Category Archives: Multilingual

Grandma 

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？

—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.

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!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Art in the Time of War: The Children of Zaporizhzhia

Art in the Time of War:  The Children of Zaporizhzhia

By Svitlana Budzhak-Jones, President, Sister’s Sister, Inc.

“Zaporizhzhia” by Yuriy Martynov, age 13, Ukraine.

The unprovoked, brutal war against Ukraine sadly has entered its third year. It has brought much destruction and sorrow to the people of Ukraine. Millions were displaced internally. Millions became refugees elsewhere in the world. Countless Ukrainian children have lost their homes, have difficulties in accessing education, health care and even basic necessities such as drinking water. Bomb shelters and cellars have replaced their rooms, metro benches have become their beds, and air raid sirens on a daily basis drone instead of school bells. While many Ukrainian men and women actively fight on the battlefield for their country, culture and independence, others stay dedicated to the children who remain in Ukraine.

The Central Southern city of Zaporizhzhia is under constant artillery shelling and aerial bombing. But the Center for Children’s and Youth Creativity in the city continues to operate, and attempts to create a safe space to safeguard the children’s childhood. The Gradient creative Computer Design Circle at the Center has not closed its doors even when its teacher Ms. Nadiya Chepiga was forced to flee Ukraine to Poland in the first months of heavy enemy assaults on the city. Ms. Chepiga then continued to work with her students online for the entire year before returning back to her home city and to her students.

The Gradient Circle is now in its thirteenth year of operation. Hundreds of children between the ages of 6 and 17 have learned to create beautiful art there and connect with their inner spirit, bringing them one step closer to becoming professional graphic designers and artists. The Circle creates a comfortable environment for shaping children’s creative abilities, meeting their individual needs for intellectual, moral, aesthetic, and creative development, shaping a culture that includes a healthy lifestyle and organizing their free time. The children learn the principles of drawing art objects, creating drawings and 3D images, acquiring skills in making artwork in various media and styles, learning the basics of graphic design, creating postcards, posters, calendars, and memorabilia. The children search for their individual style of work and aesthetic preferences, develop their creative imagination and fantasy, learn to take creative initiative, and develop their independence.

The Circle’s founding director and teacher Nadiya Chepiga is a creative artist herself, who has implemented numerous creative projects with her students, has helped them realize their creative vision and brought them to life, and trained hundreds of creative individuals. Despite the ongoing war, the students and their teacher continue participating in various nationwide Ukrainian and International competitions as well as in art exhibitions.

Life goes on even in the extremely challenging circumstances created by the war. The students and their teacher continue meeting twice per week. Frequently, instruction needs to be done online because of constant air raid warnings. But on Sundays, the students try to meet with their teacher in person in the Center. And if an air raid siren goes off, they seek cover in the basement (see below) or in corridors where they continue their lessons. Since the enemy missiles and bombs focus on destroying power plants, there is usually no heat, and the students wear winter coats and jackets during their lessons. Yet they enjoy their meetings and continue creating beautiful, original works of art.

Gradient Students Continue with their Art Classes in the Institute’s Basement.

Fifteen of their art creations were exhibited by the humanitarian aid organization Sister’s Sister (www.SistersSister.org) in State College, Pennsylvania on March 23, 2024 during a benefit concert for Ukraine. Sister’s Sister provides humanitarian support to the Ukrainian people, particularly to children, hospitals, orphanages, and the disabled in Ukraine, including State College’s sister city, Nizhyn, located in the Chernihiv region. The artwork exhibited at the concert was created by the students and enhanced with computer graphics under the supervision and guidance of their teacher. Their work draws, in part, on Ukrainian art, famous for its folk traditions and exquisite embroidery, the red and black threads of which represent happiness and sorrow. Sadly, there is too much of the black threads of sorrow in these difficult times for the children of Ukraine, while Nadiya Chepiga, whose first name means “hope,” brings hope to the children of Zaporizhzhia through art. For more information, please visit the websites linked to the QR codes below:

The children’s creativity will continue to be realized despite the nearly impossible conditions and their spirit will remain indominable!

 

 

 

By Svitlana Budzhak-Jones, Ph.D., President, Sister’s Sister, Inc. (www.SistersSister.org) 

Hummingbird by Artem Lopatyn, age 10.

“Mystery” by Yeva Pavrianidis, age 10

“Free” by Zlata Khalayim, age 10.

“Music Inspires” by Vyacheslav Sukhanov, age 14.

“Autumn” by Oleksandra Patoka, age 9.

“Thoughts” by Danylo Yerokhin, age 16.

“I Am Ukraine” by Danylo Yerokhin, age 15. The central figure in color is represented by a traditional Ukrainian embroidery against a large city background. The Ukrainian text above says: CONVENTION ON THE RIGHTS OF THE CHILD (left corner), and in the right corner, Article 30. A child has the right to enjoy his or her own culture.”

