in your life. But this is how the real world works. When you’re 11, you’re going to start going to this thing called church. Yes, I know you don’t believe in God. Yes, you are a self-proclaimed atheist. And yes, you’re going to be skeptical at first, but if skepticism is the only thing that motivates you to find out the truth for yourself, then God will take it. C.S. Lewis once said, “Christianity, if false, is of no importance, and if true, of infinite importance. The only thing it cannot be is moderately important.” So knowing that, just try to keep an open mind. And when you do, you’re going to realize one day that there is something at stake that is bigger than yourself, and then you are going to make the choice to follow Jesus and believe that through his death and resurrection on the cross, your sins are forgiven and you can be one with God when you die. And isn’t that the sweetest truth of all time? When you’re 12, your parents are going to get a divorce. And it will be nasty. And for the first time, you’re going to experience doubts about your newfound faith. There are going to be days when you cry yourself to sleep at night, and nights when you can’t sleep. People are going to tell you, “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” But you’re going to realize that this statement is fundamentally incorrect. When you’re a 12-year-old kid in a new town and things have deteriorated so badly that you can’t trust your own family anymore or say a simple “I love you” to them – this is definitely something you can’t handle by yourself. But even when your parents aren’t there for you, God will be, and you’re
going to lean on Him. He’s going to dig you out of a mess that you can’t dig out of on your own, and one night you’re going to surrender your life to Him a second time and remind yourself of that every day. You’re going to start high school; it’s going to throw you into the fire on the very first day. Classes are going to get harder, and you’re going to learn how to manage your time effectively on the fly. You’re going to juggle expectations, commitments, and mindsets, but you’re going to adjust well and learn many new things. God will put great teachers and friends in your life, and this isn’t just limited to school; you’re going to meet amazing people from all over the place and realize that life is so much more than school and grades and whatever college you go to. It’s also about the experiences you create for yourself, the people you meet, and the lasting connections and relationships that you build. When you see this truth for yourself, you’re going to become braver, stronger, and more charismatic. You’re going to receive many more opportunities to lead – not because you’ve become better, but because you’re more willing to take them. And you’re going to develop into a good leader with an easy smile and infectious laugh. But you’re also going to face a lot of rejection as well, and because of that, a teeny-tiny dark part of you doubts yourself. You’re going to be afraid of other people judging you for who you are and what you do around them, and it’s going to show up in your daily life. You’re going to find it hard to look other people in the eye. You’re going to become reserved and awkward at times – especially around girls you like. And it’s going to make you kick yourself mentally because you want so badly to have a normal conversation as your normal self, but the words just won’t come out no matter how much you try to just relax and be yourself. You’re going to be a little different than your friends in the way you act. Some people will tell you that it’s a “good unique.” And those people are the ones that you want to stick around. They’re going to like you for you, and they’re going to look at those small quirks you have and appreciate them for what they are. And one of these days, you’re going to open up your closed book and share your life story with them. Yes, you do have some baggage. But that makes you human. And your past is going to be easier to tell because your present state is going great. You’re going to start to appreciate the little things in life. The way the sun peeks into your bedroom through the half-closed blinds when you wake up, the cool breeze through your bike helmet as you try to make it to school on time, or late nights spent studying for that midterm with the soft noise of sprinklers watering the plants around your apartment complex. By extension, you’re going to see the proof that God exists everywhere you look – but not in the literal sense. You’ll see it in that stranger who helps out another stranger on the side of the road. You’ll hear it in those times when you’re sad and the first song that plays on the radio is the perfect one, or in those times when you’re struggling with something in your faith and that Sunday’s sermon is your word-for-word answer. And you’ll feel it through the people that come into your life through improbable circumstances and change it for the better. Yes, you’re going to go through a lot. But in the end, you’re going to be fine. And not only are you going to be fine, you’re going to thrive because even though life hasn’t been smooth sailing so far, you’ve been taught well to roll with the punches and come out alive. Not unscathed, but alive. And that is what is most important.
