Category Archives: Family and Community

Born To Be A Chef: Eileen Yin-Fei Lo

The Woman Who Taught America How to Cook Real Chinese Food

By Fanny Wong, author, New York.

Standing on the kitchen stool, Yin-Fei could barely see the wok on the stove. Who would expect a five-year-old to cook with a wok and a spatula?

It was Ah Po, Yin-Fei’s grandmother!

“Just the right age to learn cooking,” Ah Po said. “And never have a short temper or use bad words when you are in the kitchen.” She then pointed to a paper image of Jo Kwan, the Kitchen God, and added, “You want Jo Kwan to think well of this family.”

Baba, Yin-Fei’s father, instructed her, “Eat first with your eyes, then with your mind, then with your nose, and finally, with your mouth.”

Luk Gu Jeh, her aunt, was another teacher of hers. “With patience and practice, you can create something that brings happiness and miles of satisfaction,” she told her.

With a family like hers, Yin-Fei was born to be a chef.

Yin-Fei’s skills grew with Ah Po’s instructions.

“Chop the choy sum properly.”

“Stir the fish mixture in one direction to make it stick together.”

“Pour the hot peanut oil and soy sauce on the steamed fish.”

For Yin-Fei, the learning was easy, but finding the joy in cooking was hard.

Too much time cutting and dicing.

Too much time waiting for the oil to be hot enough to stir-fry.

Too much time waiting for the meat to be tender in the braising pot.

But then Ah Po’s birthday changed everything for her.

Yin-Fei was to contribute one dish for Ah Po’s birthday. She picked the White Cut Chicken recipe because in her Chinese culture, a chicken was always cooked for special occasions.

Yin-Fei placed the whole chicken breast side up in seasoned boiling water and covered the pot. When the water returned to a boil, she lowered the heat to simmer, turned the chicken and let it simmer again. She had to time the cooking just right, and allow the chicken to rest in the pot to finish the cooking. Otherwise, the chicken would be overcooked or undercooked.

Yin-Fei lifted the chicken from the pot. She prepared a dipping sauce of soy sauce and ginger. It looked perfect, but did it taste perfect?

Yin-Fei watched Luk Gu Jeh cut the chicken into bite-sized pieces with a cleaver. Ah Po, surrounded by her family at the table full of many delicious dishes, chose to eat the chicken first. She took a bite, closed her eyes, and chewed it slowly.

Yin-Fei held her breath and waited for Ah Po to finish swallowing.

“Hm….” Ah Po opened her eyes that crinkled with a wide smile and commented, “That was the best chicken I ever had.”

Everyone at the table loved the chicken! Not a single piece was left over! An eleven-year-old girl had made her loved ones happy with her cooking skills! From that moment on, making delicious dishes was her gift to others in the family, a way of showing her love and respect.

Now, she was eager to learn more from Ah Po. She learned that what people ate had to be balanced within their bodies.

Foods such as fish and most vegetables brought them coolness.

Foods such as most meats and some fruits brought their bodies heat.

The combination of these two types of food brought balance and good health to the body.

Yin-Fei learned to cook balanced meals for good taste and good health.

But life was not balanced in their village of Sun Tak. To escape the repressive government in China, 12-year-old Yin-Fei fled with her family to Hong Kong. There, she continued to improve her cooking skills by learning from her aunt. She also learned English in night school and picked an English name for herself—Eileen.

When she was 21, she met an American journalist named Fred Ferretti, and they fell in love and soon married. They moved to New York City. And that was when Yin-Fei’s life took another turn!

Her new in-laws brought her to a Chinese restaurant.

“What is this? This omelet is like an overdone pancake covered with a brown sauce,” she remarked.

“This is egg foo yung, our favorite Chinese dish,” her in-laws said.

From that moment, Yin-Fei had a mission! She wanted to teach Americans how to make good-tasting, authentic Chinese food.

First, she gave her friends Chinese cooking lessons at her home.

“You must write a book!” her friends said.

And she did. Eleven books in all! Each book taught readers how to cook traditional Chinese food at home.

She also taught at cooking schools and appeared in cooking demonstrations on television.

And when a renowned chef invited Yin-Fei to create a dim sum menu for his restaurant and teach his cooks, that’s exactly what she did. She took charge of his cooks!

“No, no, no, do it this way, let me show you.”

If she felt a Chinese restaurant was not up to her standards, she was not shy to say to the chef, “Make it this way, don’t Americanize your food!”

Yin-Fei had found a new passion. She wanted to teach others about how to make good Chinese food.

“Always learn, learn, learn, and never take a short-cut in cooking,” Eileen Yin-Fei Lo told her students. “The food you cook shows your love and respect.”

Yin-Fei became a great chef and a teacher who taught Americans how to cook authentic Chinese food. Born and raised near Canton, the capital of Guandong Province, Cantonese cooking was her specialty.

She taught at The New School in New York City and beyond—from Singapore to Helsinki. Cooking shows on television invited her to demonstrate how to make authentic dishes. She won two International Association of Culinary Professional Awards. Many Chinese food writers that came after her still think of her as the foremost Chinese expert chef.

Yin-Fei passed away at age 85 in 2022, leaving a delectable and mouth-watering legacy.

By Fanny Wong, Asian American author, New York. Fanny has written often on multicultural interest topics and been published in Skipping Stones frequently.

The History of Soccer

By Alex O’Hare, age 10, Tennessee.

