Monthly Archives: September 2023

International Day of Peace, Sept. 21

International Day of Peace: Time to Act Is Now!

Happy International Day of Peace to us all!

Since 1981, the International Day of Peace (IDP) has been observed around the world on September 21st. The U.N. General Assembly declared in 1981, IDP as a day devoted to strengthening the ideals of peace, through observing 24 hours of non-violence and cease-fire. The ongoing wars in Ukraine, Sudan, Yemen, and elsewhere show us clearly that our world needs peace more than ever.

This year’s theme is Actions for Peace: Our Ambition for the #GlobalGoals. It calls us to get involved in actions that recognize our individual and collective responsibility to foster peace. Fostering peace will help us realize of the U.N. Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) and achieving the Sustainable Development Goals will create a culture of peace for all.

The U.N. Secretary-General António Guterres recently said, “Peace is needed today more than ever. War and conflict are unleashing devastation, poverty, and hunger, and driving tens of millions of people from their homes. Climate chaos is all around. And even peaceful countries are gripped by gaping inequalities and political polarization.”

While the world is also observing the 75th Anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights as well as the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of Genocide this year, IDP 2023 especially encourages all youth to be ambitious in their engagement as positive and constructive social agents, and to help us reach the SDGs and contribute to building sustainable peace. Together we can help to lead our world towards a greener, more equitable, just, and secure future for all.

The International Day of Peace was established in 1981, two decades later, in 2001, the General Assembly unanimously voted to designate the Day as a period of non-violence and cease-fire.

The Global Sustainable Development Report 2023

Since 2019, a progress report has been issued every four years. The latest 2023 Global Sustainable Development Report was issued on the 19th of Sept. at the 2023 SDG Summit which took place during the United Nations General Assembly session to follow-up and review the implementation of the 2030 Agenda for Sustainable Development and the 17 Sustainable Development Goals.

The 2023 Global Sustainable Development Report (GSDR) entitled: “Times of Crisis, Times of Change: Science for Accelerating Transformations to Sustainable Development” finds that at this critical juncture, midway to 2030, incremental and fragmented change is insufficient to achieve the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) in the remaining seven years. Implementation of the 2030 Agenda requires the active mobilization of political leadership and ambition for science-based transformations. This must be achieved globally—leaving no country, society or person behind. The report is an invitation to embrace transformations with the urgency needed to accelerate progress towards the SDGs.

Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs)

This year marks the mid-point in implementing the Sustainable Development Goals. The SDGs were defined to bring us closer to having more peaceful, just, and inclusive societies, free from fear and violence. But without the contribution of a wide range of actors including the 1.2 billion young people alive, the goals will not be achieved. So the U.N. invites us all to join the U.N. call to take action for peace: fight inequality, drive action on climate change, and promote and protect human rights.

The 17 SDGs, listed below in short, show the immense amount of work that is needed to bring peace and prosperity in our world.

  1. End Poverty: End poverty in the world in all its forms
  2. End Hunger: End hunger, achieve food security and improved nutrition and promote sustainable agriculture
  3. Health and Wellbeing: Ensure healthy lives and promote wellbeing for all at all ages
  4. Education: Ensure inclusive and equitable quality education and promote lifelong learning opportunities for all.
  5. Women and Girls: Achieve gender equality and empower all women and girls
  6. Water and Sanitation: Ensure availability and sustainable management of water and sanitation for all
  7. Sustainable Energy: Ensure access to affordable, reliable, sustainable and modern energy for all
  8. Economic Growth: Promote sustained, inclusive and sustainable economic growth, full and productive employment and decent work for all
  9. Improve Infrastructure: Build resilient infrastructure, promote inclusive and sustainable industrialization and foster innovation
  10. 10. Reduce Inequality: Reduce inequality within and among countries
  11. Habitat: Make cities and human settlements inclusive, safe, resilient and sustainable
  12. Sustainability: Ensure sustainable consumption and production patterns
  13. Climate Change: Take urgent action to combat climate change and its impacts
  14. Oceans and Marine Life: Conserve and sustainably use the oceans, seas and marine resources for sustainable development
  15. Preserve Ecosystems: Protect, restore and promote sustainable use of terrestrial ecosystems, sustainably manage forests, combat desertification, and halt and reverse land degradation and halt biodiversity loss
  16. Peace and Justice for All: Promote peaceful and inclusive societies for sustainable development, provide access to justice for all and build effective, accountable and inclusive institutions at all levels
  17. Global Partnerships: Strengthen the means of implementation and revitalize the Global Partnership for Sustainable Development

Sustainable development can only be achieved through a societal resolve, which can come through public education efforts. Educators, therefore, have an important role to play in achieving the SDGs by 2030! The value of education—in its broadest sense—cannot be underestimated.

Happy International Day of Peace to us all!

Compiled by Arun N. Toké, editor.

Stone Soup

Stone Soup

By Laurel Aronian, 16, New York

Elizabeth gave us our assignment:
“Today in class you will be making stone soup.” She held up the book for all to see.
“You want us to cook?” a bold boy asked.
“Of course,” said Elizabeth, and handed us the aprons.

We went into the kitchen in the parallel classroom,
And listened to the clink of knives and the bustle of our classmates.
Each of the grades would provide a vegetable,
And as fourth graders, we were assigned the onions.

My friend and I wondered what genius had given us this task.
The teachers only provided us with long, silver knives, intentionally dulled down.
We set to work at our stations, passing the onions and shielding our eyes.

Over time, we came up with useful solutions to protect us from the sting and fiery smell.
Some kids passed around their glasses.
Others grabbed goggles from the science cabinet.
Some even asked the teachers for a slice of bread to hold in their mouths.
We were some wimpy fourth graders.

Yet things improved when we found solutions that worked.
The goggles fared well against the fumes,
And we learned to take turns passing around the glasses.
Soon enough, we had seven big bowls filled with the slices.

We walked outside as a pack and sat on shedding tarps.
We huddled closer around the fire, shielded from air like needles,
We felt our size as we sat with the lower grades, leaders of the school.
And we watched Elizabeth take the lead and open the book once more.

The rumble turned to patter as she began to read,
As the students slowly deposited their chopped vegetables
The smell of the soup filled the air,
The bubbling pot and voices a chorus on the wind.

When it was our turn, we stood up with our bowls of onions.
Full of pride, dropping them in the sizzling soup.
We realized what Elizabeth was trying to teach us,
Standing there with our dulled knives and aprons.

If we were given the solutions to our problems,
We would never learn.
We would never create.
For the next time we made soup without assistance.

