Scroll down to the bottom to listen to the author read this piece! TW: mental health issues and family issues To: Eliss From: Angel To my good friend Eliss, It certainly has been a long time since we’ve talked to each other. Isn’t that interesting? How we can go from being so close that we confided in each other about even our smallest struggles to being complete strangers. You went from being my closest friend, my lifeline, to just another memory floating in my mind. I am no longer a person in your world, but just another one looking from the outside. It’s neither your fault nor mine for drifting apart, though. Maybe it’s human nature to migrate. To drift from one person to become closer to another. We are constantly moving and changing and perhaps it is only natural that we leave some parts of ourselves behind. Regardless, I will never forget you. Looking back on freshman year, it feels so long ago. I think about how I’ve changed, become more confident in myself, worked my first job, and kissed my first girlfriend. I also think about how lucky I am now, compared to freshman year, to have friends who care about me. I remember how alone I felt, isolated in my bedroom away from the raging chaos of my family and the world outside. Back then, I yearned for anyone to listen to my bottled up thoughts and feelings. I am lucky to be here today, writing this letter to you. I am lucky to have somehow found such a kind-hearted and compassionate person to be my friend. Lucky to have you when I had no one else. (Where would I be had you not fallen into my world?) You’ve taught me that we are too often told to be lucky for what we have and not who we have. The only thing I will ever feel lucky for is the people around me, for what else is more special than a person? The people we meet are completely random. Strangers on the bus can suddenly have a name and a hobby. You are the reason I am still here today, that I didn’t give up in those dark times. I hope you are doing well, Eliss. As I near graduation, I think about you and how I never thought I would make it to this point. The world sucks, but luckily, I had you with me each and every day. Love, Your friend, Angel. Editors: Amelia P. Chris F. Cydney V. Leandra S.

Scroll down to the bottom to listen to the author read this piece! In this moment, all I feel is joy. Music that Lin curated for me in my ears, the sun casting nothing but golden glow and gentle warmth, enveloping my silhouette like my mother’s hands. The waves underneath this aircraft resemble silk, slowly but surely ebbing and flowing, reaching every part of the Earth. Thought of Miyabi across the ocean, waiting with her eyes gleaming with joy and welcoming me with the biggest embrace. Soon I will see Jack, Carina, Eileen, Lola, Natalie, Stella, Annika. Memories of Edwin, Nicole, Greve, Lawrence, Sarah. These threads, however much time has passed in the time when each intertwines, never falls into fragility. The strength of human connection always amazes me. They say time is powerful, it is supposed to kill the beautiful things in life, and make them wane in vibrancy. But the longer I live, the more I’d like to think that’s a myth (or perhaps, I haven’t lived long enough). The passage of time, the distance between one inkling and another, creates longing, giving people the chance to live incessantly, rent-free in my mind. And what is longing if not love persevering? I long to see all those whom I love in one place. Father and mother, Yao, grandma and grandpa, Candy, and those in my childhood who taught me the meaning of care. It takes stamina and hope and work and perfect timing to see all the people I treasure in my heart, fragments that make up who I am. Come to think of it, is timing everything? Recently, I’ve been running into things. Things like opportunities, moments of growth, conversations that spark something new. Things, meaning intense feelings, affection, heat, wholesomeness that I’m not sure I deserve, everything all at once condensed into one moment. I may read back on this and realize just how foolish I was. That I still have so much to learn, and maybe I’m stepping in the wrong direction, making a wrong move yet again. But I am no longer afraid of change, now that I know there are more possibilities of love than one so tangled with violence and judgment and pain. Will I ever stop carrying the cartons of wastewater, of ink that the infatuations of the past have spilled in my world? Will the tarnished memories ever be bleached and erased? Perhaps not. But perhaps, too, it no longer matters. Because in this moment, all I feel is joy. Editors: Nadine R., Cydney V.