Even though soccer is played by millions around the globe, we don’t talk about its history very often. So, I am going to introduce you to the history of one of the greatest sports in the world.

Modern soccer was established in England in 1863, when the British founded the Football Association. However, versions of soccer have been played for more than 2,000 years. The ancient Greeks played a ball game call episkyros, which consisted of kicking and throwing a soccer ball on a drawn field. The Romans played a variation of episkyros, called harpastum. Even though this game had rules, they were not very clear. The game of Kemari was introduced in Japan in the 7^th century. All a person had to do was keep a buckskin ball in the air with only using their feet. And, during the French Middle Ages, a game called soule was played. It was a combination of soccer and rugby, and was very a savage sport where almost any hit was allowed. The objective was to put a ball in the opponent’s cage.

In the late 1400s, Italy invented calcio fiorentino. It was only played in between Epiphany and Lent, and only by the rich. Even the Popes played it in Vatican City in the 16^th and 17^th centuries. The objective of the game was to carry a round ball into the opponent’s net. Most of the matches were stopped because of a burst ball or a serious injury. Similar to calcio fiorentino, soccer was played mostly by the rich in the 19^th century, but because of urbanization and industrialization, soccer gained popularity with the workers. One of the reasons that soccer gained popularity was that people had Saturdays off, and they didn’t want to do their traditional hobbies anymore, such as badger-baiting. After gaining popularity in England, immigrants started bringing soccer wherever they moved, for example, the United States and continental Europe.

As soccer has changed throughout the years, so has the ball. In the Medieval era, the ball was usually an inflated animal bladder surrounded by leather so it would keep its shape. In 1855, a man named Charles Goodyear designed the first soccer ball; it was made out of vulcanized rubber. Because of this, it was hard and spherical. Then in 1862, H.J. Lindon made one of the first inflated rubber bladders for balls. In 1872, the English Football Association changed the rules and made it so that the ball was spherical and had a circumference of 27 to 28 inches. In 1937, the weight was changed from 13-15 ounces to 14-16 ounces. In the last 30 years, the major difference that has changed the soccer ball is what it is made out of and the panels that make it up. Nowadays, the soccer ball is made up of synthetic leather and has 20 hexagons and 12 pentagons to make a round shape. Today, however old you are determines the size of the soccer ball you use. There are 4 sizes; 1 (mini), 3, 4, and 5. For example, my team, LSC Villa U12, uses a size 4 ball, but when I started playing soccer, I used a size 3 ball.

In addition to the game and the ball changing over the decades and centuries, so did the rules. There were no strict rules for playing, until in 1848, a meeting was held in Cambridge. Before that, if a school team played at another school, the rules could be different. It is interesting that even though the meetings decided that soccer should be a sport played with the feet, some schools still had rules were you could run with the ball in your hands. Because of these rules, soccer became a more civilized sport. Some of the rules include that if you caught a ball, you were awarded a free kick, and if the ball went over a sideline, the player that got the ball first threw the throw-in. No referees were used until 1871 because it was a so-called gentleman’s sport. The captains of each team were the closest thing that there was to a referee; since the captains sometimes disagreed, referees were added so the game would be fair. Eventually, goalkeeper started to become a distinct position, and in 1909, a rule was made that the goalkeeper had to wear a different colored shirt. Then in 1912, a rule came out that only the goalkeeper could touch the ball inside their 18-yard box. Over the years, there have been lots of new rules added to the game, including extra time, penalties, and offside.

Soccer has changed greatly since its beginnings. A sport that started out with almost no rules is now an Olympic sport. In the beginning, only rich people played it, and now a lot of ordinary people play soccer all over the world. As soccer has evolved, the rules have become stricter and the ball more regulated. Soccer has changed just as the world has changed.

By Alex O’Hare, age 10, Tennessee. He adds: “I am Serbo-American. My mom is from the former Yugoslavia, and my dad was born in Connecticut… I speak, read, and write English and Serbian, both in Cyrillic and Latin alphabets. I have been playing soccer since I was almost three years old, and I hope to become a professional soccer player. If that doesn’t happen, I want to become a research doctor, one who doesn’t work in hospitals but labs. I wrote this essay about soccer because I like playing sports and soccer is my favorite one.”

Love in Farsi

By Madeleine Kashkooli, age 17, California.

Love in Farsi is nazar
The amulet on the bracelet my aunt gave to me
To protect against the evil eye

Love in Farsi is taarof
The offerings of the host
And the appreciation of the guest
Taarof is steaming ghormeh sabzi, crispy tahdig, and sweet nan-e nokhodchi
It is my relatives making sure I never leave without
Seconds or thirds

Love in Farsi is azizam
The word my relatives call me
It means “my dear,” but I don’t need the translation—I understand
Just from the way they say it

Love in Farsi is jan
It has a similar translation to azizam, but it’s used
Right at the end of a name with no pause in between
When I attach jan to someone’s name, I’m saying:
You and my love for you
Are bound together, one and the same
Inseparable

—Madeleine Kashkooli, 17, high school senior, California.

Madeleine adds: “I wrote this poem in honor of my Persian family. I wanted to capture the beauty of my Persian heritage through different aspects of the culture, such as its language, food, and customs. In particular, I sought to explore how some Farsi words have direct equivalents in English while others require more explanation.”

Grandma

By Jessica Chen, age 16, Shenzhen, People’s Republic of China.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, I go back to our old house to take vocal lessons because the piano is still there.