You’re going to be awkward at times
Photo by Michael Guynn, Salt Lake City, UT
14
by Kevin Fan, Palo Alto, CA
God bless, Kevin ✦
memoir
TEEN INK
The Only Good Thing
I
haven’t been home in eight months, and frankly, I just want my bed back. The hospital mattress is lumpy and covered with strange, ominous stains I have no interest in asking about. The thing about it that really makes me tick, though, is the fact that we only get one pillow each, even though there are hundreds stacked in the back. I bet the staff use them to sleep on when they’re supposed to be doing bed checks. There are a lot of bad things about the hospital, like the food and the petty patients and all of the unnecessary (and sexist) rules. Here’s one: if a girl’s shorts don’t pass her knees, she can’t wear them. Outside. In 100 degree weather. But God forbid a guy gets in trouble for sagging his pants so low he trips on them and chips a tooth. (It’s happened.) The hospital prides itself on its safety, but the time my friend found a rusty hammer sitting on her bedroom table screams otherwise. It was a ludicrous situation, really. Everyone was confused as to how it ended up there in the first place. My theory is that a maintenance guy forgot where he was and made the unfortunate mistake of leaving it behind. In the end it was fine, because my friend doesn’t have a homicidal bone in her body, and didn’t decide to go all Texas Hammer Massacre on everyone. But I would not be surprised if she did; I would’ve been tempted. Obviously, a long-term state psychiatric facility isn’t the ideal place to spend the summer going into my junior year of high school. There’s just so much I could be doing, that I should be doing, instead of making duct tape pens and completing so many puzzles that I literally have no place to put them anymore. My whole entire life revolves around these suffocatingly beige tiled walls, and no matter how much I try to give to the universe it never gives back. I’m left with my empty palms stretched out, pleading to anyone who chooses to listen. It doesn’t come as a surprise when no one answers back. The one good thing is the yoga class Ms. Beverly teaches every Thursday night. There are around eight students, each of us placed in a circle under the dim lights of the auditorium stage. I have a few friends who go, and we always practice next to each other. We’re not very good at the hard stuff, but it’s nice to belong to a little club amidst all the chaos. During the hour we’re there, it doesn’t really feel like we’re patients, and the peace that cradles our scarred bodies in its arms is a stark contrast to the rest of our day. Ms. Beverly is a staff member in her thir-
by Anonymous, NY
ties, petite and muscular. She’s sweet and her voice is like honey. She starts off every lesson by telling us how perfect we are. A few of us laugh uncomfortably – we’re mentally ill teenagers with no confidence whatsoever – but Ms. Beverly repeats it until we have to shut up and listen. It’s a good tactic. “Do we want to work a ten today?” She al-
A long-term psychiatric facility isn’t the ideal place to spend the summer
Photo by Olivia McClain, West Bend, WI ways asks us, and we always say yes, of course, we want to sweat and forget about our problems. We go through all the stretches and Sun Salutations, each pose affecting each muscle differently. Out of all of them, I like the Warrior One pose the best. It sounds stupid, but I feel so confident whenever I stand tall like that with my arms spread to the sky. That’s the thing about yoga: you fake it until you make it. Usually, we lay on our mats and meditate for the last 10 minutes or so. But one day in particular, Ms. Beverly had us lie down next to each other with our feet vertical on the wall. I ended up shoulder-to-shoulder with two of my closest friends. We giggled at the proximity. “Relax all your muscles and close your eyes if you’re comfortable.” Ms. Bev’s voice echoed from her spot across the stage. “Make sure you’re focused on your breathing.” I didn’t close my eyes, but instead stared up at the lights that hung above our heads, taking in air through my nose and releasing it through my mouth. “I want you all to think about the intentions you set for today’s practice,” she continued,
“and how you think you accomplished them. Did your mood shift? Do you still feel as heavy as you did before our session?” I didn’t. “I know your minds are all over the place, because mine is as well,” she said. “But there’s one thing I’d like to focus on, and that thing is courage.” She breathed the word out in an airy sigh; I felt my heart thump inside my chest. “You’re all here because you need a little more of it,” she said. “And I do, too. But I’m here to tell you that your lack of courage does not make you weak. It makes you human. You’re hurting right now, I can sense all the pain your bodies carry, and I know you’re tired of the fight. I don’t blame you.” She paused, as if to gather her words carefully. “I have a task for you. I want you to put your right hand over your heart and pretend you have all the courage you need to succeed. To love someone, to forgive someone … to forgive yourself. Take a few minutes to really think about what it’s going to feel like when you finally do whatever it is you need to do. Open your