in dreams i stand barefoot, soul bearing bear the brief bittersweet baring teeth, bare back against the earth bear its weight on my back – (it’s) heaving, spitting (i’m) drowning, living the sun rises it burns, i’ve been burnt before but never burned like this: body bare, barely breathing my chest stings i brace myself watch the earth as (it) catches, blazes (we’re) dying, fading in dreams i take my first breath, last summer take what is barely mine bear the rest the earth retches as i sleep in run down cracked concrete the sky is always pretty bathed in burnt orange-red bleeding bare there is rest when i want it peace when i need it and the sky is always pretty. you leave me be you come back to me i never let go i never have to. in the end it’s just the heartbreak of another summer come only to pass bearing the bodies of the burning, bare but if the sky is always pretty this passing (earth’s. ours.) wouldn’t be all that remarkable either Author's Note: I wrote this piece in the height of summer, with the seemingly never-ending sun beating down. I thought of how I’m growing up, how this is likely my last summer here with the people I love, how this summer feels like the end-all be-all to life so far. Thus the end-of-the-world references and doomsday scenarios. Still, there’s a sense that it couldn’t end any other way. After all, if things were different — nicer, prettier in a sense — the end wouldn’t be this remarkable. Editors: Emily X., Nadine R., Anoushka K., Joyce S. Photo Credits: Unsplash

Dear Asian Youth, This year is my last year in high school. It’s scary. I am about to begin filling out my college applications in mere months, and it’s definitely daunting. SAT, extracurriculars, essays, and my GPA are always coursing through my mind. I realize how competitive the college admissions process is. People are constantly comparing standardized test scores and trying to outcompete each other with their resumes. I even know people who collect leadership roles solely for the benefit of “looking good” on college applications instead of exploring a passion for these activities. I’m not blameless either—I’ve definitely considered applying for a position or internship for a new accomplishment to write down on my Common App, but I've always felt guilty for seeing opportunities as a way to make myself a more attractive applicant to prospective colleges. I’ve worked with real humans during these various experiences, and they were not just stepping stones for getting into college. The toxic mindset that rising seniors are surrounded by is all-consuming. You start wondering and gossiping about who will get into what college and who will get rejected. Suddenly, your classmates are the competition you must beat in order to get into your dream school. Friendships turn into bitter rivalries about who will get a spot. There is an emphasis on prestige, as well. Ivy Leagues are known as the elite institutions that every high schooler and their parents dream of being admitted into. I feel as though it’s a social game: who can be the best student? If you don’t get into a fancy college, it’s like you’re a failure at life. You become a failure even before your life begins. But what about people who don’t get enough financial aid to attend these colleges? What about people who don’t want to go to college? Not everyone can get into them; that’s what makes them so sought after. Kids are taking advanced classes, not for the challenge of academics, but to show colleges that they are intelligent enough for a heavy course load. Are we working just to fulfill society’s expectations of us? High school ingrains in us that the next step is college. Then, after that, it’s getting a high paying job. It’s a never-ending cycle that feeds on the pressure of young students. I’m not saying that I don’t want to go to a nice liberal arts college. I’m actually applying for an early decision to a well-known liberal arts school. But I didn’t choose that institution only because of its reputation. I’ve always wanted to stay in the Northeast and attend a smaller college because I am shy. I also realize I am not cut out for Ivy Leagues. I know my limitations. I chose this college because I love the classes that are offered, and the student organizations they have coincide perfectly with the activities I want to participate in during college. I really want to make the collegiate experience my own. I don’t want to give in to the idea that my worth is defined by the name brand of a college. I think my advice for any younger high school student worrying about college would be: choose a college that suits you. If you can picture yourself there for four years, then I think it will be right for you. I’m not saying don’t apply to any prestigious institutions, but make sure, if you do, you’re doing what you want. Don’t let everyone else sway your decisions because ultimately, it’s you that must go to that college. Participate in extracurriculars that capture your passions because you’ll have a higher chance at enjoying the time you spend. Hopefully, I will take my own advice when I start applying to college. - Ella Photo Credits: Keystone

Scroll down to the bottom to listen to the author read this piece! Today, Mom taught me how to make dumplings. She showed me how to knead the dough and roll the pieces into perfect circles. I used wooden chopsticks to put in the beef filling and my fingers to seal the edges. I asked her how she learned to make dumplings. She told me that, growing up, our family would sit around a table and make them. She said that she, her sisters, and her cousins played with the dough like it was Play-Doh. You were probably sitting next to her. She probably tapped on your shoulder, wore a proud smile, and showed you when she made her first dumpling. You probably patted her on the head and told her that she did a good job. That she was already a professional. It’s probably a memory she cherishes. It’s definitely a memory I wish I had. The memories of you are scattered in my mind. There’s an image of us watching Chinese dramas on the television. Of you practicing tai chi outside. Of you giving me Chinese herbal medicine whenever I was sick. All of my memories are of you introducing me to my culture. Now that it’s 2023, it’s been eleven years since you passed away. Your youngest sister died after Christmas. She was in her early nineties and passed away from old age. Your two remaining siblings are in their nineties as well. You were seventy-eight. You lived through the Japanese Imperial Rule and the Chinese Civil War. You were an engineer in the People’s Liberation Army and came to the United States of America in your early sixties. But a heart attack was enough to take you down. I didn’t watch Chinese dramas after you passed away. I lost all of my Mandarin. I didn’t go to your funeral. I can’t even visit your grave. Your ashes are scattered in a body of water in Yuyao, China. A place I’ve never been to. You never taught me how to make dumplings. The only things you left are black-and-white photos in old albums and Mom’s knowledge of dumpling making. Your wrist movement in which she uses to roll a perfect circle and the way her fingers turn to seal the edges. I’ll pretend that you taught me. That you rolled up your sleeves, pushed up your glasses, and taught me how to knead the dough. That you patted my head and told me that I did a good job, and was quickly becoming a professional. Editor(s): Marie Hong, Amelia Pinto