The sound of the realization was the clink of spoons,
The passing of mugs, the shatter as one fell,
The clatter of a dustpan as we swiped up the shards,
The happy chatter as well enjoyed good food.

The smell of the vegetables mingling together,
The burning wood within the fire,
The earthiness of the dirt on which we sat,
The wool of our mittens in the chilly air.

Tasting the soup was the ultimate prize,
If we hadn’t been the chefs, we wouldn’t have realized,
The distinct change the onions made to the overall aroma,
And never would’ve known to add them.

Elizabeth taught us more than numbers that day,
She taught us the impact every action makes,
Not only would we be able to make stone soup once again,
But we’d learned creativity in solving the problems at hand.

By Laurel Aronian, 16, Connecticut.

“I love to write in all genres (poetry, prose, journalism). I also enjoy taking photos and creating art. I have a passion for music and perform as a singer-songwriter and accompany on guitar. When I’m not writing or making music, I play competitive chess.

My poetry submissions highlight multicultural awareness as I am of multicultural heritage and recently celebrated Ramadan, Passover, and Easter. My pieces also reflect the awe of nature, earth stewardship, and our planet’s majesty and magic.”

It Never Rains in California

It Never Rains in California

By Jada Ying King, grade 11, California

 

“There is no chance of rain. Zero, zip, zilch. Don’t worry!”

—Jada King, White Stag patrol counselor (PC) to the Tunde patrol. Afternoon of June 22, 2022. Approximately… two hours away from regretting those words.

4:30 P.M.
Light cloud cover hung over the sky. To anyone anywhere except the dry valley that is Piney Creek, Monterey, that signified rain coming. But as I, my nine fellow PCs, and the rest of middle to southern California knew, it does not rain in California in the summer.

Confident in my knowledge, I turned back to look at my seven sweaty little lieges. “Faster we make it up this hill, faster you can get cooking!”

Immediately, all the boys perked up, picking up their pace with shouts of, “Aw yeah!” and “Great!”

We remained ignorant of the coming storm.

5:45 P.M.
“Don’t the clouds look pretty dark?”

Ethan, a particularly persnickety 13-year-old camper, pointed up to prove his point. “The sky’s weirdly yellow. And I think I heard a grumble.”

“Where are we?” I chuckled. But more seriously, I added, “I talked with Tim. He said, and I quote, ‘In the past thirty years, it hasn’t ever rained here in the summer.’ We’ll be fine.”

At that exact moment, a BOOM echoed through the valley below, followed by the quiet patter of raindrops. My heart rate rocketed—we youth counselors planned for basically every situation except rain.

Mind whirring, I barked, “Get out the tarps and take cover; stay low as much as possible! Cover your packs and the cooking equipment if you can.” I took a deep breath, telling myself to remain calm. I trained for these moments; I was the PC here. I had control over the situation. So maybe the second leg of our hike was going to be delayed. But once the rain died down, we’d head for our outpost.

Thunder filled the sky. I shivered again.

9:30 P.M.
The rain continued to pour, although the barrage of lightning had stopped earlier. Unfortunately by then, the sun had already set.

“You sure you’re good with going down first?” asked Ethan, PC of the Attila patrol. The adult staff had called an emergency PC meeting, and because the Tunde patrol was stationed the closest to the route to the outpost, I nominated myself as the forerunner.

I rolled my shoulders and shook out my dripping, stringy hair. Although I wore my water-resistant staff jacket, I was soaked to the bone and freezing cold after standing around in the downpour for half an hour. “Not a problem,” I said. “Plus, it’s only gonna get darker from here on out.”

I trudged up the hill to the Tunde patrol. “Pack up, guys, we’re going down to outpost!” I said, maintaining my energetic facade to lighten up the situation.

But when I brought my seven kids to the pitch-dark, rocky, near-vertical slope down to outpost, my fake cheer faltered. No, I told myself. I could not let myself fall to self-doubt in this sort of situation. Behind me, my patrol whispered uncertainties to each other.

I turned around, my heart running a million miles an hour. “Okay, kiddos. I bet this is going to be the most difficult night of your week.” Murmurs of agreement. “But hey, we’re going to make it down, we’re going to finish this hike, and we’re going to do this together. So get out your flashlights!”

The trip down the hill was terrifying, to say the least. Quite a few times, my shoes slid and skidded on the muddy rocks. I caught one of my kids from falling over once, and figuring out where their patrol site was in the dark and the rain was an entirely different challenge, even with flashlights.

But by 11 P.M., in the utter darkness of the Monterey wilds, in the biting wind and my sopping clothes, I managed to get my patrol in bed, free of injuries, and now with an exciting story to tell to their parents.

Of course, the fact that the staff site was overgrown with poison oak was something we never told our kids. Nor did we tell them that we youth staff only crawled into our sleeping bags at 2 A.M. because we looked for somewhere to sleep for two hours. We just magically showed up at our patrols the next morning with as much energy as we did before, ready to make more enchanting outdoor memories for them.

After all, as a PC, I was there to give them the experience of a lifetime. And isn’t it more fun at summer camp when your counselor’s always giving everything their 110 percent?

Author’s Note:
I am a Chinese-American 11th grader at Palo Alto High School who enjoys drawing, writing, and hiking—which is why in 2022, I served as a youth counselor for the White Stag Leadership Academy, an accredited outdoors summer program dedicated to enriching youth from the ages of 11 to 17 in outdoorsmanship and leadership.

Our program is entirely youth-led. From September to May, youth counselors train in first aid, outdoors skills, and effective leadership, as well as plan a full week of summer camp for incoming White Stag candidates. Unfortunately, the one thing we didn’t plan for was rain!

I hope that my true story can both inspire individuals to go outside and experience the great outdoors, but also not feel disappointed when nature rains on us. Sometimes the most inconvenient situations that the sky throws at us lead to the most inspiring personal growth—and the most entertaining stories!”

Jada Ying King, grade 11, California.

The Abscission of Perennial Petals

The Abscission of Perennial Petals

By Aniket Dewangen, grade 10, India.

 

The bougainvillea flowers whistled with the wind. Each of them withered away as two stayed by the coarse and flaky mahogany tree.

