Monthly Archives: February 2021

Xiāng Xiāng

By Jessica Wang, 16, New York.

I have two names. One I use everyday while the other I keep stowed inside me, locked behind the bars of my lips and the breath of my tongue.

My caged name is actually quite pretty. It means aroma. Not a smelly one, but a homey, warm odor, like the scent of fresh laundry or the steam that bubbles off chicken soup. 

Sometimes I say my name to myself, just to see if it’s still there. It’s strangely pronounced and forces my tongue to touch the roof of my mouth and oftentimes I stumble over the loopy syllables. I only say it in the dark; face mushed between two pillows and huddled under layers of blankets, just in case it tries to make a run for it.

I’m afraid of my name.

It’s odd because you’re not supposed to fear a name. Can you imagine if every Tim, Tom, and Harry were afraid of his name? That would be a strange world indeed.

I’m afraid of my name because it’s cursed. It doesn’t belong here, on this soil or in this strange body that I try to call “American”. If I were to let my name go from its cage, past my lips, people would stare and know that I too don’t belong here. They would ask me what my name means and I would explain that directly translated it means “nice smell”. And then they would laugh at the absurdness and wonder what the silly Chinese were thinking. Naming a child after a smell? What would be next? A girl named after the taste of a lemon?

If I said my name, it would betray me, reveal me as an outsider. It had done it before and would do it again. So I betray my name first. I betray it by wearing colored contact lenses and trying to look Caucasian. I betray it by buying creams to hide the yellowness of my skin. I betray it by waking up every day and wishing my name wasn’t there, that instead of two names I only had one, one free name.

I dye my hair blonde one day, just to see what it would be like to have yellow curls and pretty hair. The dye stung my scalp and smelled like bleach and acid and nothing homey or warm at all. I am not an outsider. I tell myself as I brush my new beautiful hair.  I am not an outsider. I am not an outsider. I am not an outsider. The words taste funny on my tongue. 

My mother no longer calls me by my caged name. She used to, back when I didn’t understand what the word “foreigner” meant and my worst fear was getting an apple instead of cookies during snack time. I remember she used to say it in a certain way, curling her pink tongue and rolling the syllables off neatly. But she stopped after I asked her what the word “slit-eyes” meant. Now she calls me “Je-ssi-ca,” the name neatly printed on my birth certificate, my official name, the free name. She named me after the actor Jessica Simpson because she’s pretty and Caucasian and has blonde hair. The name is easy to pronounce and flows off the tongue smoothly, the American tongue that is.

My second name “Je-ssi-ca” does wonders. It helps me chain up my foreign name and even add a couple more locks, determined to snuff it out. And it works. I can no longer hold chopsticks properly or handle the spices of traditional dishes. When I try to speak the language my ancestors once spoke, my thick American accent pokes through and slurs together the vowels and syllables. It’s American-Chinese my grandma would murmur and shake her head at how far her heritage has fallen. I am no longer the little girl who listened to her stories about the immortal monkey king and his magical staff. She does not know who I am. I am foreign to her.

I have successfully locked up my name.

But even without saying my name, it still betrays me. People still look at me like I’m an outsider even though I was born here, even though I speak English perfectly, even though I betray a part of myself everyday just to please them.

And no matter how much cream I scrub into my skin, no matter how much I try to hide the dark brown in my eyes, they keep staring. 

But I like my caged name. I think it’s pretty, even prettier than light hair and blue contact lenses. It reminds me of steamed dumplings and curved mandarin letters and red paper lanterns with gold embroidered on the edges. And when I say my chicken soup-fresh laundry-oddly pronounced-laughable name. I feel good. The syllables punctuate the air daringly and challenge the world around. When I whisper the letters, my name is free and so am I.

It’s true that my caged name doesn’t quite fit me. I can’t write or read mandarin and my pronunciation is terrible. But it’s still a piece of me, just like my skin and my eyes. I can’t just scrub it off, mask it, or even lock it up. At  the end of the day my caged name is mine. All its dents, curves, and ridges are mine. It’s oddly pronounced, and it’s mine. It is me, and I am mine. My culture. My ethnicity. Me.

