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Words of Disbelief

 
 Words of Disbelief  

 Intently he listened
 Holding onto every word
 The yard was a thick tangle of
 Twigs lavender lilies, dandelions
 And grass
 He could not believe
 A month ago buds were just
 Everywhere
 And now it was a jungle
 With clippers, rakes and a 
 Lawnmower
 We worked until our bones 
 Hurt
 Soon it looked like the
 Jardín Botánico in Mexico
 That night Paco whispered
 “I hear the crackle of plants
 Growing again”
 He was right
 In the morning everything had
 Shot up a tiny bit
  
 By Maggie d., African American poet, Washington, She adds: “The poem, Words of Disbelief, erupted from 
observing the stark contrast between winter and spring...”

The Codependency between ‘Peace’ and ‘Trust’

By Aliya S., grade 7, INDIA

The literal definition of peace would mean a state of calm, quiet and serenity. But the human race is far more complex, so we would refer to peace as a time of truce—no wars, no violence and no issues that need to be resolved, whereas trust is considered to be the belief of sincerity, either thought or expressed by a person. While the concepts of peace and trust are commonly misidentified as each other, in reality, they are interdependent in order to create a long-lasting, somewhat fantasized period of harmony.

Obtaining peace is no easy feat, as it has to be mastered from within. Only a person at peace with themselves and their surroundings can achieve peace as society. There is only one path to peace, and that requires change. Change of thought, change of expression and changing actions to words, which believe it or not, has been proven (occasionally) to be more powerful than actions. Currently, peace is a fictional concept, because it requires something most of us lack-a sense of mutual trust.

(Indian) Farmers have left their homes and have chosen to raise their voices even in the harsh circumstances they now face, because they do not trust the government and ITS corporate policies THAT they fear. Our deterministic chaos is but one pesky gnat that prevents us from living peacefully, whereas the lack of trust and therefore, communication, acts as a barrier instead. Farmers, the souls of our very nation, just wish to come to a mutual agreement with the government to ensure that they receive at least a minimum support price (MSP) for the crop they grow, harvest and sell. Instead, they sit out in the cold, protesting because they fear the new farm laws. The people who spoke up for them, who were supposed to be encouraged, were punished instead. This brings us back to the notion of change, and how the mere thought of change in our society can lead to drastic measures taken just to prevent it.

The lack of communication has caused a rift between two sides, which can only be solved with the government delivering practical solutions through dialogue, which will reinforce trust-leading to peace.

By Aliya S., grade 7, INDIA.

Amethyst Dream

Amethyst Dream By Haylee Woessner, grade 7, Missouri.

I stare in wonder as the honey bees fly from flower to flower
collecting and spreading pollen.
I scan the field and watch
the bees fly around, as the purple lavender
sways in the wind knocking some bees off course.

But this is OK.
This happens.
This is normal.
Life isn’t perfect after all.

After a long days’s work
the bees retreat home and I begin to drift back to consciousness
but I’ll be back.
One day I’ll visit the swaying lavender
and hear the buzz of the honey bees.
And I’ll feel the cool breeze as I just sit and watch.
One day I will be back
to visit this amethyst dream.

Mrs. Anne’s Closet

**By Melissa Harris, Illinois. Illustration by her daughter, Madeline Harris, age 11.**

Mrs. Anne’s home was like a museum. Everything I would pick up had a story. “Where did you get this hairbrush from, Mrs. Anne?” I’d ask.

“That was Big Mom’s, my mother, and it sat on her dresser when I was a girl,” my grandma would say.

“And now I’m the girl,” I’d add to the story, gliding my finger across the brush that was a shade between blue and gray.

Sometimes my grandma would let me play dress up in her closet. It was a place for dreaming with your eyes wide open. “Every dress, hat, and handbag has a past, Maddie,” she’d say. “And when the time is right, they’ll be yours to own.” She opened the door to a world of fantasy held in an armoire.

A striped aquamarine and white dress that looked like it was made for a princess. A black dress as skinny as a water hose hung next to a red kimono, draped over other hidden treasures I couldn’t wait to discover. “I know what you’re eye’n.” Mrs. Anne observed with a smirk. I ran to yank the kimono off of the satin hanger. As Mrs. Anne helped to put it on, the phone rang. She left me to the rest and took the call in the next room.