Before my class, I always spend some time with Grandma on the eighth floor. She is a lovely old lady, short and chubby, with big eyes and rosy cheeks that look like steamed buns.

Our whole family was raised under her care. She is like Buddha to us. My brother and I often kneel before her and bow, making her both annoyed and amused. Yes, she is fun. When I badmouth Confucius, she makes me spit on the ground and slap myself three times before letting me off. My cheeks turned red instead.

Today, I went to keep her company again. As I entered, the slippers were neatly arranged at the door, and the TV was on the children’s channel. Grandma was wearing her usual floral shorts. I changed my shoes and adjusted the TV channels while she bent down to place my sneakers in a convenient position for later.

I collapsed on the sofa and asked Grandma what she had been up to today. Her response was the same as always: got up early, made her bed, cooked, went out to buy groceries, haggled, came home, cleaned, washed clothes, watched TV, cooked again, watched videos (and forwarded some to me), and cleaned the already tidy house once more. But then she raised her voice, saying that a girl sitting so sloppily would be an embarrassment outside. I laughed, saying I looked like a free person. Nonetheless, I put my legs down, leaned over, and hugged her. She couldn’t stand my affectionate gestures and made playful noises in protest. My attention soon drifted back to the TV, lying quietly beside Grandma.

Suddenly, she asked casually, “Kaka, shall I make you some noodles?”

Noodles. I hadn’t had noodles in a long time.

“Sure,” I said.

She got up and went into the kitchen, and I watched her. She bent down to retrieve a pot and bowl from the cupboard, placed them on the stove, filled the pot with water, and turned on the heat. Then she tiptoed to reach into the cupboard above her head, pulling out noodles, salt, soy sauce, and vegetables.

She kept rummaging, her hands feeling around. I got up and went into the kitchen to ask if she needed help. She told me to stay out of her way, so I stood nearby, watching her. She finally found a small green canister, its surface worn, with some red oil stains on the lid. Curious, I tried to open it to smell, but Grandma smacked my hand away. Apparently, badmouthing Confucius was out of the question, and even smelling condiments was off-limits. I went back to my spot, continuing my time-out.

Grandma put the noodles into the pot and started adding soy sauce and salt to the bowl.

“Add more salt,” I suggested.

She replied, “Eat, eat, eat. You’ll get diabetes when you’re older and won’t be able to eat at all.”

“If I get diabetes, will you take care of me?” I joked.

“Spit, spit, spit! Quick, spit, spit, spit,” she insisted.

“Okay, okay,” I said. The noodles were ready.

She used long, thick chopsticks to pull the noodles from the boiling pot into the bowl, then ladled in some broth. The aroma was incredible, like the intense scent that wafts into your house from a neighbor’s kitchen. I leaned over to smell it, but she stopped me and brought out the green canister. Opening it, I saw it was chili seasoning. My eyes lit up.

“Add more,” I urged.

“That’s enough,” she said.

“I like it spicy. Add more,” I insisted.

“Look at the pimples on your face. Grandma used to have such clear skin,” she sighed.

“Fine, fine,” I relented.

But she still added a heaping spoonful of chili sauce. I grinned at her, but she turned away to avoid my smile. I carried the steaming bowl of noodles to the dining table.

“Let Grandma carry. It’s hot,” she said. Hot or not, I wasn’t going to let her carry it.

I placed the noodles on the table. Grandma came out with chopsticks and a spoon, setting the spoon in the noodles and the chopsticks across the bowl. She pulled out a chair and sat beside me.

I stared at the noodles. They smelled so good, made by Grandma. I looked up to find her watching me.

The noodles lay quietly in the bowl. I gently lifted a few strands with my chopsticks, placing them in the spoon filled with the rich, red broth. I blew on it, and the aroma filled my nostrils. In the steam, I brought the spoon to my mouth.

The hot broth slid down my throat, soaking into each noodle. I lowered my head, using my hair to hide my face as I continued eating. Why did these noodles taste just like they did when I was a kid? The chili sauce was perfect, just like before.

Grandma asked gently, “Is it good?”

My mouth full of noodles, I nodded slightly, “Delicious.”

Perhaps because my mouth was stuffed, she didn’t notice the tears in my voice. That’s good. She’s an emotional person. If I cry, she will, too. I can’t bear to see her cry, especially not because of me.

I tried to keep my sniffles from falling into the noodles while gobbling them down. Grandma watched me quietly.

“Eat slowly. No one is going to take it from you,” she said.

That’s the line I hate most in movies. Why does my hand feel so painfully hot? Grandma, I miss you so much. What will I do when there’s no one to make me these noodles in the future?

—Jessica Chen, 16, is a rising senior at an international school in Shenzhen, China. A passionate playwright and performer, she has written and brought to life several compelling scripts, both in English and Chinese. Jessica also writes film reviews and makes global film recommendations for her school’s news media. In her spare time, she enjoys following soccer and often gets a kick out of the games, whether winning or losing.