My childhood

The image of the god was pleasant and heartwarming. He held a brass flute adorned with a flower and a bead. The arched legs crossed against the drapery of the Dhoti1 and his lips touched the edge of the flute. His gaze was drawn downward to the majestic instrument. Its amygdaloid-like face and beaten-blue complexion were elegant and defined by a sharp jaw. A majestic peacock flower hung above the satiny hair at the crown of his head. The ace-shaped, indigo-colored splotch in the middle was covered by a flurry of green strands that flowed in a rhythm. The Lord Krishna stood there elegantly, displaying a natural aura of benevolence. Next to the defined blue edges was the goddess of devotion and tenderness, Radha. The two gods stood serenely in the centre of the ashram.2 The terracotta figures seemed to be emphasized in the minds of the people standing before me. Two Pandits3 walked towards the idols. They were wearing angharkas (a short coat-like scarf around the stomach). They marched around and began to proceed with the pooja.4 I looked back and scanned the long queue. The line’s shape curled almost like a racetrack. We all soon congregated, pushing forward to get a greater view of the two idols in the spotlight. I couldn’t see much. I just saw the shoulders of men who were agitated. My father, who limped through the crowd was in front. He had polio, and an orthotic device was attached to his legs. He began to walk in discomfort without any space left.

“Are you okay?” My father looked at me. He looked in agony, yet he powered through the line, which was like a Dandi march.5 Paa (father) was a kindhearted man, or at least I thought so, for the majority of my life. Soon the line began to compress, and I could sense the aroma of Rabri and Malpua.6 The glistening white substance dazzled with a pinch of cardamom on top. It was my favorite. My mother standing behind me kept her soft hands on my shoulders as we moved slowly through the long queue. The brass-plated bell rang at a fast tempo and the procession began. The chimes cut the air and rang through my ears. Soon I started to sense that we had come to the beginning of the line. My mother took me in her arms, and I could finally have a better view of the luminescent and vibrant colors. Both the terracotta figures were covered in tinsel. The pandits approached the idols and began to swerve a copper plate that contained an incandescent flame in one of the lamps. The intricate and mesmerizing designs on the bell and the plate were astonishing. The Pandits began to pour a white substance over lord Krishna. The idols were soaked in the thin badam milk.8 The low-pitched sound began to omit and amplify in the chamber. The Chappan Bhog9 had begun. The Chappan Bhog was a tradition during the festival of Janmashtami10 where the graceful gods were lavishly fed. The Pandits sang a harmonious tune and began to pour different things over the idols. I never understood why this happened. My mother told me that the gods were never fed, and this festival would fulfill them. The myriad of assorted foods made my mouth water.

“Now beta,11 ask for what you want most and fold your hands looking up at the terracotta idol,” my mother said in a haste. My hands joined together and pressed against the warm surface of my palms. I closed my eyes. The one wish and the one thing that I sought the most was barely even related to me. “Dear god, since you have had a wonderful meal, it wouldn’t be rude to ask you this small request. Please keep my parents happy, they seem to fight a lot. I want them to be happy and complement each other.” My eyes slowly opened and a hue of blue covered my vision. The voices that were once muffled began to ring in my ears. The same flame came close to me by the copper plate. The Pandit approached me. I leaned forward and raised my hands underneath the fire that rippled diagonally in the presence of oxygen. The Pandit then smiled and took a red-colored pigment mixed with water. He dipped his thumb in the color and put the tilak12 on the center of my forehead as I pulled my hair back. The Pandit took a few rice grains and stuck it at the same red line. Soon after, my focus quickly shifted from the pooja to the prasad.13 The prasad was a small token that was a blessing from the gods. Taking it from one hand was disrespectful, so I layered them both underneath. A green powder-like brittle was poured into my hand. It looked like earthy soil in my hand with other assorted colors sprouting. I dumped it all in my mouth, and the sweet powder dissolved.

We exited the ashram and my father smiled at me. I hugged them both, yet they had some repulsion against each other, like two magnetic poles. I noticed it instantly, but I didn’t understand what caused this tension.

Vexed – pandora’s box

I climbed up the staircase; drops of sweat poured down my body and made my hair oily. I removed my socks and speckles of grass rained down on the entrance mat. I realized a deafening noise was coming from the inside. The voice was stentorian, like the roar of a lion. I looked down at the marbled tiles aligned next to each other like a tessellation. I stepped inside, and the voice was even louder. In the kitchen, there were the sounds of a pressure cooker that emitted a blaze of steam and gas. In the other room was the sound of my mother, whose voice quickly changed from loud to timid. She began to pule and cry querulously. I quietly put my heavy bag in the room and decided not to make her aware of my arrival. I sat by the curb of my bed and silently listened to the conversation. They began to spit out insults in Hindi and the very blunt manner made me cover my ears. The walls became thin like paper, almost turning into the translucent matter. I pulled my kambal,14 over my head. I couldn’t bear to hear my mother sob and weep over the phone. Instantly I began to connect the pieces and realized who she was talking to.

I spent the entire day sitting on the bed. The call had stopped, and she had begun to snivel. I imagined her facial expression and the tone of his voice. “What could have made her cry so much?” I thought in my head as I concentrated on a single point on my cupboard. The scenarios flooded my brain. I began to become more and more anxious about finding out the mere truth. The teary-eyed face emerged from the aperture in the wall. She was perplexed and baffled by my sudden appearance and sat beside me.

“It will all be okay.” The vague statement did not assure me that she was doing fine. Instead, I began to get even more worried. As Maa left my room, I pulled out my drawer and began to nibble on a childhood snack. The packet of sweets besides my belongings would usually be saved after dinner. But at that moment I needed something to relieve the inexpressible pain. I put the hard candy, shaped like a mango in my mouth. The explosion of flavour tingled my mouth with a stiff numbness. The sour hard candy shifted its position from left to right in my mouth, coating it with the orange dye. I leaned on the headboard of the bed and didn’t do anything for the next few minutes.

Paa opened the door. I heard the creak and began to peek from the edge to see his face with a rictus. It emitted a smoldering look that was bold and quite masculine. He put his belongings by the sofa in the hall and called out my name. A sudden sense of anxiety penetrated my skull. I came out, put my hands behind my hips, and sat down on the greyish-white sofa. The conversation started normally and then was weighed down by emotions. I had not anticipated this moment, and I had begun to link the fact that money was a problem at home. Yet this was not even close to my prediction. Instead, I had learned of the disunion of the two pillars in my life. My world collapsed into a black void, and I sat there still in a vegetative manner for the next few minutes. The Pandora’s box had been opened, and I became enraged at this classified information which was unraveled.

The second petal beside the pinker one, began to hold on to the stem with a thread. Almost beginning to detach.

