Stanford Anthology for Youth: Volume 23

Stanford Anthology for Youth

***

Please Read and
Listen

Copyright ©2020 Stanford Anthology for Youth
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or repro-

duced without prior permission from
Stanford Anthology for Youth.

Layout and Design by Alyzah Fregoso.
Stanford Anthology for Youth
[email protected]
Stanford, Calif.

Stanford Anthology for Youth strives to ensure the originality of the
submissions contained within this publication. Stanford Anthology for
Youth assumes no responsibility for any works that may not be the orig-

inal creation of the contributor to whom the piece is credited.

Please
Read and Listen

***

Stanford Anthology for Youth
Volume 23

COVER

*** Title: Excerpt from “Hello” by Megan O’keefe. Megan is
someone who finds inspiration in just about everything.
She likes to write in the comfort of her room, with just
the right amount of music to inspire her next piece.

*** Cover Art: “Climate Change” by Kylie Outten. Kylie is a
student at Blach Middle School. She has an active imag-
ination and likes spending time with her family, friends,
and two dogs.

EDITORIAL BOARD

Alyzah Fregoso (Editor-In-Chief)
Becky Weinstein
Riley Jackson
Brice Jansen
Isabella Ainsworth
Eden Mack

DEAR WRITERS

At the start of this year, there was hope. Hope for 2020, hope
that the start of a new decade would bring with it a new beginning,
a means through which we could counter all of the issues that the
world has bombarded us with. But as the year went on, we found
ourself faced with issues we never would have imagined possible
at the beginning of this year. We currently live in unprecedented
times, a fact that is undeniable. We are facing a global pandemic that
has left many of us sheltered in place for the past few months and
has forced others to risk their lives daily to keep the world turning,
whether they are working in hospitals, grocery stores, fields, or ware-
houses. Instead of delivering this year’s volume to you directly, as we
hoped to be able to do this year, we are solely publishing this elec-
tronically, a first in our organization’s history. More than anything,
we hope that you and your loved ones are safe and healthy, and that
this anthology brings some sort of light to you in these difficult
times.
As this letter is being written, protests are erupting across the
country, led by Black people who are fed up with the way the police–
and this entire country–have treated them year after year, generation
after generation. To any Black authors included in this anthology, we
apologize for everything this country has put you through. Those of
us who are not Black will never be able to understand the pain you
are constantly forced to endure, but we stand by you, and we sup-
port you, and we see you. We want your voices and your stories and
your outrage to be heard and understood. We want this country to
change. To our non-Black authors of color and to our white authors,
we hope that you use your voices in order to show your support to
and fight for your Black peers.

One thing that stands out above all else in the pieces included
in this year’s anthology is that all of you have shown that you have
a voice that wants to be heard. You want your emotions and your
stories to be read and to have an impact. You are angry about climate
change, frustrated with politicians that are not truly for the people
they are meant to serve, and mourning the loss of loved ones, but
you are also celebrating your heritage and culture, passionate about
your art and craft, and yearning to express your creativity. You have
so much inside of you that needs to be let out, and you express it
beautifully through your stories and your artwork.
As creatives, you are in a unique position. Art is powerful,
whether it be in the form of written word or paint on a canvas. Art
has the power to move people and change minds. We ask that you
keep creating and using your creations for good. We ask that you
use your art to channel the urgency that is so apparent in so many of
your pieces in order to inspire change. You have the power to fight
for the future of this country because your generation is the future.
Do that which the world so desperately needs.
And to the world, we ask that you please read and listen.
The Editors, Stanford Anthology for Youth
June 2020

FIND THE ARTISTS

Cover Kylie Outten
40
133 Climate Change
16 Lion of Visibility
66 Barcelona Duck
27
117 Sabine Fuchs
239
30 Home
50 Boy Splashing
65
216 Sophia Lee
77
91 The Horrifying Truth
98 The Praying Madonna
Valiant Apollo

