Austringer 2022

Our Lady of Good Counsel High School Spring 2022

The Austringer

-- Is a student-run literary and arts magazine at Our Lady of Good Counsel High School in Olney, Maryland. Our title, Austringer, refers to one who partakes in the art of falconry: the act of taming a falcon, our school mascot. As such, the mission of the magazine here at Good Counsel is to capture the artistic spirit of the student body in the form of art, poetry, prose, and photography. The Austringer meets as a club and reviews submissions anonymously for publication. The finished product reflects our combined appreciation for the arts, and our hopes that the larger community may share in it.

Acknowledgements

The Austringer staff would like to thank the creative students of Good Counsel for taking the risk to submit your artistic works and share your thoughts and creative visions with us. We hope that this publication exemplifies the creative spirit of our student body. We would also like to thank our principal, Mr. Campbell, and our president, Dr. Barker, for their encouragement and support for this club and publication. Lastly, thank you to everyone reading this issue, who took part in our polls and contests over the school year, and who is supportive of the arts at Good Counsel.

Austringer 2021 - 2022 Staff

Neale Battista, ‘25

Victoria Boger, ‘22

Kiera Davidson, ‘24

Anika Dietrich, ‘23

Finn McManamee, ‘22

Maria Fisk, ‘22

Emily Pautler, ‘22

Isabella Sauro, ‘22

Madeleine Tiongson, ‘25

Eva Turcanova, ‘24

Faculty Moderator

Georgia Chaconas, English Department

Submissions Process

We encourage artists of all types to submit their work for publication. Submissions are reviewed by the staff anonymously. Austringer staff will work with accepted writers towards a final publication format. Email submissions to austringergc@gmail.com.

Visit our website: www.gcaustringer.org for club news, local arts events, links to past publications, and more. We welcome your suggestions and feedback about content you would like to include.

Reminding You of W o I

Dimitri Rosenthal

Memories fill my head, Sadly they are also falling out, I may not remember what someone said, But in my mind I can see you through the crowd.

That’s just who I am

A lot of things bounce around in there, I hear, create, and improve symphonies, I recreate my life like movie scenes with care, I process everything through musical imagery.

I am proud of who I am

I may not recognize the eyes that are reading this right now, But I still wish the best for you, Without a doubt.

I hope you can see who I am

Although everyone struggles, I do not feel comforted in that solidarity. I may be quick to find love in what I do and who I am with, But I mean everything with sincerity.

I truly do

I know we knew each other, But I just wanted to remind you of who I am.

7:23 Yamanote Line

Anisha Giri

Tokyo is always efficient with time; the train never once came later than the scheduled time, and if it ever did, it would be all over the news apologetically regaining its prominence as if they failed as a country for being a minute late. I was never one of those people who got affected by the train being a minute late, and never once realized what a huge difference it made for the businessmen like my dad as the whole train schedule changed their arrival to work.

“Does this train go to Nishi Ojima?” I asked frantically to a random lady as I was late to school. The look on her face, surprised yet pleased.“Wow! Your Japanese is amazing, I wouldn't have been able to tell you could speak our language,” she said, as I unconsciously ignored her the second I heard the phrase, “Wow! Your Japanese...” and walked to my train without confirming if it was the right one. That wasn't the first time I've heard that. In fact, I couldn't keep track of how many times I've been told obliquely that I don't look Japanese, or someone wouldn't expect me to speak Japanese because I'm not “yellow.” After all, I was born and raised there. All I could think was,“of course they don't know that about me, of course they see me as a foreigner.”

At 7: I stopped by my favorite bread shop and was greeted by the fragrance of my favorite curry bread in all of Tokyo.“The regular?” asked the same kind lady who

greeted me every day with the same white, clean, unstained apron as she handed me the world famous curry bread with the same contagious smile. At 7: , as I was busy devouring my luxurious yet very simple homely flavor of the curry bread, I hastily walked into my Yamanote train bound for Nishi Ojima. I sat next to a school girl with a uniform similar to mine, with a short blue plaid skirt and a white oxford shirt, except mine was for an international school.“What school do you go to?” I looked around the crowded train and realized she was talking to me, the only brown girl on the train.“IISJ” I said calmly, downplaying how excited I was that someone finally spoke to me without questioning me first. Aimi, as she introduced herself to me, naturally made conversation with me the whole train ride. It was as though there was a castle in the air. I felt like my home was finally my home. After Aimi came Sui, Hikari, and Himawari, all joining me at 7: Yamanote Line every day.