The contrasting white chair

It was PTM (Parent-Teacher Meeting) day. I walked by the person who made me ripe for the harvest. We both stepped inside the room where Mr. Girinath, my math teacher, welcomed us. He wore a checkered T-shirt and had a Vandyke beard with sleek metallic glasses. The three seats were next to each other. I wasn’t nervous about meeting my teachers, but I was bothered by one thing. It lingered in the back of my mind. My sore eyes were filled with gunk. While walking to the meeting, I was tired and pretended to be elated. The teacher began to lecture me about my poor attention span and my slipping grades in class. It didn’t matter to me. At that point, I just looked at the corresponding chair. The virgin white appalled me with its emptiness. I began to stare at it. My skin flaked like the scales of a viper. Soon my focus was disrupted by a concerned look on my mother’s face. She was quite upset with my academic performance. I was then continually lectured about my grades. I didn’t seem to care. I stepped out of the room. My attention was diverted to the other children. Their faces were lit up with ecstatic expressions. I noticed that both their pillars helped in upholding the integrity of their life. That one other pillar that was supposed to be upholding me had vanished. My mother’s sari15 revealed my face, and its fabric emitted a powerful aura. I was beholden to her and grateful because she raised me even when everything seemed to collapse. I hugged her tightly, grasping her back as a tear rolled down my cheeks.

            “I love you Maa,16” I murmured softly.

The mahogany tree stood there alone. The singular petal tarried in like an anchor.

By Aniket Dewangen, grade 10, India. He adds: “My roots have stemmed from the streets of Haryana, and I speak Hindi at home despite being born in the United states. Yet apart from this, I actively enjoy photography and art. I like capturing numerous moments, people and cultures through my Camera, and explore my artistic capabilities with the help of a brush and canvas. A large part of my childhood was seemingly rough and I went through many hardships, but my hobbies and passions made up and brought me relaxation even in distress. This all taught me one thing to stay stronger and push through anything that was to come my way.”

Foot Notes:

1 Dhoti: A white cloth garment with a border, worn in an Indian traditional manner

2 Ashram: A hermitage

3 Pandit: A Hindu scholar

4 pooja: A Hindu ritual of worshipping god

5 Dandi march: Mahatma Gandhi’s famous Salt March—nonviolent civil disobedience in 1930 during the British Colonial Indian rule

6 Rabri and Malpua: Traditional Indian sweet dish made with milk, sugar and condiments

7 Aarthi: A ritual ceremony of waving a lighted lamp during prayers

8 Badam : Almond

9 Chappan Bhog: Offering of 56 food items to Lord Krishna on his birthday (Janmashtami)

10 Janmashtami: Lord Krishna’s birthday festival, usually in August or September

11 Beta: Endearing term for son in the Hindi language

12 Tilak: A mark worn by Hindus on their forehead, especially during festivals

13 prasad: Food that is offered to gods

14 Kambal: A blanket or comforter

15 Sari: A traditional garment worn by women in India; it’s a long, colorful cloth decorated with various designs.

16. Maa: Mother.

 

The Paralyzing Fear of Gun Violence

The Paralyzing Fear of Gun Violence*

A National Pandemic of The 21st Century

By Beatriz Lindemann, age 16, Florida

When I first heard the shrieks, I was in line to buy a set of pajamas at Victoria’s Secret with my nanny and godmother, Lizette. Then, suddenly, a stampede of people ran through the store.

“Get down!” someone screamed.

“We heard gunshots!” a woman yelled.

I dropped to the floor and grabbed Lizette’s hand. “¿Qué está pasando?” (“What is happening?”) I asked her. My heart was beating out of my chest.

She did not answer. We were both panicked. I wondered if the shooter was in the store.

An employee ran to a door in the back of the store. We followed her into a gray room filled with lockers and chairs. I stared at the door, waiting for someone to walk in. Was the shooter still in the mall? There was nowhere to go. Surely, if someone tried, they could get through the door. The employees listened to updates on their radios. My whole body began to shake as I processed what was going on.

Ten minutes later, the employees told us that the gates had shut in front of the store and that the police were beginning to search the mall. Relief.

Those were the scariest ten minutes of my life. I thought that I was going to die; I mentally prepared myself to have a gun pointed at me. Those ten minutes changed me.

We stayed in that back room for two hours as the police searched the mall. I was cold and shaking. I kept updating my phone until an hour and a half after the initial incident when the news reported that the shooter had gotten into an argument with someone he knew and shot three people in that mall—Aventura Mall in Miami. The report stated that the shooter had left immediately but did not report that thousands of people hid for hours.

This wasn’t my first experience with gun violence. When I was in the fifth grade, there was a mass shooting not too far from where I live in Miami at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland. Fourteen students and three teachers died at that school, a place where we should all be safe.

I had trouble imagining that fear and understanding that threat before that incident. In elementary school, lockdowns were a time to whisper and giggle with friends. After the Parkland shooting, though, no one spoke during lockdown drills. To this day, the air during these drills is tense and petrifying. No one is laughing. The threat is real. Too real.

After the shooting in the mall, I had panic attacks for weeks. I felt unsafe in public and did not want to be in large, commercial spaces. I was not in control, and that was difficult to accept. My experience did not compare to many others’ experiences with gun violence, yet I was rattled. I was 14, and I felt helpless.

Then, the Robb Elementary shooting in Uvalde, Texas, happened, and my resentment reached an all-time high. My stomach flipped when I read that Uvalde was the deadliest school shooting in a decade; 19 children and two teachers were killed. My heart ached as I thought of the parents who dropped their children off at school one morning and never got to see them again. They will never hug their babies again.

The more I read, the angrier I became. I shut my computer and screamed into my hands. When was it going to be enough? When was there going to be enough pain to cause change? How can politicians look in the mirror?

For the next couple of weeks, as more news came out about the shooting, my panic attacks continued. Parents and children who lost their friends that day were on the news. I felt their pain. Eleven-year-old Miah Cerillo covered herself in her dead friend’s blood to avoid being shot. She called 911 from her dead teacher’s phone. In what world is this acceptable?

I read articles that included the statements of politicians after the shooting. A Texan politician caught my attention. He did not offer solutions for protecting children but rather took the press opportunity to politicize the situation. He shared his opinion, which was that it was essential for Americans to have access to firearms. These politicians claim to be “pro-life,” advocating for the unborn but not the children already on Earth.

I have read the Constitution and the Bill of Rights in school. I understand why upholding the Constitution is necessary for our nation’s success and a well-functioning government. Still, I do not understand how a document written centuries ago can prohibit gun control for public safety. Banning all guns may not be the solution, but changing our policies has to be. We need to focus on who has access to firearms. Purchasing a gun in America is too easy. Pulling a trigger is too easy. Proper training is needed, as are background checks and mental health evaluations.