Ella Satterwhite

Chaos

Safina Syed

Lean On Me

Khushi Kolte

Colors of an Elephant
Dancing Dophins In Sunset

Saemi Lock

The Woman

Daphne Hsu

A Café Window View

Ela Weintraub

untitled

Ela Weintraub Amelia Renfro

104 Midsummer Glow

Olivia Moon Olivia Moon

108 Constellations
141 The Guardian
246 Blooming

127 Dina Goldman

D Sunset

130 Rena Kim
156
Autumn Silhouette
Rena Kim Let Your Hope Go

148 Abirami Kumar

Carl Crum A Walk in the Forest

173 Carl Crum

Aija Zhang Screaming Squirrel

182 Aija Zhang
209
234 Three Animal Portraits
Hey Dude
Natalie Ward The End

190 Natalie Ward

Kristiana Hus The Cat’s Blank Stare

199 Kristiana Husbands

Sophie Rong Your Classic Comic Book Shock

221 Sophie Rong

Saanika A Sad Puppy

226 Saanika A
250
Drowning
The Island

TABLE OF CONTENTS

14 Hello

Megan O’keefe

18 Dodgy John

Victor Gomez

24 THE FLAME

Carl Crum

28 Golden to Black

Sabine Fuchs

29 We Are Made Of

Francis Luo

32 Inheritance

Myesha Phukan

34 Leaving

Annabelle Lee

37 Goodbye and Hello

Eine Youn

42 Hello

Maggie Wang

43 Excessively Homesick

Kristiana Husbands

52 Just a Little Girl

Claire Dulsky

54 Clementine
59
62 Charlotte Jett
67
70 Butterflies
75
78 Hannah Delizo
80
83 Rain
87
89 Megan Wilson
94
100 Grown Up

Charlotte Podmore

Assumed Identical

Skye Chan

The Woman In the Curtains

Giselle Burns

Fragile Like You

Madeleine Ledford

Reprogrammed

Zofia Pina

The Bubble Popper

Addison Johnson

Accept Me

Mikaila Miller

The Never-Answered Question

Claire Dulsky

Remember

Collin Liou

Passed On

Katherine Silva

106 The Cycle of Purpose

Safina Sayed

109 Up There

Madelyn Doohan

113 The Hat

Matteo Navarro

119 Cherry Tree

Kylie Outten

122 Survivor

Michael Dai

125 Spirits from China

Grace Ker

128 Cadamil

Colin Ternus

131 Autumn

Myesha Phukan

134 The Skipping Stone

Josi O’Brien

137 Edge of the Unknown

Amelia Renfro

139 The Dragon’s Call

Nisha Shenoy

142 Cerulean

Danica Madan

141 We Are One

Avni Nath

145 An Alien Assassin
150
155 Francis Luo
157
171 Dawn
174
Anika Mohan
177
184 The Dreams We Have Forgotten
189
193 Sophia Lee
207
210 The Lightning Touch
212
Juliet Klinke

Noisufnoc

Kylie Outten

A Day At School (Wednesday Bell
Schedule)

Hatty Steele

The Ten-Minute Robberies

Carson Tsai

The Revenge of the Runaway Chickens

Anuja Ganguli

The Life and Opinions of a Cat

Rebecca Kapiloff

A Room Full of Dogs

Mia Green

Nerf Battle

Evan Morris

The Cross Country Meet

Tanay Doppalapudi

Volleyball

Katherine Silva

214 Best Friends
218
Ela Weintraub
219
222 Doggo
227
232 Carter Norton
236
238 A Rainbow in the Clouds
241
243 Natalie De Marco
248
251 Pitter-Pat

Annabelle Lee

Into the Deep

Luca Barros

Contemplation

Jay Iyer

The Rebel

David Henri

Hours in the Morning

Lindsey Bastis

An Effortless Instrument

Blanche Li

The Blue Danube

Olivia Moon

Down Under

Aden Richman

Stories

Hannah Rutherford

Megan O’keefe *

Hello
Hello.
Please read and listen
For I am from the future
Please read and listen
For it isn’t too late
You can change what is coming
The forests blacker than coal
Oil flooding our oceans
Our skies filled with smoke
Please read and listen
For I remember when I had hope
That one day
Our children would save us
But the hate brought them down
And they stopped trying
Because they didn’t believe that they could
Please read and listen
For I remember when they sent
A family into space
To live on mars
And I remember the day
When the rocket came back
Dry and empty as our planet was becoming
Our children would save us

* Megan is someone who finds inspiration in just about everything. She likes to
write in the comfort of her room, with just the right amount of music to inspire
her next piece.

14

But the hate brought them down
And they stopped trying
Because they didn’t believe that they could
Please read and listen
For I remember when they sent
A family into space
To live on mars
And I remember the day
When the rocket came back
Dry and empty as our planet was becoming
Please read and listen
I remember when
The countries of the world
Fought
The armies marched in
The military stormed
The navies roared
And when it was over
A massive graveyard stood
To hold everyone who died
The young soldiers
Who never had a choice
To fight against the tanks
Charging their way
Please read and listen
Because now
I’m dying
My lungs filled with smoke
My brain twisted
With the gasses plaguing our lands
Please read and listen
For if you don’t
Whatever’s coming?
You’ll never stand a chance.

15





Victor Gomez *

Dodgy John

I was watching the news by myself in my room from multiple
devices, where they were broadcasting the Midterm Election. Listen-
ing to the phrase “Breaking News” once or twice every 20 seconds
from three different news stations. Seeing the votes get counted again
and again. At this moment, members of Congress would either get
elected or reelected. I was excited to see if any members that I hated
would lose their Congressional seat.
The polls were closing on the West Coast. “Alright, it’s now
11 PM on the East Coast, and right now we have a few projections,”
the newscaster explained. At the first projection, the action started.
“The incumbent liberal of the 14th district, John Hannity, has lost his
seat to the conservative candidate, Seth McSally.” At that moment, I
wasn’t surprised at all. John Hannity had a low approval rating due to
his radical corruption. He should’ve known better. If he didn’t do any
of that nonsense and kept his promises, he would’ve gotten reelected.

**One week before**
As I woke up from the loudness of my phone’s alarm, I al-
ready knew it was time for my daily hour of news. As I turned on

* Victor is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. He likes to hang out with “The
Boys” and become political at a random times. Politics is the subject he’s liked
a lot since the end of 2018. His political position is progressive. The people he
currently supports for the Democratic nomination (as of January 2020) are
Bernie Sanders, Elizabeth Warren, and Andrew Yang.

* “Home,” Sabine Fuchs (previous page). Sabine is a 7th grader in Ross, Cali-
fornia, where she spends her days with a pen or a paintbrush in her hand or
her face buried in a book. When she is not creating, she enjoys sailing across
Tomales Bay with the wind in her hair.

18

the TV and selected my preferred news channel, I instantly heard the
phrase “Breaking News.”
“Oh, right on time,” I said to myself.