eyes when you’re finished. I want to see each and every one of your beautiful, triumphant faces. Remember to really focus.” I did what I was told, and thought about how scared I was to get better, how terrifying the outside world really is. I thought of the look on my mom’s face on the way to the emergency room, the gentle pressure of her hand against the cuts on my skin. The screams of my sister and the weeks spent lying in bed, stoic and silent, wanting so badly to let the bed swallow me whole. Your lack of courage does not make you weak, it makes you human. It wasn’t until Ms. Beverly told us to open our eyes that I realized I was crying. A few other girls were as well, and we all tried to discreetly wipe away our tears. But their shellshocked faces mirrored mine, and I knew what we were all thinking: God, I need to get better. What I love about the class isn’t just the yoga. It’s the feeling of feeling enough. It’s treating my body like I love it and pretending to have the courage that I eventually need to find within myself. In all reality, I don’t know where I’m going. Or what’s going to happen in the future. I’m still living day to day, therapy session to therapy session. I may need to rely on medication my entire life. But there’s one thing that’s certain, and it’s that someday, I will be able to sleep on a clean bed with two pillows, and that’s 15 enough for me. ✦
memoir Art by Emily Cai, Las Cruces, NM
failed me and why it didn’t matter anymore. “We’re going to see Grandma,” announced my father, his voice muffled with longing. My heart ached for him. I couldn’t imagine not seeing my mother every day, not cuddling up to her bosom for five more minutes of sleep, not spilling my adolescent woes into the crook of her neck, soothed by her scent of ginger, garlic, and sandalwood soap. I hadn’t seen my grandmother since I was a toddler, my forgotten memories of her sometimes surfacing like fireflies out of cinder. by Ananya Ganesh, Sandy Springs, GA We reached Paatti’s house early in the morndreamt of my bones every night. I pictured ing. The heady petrichor their smooth and slender white surfaces, of early monsoon showers caressed my noscloaked in layers of skin and muscle, like trils as I stepped out of the car. I watched in chains of slumbering reptiles, linked by the awe as the neighborhood women started their inevitability of their common fate. I waited day casually creating complex geometric patpatiently for one of them to rouse and stretch, terns of rice flour loops and circles outside hoping the glorious cascade would shake the every doorstep to entice the Gods of Prosperothers out of their stupor. Many nights I lay ity. Far away, the intermittent scratch of grass in the dark listening intently for the slightest brooms sweeping across concrete sidewalks creak of their awakening, willing them to woke reluctant residents. reach across and lock heads and tails. I almost didn’t see her open the door. My They slept. eyes, searching for lost sleep took a while to I’m not quite sure of the precise moment find Paatti. But when they did, the air froze in when I went from being delightfully petite my lungs. to just plain short. Perhaps the summer after Hungrily, she gathered me into her arms. which everyone returned to school, their genMy head towered above her disheveled sea of erous bones bestowing upon them the inches gray. I looked closely as she I so deeply coveted. Mine had hibernated all released me to hug her son, summer. I tried to ignore the whispered taunts barely clearing his waist. floating in the air wherever I went. Even the Sparkling, serpentine, gold orange tree in our backyard, laden with luschains were lost in the folds cious spheres of sunshine, seemed to mock of her stunted neck. Paatme. My father had planted the sapling when I ti’s bones, like mine, had was a toddler. My parents continued the pracchanged their mind halfway tice of their homeland, believing that as the to adulthood. I couldn’t distree grew, so would their child. My mother till the rainbow of myriad watered it faithfully every day, praying to the emotions that swept through me. Even as I Tree Gods to hold my hands and raise me up felt somewhat relieved that my lack of height tall and strong just like them. They simply igwasn’t entirely my failing, I tasted the acrimonored her. My bones just couldn’t keep up with ny of rage and disappointment at the back of the orange tree. my throat. There was my grandmother – the My mother’s days were consumed with perunmistakable reminder and cause of my Lillicentiles and growth charts. “Late bloomer, putian fate. I felt an urgent need to let the whisperhaps,” people quipped. My father worked perers know. It wasn’t my fault. into our conversations names of accomplished I woke to the sound of Paatti’s voice – honey people while feigning surprise at their incidenflowing over smooth stones. She was teachtal shortness. “Bones have no business being ing my mother the secret to making poli – my late,” I complained to no one in particular. father’s favorite breakfast. Perfect circles of That summer, we went to see Paatti. It was flaky pastries sat in a sticky syrup of sugar and the summer I learned why the Tree Gods had loneliness. Skinny rivers of hot clarified but-
My Grandmother’s Bones
I
Contest Winner!