“Zaporizhzhian Oak Tree” by Edik Boitsev, age 13.

“Lord of the Forest” by Danylo Yerokhin, age 16.

“Ukraine, the Bountiful” by Kateryna Yuhayeva, age 14.

“Ukraine Right Now” by Polina Pustovit, age 17.

“The City in Your Head” by Danylo Yerokhin, age 16.

“Unity” by Polina Zakharova, age 12. The poster says: “The Responsibility Starts with Me.”

“Lviv” by Oleksandra Chepiha, age 12.

“Ocean Dweller” by Artem Panov, age 13.

“Mars” by Danylo Yerokhin, age 16.

 

“Ukrainian Village” by Danylo Usenko, age 12.

“Hare” by Oleksandra Vasyliyeva, age 10.

“Kitty” by Diana Kardinal, age 9.

 

The Navajo Code Talkers

THE NAVAJO CODE TALKERS

On July 26, 2001, President George W. Bush awarded the Congressional Gold Medal—the highest civilian medal Congress bestows—to the original 29 Navajo code talkers. Four of the five living code talkers and family members of the deceased code talkers attended the ceremony. These Native Americans had been successful in relaying secret military messages using Navajo words from nature during World War II that the Japanese were never able to decode. (1)

Sixty-five years earlier, the Navajos’ language ability was brought to the attention of the Marines by Philip Johnston. Johnston was aware the Japanese were easily breaking the American military codes. He was a missionary’s son who had grown up on a Navajo reservation. He knew that the Choctaw language had been successfully used to encode messages in WWI, which the Germans were unable to decipher. He realized that he Navajos’ unwritten language could also become an undecipherable code against the Japanese. (2)

Twenty-nine young Navajos were sworn into military duty. They trained at Camp Pendleton and then were tasked with developing an unbreakable code using their native language.  They developed an unwritten Navajo dictionary of military terms which were committed to memory.

The Navajos did not have words for military terms. Instead, these Native Americans used words of nature with which they were very familiar. The types of airplanes became names of birds. Think of a chicken hawk (GINI) diving for its prey. Does this bird make you think of a dive bomber? Have you ever watched an eagle

(ATSAH) pluck its food and then soar through the air with it? It acts much like a transport plane. Think of how a hummingbird (DA-HE-TIH-HI) flits in and out of the flowers. This action is similar to that of a fighter plane. (3)

The code talkers were able to transmit and decode the messages with incredible speed and accuracy. Some 400 code talkers eventually were deployed with the six Marine divisions. Thirteen of these Native Americans were killed in action.

When a code talker sent a message in his native language, the recipient would translate the message into English words. The first letter of each word then formed the message. When the Marines on Iwo Jima raised the flag on Mount Suribachi, the code talkers relayed the message in the Navajo code. Translated into English it read: “sheep-uncle-ram-ice-bear-ant-cat-horse-itch.” (SURIBACHI) (4)

The code talkers sent their messages over portable radios they carried in the field. Some of these messages identified planes. Other dispatches told pilots where to drop bombs. Many gave lists of needed supplies. The Navajos always found a way to make their language work for whatever code was needed for these messages.  Their language skills made a significant difference in the battles of Iwo Jima, Guadalcanal, Tarawa, and Peleilu. (5)

The code talkers’ efforts were so successful the unbreakable code was kept classified until 1968. A movie, Windtalkersreleased in 2002, chronicled the challenges and successes of these heroes. Ironically, the use of their language had previously been banned by the U.S. Government in an attempt to assimilate the Native Americans into the general population.                   `

Why was their language so successful as a code? Navajo was a little-known and little-used language. It was difficult for anyone to know the language other than a person brought up in the oral tradition of a Navajo.  They were very familiar with words from nature and readily changed military terms to well-known words.

The code talkers, with their remarkable Navajo language ability, were heroes in the South Pacific Islands, although it took over 60 years for this acknowledgement to be made public. Their heroic actions and patriotic sacrifices were finally recognized by a grateful nation.

By Annie Laura Smith, writer, Alabama. This article was first published by Ms. Smith in Kidz Chat.

November is the annual Native American Heritage Month, and it calls our attention to the culture, traditions, and achievements of the original inhabitants and of their descendants in the Americas. The official designation of November as National Native American Heritage Month in the U.S. was signed into law in 1990.