“Breaking news, Congressman Hannity has been involved
in another corruption scandal,” the reporter said. “It is reported that
he has accepted more money from big oil companies. It is estimated
that he received 3 million dollars to support the companies, breaking
his campaign promises of ignoring the oil companies” he explained
in detail. “Joining us now is Progressive pundit, Kyle Kushner.
“Congressman Hannity has been caught in another corrup-
tion scandal that had to do with money, obviously. Why do you think
he keeps doing this?” the reporter questioned.
“Well, he’s really not a liberal Congressman at all. He prom-
ised that he would ignore the big corporations from giving him any
money,” Kyle said.
“But for what reason does he keep doing that?” the reporter
questioned again
“Probably because he wants to take the advantage from ev-
eryone else,” Kyle explained.
“So, going back to what you said earlier, why don’t you think
that he’s a liberal congressman?” questioned the reporter.
“He doesn’t act like one. He doesn’t feel like one in my opin-
ion. I would classify him as a conservative puppet,” he said.

As he said that, I started to wonder who this John is. I pulled
my phone out and looked up his name on Wikicite. It says that he’s a
40 year-old, liberal congressman from the 14th district of California.
As I continued to scroll down to the section on his political life, there
was an area in that section named “Scandals and Corruption of John
Hannity,” which I was interested in since the reporter and Kyle were
talking about it earlier. I read the section, and I was surprised by
what he had done. It said on one part, “The first incident occurred
on April 2, 2010, before the Midterm Election, when he was getting
money from Big Pharma.” As a progressive myself, I was disgusted by

19

the actions of this liberal. I was also wondering why this person was
representing my district. He didn’t sound great at all.
As I went to school, I couldn’t stop thinking about this
congressman. His nonsense made me think about him. 30 minutes
before the first bell rang, I was interested to see how popular he was.
I went to my trusty poll website, RealElectionPolitics, to see the polls
of him going against his conservative rival, Seth McSally. As I found
the most recent poll, I was surprised by the results. John Hannity was
polling at 43%, while his rival was polling at 57%.
As the first bell rang, I was thinking about more ways the
congressman could try to win. After school, it was time to watch the
news. As I got into my car to head home, I checked my phone for
notifications. The first notification was from The Associated Press, a
neutral news press, who, according to the more conservative spec-
trum, is “The Radical Left Press”. It was about Congressman Hannity.
The notification bar said “Congressman Hannity’s poll numbers have
gone down to a new record of 27%.”
“Well, he’s got no chance at all,” I said to myself. I searched up
the congressman to see if this was true on RealElectionPolitics. The
first thing that showed up was an ad for his campaign. It said they
were having a rally for the congressman at the nearby park by my
school. It was one day before the election, so I had to wait.
Another pop-up ad came up, but it came from a Anti-Cen-
trist website that showed a 20 second video from SubTube that has
12 million views and was uploaded 3 months ago. The title read
“Congressman Hannity yelling at protesters”. I immediately was
interested to see the video, so I clicked on it. As the video started, it
already had people talking.
Dodgy John Resign!” yelled a protester.
“Hey, I think you should shut that mouth of yours and leave!”
the congressman yelled in response.
“Resign! Resign! Resign!” chanted protesters.
“Can y’all shut you dirty mouths right now?” he yelled.
“NO! Until you admit the truth about you!” a protester said.
20

The video ends.
I was shocked by his bizarre actions towards other people. To
be fair, they were protesters, but the congressman took it a bit too far.
The only thing I liked about the video was that a protester was calling
him “Dodgy John,” which made sense since John wasn’t trustworthy.
I was kinda scared about going to the rally after this, but I felt like I
had to because I needed to hear and see the truth.

**The day of the event**
After school ended, I immediately went to the nearby park
to go to the rally. After I got in line and went through the security
checkpoint, I quickly ran to find a spot that was close enough to the
stage where the congressman was going to talk. A person came onto
the stage, welcoming everyone who came to the rally.
“Welcome everyone to the rally of Congressman John Hann-
ity,” they said. “Here you will hear the congressman on his ideas that
can change this 14th district for all.” The presenter rambled on for 20
minutes. And, finally, the action actually started.
“Everyone, please welcome Congressman John Hannity,” the
presenter said. Everyone began clapping, shouting, and whistling as
the congressman slowly came out from backstage.
“Hello everybody!” the congressman said. “Tomorrow, it
will be the day where you’ll get out and vote!” Everyone cheered
while I laughed because I’m not 18 years old. “Now, today, I’m gonna
talk about the fundamental issues we face in our district.” he said.
For over an hour, he talked about the most ridiculous things I’ve
ever heard like “The Public Option” and “Not taxing the extremely
wealthy.” He kept bringing up the phrase “Together We Will Make
History,” which is something a progressive would say. He told the
crowd that he “won’t listen to the people who have the most control.”
I was confused by that phrase because he has to listen to those types
of people.
After his speech, he left the stage so he could start answering
questions. Quite a risky thing to do. So I ran towards the congress-