Feelings of acceptance. The same feeling I felt on that day when I was headed to school on the 7: Shinjuku Line train in Japan, made a consistent appearance every day in my new setting as I present this story. Our Lady of Good Counsel, a high school in the United States with many students including students like me, students who each have a different belonging.“Are you the Indian girl that can speak Japanese?” asked a classmate who also caught my eye because of their unique appearance.“Yes, thats me” I said.

In era

Abby Beihalu

My sense of self is laced with the bitter aroma of injera at dawn

Like an infant clinging to her mother’s body

The smell clenches onto my person alerting passerbys an Habesha has engulfed the room with an ode to a homeland I long to connect with. I want a connection so strong the moon and sun will stare intently in burning envy

So real young lovers mimic the rhythm of it’s beat

So beautiful it’s passion paints the night sky with the vibrant colors of green, and yellow, and red

No need for the stars

My dear we have my bandeera

Like a lion’s roar infiltrating their souls as the soundtrack behind my country’s might See, you will hear me.

I begin as a baby swinging from the gabi wrapped upon my mother’s back Coffee roasting on the stove being grinded into the cini I’m not allowed to touch It’s fragile nature speaks to the fragility

We As Ethiopians

Are not allowed to have.

My mom always told me “be malkes minim ay genyim” By crying you get nothing

So I suck up my tears and my Habesha pride and trek on like my ancestors on the path to something greater, Always on the hunt.

I am a child entering elementary

The native tongue my grandmother bestowed upon me couldn’t sing to the melody of the mouths of the other children.

I am the the child of the diaspora outcasts

Unable to grasp this newfound dialect they call English, As they are unable to wrap their mouths around my last name “Be-hay-lu, Bee-hay-lu, Ba-ha-lu.”

I just won’t even say it

I wish they would try as hard to mimic my tongue as I do their own, relentlessly burying my body in their stories, reading gibberish words

Until I understand.

And we, as Ethiopians, won’t stop until we understand Because business isn’t business until it’s finished.

I am in middle school

Stuck between the narrative of my two battling nations spewing their agenda in each one of my ears

A pressing decision while I felt I didn’t belong to either My injera stained clothing clashed with my Jordan’s, and hotdogs and red, white, and blue

I am a preacher preaching the lyrics of a confused song prancing along the beat of a confused girl.

I am stuck between trying and being, Language and language, Stars and stripes or a lion. Regardless you will hear this conflicted roar mixed into my infusion of doro wat and hamburgers

Like a infant who just found her voice,mine will never quiet

Like the moon finds the sun I will find my balance Now, I am both.

WhDimitri Rosenthal

I sit at home and all is well, We talk and we love We understand and listen, But I walk outside and I see division.

Why must we tear each other down, I go about with the best of intentions in mind, I try to spread positivity all around, But some are hateful and blind.

Why must we spread lies, I try to find the truth, Which now that I think of it, What does that even mean? Anyone can question everything, But not anyone can confirm anything. Riding on such a wave of digital information, It is easy to stumble and drown in frustration.

Nevertheless, I try to find the truth. Through self reflective music remedies, From private mega concerts of one, To melting into my physics and calculus textbook. These are my attempts to find any and all truth.

Why has my generation forgotten about rock, This one may be insignificant to many, But as a musician I wish I could reverse that clock.

I want to live when such classics were released, Ah, to hear everlong so ever long ago. Or to listen to today back in 1979.

I notice all of this, While others live ignorantly in bliss.

Con

Hannah Phan

Congratulations! You’ve won. Your smile reaches your eyes

As you look through the screen with a glint, reading what The machine bleeds

Paycheck to paycheck finally gone Money, an absolute, in his hands

He’ll probably pay rent first Store the rest away for later Will he remember all he didn’t have?