 I don’t want to lock myself up anymore.

By Jessica Wang,16, New York, United States.

“My piece is about the period in my life when I went through a lot of self-hatred because of the way I looked. I hated being Chinese because it meant that I looked very different from my peers. I remember sometimes I would even buy whitening creams and dye my hair in order to try and fit in. I should have realized that instead of trying to please others I should have learned to accept myself for who I am.”

Blindfolded

By Doeun (Jessica) Kim, 14, Manila, Philippines.

The streets of Gwangjin-gu (South Korea) rush past the bus window, the sun making Heejin’s eyes squint. The bus flits through the usual route of convenience stores and cafes while she plugs in her earphones, their tangled wires hanging against her chest. Classical music lingers while kids wander along the pavements, dragging themselves to after-school academies. The Ajummas Manning Street food carts with warm fish cake sticks dunked in broth as they count the crinkled bills, sweat creeping down their foreheads. A man in a suit sits beside her. His head leaning back and his eyes are shut. Teenage girls giggle in the back of the bus, their bangs twisted into hair rollers. They purse their bright red lips while taking selfies but Heejin ignores them because she thinks those were the kids who wouldn’t succeed. It’s her stop as she leaves the bus to her math academy. 

Heejin leaves the doors of her last cram-school of the day, stretching after hours of studying. She walks home, taking out a packet of red ginseng from her backpack. She drinks it and cringes from the bitter taste. Her grandmother gave her a box of this ginseng extract for Christmas. It will help you with your studying, she said. 

“Heejin-ah! Come sit, I cooked salmon,” Heejin’s mother says. She is holding a rosary, whispering prayers. Heejin drops her backpack onto her desk then sits down. Her fingers lift the metal chopsticks as she takes a piece of salmon. 

“Eat a lot, it’ll help you study better.” Heejin always ate as fast as she could so she had more time to study for her exams. She leaves to her room while still chewing her food. Organizing her textbooks across her desk, she sits down as she takes out a pencil and an eraser which corners have been flattened out. She takes notes for hours, typing and deleting on her computer, the inner corners of her eyes begin to crust. The sound of the keyboard and the scratches from her pencils repeats for days and nights, until she doesn’t know how long it’s been. 

It was all for Seoul National University. It would help Heejin with her future, allow her to have leisure for the rest of her life, at least that’s what her mother said. 

“Endless studying would all be worth it, right? Just wait for SNU, and it will be fine”. She falls asleep and wakes up to these thoughts. 

Heejin shuffles through the hallways to get to her next block. Her eyes feel heavy after the all-nighter she spent as she enters class. People’s heads are buried underneath their arms and some are sitting on their desks, complaining to their friends about their tests. Heejin sits on her desk, putting in an earbud. Behind her sits Eunjung, her pencil barely tracing on the lines of her notebook. The two were close friends since their childhood, until the rankings of the finals in junior year were posted outside the teacher’s office.

They locked arms, looking for their names on the poster. Heejin’s name was written in second place, and Eunjung’s glimmered above hers. There had been small tensions between them before, but it was the first time Eunjung had placed higher than Heejin. Heejin let go of Eunjung’s arm and said, “Maybe it’s just another sacrifice for both of us, and our future.”

After that, Heejin began to skip Saturday family reunions and church on Sundays. Instead, she always sits down and studies, letting only her classical music flow through her ears. She still goes through social media, seeing the pictures of her old friends laughing, singing karaoke and her cousins in family lunches. 

It’s the night when SNU’s acceptance letters come out. Heejin’s mother and grandmother sit behind her, each squeezing her shoulders as she powers up her computer. Her fingers hovering above her keyboard, taking a deep breath before she goes through her mail. Heejin clicks on the letter from SNU as her breath pauses while she scrolls to the bottom of the letter. She only hears the shrill of cicadas from outside as she reads the words, ‘congratulations and informing you of your acceptance to SNU.’ 