21

man.
“Congressman! Congressman!” I yelled so I could get his
attention. He listened and then headed towards me after answering a
question. He had a stern face, looking like he knew what question I
was going to ask him, when he came closer.
“Congressman, recently you’re getting hammered by the
press since they know you’ve been getting money from big oil com-
panies and rich people. What is your response?” I asked.
“I don’t know anything about getting money from big donors.
Can we talk about something else?” he said.
“Why don’t you want to answer the question?”
“I just answered your question,” he said. “I have nothing to do
with any wealthy people giving me money,” he repeatedly explained
in a frustrating way.
“Congressman, there’s a bunch of evidence that said you have
committed bribery,” I said.
“I don’t want to hear about it,” he said.
“Why are you denying the truth?” I asked, trying to get him
to answer my question.
“I gotta go.”
He ran off so he could avoid questions from other reporters.
Then I realized something new about him, that he doesn’t take the
truth as an answer. He kept denying my questions thinking that they
were a bunch of nonsense. It felt like they were meaningless. But
tomorrow, he would certainly get his karma.
**Election day**
As the big day arrived, I was excited to watch the election for
more than eight hours. But the major event that was going to happen
was John Hannity losing his congressional seat. After I got home
from school, I turned on three news channels, CNC, Box, and NPC. I
then started to listen to the phrase “Breaking News” once or twice
every 20 seconds from the different news stations as the votes were
counted. People went wild on social media. Then it became boring
for the next half hour. News anchors were talking about candidates
22

who really didn’t matter. I didn’t recognize a single member they
talked about. The polls were closing on the West Coast. I was so ex-
cited to see if John would lose his seat.
“Alright, it is now 11 PM on the East Coast, and right now we
have a few projections,” the newscaster explained. At the first projec-
tion, the action started. “The incumbent liberal for the 14th district,
John Hannity, has lost his seat to the conservative candidate, Seth
McSally.”
At that moment, I wasn’t surprised at all. All John had to do
was tell the truth about himself. People would’ve thought that he was
honest, but he wanted to stay in the shadows of greed and corrup-
tion. Now, Seth Mcsally is now the congressman-elect of my district,
but I will never support him anyway.

23

Carl Crum *

THE FLAME

I peer over the paper and see a boy’s head above my gate.
What-what is that kid doing? My brows cross as he rises. A glove?
Bag? And is he holding a can? Where did he find that? I frown as he
drops the metal into his bag and jaywalks. However, I still study him,
entranced by his red coat, until he disappears from sight, his antics
leading him down the road.

Thumbing the paper’s pages while lifting my stiff legs onto
the footstool, I eventually choose the Business Section. I guess I’ll just
have to get used to that new treadmill. And it’s not like I’ll miss some-
thing by not walking these empty roads. There’s nothing to see. Never
has been.
Pht sh pht sh pht sh…
“Oh, no,” I mutter, recognizing the noise as the kid strides
into view, holding his dirty bag and wearing the same vibrant jacket.
Disturbing the morning again.
“Doesn’t he have any respect for this community?” I scorn-
fully exhale in a steamy cloud as he noisily grabs...something, if there’s
anything at all. What is trying to do; clean the street? These streets are
probably constantly swept. He doesn’t need to clean any roads. As he
heads along, seemingly oblivious to his unwelcome presence, I grin,
though. If he wants trash, he can have it.
I pull out the top item from the disgusting trash bin the

* Carl, who is an 8th grade student at Central Middle School, has several passions,
including wildlife and nature photography, astronomy, carpentry, blacksmith-
ing, reading, and ecological conservation. He aspires to reduce the global trash
issue through technology and wants to create high-efficiency clean energy
sources.

24

following morning and drop the deformed thing on the road. Any
minute now, my muscles tense in the porch chair, eyes flickering
from newspaper to street. This better work. When the boy finally
appears, his head snaps towards the plastic and he runs over and
snatches it, all while not even noticing my gaze. I wait a few mo-
ments, then grin and chuckle, my mind already planning tomorrow’s
load. Not having to wait a week for the trash truck? So be it!
The following day, I warmly cackle in the freezing air as the
boy struggles to scoop the garbage into his bag, reminding me of a
hunched beggar. “Pathetic,” I mutter, trying to hold in
another laugh.
Eventually, it’s impossible to remember a time before the boy.
He could be making hundreds for his work, yet he doesn’t even know
who he’s picking trash up for! Does he even find other trash? I answer
my own question: “Probably not,” I bark.

“Should I go out?” The thermometer reads far below freezing,
and the house heater is only a button away from turning on. But I
would miss the kid…
At the outdoor trash, I cringe from the odor as I grab all the
garbage bags and dump tissues, wrappers, fruit peels, and packing
peanuts on to the curb.
Despite the stench, a smile creeps across my face. What a pile.
The boy’s march soon draws near and I peek past the paper to
see him...he isn’t taking my garbage! My jaw drops and the paper falls.
I then spring from the chair and roar, “Hey, kid, you forgot some
trash!”
He slowly spins to glare at me, as if I was the frustrating one.
Why’s he giving me that look? It’s not like I’m forcing him to pick up
garbage every day, and–
Suddenly, he shouts, “Come here!” his voice booming. Scowl-
ing, I stomp to the gate–what a brat–and glance down, towering over
him, but his icy expression still cuts like daggers. He gestures to the
pile, and I’m forced to look down.
Solemnly, he asks, “Why do you do this?”