When will we depoliticize this human rights issue? Our country is divided, but to fix this, we must unite. This isn’t Democrats versus Republicans. It must be Americans against gun violence.

—Beatriz Lindemann, 16, Florida. Her stories have been published across various literary platforms, from Girls Write the World to the Women’s Media Center. She is a varsity rower and hopes to study journalism, political science, or law at university. Her unorthodox upbringing, raised by two gay dads, impacted her perception of the world and the power of writing.

*This essay by Beatriz was originally published by the Women’s Media Center on the WMC FBomb.

A Music Room of Our Own

A Music Room of Our Own

By Niki Zhang, 17, (photographed above) United Kingdom

Four years ago, as we sat in the practice room in which I had spent countless hours, my piano teacher, Ms. Li, handed me a thick navy volume. “The Well-Tempered Clavier” was written on its cover; beneath, in bold letters, “J.S. BACH”—a giant of Baroque music, progenitor of twenty-odd children, and, of course, a man.

I had no doubt about the brilliance of Bach’s music, but still I was not particularly happy about the assignment. Forcing a smile, I politely asked, careful not to offend, “Could I, perhaps, play anything other than Bach, Mozart and Chopin?” What surprised me was my teacher’s pause; the air in the room was tight and it was clear that Ms. Li was slightly taken aback by my comment.

“Not a problem,” she finally said. “What about Debussy? He was the father of impressionist music. Impressionism is quite feminine… I think you would like it.”

With slight indignation, I asked, “Why are there no female composers?” I was certain women impressionists existed, but I was disturbed to realize that I could not name a single one. To my surprise, Ms. Li seemed excited by my question, as if she had been waiting for it to be asked, and had many ideas ready for me. First, she gave me “D’un Jardin Clair” by Lili Boulanger, an elegantly dream-like yet stimulating piece. Then “Six Petite Pièces” by Charlotte Sohy. Then “Rêverie” by Germain Tailleferre. Why had I never heard of this wonderful music? Why has not the average concertgoer, or even the average pianist? The problem, I began to realize, was not the lack of women composers but the lack of recognition. I was determined to build a repertoire of the beautiful but neglected works of these forgotten composers.

I had only raised the question after playing the piano for eight years. In retrospect, I am surprised that as a woman it had not occurred to me earlier. Prior to that, I was ignorant about the subordinate or even absent position of women in the classical canon. Do not blame yourself if you cannot name any female composers, because historically there have been vanishingly few: only 2.2% of historical works were composed by women, according to the Donne Foundation.1

Even today, pieces by Beethoven and Brahms alone are performed about as often, worldwide, as pieces by all women composers combined.2

If women account for around half of the population, how could this possibly be? About a hundred years ago, author Virginia Woolf tried to answer much the same question in A Room of One’s Own.Though her subject was literature, not music, her arguments seem even more relevant to music. “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction,” Woolf famously wrote. Her insight is staggeringly simple—but like gender inequality in classical music, even simple things are not always obvious.

Woolf explains that, “Nothing is known about women before the eighteenth century.”Up to Woolf’s time, but particularly in the more distant past, role models, as we now call them, were few and far between, for writers or composers or really creative people of any type. The woman’s place was clearly in the domestic sphere; education was denied her, and her energies were allowed to be spent only on housework, not artwork. Lack of support and community would have made writing difficult. But imagine how much more impossible composition must have seemed, with the years of specialized training it required, followed by the large, expensive groups required to perform it. “Any woman born with a great gift in the sixteenth century would have certainly gone crazed, shot herself, or ended her days,”Woolf writes during her hypothetical discussion of “Judith Shakespeare,”William Shakespeare’s imaginary (and impossible) sister. Imagine how much truer that statement would be for Judith Byrd, Jennifer Gibbons, or Greta Handel.

The core of Woolf’s insight is materialist: creativity requires privacy, and privacy requires resources. Woolf emphasizes the need for material conditions in pursuing artistic desires, but these were “Out of question” for a woman “Unless her parents were exceptionally rich or very noble.”But it was not equality of opportunity and access to financial resources that was lacking, it was equality in having the liberty to be different, to express individuality, and to diverge from the standard of “greatness” which was defined in terms of the achievements by male composers.

In classical music, symphonies are traditionally equated with “greatness.” Smaller works are “minor.” If we had to illustrate what a “great” composer would look like, we would end up with dozens of portraits of high-status, European men. That is not to say that no efforts were made to change societal attitudes towards independence for women.

If Virginia Woolf wanted to consider the endeavours of a female composer to be recognised, she would not have had to look further than her close friend Dame Ethel Smyth. Smyth, who was about twenty years older than Woolf, fell in love with the writer, who described the experience as “Like being caught by a giant crab.”Smyth was a pioneer in the women’s suffrage movement, which became what was known as the first wave of feminism at the end of the nineteenth century. She met Woolf through the movement.

Smyth was the first female composer to have music performed at The Metropolitan Opera in New York. She fought alongside suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst in the “Votes for Women” campaign and wrote the official anthem of the Women’s Social and Political Union (WSPU).She often wrote music as E.M. Smyth to prevent her success from being hindered by patriarchal expectations. Smyth’s career was filled with operas, concertos and symphonies;10 she was not only a real influence on the suffrage movement but also inspired women and other underrepresented groups within classical music as a whole.

Woolf emphasises that women’s financial and educational disadvantages inhibited their creativity, and for musical composition, that is even more true. Classical music, more than literature or drama, requires extensive practical training and collaboration. It also requires a different kind of creativity, one that defies the traditional divisions, often mapped onto the genders, between sentiment and rationality—dramatised so effectively in Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay in Woolf’s To The Lighthouse. As Leah Broad explains in Quartet: How Four Women Changed the Musical World, making music in a male-dominated musical scene was different to more directly representative arts like painting and writing. Composing requires the “Ability to think both logically and emotionally… It was a talent considered beyond women’s reach.”11

Smyth rebelled against the roles that had been assigned to women in music. She demanded that her compositions be judged equally and in terms of merit, rather than of gender.12 She wanted to change the standard of “great” music, revise the image of the “great” composer and, by extension, subvert the default subordinate position of women. She broke societal standards of music by driving its political potential to the fullest, composing “The March of the Women.”13 It was later performed by suffragettes everywhere—at rallies, at meetings, and even in prisons.14 However, this came at a reputational cost. Smyth was aware that people saw her as difficult and uncompromising, and said, perhaps with a grin or perhaps with a sigh, that “The faults of people you are fond of are as precious as their virtues.”15 Broad argues that it is only because Smyth had these faults, especially her belligerence, that she was able to study music, let alone build a musical career.