Her mother hugs her, “you made it my Heejin, you made it.” Heejin stays still in her mother’s embrace, her eyes staring at the letter. 

“Did I?” Maybe it was too good to be true. She fell silent while her mother organized a celebration dinner with the whole family. 

Heejin enters the snack bar. 

“Immo, can I get a coffee milk please,” she asks, placing coins onto the counter. She pops the seal of the carton with her straw, then sees Eunjung scrolling through her phone next to the tables. Heejin is about to ignore her and leave, like usual, until Eunjung asks, “I heard you got into SNU. Was everything worth it?” Heejin stops. She didn’t know.

She went to the school rooftop, walking up the steps with the unfamiliar feeling of skipping class. The door opens into the vicinity of Seoul, its hazy sky looming above the city. She sits on the ledge surrounding the rooftop. Her fingertips rest on the cement. They tap towards the end, her flesh pressing onto the ridge while Heejin stares at the door. Her fingers continue to move away from her, until they reach the edge, barely touching the ledge now. She feels a warm gust of wind passing through her palm as she stares back. Buildings leaning and pedestrians walking across the streets while staring at their phones. Where was the life here? The sun scorches the people as they complain while walking to work, parents forcing their children to study for the whole day. Heejin feels blindfolded, as if she spent her four years working for something that she didn’t want to do. She stands up and closes the door behind her. She rushes down the stairs and she promises herself to ignore the feelings that came up in the rooftop.

By Doeun Kim, age 14, Philippines. “As a young writer living in the Philippines, I am grateful for the opportunity to be able to send out works. I am a fourteen year old, born in South Korea and currently studying at the International School of Manila. Despite being Korean, English is my first language, before Korean. Attending an international school has opened my eyes towards the distinct culture every person brings. I hope that through my writing, I am able to inspire others to embrace their culture.”

Why I Need My Cell Phone

By Beatriz Lindemann, age 13, Florida.

People sometimes wonder why kids are always on their phones. Adults think that kids just play dumb games on their phones. That is not true. Being on my phone does not mean that I am being unsocial. You can “talk” to people in many different ways. Texting, social media, phone calls, Facetime, letters, emails, and in person, are the ways that I communicate with people. My parents call my phone “my precious” because it is so important to me. To be honest, it really is. My phone is the best present my parents ever gave me.

I learn things from my phone. I can ask my phone a question and it gives me the answer immediately. I use it to communicate with friends across the world, too. I have a friend that lives in Melbourne, Australia while I live in Florida. If I did not have my phone, I would not be able to talk to her. A phone allows friends to keep in touch though time and geography may separate them. It really is a gift that other generations did not have. Phones give us so many options. My phone allows me to creatively express myself. For example, I can use a videography app to make mini movies. Or, I can edit photos adding cool lighting and even put designs and drawings in them. My phone allows me to share funny things that happened to me with my friends. My phone lets me capture memories so that I have them forever.  I can find news articles about current events or even history. The access inspires me and allows me to do what I want to do with the click of a button. I have learned so much from my phone, and I’m just getting started.

I can listen to music, watch a video about how to do something, or to even write this essay, all on my phone. That is what makes it so special.

Then there’s the excitement. Every buzz could be something or someone important. I don’t want to miss anything. Someone could have messaged me or liked something I did or posted and I don’t want to miss it. Every beep or ding is mysterious, and I just want to click to find out what’s waiting in store for me. 

It amazes me how far technology has come, and I wonder where it will go? It is really quite fascinating. I can research anything, and millions of links will come up immediately. People sometimes wonder why kids are always on their phones. We are on our phones because the world in there is so huge it takes time to explore, to understand, to create.

And, fortunately, if we get lost in there, we can always find our way back—I’m sure there’s an app for that.

By Beatriz Lindemann, age 13, Florida.

Ibn Battuta: The Marco Polo of Islam


By Sahil Prasad, Indian American, Grade 4, Maryland.
 