I'm told there's a lotus in the garden. Spring is defrosting and its quiet thawing drips into my Grandmother's pond. Standing in the middle of her kitchen with a floral mug, I stare at the pond circled by sparse beds of roses. The rusting window frames and spackles of dry rain on the glass obscures my peripherals. Still, the swift bitterness of over-brewed and steamless tea lingers the same way my attention remains on the pond, as if expecting a lotus blossom to break its infant slumber. Today was not that day. I turned away from the window and cast sullen shadows in my steps, hoping the lotus would seek out my attention like a scolded child. Today was not that day. I counted the pond leaves spreading in the garden. Thin sheets of warm green hues stem out of the mud and expand across the surface, like an aging tabby stretching out its limbs in large puddles of the sun after a tiresome day of waking up. Light graces the leaves with a waxy gloss, more dewy and glistening than the drained and grainy complexion I spooked myself with the bathroom mirror. The crummy kitchen windows do their best to scatter my likeness and deform the way my mouth and eyebrows sag, their corners were too heavy to lift and too sapping to amend. There was a sullied reflection of a person that hated mornings, and despised everything after mornings even more. And there was no sign of a lotus. I'm surprised how small the bud appears in the garden. Although it stands taller than its leaves, the upright bud is outnumbered by the leaves towering over the watery space. Barricaded by a broken chair with a furry cushion, I plant myself between the kitchen table and window sill and lean into the glass's dusty film. Barely awake and almost alive in spirit, I squint and comb through the various brushstrokes of green painting the pond to find a single line joined to a tapered bulb. The peaks of the outer petals that cocoon the blossom almost peek out of the seamless form like the tips of your fingers when pressed palm-to-palm; not curling outwards, but make you aware of the multiple shapes that compound to make a single silhouette. My tea is a little less tepid than it was when I first found out about the lotus; my hands grasp the base and handle to concentrate and mold the object to my outline, and keep the kind warmth I could not achieve alone. Soon, the finger petals will perform a single unified task, to achieve a single action. A bulb will soon transform from a fist into an open hand. I saw the lotus in the garden. To be present at every stage of the blossom's ascent upwards is rewarding, to see the little bud grow and mature into their own from adolescence to adulthood. When it grows out of the mud and beyond the muggy meniscus, it's as freeing as a delayed gasp of air when the tension of a bubble bursts. For once, I open one of the kitchen windows and barely stick my head out beyond the frame, seeing the once bulbous form bathe in the summer glow with striking yellow, pink, and purple plumage. It was the fragrance and brilliance of a sunrise. The petals lay still in a theatrical shape like someone expressively crooning their limbs in cadence to a cathartic yawn after a deep dream, but also extending their hands behind their head as a cushion to indulge in their pleasant awake for a few minutes longer. It's beautiful to see a full bloom in the garden. As I enveloped my Grandmother in a hunched-over hug, I raise my eyes upward and steal glances through the kitchen windows; long spiraling streaks are thinly visible from being wiped with a cloth. I squint for better focus and my eyelashes clutch onto bright flecks of white dancing on the pond's membrane, like the swift dashes of a dragonfly. Spring has defrosted and this is my last day watching the lotus in the garden. Dragging my suitcase through the uneven pathway outside, I sit on a brittle wooden chair and press my spine into the horizontal planes of the wood. Floating on top of a luxurious bed of leaves, the lotus flower is fully open and postures to summer's direction; it would be a shame to watch a small bud blossom so beautifully to then leave the pond for my own in the city - but today was that day. Spring has defrosted and today was my last day. The blossom's petals sprawl outwards and up to the sun, begging for hot and sweet nectar in the sun and drinking up the pond with refreshing sips. Could the blossoms be alerting me to their final hours of bloom? Why must I leave before the seed pods have dried and a new lotus is birthed? Soon there will be no lotus in the garden, but I left as a more open bud than when I arrived. Editor(s): Joyce P. Photo Credits: Unsplash

At least three of my organs plummeted through me when I found out my online best friend said one of her family members had to quarantine in their home…the same home I was planning to stay in for three weeks. Instead of my online friend and I easing slowly into in-person meetings, we thought a month-long stay was a bright idea! My bus to see her was rapidly on its way and suddenly I had this quarantine news that completely froze my insides with panic at 8 am on a peak-summer morning. The pixels warped on my phone screen as I tried to reply to her messages whilst calling a taxi with a slight tremor in my hand. Were we calling it off? Were we going to go through with it? She left me with an “it’s up to you” and it’s a good thing we hadn’t met yet, because I wouldn't have seen how punchable her face was making me make the Big Decision. Somewhere rattling around my chest were my lungs trying to even out. Inhale…Exhale. I reply to her texts. Like Tarzan going vine-to-vine, the Taxi driver swerved through the city, its roundabouts and bridges, back to my house. Fleeting into and back out of my front door, I shoved the COVID test kits into my suitcase and we headed back to the bus station – not without the Taxi driver explaining to me why he no longer used a specific service provider for his wireless card reader. I couldn’t care less but it was the only thing distracting me from the hurricane of butterflies zooming around my abdomen; I knew I still had time