SIDEBARS

NAVAJO CODE TALKERS AIRPLANE TYPES* (6)

AIRPLANES

BIRDS

NAVAJO LANGUAGE

Bomber plane

Buzzard

JAY-SHO

Dive bomber

Chicken Hawk

GINI

Fighter plane

Hummingbird

DA-HE-THI-HI

Observation plane

Owl

NE-AS-JAH

Patrol plane

Crow

GA-GHI

Torpedo plane

Swallow

TAS-CHIZZIE

Transport plane`

Eagle

ATSAH

 

NAVAJO CODE TALKERS SHIP TYPES* (6)

SHIPS

ANIMALS/FISH/INSECTS

NAVAJO LANGUAGE
Battleship

Whale

LO-TSO                     
Cruiser

Small whale

LO-TSO-YAZZIE              
Destroyer

Shark

CA-LO                       
Mine sweeper

Beaver

CHA 
Mosquito boat

Mosquito 

TSE-E                       
Submarine Iron fish

BESH-LO

REFERENCES

1. Vogel, Steve, “For Navajos, an Award of Gratitude, Washington Post, July 27, 2001, p. B03.

2. “Navajo Code Talkers: World War II Fact Sheet” 

3. Rosenberg, Jennifer, “Navajo Code Talkers (Part 2)  

4. Lockard, Vicki8, “Code Talkers”   http://www.turtletrack.org/Issues00/Co06032000/CO_06000000_Codetalk.htm

5. Navajo code talkers of WWII.”  http://ks.essortment.com/navajocodetalk_rjxq.htm      

(6)  Navajo Code Talkers’ Dictionary,  http://groups.msn.com/WWIIHobiests/codetalkersguide.msnw

Art Essay by Jaeyeon Kim

Life is a journey.
“Standing at the many crossroads of life, my decisions would add up, changing my life and being. Fortunately, my friends and family have often been on hand to support and guide me through the toughest decisions and transitions. When it comes to art, I draw upon memories for inspiration and create with a strong sense of appreciation for the significant others and cross-cultural influences in my life. In this sense, my works are a collection of nostalgic thoughts, emotions, and experiences, as I look back on my life and hone in on influential fragments of time and space that have come together to define me as a human being.”
Jaeyeon is a fine artist who works to claim spaces for the public to engage with art without difficulty. Her work often revolves around detailed paintings, installation art and sculptures, which become a place for social engagement and visual communication.
—Jaeyeon Kim, 19, was born in South Korea, and came to the U.S. as an international student at the age of 15. She currently studies at the Parsons School of Design in New York. 

1. CrossRoad Korea

Seoul, where I was born, is a big city. There are many cars and people at the crosswalk. When I saw a crosswalk, its ‘X’ shape reminded me of our society. Our community is connected like the shape of ‘X’ and also has a system like a red/green light. Also, everyone has a different destination in life.

2. Subway Korea

In Korea, the subway is the lifeblood of the city, as in other countries. Many people go to the heart of the city by subway, and it is always crowded. Koreans liken these crowds to the appearance of ‘beansprouts’ which have to grow in a dense environment and survive well in it. I capture a scene of the subway and its passengers. People in the subway have various backgrounds–different ages, genders, occupations, attires, and emotions. Most people feel tired but, well, there is a will to live today.  

3.  Identities

There are many identities within us. Regardless of age, from a girl to a lady, there are various images of women in one person, based on the situation and culture.

—Art and writing by Jaeyeon Kim, 19, was born in South Korea, and came to the U.S. as an international student at the age of 15. She currently studies at the Parsons School of Design in New York. 

Dare I Say / Y Me Atrevo a Decir 

 Dare I Say
 By Cassandra Martens Diaz, Mexican-Canadian, 17, Manitoba, Canada
  
 I do not pronounce it with familiarity 
 I do not read it
 I do not spell it
 Dare I say I speak it at all 
  
 Pepper burns my tongue 
 I turn away from the heat 
 I do not take the spice
 Dare I say I have a taste at all
  
 The Jalisco too small 
 Tucked away, unused, unworn
 Body stiff, and still 
 Dare I say I can dance at all 
  
 Though in my blood
 Though in my citizenship 
 It is not to be found in me
 Dare I say I am Spanish at all
 
 
 Y Me Atrevo a Decir
 por Cassandra Martens Diaz, 17, Manitoba, Canada
  
 No lo pronuncio fácilmente 
 No lo puedo leer 
 No lo puedo deletrear
 Y me atrevo a decir que lo hablo
  
 El ají quema mi lengua 
 Prefiero alejarme del chile
 No tolero el picante
 Y me atrevo a decir que lo saboreo
  
 Mi traje de charra me queda chico
 Alzado, sin usarlo ni vestirlo 
 Cuerpo rigido, e inmóvil
 Y me atrevo a decir que bailo 
  
 A pesar que está en mí sangre
 A pesar que está en mí ciudadania 
 No lo he podido encontrar en mí
 Y me atrevo a decir que soy Latina 

  Cassandra adds: "My family immigrated to Canada from Chihuahua, Mexico when I was 
very young. Since I was raised in a country that was culturally very different from Mexico, I have always felt detached 
from my extended family because I lack a lot of the experiences that they’ve had. It is important to me that 
I continue to work on my Spanish and learn more about my mom's culture.. I am just beginning to submit my work 
for publication. I was inspired by Jessica Wang’s heartfelt story submission, Xiang Xiang, 
published by Skipping Stones."

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.”