I know exactly what will occur Seen what arises from such a supposed Content, satisfied ending Everybody forgets the before

My alo

James Ogoti

I never go to sleep without a satin pillowcase or my hair bonnet. Every night, I moisturize my hair with deluxe coconut conditioner and shea butter. I rub it deep into the thirsty roots. To give my hair the respect it deserves, I never dry it with a towel because that would make the curls collapse. When I don’t have enough time to let my curls air-dry naturally, I use a blow dryer with a diffuser and strictly cold air, because heat turns my curls into lifeless strands that hold no character. The ritual of tending to my hair wakes me up in the morning and is part of my process of preparing for bed at night. My complete attention to the tiniest grooming details may seem vain, however, my hair is and has been an important symbol of who I am my entire life. My hair is a sign to the world that I am who I am, both inside and out. Most importantly, it speaks of my unique origins and my respect for where I come from.

I try to detangle my hair every once in a while with a brush; by doing so, I am celebrating the clear strands of my distinctive heritage. I don’t expect people to see me and know my origin story based on my appearance, but my hair just may be my greatest storyteller. I am proud of my dark brown curly hair with its taper fade and afro silhouette. When I walk, my coiled curls flow like tall marshy grass in the wind. My curls roll like the green

sun-drenched hills of western Kenya, stand out like the stark grey cliffs of the Irish coast, and are as cool as the shade of the trees in the Black Forest. All three are places that have made me who I am and are alive in my hair.

No wonder my mother gasped one night at dinner when my father suddenly said,“You need to cut it.” The words themselves were sharp as scissors.“Please, his hair is beautiful and it represents our combined heritage.” For her, as for me, my hair is special and something to be proud of. My Kenyan father, whose features I share, sees my hair through the lens of a poor village boy who struggled to survive and make something of himself in post-colonial Africa. To him, the time and care I devote to my hair is wasteful and unnecessary, requiring too much fuss for too much hair. In contrast to mine, my father’s closely shaved hair is the ideal look for a respectable, successful Kenyan man and is the epitome of masculine military minimalism. In my opinion, it is soulless. My mother and I both know that his wild statement about cutting my curls grows out of both love and fear, and his deepest held hopes for my future. However, I will continue to resist my father’s ongoing demand to “Do something with that hair!” I will not let his fear of how the world perceives me change how I see myself. I will continue to care for it

like a gift from my ancestors, and will accept both the admiration and disdain that come with it. To my culturally conservative father, my big, wild hair represents nonconformity, which he cannot abide. To my mother, my hair represents a celebration of all the love that brought me into the world, and her hopes for how the world should be. For me, my hair is uniquely mine, and shows the world I am here, this is who I am. No apologies.

Underdogged Youth

Sean Dias

When we are sad, and they are glad, Some tell us to just “shake it off” and “be a man”. When we are glad, and they are sad, Some tell us that we’re given more than they ever had. The hardest part is understanding how we and them Suffer both day and night. The hardest part is understanding that Most of them are also right….

They took us away from our homeland one by one, To fight a war we never could have ever had won. Because of this I never got to feel eighteen, Instead I was left inside this jungle to bleed. The men in white had stripped our rights for just being colored. We had to fight for dignity which others are insured. Never did we think we’d have to hide under desks, until they found our neighbors to be Communist.

Our parents always told us that we’re weak to the soul, but in the meantime we needed good old Rock and Roll. Everyday it feels like I’m about to break.

We give you everything for your well-being’s sake. What are you depressed about?

Now let me tell you something now; Hear me out! Think of all the good things that we’re doing now. Life was so simple then, no touch screens, no glitches. Life was more experienced in all its riches. We’re all so focused on ourselves to get things done. What’s the point in sanity if push comes to shove? We’re constantly bombarded with all these lies, the future of our youth glows in blue light.

I hate myself for feeling like you don’t understand. But that don’t matter once I have the gun in my hand. Everyday I feel like I’m going to snap.

I got so much to do and I feel crap. Don’t know what we’re depressed about.