The kimono was so oversized that it wrapped around me twice and then some. I could hear what she’d say if she was still in the room, “Maddie, you’re swallowed in memories and love.” I beamed with honor, and recalled the stories she had told me of our heritage. Mrs. Anne was Chinese and African-American. Her mom was from Arkansas, and her dad was from Hong Kong. Somehow their paths crossed in St. Louis where they fell in love. She’d tell me stories of how I descended from two groups of people who were the first to leave genetic footprints on the world, Africa and Asia. “Being the first doesn’t prevent cruelty,” she’d say, “for both countries experienced invasion and mistreatment.” My thoughts of their story swirled in chaos, so fast that my head started to ache, twisting and turning ideas into knots. My string of thoughts collided, and when they crashed, I was no longer in Mrs. Anne’s closet. I was standing at the edge of a mountain that had to be over a thousand feet high.

I was too scared to look down at first, so I slowly stepped back until my heart no longer tried to jump out of my chest. Where was Mrs. Anne? Where was I? I needed to find a trace of something familiar. I got the nerve to look past my immediate surroundings without moving a single limb. Down below was a harbor and fishing boats with the most vivid red sails. Colors blended together like a rainbow, and I couldn’t make out the body of water in front of me. A black and blue butterfly with stripes like the royal dress in Mrs. Anne’s closet fluttered by. I followed. It led to a path that curved around the mountain, probably used like an elevator to take you up or down. I crossed over to an enormous white house in the distance. Maybe someone there could help me get back to my grandma.

Several arched windows lined the white home. A girl who looked about my age sat under a cotton tree with a book. She didn’t move when I walked towards her, just stared like a frozen sculpture. She had eyes like my grandmother with hair cut straight as a line to her shoulders. I knelt beside her and blurted, “hi.” She hesitated, then exhaled a sigh. I extended my finger towards the house. “Do you live there?” “Lin,” she said pointing to herself. “Maddie,” I responded, imitating her movements.

Just then, a man in a navy-blue uniform slammed the side door to exit. He didn’t look like Lin. He had red hair and skin as pale as the house he exited. After a few steps, he yelled, barmy bloke! A man in a white apron, the kind a cook wears hurried out, bowing to the soldier’s black boots. The soldier’s tirade was like the howling of a wolf, and though I couldn’t see the details of his face, I was sure it wore a glare. The same as the medals pinned to his uniform from the blazing sun. He backed the cook against the wall. When he was close enough to hover over him with a raised fist, Lin screamed, ting! Her words may have stopped the cook from harm, but the soldier’s anger turned towards us. I didn’t understand their language, but I could infer the cook’s meaning when he yelled, pao! Lin ran towards the trolley path, and I followed. In the distance I could see Lin’s destination; a trolley stopped on the side of the road to pick up passengers headed to the lower peak. Lin ran faster than anyone I had ever seen, and I couldn’t catch up. So, I stopped. I felt a tug at my left ponytail and fell back towards the force. It was the soldier. Before I could think of a plan to escape, my bottom scuffed the ground and my head followed. My thoughts began to spin again, and my eyes opened to a different setting. I was at Mrs. Anne’s.

“You alright honey? I heard a hard thud, like you fell.” I could see the concern in Mrs. Anne’s eyes because she saw the fear in mine. I was still shaken up from the soldier and the distant land with people who seemed familiar to me.

“Did your daddy have a sister? I asked, smearing tears across my face.

“He did. Her name was Lin.”

“I think I met her in my dream.”

“I’m sure you did,” Mrs. Anne laughed. I didn’t care if she believed me. I was just grateful to be in her arms, swallowed in memories and love.

Glossary:

Blue Tiger Butterfly/Tirumala limniace is found in South Asia and Southeast Asia. Its wings are black with blue markings.

Pao: (頓契, 獵契, 텝, 쒔檀, 굴텝, 텝꼍) run

Tíng: (界) stop

Victoria Peak: A hill on the western half of Hong Kong Island that rises 1,810 feet.

Victoria Harbor: A natural landform harbor separating Hong Kong Island in the south from the Kowloon Peninsula to the north.

By Melissa Harris, multiracial (Chinese, Irish, and African American), English teacher, Illinois.

Illustration by Melissa’s daughter, Madeline Harris, a budding artist, age 11.