Jessica also sent the story in Chinese. Here it is:

《姥姥》

每周的周⼆和周四我都会回搬家前的家去上声乐课，因为钢琴还在那。上课前我都会去下⼋楼去陪姥姥⼀会⼉。她是个可爱的⽼⼈。矮矮胖胖的，⼤⼤的双眼⽪，⼤⼤的眼睛，脸颊像两颗馒头，会变红的馒头。我们全家⼈都是在她的照顾下长⼤的。她像佛祖⼀样。我经常和我哥突然跪在她⾯前拜两下，搞得她又烦又觉得好笑。对，她很好玩。我平时说孔子坏话她还会让我“呸呸呸”，还要让我打⾃⼰三下逼⽃才肯放过我。脸颊红的⼈成我了。

这天，我又去陪她。进门后，拖鞋已经规整的摆放在门⼜，电视上放着少⼉频道。姥姥穿着平时的花裤衩。我换了鞋，去调电视频道，⽽她又弯下⾝⼦把我的运动鞋规整的摆成⽅便⾛时穿的⽅向。我瘫在沙发上问姥姥今天⼲了些什么。又跟每次⼀样的回复：清晨起床叠被⼦，做饭，出门买菜，讨价，回家，打扫，洗⾐服，看电视，做饭，刷短视频，给我转发短视频，又打扫⼀遍已经⼲净了的屋⼦。嗯。但这时她又提着嗓⼦说我⼥孩⼦家家坐的七扭⼋歪要是在外⾯会像什么样。哈哈，像⾃由⼈。但我只是把腿放下了，跨过去“么么哒”了⼀下她。她受不了我这么⾁⿇就“诶诶诶”，哈哈哈。我的注意又很快的被电视夺⾛，安静躺在姥姥⾝边。

这时，她突然很平常的问，“卡卡，我给你做⾯吃好不好”。

⾯。我好久没吃过⾯了。

“好”。

她起⾝⾛进厨房开始捣⿎，我躺在沙发上看她。看她弯腰在柜⼦⾥翻出锅和碗，放到灶台上又往锅⾥加⽔，开⽕烧。接着又踮起脚尖翻开头顶的柜⼦，拿出⾯条、盐、酱油和蔬菜后还在往⾥翻，⼿到处摸。我起⾝⾛进厨房问她需不需要我帮忙，她让我⼀边呆着看别添乱，我就乖巧地在旁边罚站，看她左摸摸右摸摸，摸出了个⼩绿罐。绿⾊的表⾯有些掉⾊，盖⼦外有些红红的油渍。我好奇地想打开闻，被姥姥扇了个⼤逼⽃⼦。不是，我到底做错了啥，骂孔子不⾏，闻个调味的也不⾏。我只好回到刚站在位置继续罚站。

姥姥把⾯下进锅后就开始往碗⾥加酱油和盐。

我说，“盐多放点”。

她说，”吃吃吃⽼了以后得糖尿病看你还吃不吃“。

“我得糖尿病了你来照顾我呗”

“呸呸呸，快，呸呸呸”。“好好好”

我把⾃⼰呸掉了。⾯，也好了。

她⽤粗长的筷⼦把⾯从沸腾的锅⾥捞出来夹到碗⾥，再⽤勺⼉把⾯汤陈进去。⾹。太他妈⾹了。这种⾹就像是隔壁⼩孩⼉家吃饭时从你家窗⾓缝飘进来的浓郁感。我跨到姥姥⾝边想低头闻，她把我打住并拿出了那瓶绿⾊罐⼦。打开，⾥⾯是辣椒调味料。我⼀看就两眼放光

“多加点”

“啧，够了”

“我吃辣啊，多来点”

“你吃，你看看你脸上长的疙瘩，啊，姥姥以前脸⼲净的很”

“哎呀我好好好”

但她还是听我的加了很厚的⼀勺辣椒酱。我开⼼的向她呲⽛，可她却转过头回避了我的笑脸。我⽤⼿端起热腾的⾯条往餐桌⾛。“姥姥端，烫“。

烫，才不让你端呢。

我当没听见，把⾯放在桌⼦上。姥姥这时拿着筷⼦和勺⼦⾛了出来，把勺⼉放进⾯⾥，筷⼦架在碗上。她拉开凳⼦坐在了我旁边的旁边。

我盯着⾯条。好⾹啊，是姥姥做的。我抬起头，姥姥盯着我看。

⾯条在碗中静静地躺着。我⽤筷⼦轻轻挑起⼏楼⾯条放在舀着鲜红粽⾊的汤汁的勺中。我凑近吹了吹，汤汁的⾹⽓扑⿐⽽来。热⽓氤氲中，我将勺⼦送⼊⼜中。

热汤划过我的喉咙，⽽汤汁早已渗⼊每⼀根⾯条。

我低下了头，⽤头发挡住了我的脸颊继续吃⾯。为什么，味道跟⼩时候吃的⾯⼀模⼀样呢。

好好吃的辣椒酱。味道和⼩时候的⼀样。好好吃啊姥姥。

她见我不抬头，关切地问：“好吃吗”？

我的嘴巴被⾯条塞满了，低着点了点头，”很好吃。“

可能是嘴巴被⾯条塞满，并没有让姥姥听出被压抑着的哽咽。也好。她是个⾮常感性的⼈。

我⼀哭，她就会哭。我看不得她哭，更看不得她因为我哭。

我努⼒吸着⿐涕不让它掉进⾯⾥，同时又狼吞虎咽。

姥姥静静地看着我。

她说，”慢点吃，又没⼈跟你抢.“

这是我在影视中最讨厌的台词。为什么突然感觉⼿⼼被烫得好疼啊。姥姥我好想你啊。要是以后没⼈给我做这样的⾯条我该怎么办？

The Empty Spot

By Leslie T. Fry, high school senior, New York.