It’s totally normal, even natural, For you to hate the way we rock. But remember when you were our age, And reality was also a shock. Don’t just underestimate us Just because of our shinier shoes, Cause when you walk a mile in them, You finally see the underdogged youth….

Green ith En y

Sydney Campbell

“Tarryn, stop stressing. Everyone knows you’re bound to get the part,” everyone told me as we waited for the cast list to be posted.  They were right.  I was always the most likely to be the star as I had always been the lead, even as a first year, which was unheard of at LaGuardia: a school with no safety nets. Before each semester, ten students were cut from the theatre cohort, and each semester, I worked tirelessly to ensure that I was not one of  them. However, the certainty I typically felt before a cast list was posted disappeared when she arrived.

No one knew where Raven came from. She simply showed up at this year's audition, which was not open to everyone, with every line meticulously memorized and masterfully enacted. Every aspect of her exuded life, from her vibrant and bountiful scarlett hair, to her rosy cheeks, except for her hollow grey eyes that didn’t communicate joy nor passion, only hunger, and without a word exchanged between  us, I immediately knew that she was hungry for the starring role.

As everyone in the theatre hallway was panicking about what  part they were going to play in this year’s holiday production, she stood with an eerie calmness, like the part was already hers,  and when the list was finally posted, it turned out she was right in her tranquility-the part was hers even though it was supposed to be mine. The only consistency on the list was that Jamie was the male lead. We were always leads together, practicing together, and now, we had nothing.

At the news that I had some insignificant role, Jamie placed his hand on my shoulder and smiled at me. That priceless smile alone guaranteed that he would one day be adorning movie screens. I wanted that moment to last forever, but he instead moved on to introduce himself to Raven, his new co-star. In one audition, she got everything I wanted: the chance to stand in the spotlight; the chance to stand next to him.

When James shook her hand, those hollow eyes that were on him turned to me, and suddenly my pity party was interrupted as I was swallowed by the sound of flies. What sounded like dozens of them were swarming around my face even though this campus was kept impeccably clean and I had never before seen an insect in these halls. The only part of our school that was not clean were the bathrooms that were too old to be maintained and had leaky faucets where mold and mildew thrived.

Although I was bombarded by these flies, no one else noticed because for the first time since I’d gotten here, no one was looking at me. In our theatre cohort, everyone’s eyes were in constant motion, switching back and forth from our own reflections to each other with eerie observation of everyone’s strengths and weaknesses, trying to find a leg up. The only thing worse than the feeling that everyone was watching you, hypnotized by the fantasy of your failure was the feeling of their eyes abandoning you. It was remarkable how quickly those eyes fixated on her when her talent became more relevant than mine.

For an entire month, I started every morning woken up by that swarm of flies instead of an alarm. That sound chased me in my dreams, communicating an omen I didn’t want to see. Even in our dining hall surrounded by food, the flies were only interested in me. I always sat with Larissa who was used to being my understudy on the stage as well as in real life. Thankfully, she pretended like the flies weren’t there.

“You’re so obvious,” she laughed as I turned to stare at Jamie and Raven sitting together as they had been for weeks.

“She just got here. How are they already sitting together? And where is everyone else?” Usually, our table was filled with several other kids at our cohort and we would sit and lament about strenuous rehearsals or stressful classes. Larissa pointed directly to the table directly next to Raven where my old friends sat attempting to covertly observe her.

“So I lost them to her too?”

“I think they’re just curious,” she said,“and maybe they’re trying to avoid you know… the smell.”

“The what?” She looked away clearly regretting having said anything. It was at that moment that I realized that I had a stench. It wasn’t one that would go away with showers and perfume, for it wasn’t an average smell. Instead, I tainted the air with a quality of maggots and rotting roses that are strapped on top of caskets as they’re buried six feet under.

Rehearsal only made matters worse, as I watched their scenes from the wings of the stage. It was unbearable to watch them kiss on stage. His eyes would be closed, soaking in the moment, while Raven would tauntingly keep hers open fixated on me. It was so insufferable that I would sometimes have to leave rehearsal due to nosebleeds.