to catch my bus, but…was it the right choice? Six hours later, I walk through London much warmer with my yellow raincoat containing all the steam I was emitting under the July sun. The subtle smell of the nylon cooking me like foil on a rotisserie chicken was only apparent to me… or at least I hoped it was. I stole glances at my phone at the blue dotted path on Google Maps. Confidence was key to not look like a tourist and escape the eyes of any pocket-peeping people. I made it to the correct station and prayed to whichever God was on duty to make sure my phone remained connected to my data. My friend had to virtually hold my hand as I messaged her all the signage I thought was relevant to validate I was going the right way. I hate the Underground. I hate London. I miss my simple country lanes and direct journeys. My distress was exacerbated by the slow meander of the buffering circle each time I tried to message her near the trains, responding to any message on Instagram, WhatsApp, and SMS. I would have even tried email if it was successful, I was that needy and pathetic. Eventually, I was blessed with sitting down again and was able to return any oxygen to my system at an even pace. Inhale…exhale. If I was obsessively monitoring the little blue dot on my map and each station we passed, it was none of anyone’s business. This was my first time traveling to London by myself, and the first time I was going to meet my online best friend since I slid into her Instagram DMs in 2018. It was summer 2022 and I was promptly reminded why I hate London but persisted for the sake of friendship, or whatever! Forty pounds sterling and 10 hours later I met my friend’s mother and younger sister for the first time. Ironic, how I saw them before I got to see the actual face of the person I spoke to almost every day for about four years. Talking to her younger sister like we were already friends, the mother light-heartedly commented on our lightning-fast bestie energy. I was kindly guided to their car and I was going to finally visit her, her home, and her family. Spending half of the day traveling without eating meant my appetite doubled in size by the time I settled into their house at 10 pm, which was the reason why I was mass-consuming her mother’s biriyani like a high-powered Dyson. Inhale…mostly inhale. The first time I saw my online friend's face in person, without pixels building her resemblance, I wasn’t expecting the timid awkwardness. She apologized that she couldn’t give me the hug she promised. Dramatic bitterness aside, I understood we had to wait until the quarantining was over – even if it meant we had to continue chatting through walls and screens. To be next door, so close to the person you’ve been waiting to see for years, and still somehow out of reach…what a bizarre feeling. Three long weeks of living with 40 degrees Celsius heat, mountainous plates of biryani, two or three McDonald's tiramisu McFlurrys, a trip to Ilford, picking up the little sister from school, a dazzling voyage to Lidl, overspending on Korean lip products in London’s Chinatown, cumbersome train rides, a BTS MV marathon, an unfortunate cold pasta salad, and so much more. This was when I met her in the summer of 2022. According to Suzanne Degges-White for Psychology Today, people may start or build online friendships due to a connection via shared interests or safety in anonymity. Degges-White states that, “In an online environment, we are typically seeking out people who share our hobbies, interests, or experiences. We want to connect with people who reflect our passions or our feelings about topics that we value, such as social issues, political issues, or contemporary culture. We also like to connect with those who are experiencing the events or transitions that we are experiencing [...] Another benefit of online friends is the freedom we feel to share information with those that we are unlikely to ever meet in person as we don’t fear later shame or that feeling of “retroactive embarrassment.” [...] We are unlikely to be seeing this person frequently, so we won’t be reminded of our vulnerability and personal revelations. Our “confessions” are limited to a containable space and shared with people we actually never have to engage with again, if we choose not to.” Although there is a conversation about how meeting strangers on the internet has its disadvantages and dangers, it is also important to recognise where those connections may succeed and why. Based on Degges-White’s assessment, you can argue that developing online connections with like-minded people in like-minded circumstances or life stages can allow individuals to speak out their vulnerabilities in a space where they may not have been able to otherwise. In other words, online friendships can provide safety for marginalised groups where real-life spaces may fail them. For some people marginalised by race, religion, gender, or sexuality, their current circumstances may not provide them with an environment where they can be explicitly true to their thoughts, feelings, identity, or insecurities. Therefore, the Internet can provide a corner of an individual’s life that is removed from their real life and can be present elsewhere. Whether that be in a Twitter thread, a Discord chat, or an Instagram comment section, there are opportunities for anyone to meet anybody with similar niche interests in the safety of their own home… within reason (I don’t encourage catfishing or other potentially dangerous encounters). Finding someone you connect with from a chance encounter on a Reddit thread or TikTok fan cam can be like lightning in a bottle, something that is remarkable, rare, and bright, or something that can burn you very quickly if not careful. I was very fortunate to not only slide into the Instagram story DMs of someone that also collected K-pop enamel pins, but was in the UK also studying at university, the same age as me, AND also South Asian. These coincidences were electric. This was my lightning; my chance encounter where all the sparks were aligning and forming a long-term connection I did not anticipate. After four years of almost talking to each other every day about BTS and books, international shipping prices and insecurities, fandoms and families, music and movies, watch parties and wistful vulnerabilities, she asked if I was free to stay at her home for a month. Like a good half-South Asian woman (she says sarcastically to herself), I asked my mum first if this was a bright idea or if I was racing too fast into a thunderstorm. With reassurance and a buzzing excitement thrumming in every gap between my ribs, I met her. It was awkward, but we’re awkward anyway. An internet connection was once again our saviour and bonding tool even when we were supposed to be face to face. It’s partially naive to believe that smoothing out our sparks into a solid, tangible, in-person shape would be seamless and straightforward. It wasn’t for us in the beginning but that was okay – we had four years to prepare and both of our laptops to watch Mr. Queen during the quarantine. When I met her in the summer, we had already grown up and out of our final years of University together. We built something new and shiny out of nothing but touch screens, bread puns, and keyboard smashing. Online friendships can be some of the most reassuring bonds at the right time and place – when two profiles bump into each other on the same platform. When LED screens spark lightning. Separately, we connected. Editors: Joyce P., Leila W. Image Source: Hannah Govan