A Gift

By Chad Glang, Ph.D., Colorado.

Stained Glass Art by Chad Glang, Colorado.

Someone asked me recently when was it that I first awakened to the spiritual side of life.

I have a vivid memory from my time as a student in France. I was 19, and several of us were invited to be companions to kids at a nearby orphanage. In several visits, I connected with a boy of eight. In our final afternoon together he went to his bureau—container of all his worldly possessions.

He brought out a rare, treasured postage stamp and handed it to me: Un cadeau pour toi, “A gift for you.”

I was so touched. I pulled out my wallet and found a memento I prized. “Great! We’ll trade,” I said.

His was crestfallen, his eyes filled with tears. “No, not a trade… it’s a gift. I want to give it to you.” I stopped breathing. Oh… I had denied him the experience of giving. In my discomfort with the vulnerability of being the receiver, I’d reflexively moved to equalize the relationship. Unaware, acting out of my own feelings, I’d walked on his feelings… and his dignity.

More than fifty years later, I am still brought to stillness by this memory. I denied the gift of the stamp; I could not deny the gift of the learning. There’s something more going on here… it’s not just about what my limited, if well intentioned, ego can comprehend.

I didn’t have words for that experience at the time, which was part of its power. Now, the Sanskrit greeting Namaste comes to mind: “The place in me of love and truth and light greets the place in you of love and truth and light.”

At a given moment, we may be wearing particular hats, like server and served, but we are all in this together…and deep down we are all the same.

—Chad Glang, Ph.D., lives a retired life in Colorado. He works with stained glass, hikes, bikes and camps. He practiced counseling psychology for 40 years.

When my Grandfather Holds my Grandmother

 When my grandfather holds my grandmother,
 Saigon still smolders on the ashes of April.
  
 When my grandfather holds my grandmother,
 he lowers his head, the way the hunted have always
 bent over their own reflection to drink.
  
 When my grandfather holds my grandmother,
 his schoolboy arms trace etymologies over her waist,
 how the Vietnamese word for “remember” and “miss” are the same
 while his nose relearns a scent, he relearns a year—
 as if to walk through the kitchen window you’d still see
 paper milk-flowers bursting into flames while
 the stars gape like the sky’s bullet wounds;
 and where my grandfather holds her,
 smoke soldiers, also, dig ghost claws in her wrist,
 chanting bạn có nhớ tôi không?
  
 My grandfather holds my grandmother 
 in a history never ended, as if somewhere 
 between his hands, the city smolders on.

By Samantha Liu, 16, New Jersey. She adds: “As for myself, I am a fifteen year-old aspiring writer in New Jersey. I’ve been trying so hard to relearn and revisit my Asian heritage recently – part Mandarin Chinese, part Vietnamese. My grandparents from both sides are children of war, of Mao, of Tet. The bloodshed of the twentieth century, much of it perpetuated by America itself, is etched in my family history. Much of it is cruel. Much of it is turbulent. Much of it inspires bouts of PTSD while I, nine and unknowing, huddle in a corner. But some of it, as I tried to write in “When my grandfather holds my grandmother,” is light. It is how my grandfather and grandmother fell in love, in the ardent and all-consuming way of people who might not see another day. To me, this is the legacy of Vietnam—not politicking, not ideology, but humanity. I have inherited a war, and I will continue to unravel it.”

Mother’s Daughter

“The way you cut your meat reflects the way you live.” –Confucius

If Confucius was right, then my mother lived delicately, treading a tightrope as thin as the slices of her twice cooked pork.

When she ate her first American hamburger, she had complained.“Ai ya. Why is the meat so big? With a hulking piece of meat like this no wonder they all in debt. Americans cannot save.”

She told me this while I minced the pork for our dumplings and she rolled the dough. “Thinner, Jian Yang. We are not the barbaric Americans.”

She didn’t intend it, but with those words, the knife I held slashed across my life like the cuts across the pork. In that moment I told myself I am not a barbaric American because I am not an American. My narrative became a relic of my mother’s, two sides of the same page, her side’s ink still impressed on mine.

For five years after that, I remained scared of knives, and my mother cut my meat for me.

“You are what you eat.” –American proverb

“Is that dog food?”

“It can’t be, because Ling Ling doesn’t feed dogs, she eats them.”