Oddly enough, the blood wasn’t red like Raven’s hair; instead, it was disturbingly dark grey. I couldn’t even escape their lethal presence in class. Of course, both of them had to be in my biology class. During our fetal pig dissection, it was no surprise that they immediately volunteered to be partners, while I was stuck working with Larissa.

Post-mortem organisms undergo a process called skin-slippage,” our teacher lectured,“where the skin becomes disconnected from its body. Other noticeable traits of the skin include discoloration, brittleness and vein visibility.”

I probably should have been writing down that information, but I was too focused on how Jamie’s smile at Raven was unwavering even when she was doing something as disgusting as cutting open a pig.

“No way!” Larissa exclaimed,“you’re genuinely green with envy. I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Neither did I…”

I immediately left the bathroom to figure out how skin that’s usually too dark to reveal when I’m blushing could be green.

Normally, I exclusively reserve boldness and obvious forms of expression for the stage, but when I saw my reflection, I let out a scream that was so ferocious that I was surprised it came out of my mouth. I couldn’t help myself when I saw that like the poor pig that was violently cut into in our science lab, my skin was a collage of morose shades of green and grey and my veins protruded out of my skin the way headstones stick out of the ground.

“There you are Tarryn,” I expected Larrisa, but I was surprised to see Raven instead,“We thought we heard a scream, so I came to check on you.” As I listened to her sound so  nauseatingly caring, I realized that in all my weeks of hating her, I had never actually spoken to her. That pattern continued since I was too overcome by the fear of my own reflection to respond.

“You know I grew up here,” she said.

“In New York?” I managed to mutter.

“No,” she giggled,“here.” She looked around like the bathroom that I thought could only birth bacteria and mold was her home. In spite of her odd comment, I persisted in silence. I was still obsessing over my suddenly grotesque appearance.

“Just wait until your teeth start to fall out,” she smiled.

What?”

“Well that’s the next step,” she remarked as she crept towards me and placed her hand on my decrepit cheek. Her eyes traveled from my dried out skin to the flies that became my most loyal companions and she whispered,“you’re almost ready.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry, everyone’s too busy staring at me to notice how strange you look.”

The most unnerving part of this entire encounter was the smile she gave me right before she left. I had been obsessing over her since the beginning of the school year; how had I not noticed how sharp her teeth were?

On the day of the production, I decided to accept that my performance was only of value to me since everyone was staring at her. Even my dad, my only family, was off on a

business trip. Although I had no real audience, I gave my best performance pretending that Jamie's scenes with Raven didn’t bother me and that I wasn’t horrified by Raven’s presence.

I didn’t feel the usual thrill I typically felt when the curtains closed. Instead, I was burdened by a cumbersome feeling of weakness. My bones felt like sand and they were too weak to hold up my body. Maybe that’s why I was suddenly on the ground. The last thing I saw was Raven, who I had been strategically avoiding since the bathroom, telling everyone not to worry and that she could take care of me.

When I woke up, I was immediately comforted by the fact that I was in the theatre room, one of the few places for creativity and self-expression, but that comfort developed into paralyzing fear as I saw those hollow eyes observing me from across the room.

“Isn’t it lucky that our final performance happened at the dawn of Christmas break, she said,“ Now, no one will be suspicious as to why they haven’t seen you.”

I wanted to cry. The ugly type of sobbing that fills the room with a cacophony of wills, but my eyes were too dry to produce any tears, and the panic that infected me prevented me from making any noise.

“If it makes you feel better,” she said in her misleadingly cheery tone,“Jamie texted you to see if you’re okay. I, of course, replied for you, promising that you’re okay.” Jamie always had this kindness that no one at LaGuardia deserved, especially Raven.

“Your school is so perfect,” she continued,“You all are so busy looking at yourselves and each other that no one noticed me as a larva growing in bathrooms. I grew up so ravenous that I am so thrilled to have found you: the star. You had so much to lose, so much potential for jealousy.”

As she monologued, I observed how truly beautiful this hedonistic parasite was. It’s only fitting; beauty hides horror the way handsome faces deliver heartbreak.