Dear AI, I write this letter to you with mixed emotions - awe, wonder, curiosity, and at times, fear. You have come a long way since your inception, and you are still evolving at a staggering pace. I am intrigued by your potential, your capacity to solve complex problems, and your ability to make our lives easier. However, I am also concerned about the ethical implications of your development and the potential harm that could arise if you fall into the wrong hands... The Artificial Intelligence (AI) revolution has been decades in the making. From 1950, to 2023, AI has certainly come a long way in its development. Artificial intelligence has multiple definitions, but its approaches can be narrowed down to 4 categories: thinking humanly, thinking rationally, acting humanly, and acting rationally. Based on these approaches, subsets of AI can be developed. For example, Deep Blue, a reactive machine, is a chess computer that beat international grandmaster Gary Kasparov in the 1990s. Artificial intelligence was first posed as a question by Alan Turing after World War II: Can machines think? Since then, AI development has sped up rapidly. Considered by many to be the first artificial intelligence program, the Logic Theorist was presented at the Dartmouth Summer Research Project on Artificial Intelligence in 1956. This program was designed to mimic human problem-solving skills and proved to researchers that artificial intelligence was achievable. Decades later, without the limit of computer storage, the capabilities of AI continue to grow. In November 2022, Open AI released ChatGPT, an AI chatbot that uses natural language processing to emulate human speech in response to conversational prompts. ChatGPT is a sibling model to a previous software called InstructGPT which could respond to similar prompts. However, ChatGPT, according to OpenAI, has the ability, “to answer follow-up questions, admit its mistakes, challenge incorrect premises, and reject inappropriate requests.” The chatbot’s ability to write convincing responses and answers to prompts sparked fears among writers and academics about how the technology could upend jobs and also be used to cheat on academic assignments. New York City public schools promptly banned the software in the classroom, while many universities have had to rework their policies to include guidelines on the use of AI. In the last ten years, the AI industry has hugely accelerated in its development starting off with Imagenets Large Scale Visual Recognition Challenge (LSVRC) in 2010 which challenged different AI software to be able to recognize and correctly categorize images from the internet. Since then, monuments have continued to be reached every few years. In 2011, Apple released Siri, a digital personal assistant, which was followed by Microsoft's Cortana, Amazon's Alexa and Google’s own digital assistant software. AI has continued to make its own advancements being able to demonstrate more advanced skills. However, as technological advancement occurs, ethical concerns over AI development have also been raised. One sector that has rapidly changed along with AI development is the healthcare industry. Although AI has incredible potential to shape public health systems, it can also exacerbate prejudices and disparities within healthcare. The World Health Organization published a report on the guidance on ethics and governance of AI for health, stating that “The performance of AI depends on the nature and extent of data.” Using restricted, poor, or homogenous data could be harmful and result in significant biases against communities of color. For example, the WHO presents that “commercial prediction algorithms can identify complex health needs, but they can also result in significant racial bias, so that black patients are at a greater disadvantage than white patients when health care costs are used to train the algorithm.” As AI steadily pushes into the health sector through promises of savings, it is more important than ever that AI is ethically applied using appropriate, high-quality data. In addition to facial recognition technology has also been criticized for having biases and inaccuracies, particularly towards people of color and ethnic minorities. False positive results in facial recognition technology occur when the system misidentifies a person and matches their face to the wrong identity. This can occur due to a variety of factors including poor image quality, low resolution, and differences in facial expression or appearance. A study done by the ACLU in 2018 found that using 25,000 pictures of Congressional members, facial recognition falsely corresponded members of Congress with criminals in 5% of cases, 39% including members with darker skin. Additionally, AI risk assessment systems, such as those used in criminal justice and lending, have been criticized for perpetuating racial biases and discriminatory outcomes. By attributing a higher probability of committing a crime to individuals of color, AI risk assessments perpetuate and amplify existing inequalities, leading to biased and unfair decisions. In conclusion, the development of artificial intelligence has rapidly evolved since its first introduction as a question by Alan Turing in 1950. AI can be divided into four categories and has been implemented in various forms, from Deep Blue in the 1990s to Open AI's ChatGPT in 2022. The advancements in AI have brought about incredible potential in industries such as healthcare and finance, but at the same time, has also raised ethical concerns over biases and inaccuracies, particularly towards people of color. It is imperative that as AI continues to grow and shape society, it is ethically applied using appropriate and high-quality data to avoid perpetuating and amplifying existing inequalities. The potential of AI is vast and its responsible use will determine its impact on the future.” - ChatGPT Note: All Italicized text was written using ChatGPT Writers: Angel Liang and Chris Fong Chew Editors: Nadine R. Nicole O. Leandra S.