They stuck us in Studio 8. At first glance, it looked in decent shape. The professional company never danced there so the floors were rosin-free, letting us pirouette with ease. The room also had gaping windows and a cavernous ceiling.

Mr. Vankan would implore the boys: “Look how much ceiling you still have! Jump so high you hit it!”

For us girls, the ceiling only helped us feel dainty. The studio’s wonky mirrors trapped us in our own private funhouse.

We all knew that the end-of-the-year performance was scheduled for two months from now, though the specific details of our dance remained unknown. In the other studios, the older girls already had started rehearsals. The soloists’ gracefulness took our breath away. I longed to be a soloist someday; I suspect we all did.

Mr. Vankan’s yellow notebook appeared more frequently as we got closer to the performance. He creased the spine before placing it open on top of the speaker. We remembered that book from our audition. When that book came out, our PTSD returned, along with the insecurities of our 15-year-old selves. He circled around us as we danced, then stopped to stare at someone’s foot or head before jotting down his verdict. Our bodies felt sore, and we wanted to go home. Often, he would excuse us early, testing our commitment. We demonstrated our resilience by staying as long as he did.

A month before the performance, Mr. Vankan pulled out the dreaded notebook and studied his notes. He instructed the boys to leave early and then told us girls to stand in a line from shortest to tallest. Surprisingly, the boys left without hesitation, presumably sensing that he was in a particularly sadistic mood.

He assigned places, repeating, “Remember, these places are not set. I just want to see how it looks.”

For a week, Mr. Vankan moved us girls around as if playing chess. Under the touch-move rule, he would leave his finger on the piece until the last minute, convincing us that he was sure of his move, only to dash expectations with a “Nah, I don’t like it.”

Historically, we had been good at learning choreography, having danced from infancy, but we had questions.

When we asked him whether our arms should be up or down when we ran to the back, his puzzling response was, “Do whatever everyone else is doing.”

We smiled at him in disbelief, waiting for the punchline that never came.

He split us up into two sections, supposedly intending to give us equal practice time, though he never did. Instead, the second cast sat on the floor in extended splits for the last half hour of class.

Mr. Vankan yelled: “If you’re sitting on the ground, you better be doing something!”

Our hands marked the routine accurately, without ever breaking a sweat.

In one muggy session, all were surprised to find Ms. Robin teaching class because of Mr. Vankan’s unannounced trip to Germany. Previously, he had asserted we couldn’t skip any classes whatsoever. Many of us pushed through illness, and one of us even skipped a funeral of a close family member. Now, he had disappeared. After watching both casts, Ms. Robin clenched her teeth, forcing an unnatural smile.

“Uh, okay,” feigning a supportive tone. “Where are your arms supposed to be when you run to the back?”

We collectively shrugged, as if choreographed.

“What count do you enter in on?” she continued questioning.

No one knew.

* * *

A week later and two weeks before the performance, Mr. Vankan returned, tanned and well-rested. He didn’t bother to explain his absence and dove right into class.

“Noooooo, you run in on 5-6-7-8, not 3-4-5-6-7-8! Again! And Christa, Crystal, uh, whatever your name is, point those feet! You look like a clumsy duck!” Mr. Vankan mocked. It was her first day back from a week of dreadful coughing and sneezing.

Tears rolled down Christie’s cheek, despite her best efforts to hold them back. During the rest of the rehearsal, I watched her with the hope that she could hold in her emotions until arriving safely in the privacy of our changing room. Oblivious to Christie’s crying, Mr. Vankan pushed her harder and harder.

“Look at your extensions! What’s happened to you?” he blurted out.

We all knew that you usually try to sleep when sick, not stretch. It wasn’t fair, but there was nothing we could do. She had no clue about all of the changes that Ms. Robin had made. Neither did Mr. Vankan, who was fumbling with the speakers. Tchaikovsky blared from the speakers when Mr. Vankan confused the varispeed and volume knobs, making it impossible for us to verbally comfort Christie. Mr. Vankan was slow to adjust the volume and even slower to get back to the right tempo. The first cast started to dance with Mr. Vankan’s count. However, Christie seemed to dance to her own music.

“No, no!” Mr. Vankan exploded.

He stopped the music. A cluster of worry wrinkles formed on Christie’s forehead. Mr. Vankan sat in his chair, face buried in one hand and mumbled, “You know what . . . we don’t need you.”

Christie stared at him as if asking, “Are you serious?”

Mr. Vankan was entirely serious.

Looking down to hide her tears, she jogged over to the wall. I walked over to her and gave her a hug.

“It will be okay,” I whispered. “You’ll be fine.”

I let go of her. She looked at me with streams of tears trickling down from her red eyes, and she ran out of the room without being excused. I entered the changing room when I could. Her locker was open and empty. I smiled, at least on the inside. Someone was getting promoted to first cast.

* * *

Christie did not return the next day or ever again. In the corner of the studio where she set her bag, I set mine down. Her absence left a noticeable gap in the choreography.

“Does anyone know Christina’s part?” Mr. Vankan petitioned as he looked around the room.

My hand darted in the air before he finished his sentence. He nodded and motioned for me to fill the gap.

“If you see an empty space, that’s where you’re supposed to be,” he instructed, and that was all.