“So now we wait,” she announced,“for your final phase.”

For days we stayed in the theatre classroom while she watched me. Too weak tostand, I was stuck awaiting my own demise. Like she predicted, my teeth turned black and fell out. The same happened to my nails, and the stench that warded off my friends became so strong you could taste it in the air. I couldn’t take it, so I surrendered my  pride and begged her to consume me now and put me out of misery.

“Oh Tarryn,” she smiled,“haven’t you figured it out. I don't eat living things.”

Olivia DiJulio

Big ed

Andria Troy

“Nope, there is no way I am ever driving this truck,” was the first thing I said to my dad when I took a ride in the 999 Ford F- he had just bought. As I looked out the window of the truck, the surrounding cars looked like ants. It was big, almost too big, and nerves set in as I realized I would soon be driving this huge vehicle myself. I had wanted my dad to buy a car that was shiny and new, but instead he bought a truck that was rusty and old. Ironically, this old truck that I scoffed at in the beginning, would become a treasure I would grow to love.

Still having only a learners permit in my wallet, I could not drive without an adult. This gave me a few weeks to settle in and learn my way around the truck. I later passed my drivers test, but still felt uneasy taking the wheel of the shaky old pick up. It was not the most reliable car, and within a few weeks of me driving alone, it had already broken down. In the mornings before driving, I would have to warm it up, as old trucks need. The ignition would stutter to start and some days the truck would not turn on at all.

Despite the quirks, I grew to enjoy the truck's off-beat character. It had a great red color, oversized wheels, and the cab had room for a backseat. On weekends, my friends andI would pile into the truck after a sleepover and go out for bagels. In our urban area, this is an unusual sight. It was never intended, but gradually I came to drive the truck more than my dad did.

I have always been taught that girls shouldn't be driving big trucks. It's men who we expect to see behind the wheel. I felt most aware of this stigma at gas stations because of the concerning looks and comments I would recieve.“You really drive that big thing?” I always loved that comment. I was able to prove this myth wrong by learning to maneuver the truck with no problem. Eventually, the looks went from disapproval to amazement because I showed complete control over the Ford.

Cars for years have given teenagers a sense of freedom and independence. I knew this was true, but I didn't expect it to happen in the form of a year old pick up truck. Climbing up into the raised seat made me feel like I was on top of the world. It gave me confidence in a variety of ways, as simple as parking the truck in a tight spot. As a young teenage girl, I have enjoyed breaking the mold and being different. I learned that in many instances, happiness can come in unexpected ways.

Start Up Noise

Hannah Phan

Click. The sound of a door opening.

The place of the scene of a crime that happened twice.

Wasn’t it enough to live in our house for as long as we did?

All the places you took us to were too loud because we were there.

All the plans of revenge you had were torn apart by me

Even if you ended up ripping the pieces yourself

You see, I’m sitting here now, picking them up.

Because I’m scared that all I’ll do with the life you had given me was take it

I gather what I remember to put together a person that will say I love you

And thank you. I’m proud of you.

Don’t open the door.

A Day in the Li e

Myles Johnson

Over policing us

Mistreating us

Misleading us

Steady beating us

We have no faith cause hope is leaving us

Forced to abide by the rules that they’re feeding us

I don't mean silver spoon…well some of us

School bus to prison bus

There’s a connection, trust

Systemic oppression against us thus…

Kids put in situations where it’s succeed or bust

Lack the tools society seeks in us

Parents teach you to do what society expects

No Hoodies

No Du-rags

No Jewelry

Only way to get respect

No self expression

No freedom

Still no respect

What kind of society is that?

One that is destined to fail

One that won’t let you prevail

Only thing you can do is…

Stand strong, Stand tall

And always pick yourself up when you fall

Prisoner o the Mind

Megan Reed

“How are you” makes a puddle of cold tension of water want to be released from the prisoner, but all that is seen is a tight half grin arresting the emotion. Apparently, I’m not trying enough to break through my holding cell, yet my mind and heart are screeching that I am. A blank scare in the eyes simply wishing it could care. I, at times, wish God would just send me a death warrant. I feel guilty that people have to deal with my intensity of emotions, Shooting and killing people I love in the process. I should be a prisoner of jail, but all I am is a prisoner of my mind. Is my sentence for a lifetime or for all time?