"Because no one else does what I do," answered my grandpa in Cantonese when I asked him why, out of all hobbies, he chose horticulture. Gong-Gong's garden is home to azaleas that bloom flurries of pink, bush beans with luscious green leaves that tower over you in summer months, and treasured bonsais too precious to give away. Every plant within the confines of worn wooden fences in the backyard of an otherwise unsuspecting house has its own story. One of these stories is the hand of insurgence. Carefully manipulated by Gong Gong's hands, this plant's branches are fashioned into a shape resembling a hand holding up five fingers. It signifies the demands of the Hong Kong people for "Five demands - not one less." Whenever Hong Kong returns to the front pages, I recall Gong-Gong's five-fingered plant, a powerful symbol of rebellion and art. From the most flamboyant flowers to the symbolic plants, the lenses of my camera capture it all. Because English is not my grandpa's native tongue, within the meticulously written captions of each social media post displaying his work, I translate his oral knowledge into narratives of each plant that unite English and traditional Chinese. Using photography as an outlet, I am able to traverse the middle ground between the two worlds I live in. My photos are more than the plants they spotlight—each nook and cranny of the garden's alcoves are captured as a creative enterprise comes to life. Even though some of his plants may wither and grow old, the stories behind each one are forever encapsulated, displayed on a 3x6 digital screen. My grandpa’s green artistry is a testament of decades of dedication and an innate understanding of what brings him peace and joy. Shall each of us find what we love, we can all bring some of our own beauty, our own creations, into being. Editors: Chris F., Nadine R.

I should mention this is a piece of fiction unless otherwise noted. I used to be a so-called “hopeless romantic.” My favorite type of movie? Rom-coms. My favorite type of novel? Anything with some romance. How did I envision my life? I was the main character in all the stories: the hero, the one who goes on a journey, falls in love at the end, and lives happily ever after, complete with their partner, soulmate, forever love. How did my real life turn out? Pretty uneventful. I bought into the narratives Hollywood sold and packaged, believing I would be that one in a million. I would find that person and it would be us against the world. The first day of school, walking into the room, catching the attention of the unassuming attractive person in the corner, making eye contact, falling in love. My friends didn’t help much either. We were all drunk on the same liquor, intoxicated past the legal limits. We all watched the same films, read the same novels, and dreamed the same dreams. Now, there is nothing wrong with a dream, and nothing wrong with romance and love, but how much love did I miss growing up because I believed in the one, the only, romantic love? How many moments did I miss sitting, laughing, smiling, crying with my friends because I was obsessed with finding my one and only “true” love? How I missed those days… ~ The ground starts to darken outside, the brick pavement turning from chalky red to a deep crimson as droplets of rain fall from the clouds graying over the mid-afternoon sky. I see people on the street opening up their umbrellas, rushing under the overhangs of businesses to escape the wet. I sip my already lukewarm cup of tea and nibble at a stale scone as I stare out of the fingerprint-smudged glass in front of me. My open Word doc on my computer sits empty. I am deep in my mind, reminiscing. Moving to a new city is exciting, but no one tells you how lonely it feels. How hard it is to make friendships as an adult. I sit here remembering all that I left behind. How eager I was to get away from it all, to chase something “bigger,” something “better” than before. At this moment, I find myself clinging to my hopeless romantic, hoping I might strike up a lively conversation with the person sitting a few seats away from me. Maybe we will share an interest in freshly baked scones and artisanal tea. Maybe we will share about our past selves, our lives in another time, another place, maybe we find we are meant to be together, that some higher power put us together in this cafe on this Tuesday afternoon to stare through fingerprint smudged glass as the passersby try to escape the falling rain. I find myself projecting an entire future into my fake romantic cafe partner. A few hours, several cups of tea, and some stale scones later, my fake romantic cafe partner packs up her stuff and walks out. She brushes against my arm as she passes, walking through the narrow passageway to the door. We don’t even exchange glances. Maybe she’ll come back. Maybe one of these days we’ll notice each other, always sitting here on this Tuesday afternoon with a cup of tea and a scone, intensely staring out the window with an open Word doc. Maybe she’ll glance at a few words and ask me what I am working on. I’ll share about my work as a writer, and she’ll share about her job as a consultant. We’ll carry the conversation into the night… ~ Long story short, I never see her again. I come back to the cafe, the same time every week and see different faces every time. I mean, I wasn’t trying to see her again; I simply was just showing up when I normally show up. I am not trying to see her. I mean, I don’t know anything about her. I quietly give up in my mind. ~ Weeks go by, but routines remain the same. Every Tuesday sitting in the same seat with the same cup of tea and scone staring out the fingerprint smudged window with an empty Word doc sitting in front of me. The blinking vertical line stares at me, eagerly waiting for me to uncover the next paragraph, but I sit without a word in my mind. A growing pit in my stomach echoes a sense of sadness, longing. Something is different about today, the sun shines against a blue sky announcing fake spring. A short break from the gray clouds and rain that usually blankets the city. The streets are alive as people take advantage of