I didn’t need more, even though it was my first time dancing with the first cast. My head spun as I chased the empty spot, like a cat chasing a laser, not knowing where it would appear next. My spirit soared when I felt my arabesque turned out like never before. Renewed energy coursed through my veins as I stretched my legs through. I glowed with confidence. I didn’t even mind that Mr. Vankan was not watching me, just as long as he didn’t take out his yellow notebook. As I held my final pose with a sense of accomplishment, I caught my beaming smile in the mirror, attached to a body that I could not recognize as my own. It would take some getting used to, but I knew I was in the spot where I needed to be.

——Leslie T. Fry, high school senior. Leslie was born in Hong Kong, and she also has lived in The Hague and New York City. Leslie has been dancing seriously since the age of two. Apart from dance, she enjoys literature, art, math, psychology, and chemistry. In addition to English, Leslie studies Chinese, Dutch, French, and Latin. She plans to study behavioral neurochemistry at university and hopes to eventually become a neuropsychiatrist.

Climate Change Threatens the Future and the Past

By Halia Ochieng, age 13, Virginia.

Storms and floods are increasingly common in coastal areas in the United States and around the world. Rising water tables prevent soil from draining, which impacts soil health, plant growth, and other important ecological resources. I traveled to Jamestown, Virginia, home of England’s first permanent colony in North America, to learn more about another impact of rising water levels: the destruction of archeological sites.

To understand how climate change is threatening these sites, I met with Dave Givens, the Director of Archaeology at Jamestown Rediscovery. Dave explained that rising water levels not only damage artifacts, they also make it harder for archeologists to do their work. Things stand to get worse: Dave estimated that “Jamestown will solidly be underwater by 2050.”

Archeologists on Dave’s team reported that, as previously dry archaeological features become inundated, they are damaged in ways that reduce the historical clues they offer. DNA, for example, can be lost when bones are submerged for too long. Saltwater causes even greater damage, and Jamestown and many other archeological sites are close to the ocean. Artifacts containing porous materials like bricks, bones, pottery shards, and wood are damaged slowly, but metal artifacts corrode quickly, even in brackish water.

It’s not only Jamestown that’s threatened. According to a study done by researchers from across the country, more than 13,000 U.S. archeological sites are at risk of sinking.

The same is true of many important heritage sites around the world. Ancient civilizations often developed along river deltas, such as the Tigris, Jordan, Euphrates, Nile, Indus, Huang He and Changjiang. River deltas are particularly threatened by rising water levels because they are flat and close to sea level. This means that our most valuable archaeological sites are often at the highest risk.

Even a several-inch rise can submerge these sites, and according to the U.S. Global Change Research Program, the “average sea level has risen by more than 8 inches since scientific record keeping began in 1880.”

New advances in technologies used for archeology, such as ground-penetrating radar, Light Detection and Ranging (LIDAR) imagery, and portable X-ray fluorescence spectroscopy measurers, offer an unprecedented opportunity to understand the civilizations that shape our societies and enrich our cultures. If archeologists had the time they needed to apply these new technologies in threatened sites, we could unlock a wealth of knowledge about our ancestors and our world. Because these new archaeological tools are less effective under water, rising water levels have created a race against the clock.

Despite the urgency of their work, archeologists face many climate change-related interruptions. Coastal archeological sites have reported 100-year-storms becoming as frequent as every five years. Also, archeologists need to dig when soil is dry to see discolorations in the soil, which can indicate trenches or other filled-in groundwork. It’s hard for archeologists to race ahead when dry-soil days are becoming rare.

June 2023. Heavy rains and high tides inundated excavation units with evidence of early expansion of James Fort.

To buy time, archeologists have sought temporary solutions, such as pumps and water retention walls. These are not only costly, but they are also inadequate. To enable archeologists to continue making discoveries, we need to slow climate change, which does more than submerge artifacts. According to the Union of Concerned Scientists, “coastal erosion… and more frequent large wildfires are damaging archaeological resources, historic buildings, and cultural landscapes across the nation.”

Some may argue that climate change has actually helped archeologists. Historic droughts in 2022 revealed sunken Nazi warships in the Danube, dinosaur footprints in the Paluxy riverbed in Texas, and other artifacts. These were often found in rivers, lakes, or reservoirs, instead of coastal areas, and some have since been resubmerged. While archeologists try to make the most of these unpredictable opportunities, these finds cannot compare to what they stand to lose.

As a student who hopes to become an archeologist in the future, I see my career dreams literally sinking at the precise moment when, thanks to technological advances, the field holds so much promise. By the time I enter the workforce, it may be too late to dig in some of my favorite archeological sites. This is particularly sad because archeology has recently made great strides in telling the stories of women and marginalized communities. Whereas history used to focus on the stories of dominant individuals and groups, so many of us are only now learning our histories.

I wanted to write this article as a way to raise my voice. I am told I am too young to run for office, too young to vote, and too young to do much lobbying. Young people are rarely given the chance to encourage our governments to protect the climate, which is why young people like Greta Thunberg had to resort to school strikes when she was around my age. Similarly, young people are rarely included in discussions about supporting archeology. Both goals are so important, and the current generation of adults has a responsibility to lead the way. Younger generations know that it’s their future at stake, but they need adults’ help to access and raise their voices in adult-led spaces.

Adults can help by improving climate change education. Young people need to learn more about climate change and its impact on archeology. These topics get little attention in schools, educational resources, or children’s media, but we need to understand what’s at stake and how to reduce our climate footprint to protect historical treasures waiting to be dug up.