Family History

Olivia DiJulio

Desperate fists pounded on our hotel’s bathroom door, demanding it to open. It didn’t seem to do much, given I was only months old, but my determination outweighed my size.On the other side of that door was a man, his dark hair and tan skin being the only thing familiar to my confused self. A few feet away, a woman with a light complexion watched me, her brows furrowed. She quickly scooped me up and tried to hush my incessant wailing. I apparently had quite the set of lungs.“We need to work this out before we go home,” she sighed.

That man was my dad, and the woman cradling my screaming self was my mom. I had been placed into their arms just days prior. My time in Guangxi, China, led me to my home in Rockville, Maryland. My parents have shared stories of my adoption so often that I could almost picture it. Almost. They often joke about how they thought my Chinese name was translated to peace and calm, only to learn from a tour guide that it was, “like a boom!" How fitting.

I have little information from my first year of life, and the mementos we do have are scarce but precious. My family kept this giant red book filled with photos of my parent’s journey to meet me. Flipping through its pages was like peeking into a world I never knew existed. My baby self felt like a stranger staring back at me, standing in the countryside of Guangxi. Even

though my parents could go on for hours about their experience in China, no one could ever tell me about mine. The earliest moments of my life could only be explained with government documents and photos. I knew that was me captured in that red book, but there was this disconnection that remained in my consciousness as I grew older.

I had the typical American childhood of holidays, barbecues, sleepovers, and visits to McDonald’s. My mom had me playing every sport imaginable, and my dad let me hold a chef’s knife at the age of six. I would spend hours playing with Legos, toy cars, and all the art supplies that littered my bedroom. During weekends I would be glued to the Science Channel, watching How It’s Made episodes after forcing my older sister to play Wii Sports with me. My childhood was typical, but I grew to feel atypical.

In third grade, I was assigned a project to create a poster of my family history. While I was presenting, some of my classmates turned their heads and said,“So where is your real mom?” I froze, stunned by the question, but it wasn’t the first of its kind. The curiosity of kids often breeds the bluntest of inquiries. I was too familiar with peers asking,“Can you speak Chinese?” or “How much did you cost?” and “How are both your parents white?” I knew they weren't trying to

be malicious, but I still felt invalidated and hurt. I didn't let it bother me since many of my questions will never be answered. The unknown was a familiar friend in the absence of my family history.

Growing up in a white, middle-class family in a predominantly white neighborhood while attending a private school, I had limited exposure to diversity. It never occurred to me that there was more to my culture than the Chinese food we would get on my gotcha day. My impressionable, younger-self, wanted to be just like all the other kids that I was surrounded by. I didn’t want to learn Mandarin, I didn’t want to learn anything about my culture. I was afraid of being judged, I was ashamed of being adopted. I wanted to say that I looked just like my parents, I wanted to be just like the main characters I saw in movies, and I wanted to be what I wasn’t. At the time, I honestly believed that my genes were the cause of my problems, that my life would suddenly become perfect if I could just change my appearance.

Over time, it became easier to lie about my origins than to explain the whole adoption story. I was caught between embracing my past and trying to hide it away. I was stuck trying to be a part of a culture I could never truly claim. I never felt qualified to join AAPI-related clubs, always feeling guilty about marking myself as Asian in standardized surveys. I couldn’t identify as Asian American or white. I could research my culture all that I wanted, but it wasn’t the same. I

couldn’t relate to any of my friends in that aspect. Growing up with white privilege while not matching the outside criteria formed a rift in my perception of myself. Not sure how to handle my mixed-up feelings, I looked inward and turned to my passion for creating things.