Wasn’t Marco Polo an amazing explorer? If you agree, you’ll be excited to learn about his Islamic counterpart, the 14th century explorer Ibn Battuta, who traveled 75,000 miles on foot from Timbuktu, Mali to Guangzhou, China (with that distance, you could circumnavigate the globe three times). Impressive, isn’t it, considering that’s how many miles some cars travel in their entire lifetime!

Ibn Battuta was an Islamic explorer whose mission was to travel to every Muslim city in the known world at the time.[1] His legendary taste for adventure started when he took the Hajj (a pilgrimage that Muslims take to Mecca, Saudi Arabia) because after he finished, he really wanted to explore more. Ibn Battuta was born on February 24, 1304 in Tangier, Morocco and he died in 1377[2] in Marrakesh, Morocco after 24 years of exploration! This extraordinary explorer met many fascinating people in his travels like:  a mad sultan in India who tried to kill him, mystics who ate their snakes’ heads of, or jumped in fires to try to put them out, and he met many different followers of Islam, mainly in Asia. He traveled all over the world through continents like Africa, Oceana, and Europe (North and South America were not discovered yet). When he visited some Islamic cities in Europe, the rulers there flooded him with gold and camels because they had a liking for travelers. That’s how Ibn Battuta supported himself on his travels.

Ibn Battuta chronicled his travels in a book called Rilah (The Travels, in English) and because of that, we know so much about Islamic cultures of his time. He gave so much information in his autobiography that it feels like you’re living in an Islamic world of the 14th century.

Marco Polo was a Venetian explorer who traveled all around the Mongol empire under the supervision of the ruler Kublai Khan. Marco Polo was born on September 15, 1254 and he died on January 8, 1324. Kublai Khan developed a very big liking for him and he sent Marco Polo on a series of diplomatic missions throughout the Mongol Empire.

I decided to compare Marco Polo and Ibn Battuta because they have a lot of similarities. Both explorers’ journeys were completely unexpected. For example, Marco Polo just wanted to travel to the Mongol Empire with his father and uncle because they wanted to trade European goods for Asian ones. Who knew that the same young Marco Polo would travel across Asia on tons of missions. Ibn Battuta had a similar series of events that led him to travel.

Ibn Battuta went on the Hajj (the pilgrimage to Mecca) because it was one of the Five Pillars of Islam—five duties that Muslims have to perform during their lifetime, and he was a devout Muslim. That one pilgrimage led to 50 other adventures all around Asia, Europe, and Oceana! That’s the last thing one would expect, isn’t it? Given that the Age of Exploration—where Europeans began to make voyages into the Americas—started a hundred years later.

Another similarity is that both explorers suffered some hard times on their travels. Ibn Battuta crossed a lot of dangerous areas. For example, in Africa, Ibn Battuta had to cross the Mamluks’ [3] territory and they were one of the most feared warriors at the time. Also, Ibn Battuta got sick with fever numerous times, and he had to often take breaks from his travels because of that. Marco Polo also encountered some problems in the desert on the way to the Mongol Empire. For example, he couldn’t find any modes of transportation so he just had to walk the whole way. Marco Polo was robbed by bandits and lost a lot of essential supplies including his diary, which was very important to him.

Lastly, both explorers traveled very long distances. Marco Polo traveled almost everywhere in the Mongol Empire which spanned almost the whole length of Asia! The Mongol Empire was the largest empire in history, so while traveling all over that big empire, he must have covered a very long distance. Ibn Battuta traveled very long distances as well. He traveled more than half of the known world at that time, covering over fifty thousand miles. Also, Ibn Battuta’s average miles per year were 3,000. So if you multiply that by the 24 years of his travels, you get 72,000 miles (his total miles were actually around 75,000)! Didn’t he travel a whole lot?

Ibn Battuta might seem like a superhuman, but like us, he was just an ordinary person. If we dedicate ourselves to a goal with determination and perseverance, we too can be successful like him.