Adults should also increase funding for climate-informed archeological work. “Funding for archaeological research from governmental and philanthropic sources is becoming scarcer,” according to the Digital Archeological Record, just at the time when the field needs to accelerate its work.

Most importantly however, adults need to reduce their own climate footprint. Protecting the climate today not only safeguards our future, it also allows us to continue learning from our past.

By Halia Ochieng, age 13, Virginia. Their Climate Conservation Club can be reached at: climateconservationclub.gf@gmail.com. Halia says, “I’ve grown up between Europe, Kenya, and the United States, and I take inspiration from environmental activists like Wangari Maathai and Greta Thunberg. I speak German and English and am currently learning French.”

Between Gaza and Me

Between Gaza and Me

By Nada Alaloul, age 17, from Rafa, lives in Egypt.

Between all of these
Cold bodies,
Tired faces,
Busy minds
Lost people
There is Nada como yo
Between black and white there’s me
Between sun and moon, there’s a scream
Between hell and heaven, there’re my people under the rubble
Between death and life, there’s a missile
Between war and peace, there’s a border
Between freedom and shackles, there’s the whole world
Between tanks & planes, there’s my family
Between my family & me, there’s an endless cry
Between my happiness & sadness, there’s the news of my city
Between the present and the past, there’s a genocide.
Between death here, and death there
There’s a huge price
I have one heart with
Two separated souls
And I’m a ghost
And I’m completely alone.

I was at home
Now I’m missing my home
Suddenly
I lost my home
I was here and there
But Suddenly
I’m nowhere
My home was bombed
My friend was killed
My sister was scared
And my dad was missed
And all I’m doing here
Is just avoiding to be the
Favorite dish for my sadness
Cuz actually I’m a liar
A big liar
I’m drowning in heavy clouds of sadness
Afraid to confirm
That my happiness is sad
To be with me
My happiness is scared
To be bombed with me
My happiness fooled me
But at least I know
That I couldn’t know
That I’m not happy
Without my sadness
I couldn’t realize
That I want balance
Between black and white
Between my happiness and sadness
To stop being gray
Without my sadness.

So now
I’m under a sky that
Doesn’t target its people
I walk towards the sun but I’ll never be burned
Cuz my soul has been burned once
Before when I left Gaza
Alone

What about you, dear human?
Can you bring me the warmth of the sun?
Not the one over my head
Nor the Egyptian sun which
Burns my bones like
The missiles do against
The tents of my friends
I want the warmth of my family
I’m a ghost and
I’m completely alone

I’m blue, drowning in a
Gray ocean of the fog
Gray, the favorite color of the death in my city
The color that I used to see
Whenever I roam in my ghost city
The color that I used to feel
Whenever the measure between
Death and me is just a path

I have one heart
With two separated souls
I’m a ghost and I’m completely alone
I’m here and there
And suddenly
I’m nowhere
Como Nada como Yo.

By Alaloul, age 17, from Rafa, Palestine, currently lives in Egypt.

Ms. Lauren Marshall, a playwright, musical theater librettist/lyricist, director and teaching artist based in Washington state, adds: “Nada is a remarkable girl from Gaza, now living with relatives in Cairo, Egypt. She participated in the Gaza Heartbeat, a creative writing project that was sponsored by Palestine Charity Team (PCT) in Rafah, Gaza (Palestine), in 2022.

“Nada has a positive outlook despite all that has happened to her! She was evacuated from Gaza in April, 2024. But her family is still stranded in Gaza, displaced from their home, which has been destroyed during this senseless war. Nada, like all of Gaza’s children, has missed an entire year of school as the result of the war. During this time, she has read books, written short stories and poems, taught herself Spanish, taken a business course in Cairo, and volunteered with PCT!”

Being Split

Being Split
By Preston Young, age 10, New York.

Illustration by Preston Young, 10, New York.

Being split,
Korean and Taiwanese,
I can’t process two different cultures,
It’s hard for me.

On Korean New Year,
I bow to elders and eat Duk Bok Ki (rice cakes).
On Chinese New Year,
I get red envelopes and eat dim sum with herbal tea.
I call my Korean grandparents Halmoni and Haraboji;
Ah ma, I call to my grandma who is Taiwanese.

The Taiwanese flag has red, white and blue.
The South Korean flag has those colors too.
The American flag has them too, oooh!

Being split,
Korean and Taiwanese,
Sometimes people don’t understand me.
When my friends talk about their one culture,
I want one of my other cultures to be unseen.

I try to tell my friends over and over;
I scream and I shout and whisper over their shoulder.
They never understand when I say,
I am both Korean and Taiwanese!
They look confused and annoyed like fleas.

Sometimes I wonder if being Korean and Taiwanese is right for me.
I sit there and think until I can finally see,
I am special with being multicultural,
Being Korean, Taiwanese, and American,
Can all fit in my soul.

Being split,
Korean, Taiwanese, and American is hard.
But the three cultures,
Are forever in my heart!

By Preston Young, age 10, New York. Preston adds: “My mom is Korean and my dad is Taiwanese. I was born in the USA. I speak English but I am learning how to write, read and speak Korean because my friends at school can speak fluently, and I want to be able to communicate with them. My dream is to become an author and entertain kids. I was inspired to write this poem because when I am in school people always assume that I am full Korean or full Taiwanese. Sometimes people think I’m Chinese but I always correct them. I wanted to express how I feel and what that makes me feel like. I made a collage out of construction paper and some magazine clippings with markers to show my feelings about being split in three different cultures.”