25

Before I can yell back, he adds, “Do you really not think that
I hear you laughing every morning? And that I notice you grin-
ning behind your newspaper whenever I stoop down to collect your
trash?” He peers into my eyes, daring me to speak, and finishes. “It’s
hard to believe that you’re amused by what I’m trying to do.”
“I find it amusing that you’re willing to do something so
pointless. There’s nothing in the newspaper about trash that needs to
get picked up, so you’re the one that’s hard to believe and
take seriously,” I remark through clenched teeth. He can’t argue with
that.
But instead of going away, he nods to his left and right. “Then
you should really take a good look at your community,” he replies,
and when I look up, I catch my breath. In front of a dozen homes are
piles just like mine, small hills of filth, all for the boy.
I stare, wide-eyed. A light breeze rustles the autumn trees.
“Where did this come from,” I mumble. “I don’t remem-
ber seeing any of this...” but my voice trails off as I realize I haven’t
walked around the neighborhood in months.
It’s because of me.
The boy holds me in his unwavering gaze. At last he states,
“Look at what you have created, sir,” and with that he trudges away,
his red jacket ablaze in the golden light.
The next morning, I don’t put any trash out.

* “The Horrifying Truth,” Sophia Lee (opposite page). Sophia is an eighth
grader at JLS Middle School, who yearns to discover what is yet unknown to
our world. She is passionate about drawing and writing, but most of all, enjoys
doing things that fuels her curiosity to explore.

26



Sabine Fuchs *

Golden To Black
California is burning.
Ponderosa pines and ancient redwoods
light up the sky.
Quaking aspens tremble in fear.
As flashing flames sear the golden hills.
Blowing frantically, the wind
only encourages the fires.
Clouds of smoke
streak across the sky.
Steely ash suffocates forest and valley.
No life left in the hills.
For my birthday,
I wish for rain.

* Sabine is a 7th grader in Ross, California, where she spends her days with a pen
or a paintbrush in her hand or her face buried in a book. When she is not creat-
ing, she enjoys sailing across Tomales Bay with the wind in her hair.

28

Francis Luo *

We Are Made Of
We are made of flesh and made of skin,
Of pupils black and rainbowed eyes,
Of beating hearts, of sturdy bones,
Of every single shape and size.
We are made of fragile stuff,
Of muscle pierced by bluntest nail,
Of dying cells and breaking bones,
We all will die—that is our tale.
We are made of what we know,
All that we store in our brains,
Of everything we’ve yet to learn.
Knowledge runs deep in our veins.
We are made of what we’ve tried,
Of failures past, successes now,
Of writing rights and righting wrongs,
Of things we must fix here and now.
We are made of dreams come true
And others that were not achieved,
Of those who follow leaders brave,
And others who, as leaders, lead.

* Along with writing stories, Francis enjoys playing the trumpet and listening to 29
music. All his favorite songs are from before the second millennium.





Myesha Phukan *

Inheritance

From my mother, a spark of optimism
that radiates through the darkest times.

She gives me a path to follow,
always hiding in her shadow.

She leaves me her smile,
bright enough to light up the world.

From my father, the habit of picking things up quickly.
He leaves me the love of reading and learning new things.
The sweet tooth that’s been passed down for generations,

has made its path to me.


My parents have taught me never to care what others think.
To be true to myself, to have my own journey.

They taught me the importance of carrying on a language,
to speak my mother-tongue even when that country is miles away.

From my mother, my neatness and always having things in order
is evident from my ever-so clean room.

I get my sharp tongue, blurting out retorts here and there.
Her impatient mannerism reflecting in me.

* Myesha is a 7th grader at Georgina P. Blach Intermediate School. In her free
time, she likes to read and write, as well as play soccer and bake.

* “Chaos,” Ella Satterwhite (previous page). Ella has played the flute since 5th
grade, and soccer since she was 5. She is very passionate about art, especially
making clay sculptures. Lastly, Ella loves to laugh hysterically with her friends to
the point of tears.

32

From my father, the inability to take jokes. The feeling that everthing is
an attack, and relates to you.

I inherit his sarcasm, sometimes never meaning what comes out of my mouth.
His never-ending nagging, sometimes going on for forever.
I got the feeling of trying to brag when I get an “A”,
the feeling of achievement overpowering all others.
The pressure to always get straight 4’s.


From my parents, the importance

to understand culture and appreciate every little thing in life.
To look for the bright side, and to be patient.

That all good things come with time and waiting.


From my parents, I learned the secrets of looking on the bright side
and enjoying every minute of life.
33

Annabelle Lee *

Leaving

“Oh no, what will I do? I’ll miss you so much once you go back to
America!” my aunt said in Korean, pulling me and my sister into a hug.
“We’ll miss you,” I replied.
My mom rushed by me, yanking on her coat.
“I’m driving your aunt to work, okay? Listen to your grandma!” she
said and pushed open the door. My aunt patted our heads and left. I sighed.
It was sad to think that I would be leaving South Korea soon and even sad-
der that my aunt wouldn’t be able to see us off today when we left Korea. A
lump formed in my throat. At least Dad was waiting for us in America.
My grandma hobbled out of the kitchen and started talking about
grades and school. Annoyed with my grandma’s rambling, I turned away.
As my sister eagerly chatted with Grandma, I scowled.
It’s almost as if the only thing my grandma cares about is her grand-
children’s grades.
I finished packing all of the books Arissa and I had brought to
Korea for summer vacation. Arissa helped me with the heavy books. When
we finished, I stepped back and gazed at the suitcases messily sprawled
around the door. Mom, Arissa, and I had stayed at our grandma and aunt’s
apartment for a little over two months, but now we were leaving today to
go back to America, and Arissa and I had to start our first year as sixth
graders.
Speaking of school, Grandma was back, going on and on about…
“Grades! Yes, grades. And make sure you get good grades! Good
grades are the most important thing in school! Aigo, Arissa and Annabelle
don’t do anything but watch TV,” Grandma groaned. I let out a little huff of
irritation at her words and turned away. We didn’t “do anything but

* Annabelle is a 6th grader at Santa Rita Elementary School. Her hobbies are
reading and writing while listening to music, and playing the violin.