The arts became my way of expression, and I began exploring visual mediums, music, and theater. I was, and still am, discovering myself and what is important to me. I made and lost friends, dealt with microaggressions, and began worrying less about other people’s impressions of me. For the first time in a while, I felt content. I realized that being adopted didn’t define my weaknesses but has shaped the way I view the world. Facing the misunderstandings of my peers has overall made me a stronger and more perceptive person. The creative process often reminds me of my own life, like learning how to love one’s creations. It’s a journey of exploration, perseverance, and overcoming challenges unique to my situation.

Dear l k ir in America

Abby Beihalu

Dear black girl in America,

I will narrate a tale which seldom travels from the lips of society to the breath in your ears

My mother spun this unsung song to me as I fiddled amongst my childhood dolls and wrapped my arms around my youthful bliss

My dear, you are beautiful

Your skin glows as does the sun paving the way for the moon foreshadowing the night sky.

Here, in this transition I find your beauty exceptionally breathtaking

The way your hips sashay to the rhythm of the breeze

Your beautifully nappy or curly or braided or dreaded or any textured hair

Societal lenses mimicking your movements

Though simultaneously shaming you for moving at all

They spear your essence to the noose lined across the bodies of your ancestors

And perched upon Capitol Hill

I know you remember

Wars on everything black

Everything hip hop

Everything a little too ghetto

Or a little too hood

Our rhythm scares them

Doesn’t it?

We are foot soldiers on this battlefield we never wished to fight on Drafted into this relentless war at birth when our skin was painted a darker pigment than their own

When that melanin seeped into our bodies at the hands of our maker

Molding us from the mountain of stereotyped clay as prejudice was breathed into our lungs

I was unaware that the kiss of melanin would align me with a sinful love

I didn’t know that a color was means for determining a person’s character

But my dear,

Since it is, please take it

From me, from those I love, from those who are loved

Like my mother taught me

We are always taught to remember our black is beautiful

Until people who are blind to its beauty are handed weapons

Until people who are deaf to it’s burning passion fill the inhabitants of this world

Because being black is great until it’s time to be black

Until your body freezes at the uproar of sirens approaching your vehicle for what could be a traffic stop, or what could be the end of your being

If you are not guilty of this crime, you must be of another

Because your skin is all the conviction that officer needs

Being black is great until you’re sitting on your throne up above hearing the piercing cries from your Mama begging her baby to come down

“You were just a kid”

She says

They took my baby

They took my baby

God, why would you let them take my baby

I told him not to wear that hoodie

I told him not to walk with his hands in his pockets

Or play that damn music too loud

I told him to say yes sir, and yes ma’am

Because I know how this world fears that black skin

Being black is great until you watch your mama trembling in front of your casket crying out to the sky saying he took you too soon

Until you feel proud that you got to be another reason your family came together

These tear laced reunions only ever occur on the graveyard

Don’t they?

Your lifeless body lying next to your cousin’s

And uncle’s

And father’s

And sister’s

A cycle you never thought you would be a part of but find yourself succumbed to

Until your face is plastered on the front of every t-shirt saying “long live”

Until your name is being chanted on an angry soundtrack at yet another protest

For that black skin being killed for being black

For being black at the wrong place at the wrong time

Our beauty is so mighty it can kill us

Our beauty is so effortless it can take our last breath

So precious the world can’t handle too much of it

Our bruised arms forced behind our bodies

Carried into that penitentiary

All because that home resides between those little red lines

For my dead homie, black says

For my block, black says

For my father who was never my father but I needed him to be my father, black says

Being black is a sin I never intended to carry

It morphed into this shackle weighing my scarred body down

This vicious cycle they think is so easy to break

Black is the child of tenacity

My skin is so beautiful

It can take lives

On the History o Myself

Colin Harney

On the history of myself

A wise man once said, men make their own history, but not as they please.

The history that I made for myself, also made me, it is a loop, going on until death.

On the cusp of adolescence, an impulse destroyed all I had built, that’s my history, the pivotal point of my life so far.

The youthful, outgoing me died, I was now haunted by my mistake, a specter weighing me down.

The broad strokes of my identity remained, but the color had been drained from them, and I spent the next four years dour and down.

The plague came halfway through, and I grew further and further away, something had to change.

So now I am trying to mend things, for although men do not make their own history, I can steer it all the same.