That day I went home in tears and asked my mother to pack me a sandwich. I showed her what the pale kids kept inside of their princess lunchboxes—spongy white bread around ham and cheese, a cereal bar, an apple.

“Ah yes, I make for you.”

The next day I found a pork bun in my backpack. I held the baked dough and took a bite. I tasted pork marinated with soy sauce and chives. As I chewed, I hoped the hujiaobing could pass off as a hamburger.

“Ling Ling is eating dog food again.”

“Does that make Ling Ling a dog?”

The day after, there was steamed bun inside my backpack with barbecue pork and black pepper. I looked once at the pearl knot before throwing out the chasiubao. I didn’t eat my lunch the day after, or the day after.

If you are what you eat, I thought, I don’t want to eat Chinese anymore.

And so my transformation began. Everyday at lunch I’d throw out the delicacy my mother had packed. Everyday at dinner I’d pick at my rice while staring at the woman across from me, pockmarked yellow on her cheeks and creased valleys in her forehead. My greatest wish was not to turn out like her.

I thought I had actualized my wish when my skin began to turn translucent from skipping meals. I thought I was becoming white. I started eating nothing altogether, and I became nothing.

Once my mother scolded me for not eating. “Jian Yang, you look like ghost. Eat your noodles and you become yellow again.”

I can’t remember most of what happened next. I remember my tongue, poised like a knife, uttering some ugly sounding words I barely understood. I remember wanting to make her bleed with my words, one cut for each bite of dog food I had endured. I remember pretending she could seep out red on a cutting board, bleeding until we were left colorless.“Chink.”

“He who takes medicine and neglects diet wastes the skills of the physician.” —Chinese adage

My mother doesn’t cook anymore. Instead, she lays on a red-blanketed bamboo mat in a room brimming verdant. On her desk, an incongruous collection of terracotta cups, holding qi-rectifying rhubarb and shen-calming wolfberry.

The doctor said her condition is too fragile to eat. Strong flavors could disturb her gut, and I should instead blend basic nutrients for her to drink. I promptly replied that he was a fool.

The first time I cooked for her, she was coming back from the hospital. When I saw her, face of mountains reduced to ash, I dropped the plate. She asked what was wrong with me. I told her that my greatest wish was never to turn out like her. She told me that she had shared the same wish.

“You must turn out better than me,” she said.

We ate my meal, pork buns ribbed in ginger, in silence.

“Fashion is in Europe, living is in America, but eating is in China.” —Chinese adage

I saw this scribbled against a dusty window to a grocery store in Chinatown. I don’t know why they say living is in America, because this country killed my mother. She died four months after the pork bun meal—inevitable, the doctor said. The nail salon she labored nine hours a day at had used illegally toxic polishes for years. While she scrubbed counters and coughed chemicals, her liver simply gave out. It was a miracle that she lived as long as she did.

My mother was a failure of an immigrant in most aspects. She stood at the Angel Island bridge seeking freedom, yet each day she beat herself an ocean back, until her vision became a mirage on the horizon. By imagining walls of white supremacy and shadowy businessmen, she trapped herself in a prison of her own making. She never found freedom because she never made it off that bridge.

I live in America, though. For lunch I go out for drinks with my roommates. We catch up on Grey’s Anatomy and someone invites me to a frat party later, which I only pretend to consider.

For dinner I stay home and cut my own meat, a piece for Brooklyn, a piece for Chinatown, for eating, for living. One piece for Jane Young, amateur journalist and cup-pong champion, one piece for Jian Yang, aspiring princess haunted by the paleness of memory. They are the decussations of a third-person America, carved apart by my mother into island pieces long before I realized that action had shattered me.

And so, I reassemble. I take the pieces, toss in a million chili peppers, and sauté in an ocean of soy sauce until they become one and the same.

By Samantha Liu, 16, New Jersey. She adds:“Mother’s Daughter” parallels my two clashing heritages. Having been raised speaking and reading Mandarin Chinese, I was expected to fulfill all the Confucius-esque dreams of my Chinese immigrant mother, whom I ended up resenting more than anything. Through the symbol of food, my story explores my struggle to reconcile these beliefs as I learned to define myself—as Chinese-American, as heterogeneous as food itself.”

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.”

Skipping Stones

A Multicultural Literary Magazine for Teens and Pre-Teens