34

watch TV!” I loved my tiny grandma, but she could be annoying
sometimes.
Arissa and I ate some cooked rice cakes as we waited for
Mom to come back, talking about what sixth grade could be like.
Arissa took a bite of rice cake and asked, “When is that sixth-
grade field trip, Walden West? It’s somewhere in December, isn’t it?”
I shrugged.
“I wonder what Ms. Cannon will be like,” I said, referring to
my sixth-grade teacher. I waved my fork in the air, and powder coat-
ing the rice cakes fell to the floor. “Oops.”
As I cleaned up the mess, Arissa stood and went to use the
bathroom. Grandma sat down next to me and shook her head at me.
“All you do is laze around all day. You should–” She began.
I was so sick of this. “Oh, be quiet! I don’t care what you think! I
don’t ‘laze around all day’. It’s not fair!” I exclaimed angrily. I instant-
ly felt bad. “I mean, um...”
Grandma stared at me, then stood and left. Guilt wormed in
my stomach, but I didn’t say anything.
You’re leaving Korea today, Annabelle. You won’t be seeing
Grandma for a long time, and this is how you treat her? I chided my-
self. Just then, I heard the beeping sound of the passcode, and Mom
came in.
“Did you listen to Grandma?” She said. Mom didn’t wait for a
response, though, because she immediately stomped off yelling,
“Mom! I told you that I was going to do the laundry! Why are you
doing it?!”
I hung my head as my grandma’s telephone rang. I quickly
raised the phone to my ear. “Hello?” I listened for a bit, hung up,
then yelled, “Mom, when do we go to the airport?”
“In less than five minutes! Why aren’t you ready?” Mom
yelled back.
“Well, they’re waiting...” I responded. “They’re” was actually
Mom’s cousin’s family, including their granddaughter, a little girl
named Yoon, who we often played with.
A few moments later, Arissa, Mom, and I were dragging

35

our luggage to the taxi. Mom’s cousin’s family surrounded us. Yoon
looked as if she were about to cry. There was a lot of waving and hug-
ging, which I found a bit uncomfortable.
Grandma stepped forward, and for a moment it looked like
she was going to scold us again. I nearly sighed out loud. But my legs
propelled me forward, and Arissa and I hugged Grandma.
At that moment I realized that Grandma only lectured us
because she worried and cared for us, and she wanted us to do well
in life.
“I’m sorry, Grandma.” I squeaked quietly, ashamed of myself.
Grandma looked at me quizzically, then smiled and shooed me away.
I knew that all was forgiven.
I squeezed her tight, then went into the taxi, waving good-
bye to Yoon. She started bawling, and her mother patted her head
comfortingly.
Balancing my violin on my knees, I waved good-bye to the
crowd outside. Mom looked a bit teary-eyed, and Arissa had a tissue
box ready for her.
I was going home.


36

Eine Youn *

Goodbye and Hello
I have said
Too many goodbyes
To my family
To my friends
To anyone I
Had to leave.

I had to say goodbye when
I left
My first home
To my family
Leaving them behind
An ocean apart.

I had to say goodbye when
I left
My second home
To my friends and teachers.
Leaving them behind
Hurt my heart
More than anything
I’d felt before.
When I have to say goodbye

* Eine is crazy about many things, including books, movies, writing, and Fantastic
Beasts. She loves to write but is afraid that her characters will one day rebel
against her for everything she’s made them live through.

37

Tears gather in my
Eyes
A lump forms in my
Throat
Sweat rolls down my
Neck
I can’t find my
Voice
A deep ache in my
Heart

It hurts
It hurts
It hurts
More than anything
I’ve felt before.

I hate goodbyes.
It’s like leaving a part
Of myself
Behind
And I will have to wait
So long
Before seeing it again.
Every time
I lose something, someone,
I have to leave them behind
Make my own path
To something I don’t know.
But then you find that
The something,
Your new path,
Is something better
Than you ever expected.
38

When I first said
Goodbye
I thought I’d
Never
Be happy again.
But then I found a new
Life,
A new
Chance.
I don’t regret it anymore.
I don’t regret goodbye.
I left something behind
To find something
I loved more.
I love my new home.
It’s funny,
How I despised it
When I first came.
Now I realize that sometimes
You have to say
Goodbye
To say
Hello.

39





Maggie Wang *

Hello

Hello. A single word that can change everything. At least, it did for
me. When I first moved to the Golden State (aka California) I was alone.
I had my family, but those were the only people I knew. It was like I was a
polar bear that had just been plopped into the Amazon rainforest, wan-
dering in circles, afraid, knowing nothing about its surroundings. I stayed
in my house for a week, never going out, anxious about encounters in this
new, foreign land. After a while, I went grocery shopping with my dad,
stepping out of my safe sanctuary. I learned that the people here spoke a
language called English, and I was to learn it. But all I heard was a barrage
of sounds, jumbling together, forming indistinguishable words. After that, I
only came out of the house for important business.
When school first started, I begged my mom to homeschool me,
scared of interacting with children that had lived their whole lives in this
state. My mother refused, and she drove me straight to school. The moment
I stepped out of the car, I heard 10—no, 100—times the sound of the gro-
cery store. I shrank away, trying to fold up within myself, to disappear. My
mother paid me no heed, just pulled me along to a room. It was small, with
a woman sitting behind the reception desk. She jibber-jabbered, and Mom
jibber-jabbered back. The woman nodded, and directed us to a classroom.
I’ll admit that I was terrified. Everything that I was trying to avoid was
right there in front of me. I nervously sat down next to a girl that looked
similar to me. And as I listened to all the foreign sounds, the girl turned to
me. And she said, “Hello.”