However, Smyth is, like Woolf herself, an exception to the experience of most women in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. She did not have the burden of raising a family, which would have been a significant obstacle. Even though her father was unsupportive of a career in composition, Smyth was fortunate to be born into a wealthy military family who supported her pursuit of music for leisure by performing in concert halls or for household entertainment.16

When women in Woolf’s day were encouraged to participate in music, it was often a way to elevate social status. The piano’s versatile nature and rapidly growing repertoire provided a perfect opportunity for women to make music, yet all too often, mastery of the instrument was merely seen as a way to render a woman a better housewife. Even for the women who had the leisure and resources to develop serious skills, becoming a professional was often not an option, even if they possessed a gift in composing or playing.

Publishing houses were similarly paternal, often refusing to publish women’s work.17 Composers therefore had two options: to copy their work by hand or to get it printed at their own expense. With many carrying the burdens of raising families, talented young women did not consider a career in classical music due to the discouraging climate in composition. Fanny Mendelssohn was discouraged by her brother, Felix Mendelssohn, from publishing her work because “She regulates her house, and neither thinks of the public nor of the musical world, nor even of music at all until her first duties are fulfilled.”18 In Woolf’s day, although the suffrage movement had allowed for women’s voices to be heard politically, they still struggled to be heard in concert halls. It is therefore probably not an accident that most successful female composers were raised in a musical environment where they could access and learn how to pursue music. Smyth, for example, was brought up as an Anglican and was exposed to music through singing hymns.19

Prejudiced attitudes have literally been built into the infrastructure of music. Even piano keyboards were designed in a way that did not accommodate women who, on average, have smaller hands.20 Though there is roughly a 50/50 split in gender in the world, the manufacturers continue to design instruments for the average male hand. This perpetuates the idea that one-size-fits-men applies to every single person, especially if the object is meant to be gender-neutral.

In my decade of playing the piano, it had never occurred to me that one of the reasons I had had to find alternative fingerings, use broken chords, or miss notes was simply because the piano I was playing (let alone the pieces themselves) had not been made for people like me. Female pianists experience gender bias not just in the concert hall, but literally when they touch the keyboard.

Smyth was composing and Woolf was writing in the 1920s. Since then, classical music has progressed from one “great” man to the next. In recent years, many more female composers as well as soloists and conductors have emerged. According to the 2022 Orchestra Repertoire Report conducted by the Institute for Composer Diversity (ISD), concerts featuring music by women composers and composers of color increased from 4.5% of all concerts in 2015 to 22.5% in 2022.21 But still too little of that music gets performed. More opportunities need to be on offer to allow people to learn, teach, and perform compositions by women. The question now, in a world that often congratulates itself for its progress, is no longer, “What has changed?” Rather, it’s important to ask, “What has not changed?”

Changing material conditions should, ideally, lead to changes in attitudes. Woolf understood though that the former always precedes the latter—that we cannot start talking about attitudes until the resources are there: people need to buy tickets, music needs to be commissioned and programmed and of course performed. Supporting female composers is not enough; institutions need to make an effort to stimulate an appreciation for their music. It would not hurt, either, if more women were appointed as administrators and board members.

In “The Pandora Guide to Women Composers,”22 Sophie Fuller writes, “Remembering and acknowledging (female composers’) many achievements can only enrich our understanding and bring us a clearer picture of the past.” The reason why music composed by women is not performed is not because they are not up to the standard but because only now are we discovering them. As we go forward, we need to make sure that independence and equality are distributed not just among elite white women. The Donne Foundation finds that of the 20,400 compositions scheduled by orchestras worldwide in the 2021-2022 season, only 7.7% of the works were written by women and, remarkably, 5.5%, or almost two-thirds, were by white women.23

Classical music is one of the only professions which actively discriminates against the living in favour of the dead; as such, it remains one of the purest bastions of the patriarchy left in our society, which, though not perfect, has changed appreciably since Woolf’s and Smyth’s day.24 There are thankfully many more women composers in the conversation today, from Jennifer Higdon to Joan Tower to Kaija Saariaho. This is progress. But it has taken a long time and we are still far from equality in terms of prestige, airtime, and frankly, ticket sales.

Four years after my encounter with Ms. Li, I performed “The March of the Women” in a school concert. Though a simple and straightforward piece, it brought on a flood of emotions, from hope to pride and the triumphant thrill of victory. I was in the position to take the powerful anthem sung behind bars, by a chorus of suffragettes whom Smyth conducted with a toothbrush, into my own hands on a grand piano in a recital hall with a supportive audience. It is a sign of how far we have yet to go that Smyth’s piece, once an anthem for political change, now feels like a call for change in the concert hall. “Scorned, spurned, naught have ye cared, / Raising your eyes to a wider morrow,” the anthem intones in a text by Cicely Hamilton. “March, March, many as one, / Shoulder to shoulder and friend to friend!”25 Solidarity among women and decisive, organized efforts to diversify repertoires and syllabuses will allow for more awareness of the involvement of women in music history, and ultimately fuller enfranchisement of women in the musical community.

—Niki Zhang, age 17, from Hong Kong, is a high school senior in the United Kingdom. She speaks English, Cantonese and Mandarin.

Niki adds: “This essay is really important to me because classical music (flute, piano, harp) has been a large part of my life since I was five, and like many other kids, was a hobby planted by my parents. As I grew older, I gained cultural awareness through the music I was playing, learning about the history and social changes in the environments I was stepping foot in, such as Ethyl Smyth, a composer and pioneer of the British Suffrage movement, and this is something I do not take for granted. I am deeply intrigued by the area of sociology and to be able to combine it with history and music in this essay, I could see the music world from a whole other perspective—much more than just playing notes on a keyboard but delving into the historical contributions and challenges women, in particular, faced as a result of fighting for recognition. My dream in the future is to continue playing diverse composers and spark these conversations, because only recently have we begun discovering and talking about them.” 