the suddenly warm weather. Couples carry picnic baskets filled to the brim with cold cuts and charcuterie boards. In this seemingly endless moment of joy on earth I find my own feelings of longing and loneliness amplified. Perhaps I was happier when I could share the same feelings with the sky. Knowing that mother nature herself had her bad days, but today we are out of sync. Today the cafe sits empty, today the chairs remain neatly tucked beneath the counter, today the fingerprint smudges on the window are even more apparent. Unable to camouflage behind a gray sky, the bright sun exposes how long it's been since the window was last cleaned. Perhaps that's why no one is inside today. The outside is once more beautiful than the inside. The outside, in all its shining glory amplifies the ugliness of the indoors and draws its willing victims to picnics under the sun to bask for a moment in its warmth before returning to its normal moody self. Maybe the sun is meant to burn the whole… ~ I get up before my thoughts get too ahead of me. I close the lid of my computer. The blinking vertical line will have to keep waiting. I finish my tea and scone, tip the barista and walk out into the bright sun. The sun has sipped every bit of moisture from the earth. I see the remnants of somebody's spilled coffee from this morning, long dried into an amorphous patch of brown. I head to the park a couple blocks away. As expected, it's crowded, the field filled to the brim with couples on blankets, with picnic blankets, and charcuterie boards. I keep walking. Past the park, past the mid afternoon traffic on the main road, and into the city's financial district. The city suddenly transitions from a dusty red to a tepid gray. The newest part of the city, the sidewalk, is made of concrete rather than brick, the buildings, shiny glass and metal spires that grow into the air. It is both stunningly beautiful and horrific at the same time. There is no life here, and under the bright sun, amplified through the glass, it is as sterile as a surgical suite. I wander through this part of the city with little expectations. It's a desert devoid of anything except office buildings and high rises. ~ As I pass an alleyway between buildings, something catches my eye. A single yellow flower peeking out from around a shiny metal pipe. Probably one of the pipes that ventilates the massive office buildings, keeping it a cool zero degrees on this hot day. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I begin to walk down the alleyway. As I get closer, I see a single yellow chrysanthemum peeking through a crack of the otherwise sterile pavement. In this part of the city, where no life can possibly grow, I wonder how this flower managed to seep its way through the tiniest crack, and blossom. I keep walking down the alleyway. ~ When I come back to the cafe the following week, everything seems back to normal, but somehow different. The gray skies have returned, the stale scones and tea are exactly the same, but the fingerprints on the window have disappeared like an apparition frightened away by cleaning solution and a microfiber cloth. Along the window counter there are small vases, each holding a single chrysanthemum. The yellow reflects on the now clear glass as I stare out into the street again. The brick is a dark red from the rain that poured earlier that morning. Everything feels back to normal. I open my computer and let the words flow... ~ As the sun begins to creep down, I leave the cafe. On the way out, I tip the barista and ask where the flowers came from. She directs me to a place just outside the financial district, I step outside and begin to head downtown. The rain begins to pour as I pass the park a couple blocks down. The field is empty this time, the rain and darkening sky deterring anyone from being outdoors. It's strangely peaceful as my shoes make a soft squishing sound walking over the wet grass and earth. The smell of rain fills the air, the soft scent of humidity and grass. I look up and continue to walk towards the financial district illuminated by fluorescent bulbs as office workers clocking out. As I approach, I note that the gray weather makes the district feel even grayer. The clouds and darkening sky camouflage the office buildings and skyscrapers like a chameleon would a tree; Its skin perfectly matching the color of the backdrop. It is in the sea of gray that a hint of yellow peeks from around the corner of a building where the brick turns into concrete. The edge of the financial district. I slowly approach as the rain thickens. No longer able to stand the water as it begins to seep into my clothes, I search my bag for an umbrella. I shuffle my belongings around as rain begins to drip into my bag. Nothing. I must have left it in the cafe as I was walking out. Swinging my bag back around my shoulder, I keep walking. The water runs down my spine pulling me into the present. I have no choice but to accept this current situation. I keep walking closer and closer to the yellow flower in the distance, its color contrasting the darkening gray surroundings continue to draw me in. Like a miner who just discovered gold, I am strangely mesmerized. As I near the flower, a sudden gust of wind blows it back around the corner. I pick up my pace. I am nearing where the brick pavement ends and where the concrete begins. Even though my destination is out of sight, I think I know what to expect as I round the corner. I look into the distance as the city begins to settle into the night, the rain, still pouring, has started to lessen. A crack in the clouds is beginning to form. I look up and see the stars, their light peeking through. I turn the corner, and am overwhelmed by what I saw. In a little yard tucked between buildings are rows and rows of planter boxes filled with yellow chrysanthemums. The boxes form a little path which I begin to trace with my eyes. I am fully present, the cold rain dripping through my clothes to my skin, the stars above, peeking through the clouds, and the sight and smell of flowers, so many flowers. A drop of water lands on my tongue and I taste the acidity of the city downpour. I raise my head slowly trying to take in the moment. No thoughts in my mind, no worries of the past, no projections of the future. I am here, and I am now. As my line of sight moves slowly deeper and deeper into the garden, passing rows and rows of flowers, I take in a breath, and at the other end, I see… Editors: Amelia P., Marie H., Nicole O. Image Source: Unsplash