* Maggie is a student at Blach, and she likes drawing and writing. She is an animal
lover, and plays softball. She loves eating food in general.

* “Lion of Visibility,” Kylie Outten (previous page). Kylie is a student at Blach
Middle School. She has an active imagination and likes spending time with her
family, friends, and two dogs.

42

Kristiana Husbands *

Excesively Homesick

I lean back into the seat, eyes out of focus. I hold the small
pillow up with the back of my head and blankly stare up into the
empty space where the baggage is held above me. There’s a feeling
of heaviness in my chest weighing me down. I’m hoping the plane
will lift off and so will the heavy feeling, floating away forever. I’ll
wake up back at home–no, the park–in the pouring rain, laughing
my heart out once again. Droplets will fall from the trees onto my
hunched-over back because Travis couldn’t hold in his laughter, nor
the umbrella. Vince will exclaim for Travis to hold the umbrella back
up again because he’s getting cold. I’ll poke fun back at him for being
cold in this weather, pull Annika’s jacket closer around me, and look
around and smile, with no worry of moving across the country, all
the way to a dull and dry area of California.
I wish.
Right now, I wipe the condensation from the warm window
of the plane in a daze, peering through it, trying to take in every bit
of Florida I still can. As if that’ll make anything better. Still I try to
ingrain into my mind the palm trees towering over the buildings
and the grass stretching out farther than I can see. If I were to forget
any of that, I’d never forgive myself. The sound and vibrations of the
plane beginning to move jerk me awake.
Suddenly it’s less like I’m trying to take in everything I can
see, less like it’s coming to me than simply falling away. It slips away

* Kristiana is a spirited 8th grader at Central Middle School whose interests include
drawing and painting, basketball, playing cello, and ranting passionately about
useless topics. She likes being involved in many things and, because of cello, has
also picked up guitar and ukulele as small hobbies in recent years.

43

faster and faster until the sky and trees blur into one, the wind is
gaining speed, the plane is lifting off the ground, and all I can do is
sit and stare. I put my hand to the bottom of the window. It’s happen-
ing.

–
In my head, the loudest noise is the air conditioning whirring
from the back of the room and the clock’s imaginary ticking, not the
noisy kids behind me doing anything but the French class worksheet.
The loudest thing in my vision is that stupid bright sunlight from
outside the window right next to me, along with the barren sidewalk
with barely any green in sight. The sun here just never goes away.
I still can’t remember any of these kids’ names, let alone their fac-
es. There are so many loud people here, laughing, talking, joking. I
remember laughing like that with Vince. But despite me being one of
them, one of the loud ones, I don’t show it or encourage them. There
is something quieter in the room that sparks my interest, though.
The dark-haired boy beside me intently hunches over his
desk. His jaw is set in concentration and it’s almost as if nothing but
his hand moves, his pen in a frantic dance across the paper. He’s get-
ting to the bottom of the page, and a slight lean forward allows me
to see that the piece of scratch paper is filled entirely with scratchy
handwriting. I also notice from the side that the thing that most fills
his binder is countless pieces of similar papers.
It’s intriguing, to say the least. The pages of writing are famil-
iar to me. I’ve been in that spot, hunched over and hiding what only
I’ll ever see, creating those tiny worlds all to myself. Back at home,
it was the only thing keeping me sane when my friends weren’t and,
eventually, when the news of moving came.
This could end really well. I could spark something and
finally have a place for my dumb lonely-looking self to sit, and talk,
and actually do something during break. I’ve seen him around other
people–I could make more than one friend. I want to say something.
I have to.
44

I wait until the class quiets down, until the teacher goes
over everything, and until the clock hits the minute before class
ends. Now or never, I finally decide. The dark-haired boy gathers his
things, shoves them all into his bag and sits down idly tapping the
bag on his lap.
“You write too?”
Shoot. I didn’t even say hi, or get his attention. He turns in
my direction, though. His expression suggests he’s surprised to be
interacted with.
“Oh.” The corner of his mouth turns up. “Yeah, how’d you fig-
ure it out? Is it the never paying attention in class? Or the fat, messy
binder?” A short, awkward laugh manages to escape me–my good-
ness, I hate when I do that. Can’t I just laugh normally? Whether I can
or not, I keep going with the conversation.
“Both,” I say. He laughs, a genuine laugh. “And if I didn’t see
that, you write really fast. That’s how I knew.”
“Of course, of course. You know what they say, if you’re a writer
you’re so good at writing that you suck at writing.”
At this I give a confused but entertained expression. He runs a hand
through his hair and laughs nervously. “Sorry, that didn’t make sense.
That’s...people don’t say that,” he mutters.
I blink. “No, no, it’s okay,” I say, holding my hands up in reassurance.
“I get it, it’s the thing where usually people write faster if they want
their ideas out faster, right?” He smiles a little, nods.
“You know, maybe they will start saying that. Because you
said it.”
“Pfft, sure,” he answers, but it’s drowned out by the bell
ringing. Mildly startled, I move to stand up, but a hand and a “Wait”
stops me.
“Hold on. So, you’re new, right? I see you at lunch. Would
you–want to sit with my friend and I tomorrow?”
I’m stopped, baffled. “Actually...yeah. Yes, I would. Thank
you.”
We smile. There’s a pause, and then he realizes: “Oh, I never
got your name!”