 

Foot Notes:

  1. Di Laccio, G. Equality & Diversity in Global Repertoire – Donne, Women in Music (2022), p.5.
    Available at: https://donne-uk.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Donne-Report-2022.pdf
  1. Di Laccio, G. Equality & Diversity in Global Repertoire – Donne, Women in Music (2022), p.5.
    Available at: https://donne-uk.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Donne-Report-2022.pdf
  1. Woolf, Virginia. 2014. A Room of One’s Own, 4
  2. Woolf, Virginia. 2014. A Room of One’s Own, 38
  3. Woolf, Virginia. 2014. A Room of One’s Own, 41
  4. Woolf, Virginia. 2014. A Room of One’s Own, 39
  5. Woolf, Virginia. 2014. A Room of One’s Own, 44
  6. Lumsden, R. (2015). “The Music Between Us”: Ethel Smyth, Emmeline Pankhurst, and “Possession.” Feminist Studies, 41(2), 335–370. https://doi.org/10.15767/feministstudies.41.2.335
  1. Millar, A. (2022) Critiqued, arrested, knighted: Knowing Dame Ethel Smyth, Museum of London.
    Available at: https://www.museumoflondon.org.uk/discover/dame-ethel-smyth-suffragette-music-composer-activist (Accessed: 02 July 2023).
  1. Walsh, K. (2022) Ethel Smyth’s Influence on the Women’s Suffrage Movement, The Classic Journal.
    Available at: https://theclassicjournal.uga.edu/index.php/2022/04/14/ethel-smyths-influence-on-the-womens-suffrage-movement/#_fn2 (Accessed: 02 July 2023).
  1. Broad, L. (2023) Quartet: How four women changed the musical world. London: Faber & Faber, p4
  2. Broad, L. (2023) Quartet: How four women changed the musical world. London: Faber & Faber, p5
  3. Smyth, Ethel. The March of the Women. The Woman’s Press, 1911.
  4. Broad, L. (2023) Quartet: How four women changed the musical world. London: Faber & Faber, 2
  5. Broad, L. (2023) Quartet: How four women changed the musical world. London: Faber & Faber
  6. Walsh, Keelin. “Ethel Smyth’s Influence on the Women’s Suffrage Movement | The Classic Journal.” The Classic Journal| a Journal of Undergraduate Writing and Research, from WIP at UGA, 14 Apr. 2022
  7. Broad, L. (2023) Quartet: How four women changed the musical world. London: Faber & Faber, p38
  8. Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel (2019) American Ballet Theatre. Available at: https://www.abt.org/people/fanny-mendelssohn-hensel/ (Accessed: 03 July 2023).
  9. Broad, L. (2023) Quartet: How four women changed the musical world. London: Faber & Faber.
  10. Perez, C.C. (2019) INVISIBLE WOMEN: Data bias in a world designed for men. Abrams Press.
  11. Deemer, R. and Meals, C. (2022) 2022 Orchestra Repertoire Report, ICD Repertoire Analysis. Available at: https://static1.squarespace.com/static/5b9ee971fcf7fd7add652207/t/62960a5d2a1998349128b94d/16540
  12. Fuller, S. (1995) The Pandora Guide to Women Composers: Britain and the United States, 1629-present. London: Pandora. 00223744/ICD_2022_ORCH_REPORT_MAY31.pdf.
  13. Di Laccio, G. Equality & Diversity in Global Repertoire – Donne, Women in Music (2022), p.5. Available at: https://donne-uk.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Donne-Report-2022.pdf
  14. Fairouz, M. (2017) Women are great composers too, why aren’t they being heard?, NPR. Available at: https://www.npr.org/sections/deceptivecadence/2017/05/01/525930036/women-composers-not-being-heard
  15. Smyth, Ethel. The March of the Women. The Woman’s Press, 1911.

 

Works Cited

Broad, Leah. Quartet. Faber & Faber, 2023.

Di Laccio, Gabriella. “Equality & Diversity in Global Repertoire.” Donne, Women in Music, Sept. 2022, https://donne-uk.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/Donne-Report-2022.pdf.

Deemer, Rob, and Cory Meals. “Repertoire Analysis.” Institute for Composer Diversity, Institute for Composer Diversity, June 2022, https://www.composerdiversity.com/analysis.

Fairouz, Mohammed. “Women Are Great Composers Too, Why Aren’t They Being Heard?” NPR Music, NPR, 1 May 2017. https://www.npr.org/sections/deceptivecadence/2017/05/01/525930036/women-composers-not-being-heard.

Fuller, Sophie. The Pandora Guide to Women Composers. Harper San Francisco, 1994.

Laccio, Gabriella Di. “Ethel Smyth—a Firecracker in Munich—Donne, Women in Music.” Donne, Women in Music; https://www.facebook.com/DonneUK, 28 June 2021. https://donne-uk.org/ethel-smyth-a-firecracker-in-munich/.

Millar, Andrew. “Critiqued, Arrested, Knighted: Knowing Dame Ethel Smyth | Museum of London.” Museum of London, Museum of London, 21 June 2022, https://www.museumoflondon.org.uk/discover/dame-ethel-smyth-suffragette-music-composer-activist.

Scott, Britain, and Christiane Harrassowitz. “Beyond Beethoven and the Boyz: Women’s Music in Relation to History and Culture.” Music Educators Journal, no. 4, SAGE Publications, Mar. 2004, pp. 50–56. Cross-ref, doi:10.2307/3399999.

Staveley, Alice. “Marketing Virginia Woolf: Women, War, and Public Relations in ‘Three Guineas.’” Book History, Vol. 12, The Johns Hopkins University Press, pp. 295–339, doi:10.2307/40930548. Accessed 3 July 2023.

Walsh, Keelin. “Ethel Smyth’s Influence on the Women’s Suffrage Movement | The Classic Journal.” The Classic Journal | a Journal of Undergraduate Writing and Research, from WIP at UGA, 14 Apr. 2022, https://theclassicjournal.uga.edu/index.php/2022/04/14/ethel-smyths-influence-on-the-womens-suffrage-movement/#_fn2.

Smyth, Ethel. The March of the Women. The Woman’s Press, 1911.

The King of Maragor

The King of Maragor

Based on a Jataka Tale

By Christina G. Waldman, New York

The Lord of Jataka strode pensively up and down his marble-floored chamber, stroking his short, stubby beard. Any minute now Sahbasad, his most trusted advisor, would come through the curtained doorway. Perhaps then his troubled mind would find relief.

He had not been Lord of Jataka long. Indeed, it had only been six months since his father had sent him to this far-away city to try to restore it to its former prosperity. True, six months was not long, but there was much reason for despair.

He had wanted to make Jataka the shining star of all his father’s cities. Yet, he feared, it was nothing more than a laughingstock.

“My Lord.” Sahbasad peered through the velvet curtain.