“Looksmaxxing” and Toxic Beauty Standards

By Colin Wu, high school junior, California.

Earlier this year, one of my close friends got very wrapped up in the looksmaxxing community, a growing online community that strives for the ideal body and flawless face. He started calling people out that he didn’t find attractive, bullying and fat-shaming them. He shunned and looked down on his peers who didn’t have the “perfect body”—6’ 0” tall, six-pack abs and huge biceps. The looksmaxxing community targets young males and females and influences their ideas about beauty in a toxic way. Looksmaxxers are part of an online community that has gotten inside our heads and inside our homes and it needs to be stopped before more people get hurt.

Social media has had a huge effect on younger people’s feelings about their appearance. In a New York Times op-ed titled, “Toxic Beauty Standards Can Be Passed Down”, Alexandra D’Amour writes, “There’s a nickname for tweens and teenagers who have been influenced by social media to get into skin care: Sephora Kids. Johanna Almstead, a fashion industry friend, tells me that in her local mothers group chat, nearly every mom had “Skincare, skincare, skincare!” on the holiday gift lists they were given—by their fifth graders.”

Younger children requesting skincare products as gifts is alarming. It suggests that they have a problem with their appearance and are using skincare to fix it. It also shows the influence social media has on the youth now, whereas, when I was in fifth grade, I wanted video games and Legos. D’Amour also says, “A recent video on TikTok that has garnered more than eight million views features a 28-year-old woman showing her “raw,” procedure-free face, meaning no Botox or fillers. As some women and girls cheered on her bravery, others were left horrified. “Praying I’ll never look like that,” one comment reads. This comment shows the ways in which social media has defined beauty for future generations. While sharing their “raw” face makes some people proud, others are disgusted by its imperfections.

Parents, who also contribute to the focus on skincare in young people, can make this situation better. D’Amour writes, “And yet, if a mother’s insecurity can fuel her daughter’s own self-loathing, a mother’s radical self-love might just protect and even heal her daughter from a toxic culture.” D’Amour believes the influence that parents can have on their children can be more positive than negative. Parents who are able to teach their kids to love their appearance may help their children stay away from bad communities. D’Amour says, “When I ask the few friends who haven’t gotten Botox why they haven’t, they tell me it’s because they love how their mothers are aging and how they embrace it. They don’t fear aging because their mothers don’t (or didn’t).” Older generations of mothers who are secure about their appearance influence younger generations by making them realize it’s best to accept and love themselves for who they are. Coming from a family in which no one had any kind of procedure, my parents and grandparents have taught me self-worth and have made me love myself for who I am.

People today are growing up in toxic cultures that lead them to accept unnatural beauty standards. D’Amour warns us that, “Gen Z-ers are being introduced to the idea of starting treatments early as preventive treatment. They are growing up in a culture of social media that promotes the endless pursuit of maintaining youth—and at home, some of them are watching their mothers reject aging with every injectable and serum they can find.” Gen Z-ers are still growing and many are still in puberty. By attempting to slow or stop the natural aging process, young people seek out treatments that could alter and change the way they look when they’re fully grown. While it can physically harm Gen Z-ers, the mental effects can also cause significant harm. They are oblivious to the ways in which buying treatments connects their self-worth to their beauty. The consequences of children being influenced by skincare culture could mirror the harm caused by previous toxic cultures. D’Amour points out that “The anti-aging craze comes with the same toxicity as diet culture does.” Diet culture influenced people to want to be skinnier. Anorexia was a large issue and resulted in many people hurting themselves to obtain the ideal body image. Similar to diet culture, the anti-aging culture puts pressure on young people to strive for unhealthy and unattainable beauty.

My friend was too invested in the looksmaxxing community. As he tried to achieve his ideal body image, his obsession led to him putting down and hurting others. While there are positive aspects of social media, these negative parts harm younger people who are vulnerable when it comes to their appearance. Even though my friend was putting others down, this community was also harming him, by ruining friendships. Some unlucky teens have to deal with crazy parents, who put their own insecurities on their children and reaffirm toxic cultures that enforce unrealistic beauty standards. Other teens can be affected in positive ways, if parents or role models teach them to accept themselves. In the future, if we want to feel good about ourselves, we must embrace our natural appearance and develop self-worth that is grounded in loving ourselves.

—Colin Wu, h.s. junior, California. Colin adds: “I am a Chinese and Burmese American, whose first language is English, and I am currently learning to speak and write Mandarin. My family, education, health, and religious beliefs are most important to me. I am very interested in environmental sciences and engineering. I was inspired to write this essay because of the harm this community has done to friends of mine.”

A Friend That Never Was

By maggie d., Washington.

Except for Erica and I
The playground was empty
And our laughter could be
Heard miles away
“Not it! Not it! You are it!”
She yelled
Beginning a game of tag

Seconds later
A white car arrived to
Pick her up
The driver was someone
I never saw before
“No matter,” I whispered
With a shrug
Resting my mind on
Tomorrow’s joy

But the next day’s gladness
Did not show
Angrily she blurted
“My Mom said you are a monkey
And I do not play with
Monkey girls!”

A bucketful of tears
Streamed down my cheeks
As I stared into an
Unfamiliar face at the
End of a fence
Making me wince
When she wrapped my hand
Around her light peach
Fingers and asked
“Will you be my friend?”

—maggie d., African American poet and educator, Washington.