45

“You might need that,” I chuckle. “Reese.”
“Noah.”
The last class of the day is a breeze for me. I’ve been tired, hot
and despondent all day, but not anymore. As the final bell rings and
I get onto my bike, I see him on the other side of the street, smiling
and waving. Can you believe that?

––
Tomorrow comes. It rained earlier. It’s strange seeing such a
familiar sight in such an unfamiliar, and in my opinion, dreary place,
where the rain washes away the dreariness for a second and showers
it in memories. But now it’s gone, and the sun is back to leave every-
thing and everyone to dry inside and out.
“Reese! Over here!”
A now more familiar voice makes its way across the large
hall. I rest my previously frantic gaze on the person the voice is
coming from. My shoulders relax as I relieve the thought that I
wouldn’t be able to find Noah and his friend, whose name he told me
is Lorelei. My excitement that had been growing all day is now at its
highest.
I walk quickly towards the two sitting on the floor, and Noah
waves a silent hello with his fork. Next to him is Lorelei.
She sits crouched on her backpack, sandwich in hand, her
things strewn across the floor in a semicircle around her. There’s a
piece of paper on top of a textbook on top of a closed computer, and
beside that, some sort of notebook or sketchbook is open to a page
bursting with colors. Her phone sits beside her, headphones plugged
in.
And then there’s her. She gazes with curious hazel eyes, pos-
ture straight and not dissimilar to a small, alarmed animal. She flicks
back the unkempt reddish waves of hair falling down to her shoul-
ders, and takes out her earbud.
“Reese!”
She says it like we’re long time friends and she hasn’t seen me
46

in years, and I smile. “Hello.”
“Hi, I’m Lorelei,” she says with her hand extended. I shake it,
while Noah snorts and says “We know” while raising an eyebrow at
her. She replies by taking her hand away from the handshake to hit
him in his side lightly with the back of her hand, and Noah grins.
“Here, sit down,” she offers, scooting over. “Sorry for all the
mess, I tend to make those.” I sit down. We talk, and giggle, and grin.
I make two new friends.
It looks nice outside, I’d say.

–––

October is colorful and filled with cold-but-not-too-cold
days with two fascinating people. Today is one of them. At Lorelei’s
pleading request, we got up out of Noah’s house and abandoned our
umpteenth game of BS to walk to their old elementary school.
It’s wide, flat, with one story and pretty much just one main
building. Trees you can tell weren’t there to begin with surround
the school, and behind them I can see the windows with colorful
classrooms inside and a slightly faded mural on one of the walls. It’s
definitely an old elementary school. I get it though. They miss it.
We’re almost to the gate when Noah stops. “It’s locked.”
I swivel my head towards him. “So?”
Has he ever gone outside? Yes, but he’s not...Vince...he’s not
going to go ahead and pick the lock or something.
Lorelei turns back to us, as she’s gone ahead. “Yeah? We can
go another way.”
“Or climb,” I add.
“No, that’s–look, there are kids inside.”
It’s about 5. An after school program would be ending by
now, but there’s a group of kids running around playing a game on
the field.
“We could get in trouble,” Noah sighs. “We’ll look suspicious.
A bunch of highschoolers climbing into an elementary school near
dark?”

47

Lorelei doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she must agree. I
turn to them, shaking my head, beside myself. I don’t know what, but
there’s something pushing me against this cautiousness. “Noah, the
kids don’t care. The parents will care, but what would they do? And
we’re not going to do anything. You get to see all these memories you
can’t go back to. For the sake of nostalgia, dude. That’s what you guys
came here for.”
The two look at me. My heart stops, for just a second. It’s not
the way Travis used to stare at me, irked by my aggravating loudness.
It’s not Annika, smiling amused at my utter stupidity I would attempt
to make into a joke. They’re...in awe?
“Reese, you are one of the most interesting people I’ve ever
met.” Noah’s tone is dead serious.
Lorelei nods vigorously. “You’re a special one.”
My brows furrow, yet I still smile at them. A small laugh es-
capes my mouth, then I turn back to the gate we are all now in front
of.
We stand there for a while, just watching the children inside
whooping and laughing and running to their heart’s content. I think
about how few of those unusual, chaotic moments have happened
recently, especially compared to months ago, with everyone back at
home.
The thought of that almost lawless feeling of home starts to
comes back, and it does, for a split second, but something about it
and us and the silence is so right. Finally, Lorelei speaks up.
“Okay, let’s go inside.”
I find myself lazily strewn atop the monkey bars with one
leg hanging down, watching Lorelei and Noah across from me on
the slide. The sun seems to set faster than usual as I listen to the two
excitedly recalling everything they know. They miss it, I can tell,
and I find nostalgia for this temporary home they had that I’ve never
even experienced. Part of it may be because I’m missing a home I
didn’t know would be temporary too. All of us are missing some-
thing or other.
I turn away from Lorelei and Noah and stare up at the empty
48

sky, at the horizon I was angry about being treeless and dull. It’s
really not bad at all, I quite like it. I don’t know what I was thinking
before.


49