“Sahbasad.” The king’s face brightened at the sight of his friend. “Come, sit here beside me and dispel the gloom from this room. Tell me, have you made your way among the common folk as I asked you to do these past weeks?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Good. And what have you learned?”

Sahbasad took a deep breath. “Your Highness, I fear you will not like what I have to say.”

“Out with it, Sahbasad. I must know.”

“Very well, then. None of your plans for improvement are being carried out. The libraries and museums you have commissioned to be built exist only on paper. The lovely gardens you and I designed have no gardeners to tend them. The statues of great men and women you ordered to be carved sit unformed in blocks of marble. Oh, my Lord, it is indeed pitiful!”

“And what do the people do, then?” cried the Lord. “The farmers—surely they must be harvesting their crops so there will be food for the winter?”

“My Lord, I’m afraid no crops were planted,” said Sahbasad.

The Lord grew alarmed. “This is worse than I thought. What is this evil that has paralyzed my people?”

“No one will speak of it.”

The king’s sharp glance pierced Sahbasad. “But you must speak of it. We grew up together, before fate called us to different roles. I trust no one as much as I trust you. Now tell me, what is it the people fear so?”

Sahbasad began boldly but ended in a whisper: “Though none dare say his name, it is the—the—King of Maragor.”

“The King of Maragor!” exclaimed the Lord. “What do you know of him?”

“It is said he is very evil, a king of darkness, who will bring to naught any good the people try to accomplish. Instead of venturing out to work for their bread, they cling to the little they have, scraping their grain barrels for one last measure of porridge. They fear that Maragor will send his villainous horsemen to trample any field they plant.”

The Lord fumed. “Sahbasad, I want you to take whatever men, horses, and provisions you need, and travel to the Kingdom of Maragor. Find out all you can about him: how he lives, what he eats, what music he likes, whom he trusts—everything! Take one hundred witnesses with you. When you find him, tell him that I, the Lord of Jataka, am not afraid to say his name.”

Sahbasad trembled. “Must I, Lord?” Knowing the answer, he rose and was gone.

Ten years passed. The Lord of Jataka’s people had not prospered. More and more, the Lord shut himself up in his palace, for it hurt him to see how they suffered. Though children were hungry, most farmers still refused to till the soil, for why plant what Maragor’s horsemen would only destroy?

Finally, one day, as the Lord strode up and down with worry, a visitor was announced.

“Sahbasad! At last you have returned, my friend. We are both grizzled and gray. Come, sit here beside me. Tell me about Maragor.”

“My Lord,” Sahbasad began reluctantly. “What I have to say will surprise you. I hope it will not anger you.”

“What is it, Sahbasad?”

Sahbasad bowed his head. “I have not found him.”

“What!” cried the Lord.

“It is true. My men and I have searched for ten long years, but we never found him. In fact, I am certain he does not even exist.”

“Oh! Perhaps you found his villainous horsemen?”

“Not a trace.”

“Then, my people have been deceived.”

“It appears so, my Lord,” said Sahbasad.

The Lord’s brow furrowed in thought. Then he slowly smiled. “Sahbasad, were you afraid to undertake this mission?”

“Oh, yes.” Sahbasad shuddered.

“But, now you have learned that what you feared was not real.”

“It appears so, my Lord,” said Sahbasad, with a slight smile.

The Lord jumped to his feet excitedly. “Sahbasad, would you swear to what you’ve just told me?”

Sahbasad handed the king a parchment scroll. “I, and a thousand witnesses have done so.”

“A thousand!”

“Yes, they are all standing in your courtyard,” said Sahbasad.

The Lord hastened to his window. Sure enough, his courtyard was filled with people.

“Sahbasad,” said the Lord, “take up pen and parchment. Write these words to my people:

“My Beloved People:
It has been sworn to me by a thousand witnesses that
THERE IS NO KING OF MARAGOR.
For many years, we have let fear of this imaginary king paralyze us.
Our enemy was not Maragor, but our fear.
Signed,
The Lord of Jataka.”

“Make copies of this proclamation and post them on every pillar in the land. But first, my faithful friend, kneel before me.”

Sahbasad knelt, amazed. The Lord touched his shoulder and knighted him, saying, “No, Sahbasad, you have not failed. By your valor and devotion, you have succeeded. You have proven this fearsome phantom-king to be made of thin air. You have thrown back the veil of darkness and opened the door to a sunlit garden of possibility. From now on we are truly brothers. Go.”

With tears in his eyes, Sahbasad rose, embraced his king, and set out to proclaim his message of hope.

—Christie Waldman grew up in a small town in Illinois. She first wanted to be a published writer when she was seven years old. Her short story for children, “Something to Look Forward To,” can be read online at Ember: A Journal of Luminous Things (Oct. 2021). 

https://read.emberjournal.org/christina-g-waldman/something-to-look-forward-to/

Author’s Note:

The source for this story was Josephine Saint-Hilaire,  “Parable of the King of Maragor,” first published in English in her book, On Eastern Crossroads: Legends and Prophecies of Asia (New York: Frederick A. Stokes Co., 1930). © The Agni Yoga Society, New York.

 http://agniyoga.org/ay_en/On-Eastern-Crossroads.php

 

Dear New Yorker

Dear New Yorker,

It’s a little weird how you are standing in the middle of Fifth Avenue. Anywhere else in the world your yellow shirt would help you stand out, but here, in this jungle of concrete, you run the risk of being camouflaged in a sea of yellow street cabs. I appreciate your confidence though, a trait one needs in order to be considered a New Yorker. And in the city that never sleeps, anything is possible. From the time of New Amsterdam on the southern tip of the island, New York has been a land of new possibilities, welcoming groups that were otherwise shunned from society. The first Jewish community in the new world stepped foot on the island in 1654, finding a refuge, a place where they could live in relative peace. Flash forward to the past two centuries and millions of immigrants have flooded through Ellis Island. Not all of them have stayed in New York, some moved throughout the country establishing roots in other communities, but one constant remains, each one got their start in this great city. Imagine the sight. Lady Liberty standing proud on the Hudson. Give me your tired and poor. So yes, anyone is welcome in New York as long as you are brave. Even you, an idiot who is standing in the middle of the road.

Love,

C.

“I have enjoyed all types of writing during my high school career, but specifically enjoy writing creative
nonfiction. This summer, I plan on attending a young writers workshop where I hope
to improve my storytelling skills and collaborate with some of the best young authors from
across the country and around the world. In college, I would like to major in English and
concentrate or minor in creative writing at an institution that values literary fields.”