Bibliography

1. David Angus Great Explorers, Naxos Audiobooks, 2003

2. The Adventures of Ibn Battuta: A Muslim Traveler of the 14th century by Ross E. Dunn, University of California Press, 1989

3. Ibn Battuta: The Journey of a Medieval Muslim by Edoardo Albert, Kube Publishing, 2019

4. Extra History by Daniel Floyd, 2008

[1] There are more Islamic cities currently in the world than at the time of Ibn Battuta.

[2] His death day and month are unknown.

[3] A group of slave warriors who lived between the 9th and 19th century in the Islamic world.

The Boy who Wanted to be a Bullfighter

By Greg Evans, Tennessee.

One day at school, eight-year-old Roberto’s teacher asked each student what they wanted to be when they grew up. One student wanted to be a doctor, and another dreamt of becoming a famous soccer player. His best friend Juan wanted to grow up to be a lawyer like his father, and his neighbor Sonia wanted to sew beautiful dresses for all the princesses around the world. Then the teacher asked Roberto the same question.

“When I grow up, I want to be a famous bullfighter,” Roberto said.

“Have you ever been to a real bullfight?” His teacher asked.

“No, not yet.” Roberto said, “But I have seen pictures of matadors in the newspaper many times.”

 “I think you would be a wonderful bullfighter,” his teacher said. For the rest of the day, Roberto could think of nothing else but dressing in the fancy sparkling outfits and dodging the piercing horns of a ferocious bull.

That night at dinner he told his parents about the exercise at school and that he wanted to become a bullfighter when he grew up.

“I think you would make the family very proud,” said his father.

“I would love nothing more,” his mother said. Roberto decided that he would spend the rest of his life pursuing this dream. He wished to attend an actual bullfight but his mother told him that it would be better if he waited until he was a little bit older because bullfights were for grownups.

As the years went by Roberto never lost this desire. When he reached the age of fifteen, his father told him one day that he’d soon meet the man who would teach him how to become the greatest bullfighter. Roberto was so excited. He was finally going to get the chance to follow his lifelong dream. The only problem was that he had never actually seen a real bullfight.

“When the time is right, I will take you to watch a bullfight,” his father promised him.

The first instruction was agility and understanding how to successfully maneuver forward and backward without tangling the feet. In the days that followed Roberto worked on his footwork and practiced using a capote de brega, the red cape the matador holds. During the bullfight the bull charges toward it.

Roberto’s teacher told him that he was gifted and would achieve international fame and celebrity status. Roberto cherished the adoration from the great master.

After a few weeks, he was given a stick with a red cloth hanging from it. It’s called the muleta. It is used in the third and the final run with the bull.

Roberto’s natural technique and obvious skill were noticed and soon a crowd of townspeople showed up during his instructions with the master. Day after day more and more people showed up to watch the local boy that would bring the town great fame.

Finally, Roberto and his father arrived at the practice arena. Standing in the middle of the fenced area was an actual bull. It was a small bull but its mighty muscles rippled, and it stomped the ground with such tremendous force that Roberto could feel the vibrations at the gate. He shuddered and felt his pulse rise.

This was the moment of truth. He would finally face off against a real bull after so many years of dreaming about this very moment. And after all that hard training he had been through, he felt he was ready!

Accompanied by the master he faced off against the bull. Using extraordinary skill and maneuverability, he moved and dodged the young bull’s charges and lunges. The bull didn’t have any horns but to be struck by it could cause serious injury. Roberto was excellent and the crowd gathered cheered him with every successful action. After a while of using the cape, the master brought Roberto the muleta. He also handed him a wooden stick. “This, my boy, will be a sword in the real bullfight arena.”

“A sword?” Roberto asked, “Why do I need a sword?”

“To slay the bull, of course,” the master said. This wasn’t what Roberto had been anticipating.

“I don’t want to kill the bull,” he said.

“But that is the finale of the fight. To be a famous matador you must slay the beast to the great cheers of adoring fans.”

“No, I won’t do it.” Roberto said. His father entered the ring and pulled Roberto aside.