ter crisscrossed the polis. Paatti insisted on feeding me, her slender fingers deftly pulling the layers of poli apart. I took a bite and the poli melted in my mouth, tasting of the fear of another farewell. Later that afternoon, Paatti took me to the temple. She wore a bright-red silk saree, spires of golden thread woven into an intricate filigree of temple towers and elephants. Her diamond nose ring caught the light and spewed fire as she turned her head, the middle of her forehead sporting the flawless vermilion circle. Paatti looked resplendent and … short. The lump in my throat was back. “For you,” she said, handing me a matching skirt set. Made of the same bright-red silk fabric of her saree, twin golden elephants. She had sewn them herself. I tried on the skirt, and before I could speak, she squealed, “See how it fits perfectly. You have my bones!” My eyes brimmed with regret threatening to spill over. Heads turned as we walked to the temple – matching visions in red silk and jasmine strings. “My granddaughter,” Paatti introduced me as pride lit up every tired wrinkle on her face. Outside the temple sat rows of people – young, old, children, newborns, some missing limbs, missing voices. In front of each one of them lay steel bowls into which the temple-goers flung money from afar. Disease had maimed their bodies and tarnished their souls. People avoided looking at them, afraid their misery was contagious, but Paatti sat down among them. I worried that the elephants would lose their gold. She fed the little ones the poli she had packed in fresh banana leaves and chatted with the ease. I watched, mesmerized, as the children started to play around her – some lying on her lap, another one playing peek-a-boo with her billowing saree, all of them soaking in her radiance. After a little while, she rose to go inside the temple, and the children, like mutilated and blind mice, followed their enchanted piper to the doorstep. We went into the temple to pray and I hoped she wouldn’t ask what I had prayed for. I wore a new skirt every day – six lustrous yards of blue, pink, and yellow silk sprayed with gold and silver spires, the elephants always golden. We walked to the temple with our clothes and bones perfectly matched. When we returned home, the elephants on Paatti’s saree were always speckled with the dusty remnants of the arenose temple street where the children played. On most days, after lunch, my parents left to catch up with friends and rela➤➤
We walked to the temple with our clothes and bones perfectly matched
memoir
TEEN INK
Saving Dexter
by Sophia Demir, Miami, FL
S
taring through the steel bars of a small enclosure, I anxiously hopped from foot to foot. I tried to focus on the words spoken by the staff member but my attention continuously wandered to the sad dog who was lying still on cold floor. It was as if our gaze made him shrink into himself. His brindle fur was ungroomed, his tail nervously tucked between his back legs. My mother nudged my arm and told me to concentrate. I was supposed to be in charge here, so I listened. I had assumed I knew what was in store for me at the shelter, but as I stood in front of the cage, I found myself cringing from the loud barking, the medicinal smell, and the overall depressing vibe.