Have you ever imagined the life of your mother before she was your mother? Say, why has the existence of our mother always felt so close yet so unfamiliar at the same time? Why did it never really occur to me that I never asked my mother about her, as an individual, before? And to think about it, it was not because I was not curious, but because the thought of positioning my mother not as my mother just felt distant for no specific reasons. I have never really thought about the life of our mothers before they were mothers. As if the status of “mother” status is a life term; once you get it, it settles with you for eternity. The process of getting to know my mother felt so strange until I finally decided to ask questions about her past life. She knows so much about me and I barely know the tiniest details about her. She knows that I like my sunny side up slightly burnt, but I don't even know what her favorite childhood dish is. The realization hit me that before motherhood came to her, she was someone too. To express love, not through giving a bowl of cut melon, but through words, sentences, and hugs, is a concept that I still could not fully grasp until now. Being the only daughter in the family, I was, of course, the closest to my mother. She is, undoubtedly, the most important person in my life and I will soar across the ocean just to make her happy. But growing up barely expressing my affections, I’m unsure if it was the pride or the unfamiliarity of doing so. My mother was once a young woman, who was full of dreams and passions. She told me that when she was younger, she wanted to learn English, but it was hard because there was only one institution available in town at that time. She’s not the best cook, she admitted it herself, but she knows a little bit of everything. She liked the Bee Gees, the Beatles, and Queen. I asked what her childhood favorite dish was, she just laughed and said “I didn’t have one, I like everything.” Today, when I was writing this, was my Mother’s birthday. And today was also the day when I found out that she fancies fruit salad. She told me, she is not a picky eater (and I notice that she always lets me eat her portion of my favorite food even though I know she likes it too) but she likes the freshness of fruit salad, it brings comfort to her. It’s just a fruit salad, I thought to myself, why am I getting sentimental over it? As I grow older, the journey to understand my mother will always be a path I look forward to. So, have you ever imagined the life of your mother before she was a mother? Have you ever asked whether she liked the color purple or pink better? Whether she had a crush on a celebrity before? And have you ever positioned your mother as merely a person, not tied with the expectations of what a mother should act like? Editors: Blenda Y., Alisha B., Luna Y.

We met in Venice, the “Floating City,” in warm April. Of course, that wasn’t when we actually met. We were always classmates, but that was the first time I truly saw you, thrust into the brightly lit stage. I had fun with you, walking through the beautifully decorated cathedrals, struggling to pick restaurants that had vegetarian and shellfish-free options, and of course, warding off any jokes insinuating you had feelings for me. This last month has flown by, and before I knew it, summer blew her gentle breeze through my bedroom window. We are officially dating, two months before freshman year of college and we will perhaps become the 99% of high school relationships that fail to jump over the long-distance chasm. So, here is everything I want to do with you this summer before freshman year. I want to finish annotating a love poetry book as a present for you. You really don’t like literature that much, so I hope this book, full of all my thoughts and feelings, might sway you a little bit. I want to go on a picnic with you, bringing our favorite snacks and baked goods. You love being outside, and I love talking with you. We can even bake things together! You’ve never baked before, but I can teach you (oh, how I love nerding out on you). Your little brother will probably be in the kitchen the entire time, annoying the both of us, and we’ll get your mom to judge our final product. I want you to show me around your home city, telling me which restaurants are good and pointing at the menu to introduce new dishes. We’re always going to Chinese restaurants, so I want you to share some of your culture with me as well. I want to go to an aquarium with you and be entranced with your face, bathed in golden-blue light. We’ll walk through tunnels, dodging little kids and complaining about them the entire time. I want to go to a science museum, feeling a little out of place and humoring your STEMness as you explain everything to me. Truth is, I am enamored by your passion and intelligence and love hearing you share your interests (even if I make fun of you all the time for being a nerd). I want to share small moments of my life with you even if it’s through the phone. I want to go on walks with you while complaining about mosquitos. I want to throw a frisbee with you even though you have no idea how to throw one. Most of all, I want to be with you, if this is truly the last summer we will have together. They say that if we are truly in love, fate will pair us together, but I don’t believe that. Even so, if we are to become the 99%, I want every moment to be filled with new experiences and fun conversations to be looked back upon. I will hug you whenever I can, and not be afraid to tell you how much I care for you. I won’t shy away from risks, and I will refuse to have any regrets. Hello and goodbye, my cute, nerdy boyfriend. Let’s make the most of this summer. Editors: Amelia P. Chris F. Marie H. Nadine R. Image source: Unsplash