“My son, a big part of being a great bullfighter means finishing the fight gloriously with the kill at the end. That is what the fans expect. That is what they are there to see, a great fight.”

“To kill a bull for sport is wrong and I won’t do it,” Roberto said. His father explained to the master that they would go home and discuss the matter. This was all new to Roberto and he needed time to think about it.

That night both Roberto’s parents encouraged him and explained that bulls expect a real do or die fight. That is how it has always been. In soccer, you score goals and in a bullfight, you slay the bull. But still, Roberto refused.

Roberto refused to return to the arena to fight the bulls, much to the disappointment of his parents and the entire town.

Roberto eventually entered the veterinary school and became a very prominent veterinarian helping heal animals instead.

By Greg Evans, Mexican American, Tennessee. Greg attended a bullfight outside Mazatlan, Mexico when he was ten-years-old. It was not a memorable experience and he vowed never to return to one again. He is the Associate Director of Communications at King University in Tennessee. He is also a columnist for several newspapers.

Kindness Is Magic

By Lila Drowos, age 10, Florida.

Kindness, whether it’s you being kind to someone, or someone being kind to you, can make you happier and healthier. Even small acts of kindness can change a life and make you feel better. But can kindness also be good for you, the person you’re kind to, and even others around you? Can it keep you healthy and relaxed? What exactly are the benefits of kindness?

The good feelings you get when kindness is happening are created by endorphins, pleasure chemicals that are connected with joy and pleasure, social connection, trust, smiling, laughter, and love, which can also come from doing an act of kindness. Kindness also helps us form meaningful relationships and connections, making strong friendships and bonds with others. Being kind can reduce stress as well, which makes you healthier and calmer, and creates pride, belief and confidence in yourself, and a sense of belonging.

Kindness can also help you learn to appreciate the good things in your own life. It can help you be more grateful. It’s always good to have some gratitude for the good things in your life, rather than focusing on the bad. Kindness can also boost your creativity and help you have a better imagination and ideas which can produce better results in school. It can also reduce the effects of bullying. And there’s the ripple effect, treating others how you want to be treated. If you’re kind to someone, they could go and help someone else, spreading kindness and helping the world become better, happier, and healthier. Witnessing acts of kindness can also produce other chemicals in your body that help lower your blood pressure and improve your overall heart-health. It can also give you optimism and extra confidence, which is extra helpful when you’re anxious or shy in any situation.

Kindness strengthens your heart physically and emotionally and it can help you live longer, and prevent illness. Also, serotonin levels, the feel-good chemicals in our brains are increased in both the person being kind and the person receiving the kindness, as well as anyone who witnesses that kindness.

Kindness is a wonderful way to feel happier and healthier for everyone!

“I am a fifth grade student and I attend a religious day school where I am learning about my Judaism. Being Jewish is really important to me because it connects me to my family and community. I am also learning to speak Hebrew in my school, which is a language traditionally spoken by Jewish people. We have different values and traditions and I am really interested in learning about the history of my people, and how it has shaped our beliefs as a community. 

One of the things that are important in Judaism is our focus on Tzedakah, which is the Hebrew word for charity. Kindness is very important to me and I like to help others. Some of my favorite ways to volunteer and give charity include preparing and delivering food to people that don’t have any, collecting supplies to donate to people in need, and picking holiday presents for families that can’t get them. 

Another important value in Judaism is Tikkun Olam, which means making the world a better place. Helping the environment and protecting it is very important to me as well. I care about sea creatures that get harmed by eating plastic that blew into the ocean, as well as land creatures that may eat trash. Recycling and reducing waste are ways that anyone can help, and take care of our planet, which is very important. 

When I think about what Tzedakah and Tikkun Olam have in common, they are both rooted in kindness. Kindness is a way of achieving a better world and making the planet that we live on a better place. I wrote my essay in honor of World Kindness Day, which was on Friday, November 13th this year. To me, kindness is very connected to my Jewish values and is something I want to teach others about.”

—Lila Drowos, age 10, Florida.