Could I tell which dog needed me the most?? I had found Dexter’s name on a list for euthanization on a privatee social media account. Euthanasia wasn’t an aspect of the shelter that at the staff wanted to advertise. There were 10 other dogs on the list andd r. hundreds that would someday find their way onto it. Yet, I chose Dexter. He was the special one. He was going to live. However, being at the shelter and walking by the cages of hundreds of other dogs was heartbreaking. How unfair was it that I’d be taking Dexter home, while the other dogs would remain here and suffer? I second guessed my decision and briskly walked down the aisle looking into the enclosures. Could I tell which dog needed me the most? Which one I could save without it being unfair? I couldn’t. Big or small, quiet or loud, they all needed me. Every dog deserved a better life. Shoulders slumped, I made my way back to Dexter. Here I was trying to commit an act of kindness, and yet I had never felt more cruel in my life. Crouching by his cage, my arm extended through the cold isolating bars, I waited for Dexter to respond to my presence. It took five minutes. He was depressed – you could see it in his eyes. He’d been here too
tives. Paatti and I were alone. She made me sit on the back porch, facing the jasmine tree. In her hand was a bowl of coconut oil – “the elixir for my tresses,” she insisted. Could it make my bones grow? I wondered. Her long, bony fingers delicately parted my hair as she carefully coated each dark strand. My thirsty scalp gorged on the rich oil. The intoxicating scent of jasmine in the air and Paatti’s fingers rhythmically massaging my scalp in slow circles was about to lull me to sleep. That’s when the stories started. One step at a time, Paatti held my hand as we started to descend to the depths of her heart. At every step, a different, younger Paatti met me and took me further. The child, orphaned at eight, raised by aunts and uncles, no golden elephants or silver spires. The teenager, forced to end her education abruptly and marry a man she hadn’t met before. The hint of a blush disappeared in the ridges of her chestnut wrinkles. Then her eyes darkened to the color of grief-stricken clouds. Her words faltered and her voice began to crack, unable to bear the weight of the story that followed – of losing her firstborn, and second, and third. I wondered if her heart bled
Photo by Crystal Calderon, Phoenix, AZ long lo ng. I wa wass ge gent ntly ly strokin long. gently stroking Dexter through the wretched bars when I heard something that made my blood boil. “I wouldn’t recommend him as a family dog. He’s aggressive,” the lady said. Before my mom could respond, I shook my head frantically and told the obnoxious woman that I would decide that for myself. With a dramatic sigh from the wicked witch and the clanking of keys, the cage door was opened. Dexter lunged out, tail wagging and ears pricked. He was like a whole new dog. We played with him for a long time, and he was not aggressive once. I was confident he was the one. We had arrived as a family of two and left as a family of three. Despite my previous negative thoughts about leaving hundreds of dogs behind, I was content with what I had done. I knew I could not change the world by saving one dog, but for Dexter, his world had changed forever. ✦
with every beat, squeezing out the excess sorrow it couldn’t hold. Sirens screamed in my head to drown the question threatening to escape. “This is not the time,” my mind chided. “Did it bother you … I mean, were you ever unhappy … because you are sh–short?” There! I said it. The words slipped out of my mouth slick as the oil on Paatti’s fingers, before I had the chance or sense to chew them down. Her laughter sounded like my mother’s brass pots tumbling over – the ding-dong of temple bells. “Short?” Surprise coated the chestnut ridges on her face. “Do you think I am short?” I didn’t answer, but I was sure she could see the trail of pain starting to form on my face. “I was one of the taller girls in my village. And beautiful, too!” She cradled my face with her hands. “And you have my bones. But the problem is,” she swatted an imaginary fly with oily hands, “your bones don’t know yet that they have left home.” Her words pierced my heart and plunged to my soul. No one had said that to me before. The jasmine branches swaying and nodding
in the evening breeze agreed with Paatti. Her words, bounced around in my mind, knocking down the cobwebs I had been collecting for years. In the new vastness of my mind, I realized slowly that there was nothing wrong with my bones; I had merely forgotten where they had come from. How tall I grew was as much a part of my heritage as the big copper pot of turmeric-colored curry my mother cooked every Sunday. I had unfairly pitted my bones against counterparts of a different league. I had assimilated so completely and was entrenched so deeply in the world I was born into that I had neglected to hold on to the world I had come from. If I had learned to embrace this fact earlier, perhaps I could have saved myself from years of heartache. Like my kohl-lined dark eyes, like the tendrils of my jet-black silky hair, like my skin the color of melted caramel, my bones were fulfilling their destiny. I had inherited my grandmother’s bones. I hoped I had inherited the tenderness flowing from her heart. I wished for her indomitable spirit. I never dreamt of bones again. ✦
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