Non-Fiction

I fell in love the first time at sixteen years old. I met him on the beach in Los Angeles while I was on a journalism field trip. It was my third year in America, and I still had not quite assimilated into California student life. At school, some girls laughed at me because of my Chinese accent and said things like, “You speak English? You understand what we say? Your English is so bad.” They didn’t want to pair up with me in group projects and told others not to choose me. They said during a practice presentation once, “You shouldn’t have come here for high school. It’s too hard for you. How are you going to do the presentation?!”

At lunch time, most kids avoided me. In freshman year, I spent a month having lunch near the restroom. I’d sit there in the hallway, eating my homemade dumplings, thinking about what I should do to change my accent. The Asian American girls would sometimes pass me and roll their eyes, judging my clothes: “Why does she wear hoodies in summer?” I’m sure they thought I couldn’t understand them. I stayed in the corner, looking at them with no facial expressions or words. They would laugh and leave. I took my backpack and tried to cover the hoodie I was wearing. But it just did not work.

Every time I saw cute couples hanging out together in the hallways, I felt jealous. They sat together every day under the freshmen tree, smiled at each other and hugged. When it was rainy, the boys pulled their coats over the girls. In the education system in China where I grew up, the only thing students could do is study. Girls and boys, especially girls, were expected to avoid relationships in high school and college, keep their noses in the mountains of books and test tubes, but quickly get married after they graduate. During this journalism trip, all the girls had boyfriends back home. Some boyfriends were athletes, others budding scientists, others on the robotics team. At night, the girls would go out to the hallways and Facetime them. And I was always the one staying in the hotel room alone, turning on the television to the international Chinese news.

Our journalism class was staying at the hotel near Santa Monica Beach, where the roller coaster and the Ferris wheel lit up the sky at night. One evening, at the golden hour of sunset, I sat out on the hotel chairs with my leopard print sunglasses watching the sun go down. That was when I saw the glow shining on his body. All I remember now was his face. He walked directly toward me and handed me a cup of pineapple juice. It was around six o’clock in the evening, when many people had started to go back to their hotels. He took off his sunglasses, and I realized who he was.

I knew him from childhood, and our families were long-time business partners. We went to middle school at the same time, but at different schools back in Beijing. I remembered his mushroom cut back then, but my own goal to get first place in academics at my school made me pay no attention to him. Studies were my life back then. I would stay up all night and not even eat for ten hours just to study. I often stayed in the classroom after the school closed with other classmates so we could finish studying before finals.

He looked at me and smiled. He had just gotten out of the water, and the sun reflected on his abs. As a young woman who had never been in love, I thought he looked like a movie star. “Hi, pretty girl” was the first sentence out of his mouth. I should have known then.

“Aren’t you Rusal?” I asked, ignoring his greeting. I could tell he was surprised that I didn’t respond with giggles. “I know who you are,” I told him.

“Of course, I’m pretty sure I’m the cutest boy around here.”

It was really weird, the words that came out of his mouth because I knew him when he was still in primary school, when he cried near the basketball court because the teachers took his ball. But he was cute, and my stomach was full of a sudden crush and some jealousy because I was the only single girl on the journalism team. So, I smiled at him and said his last name. “Rusal, right?”

“What are you doing here in Los Angeles?” he asked.

I told him I was at journalism camp, and asked what he was doing here. “I’m on school break. I live here in Beverly Hills now and go to Sierra Canyon High School.”

The next day, he picked me up at the hotel in his dad’s Lamborghini and took me to Disneyland. I wore green shorts, a black crop top, pearl earrings, and a shell necklace, which I broke and lost in the park. I should have realized that that was a sign. But in a place like Disneyland, all the air around me felt sweet and romantic. On Mickey’s Fun Wheel, he held my hand, and we looked through the wire grate windows out at the scenery. I never thought the manmade lake could be so pretty. It was gold, with blue, flowing and shining like glitter wallpaper. I looked at Rusal, and he looked at me, and suddenly, we kissed. I’d never kissed a boy before, but it felt safe that he was someone I knew from childhood, from my homeland where people ate moon cakes to celebrate, where they understood that the Money God controlled wealth, where they believed in good luck charms like the color red, and bad luck like the number four.

I felt the door in my heart that I’d locked had suddenly opened. The next evening, we sat on the beach together, the wind of the night blowing on my face, and he put his hands around my shoulder. We looked at the stars in the sky, bright and charming, like a Hollywood romance. He told me to close my eyes, and when I opened them, there was a ring on my finger. “What’s this? What’s this for?” I asked him.

“It’s my grandmother’s ring. Now, it’s yours.” He kept his charming smile on his face. I looked at the ring, made of gold. In the middle, there was a turquoise-colored jade. From the experience of living with my grandmother, who loved jade, I could tell it was expensive and meaningful. In my culture, jade means “Forever love.”

In between my journalism camp activities, we spent time together. Over the next few days, we swam in the pool, ate eggs benedict on the balcony, and watched Kung Fu Panda. We promised to love each other forever like the white cranes that mate for life. We promised we would never ever break up. We talked about marriage and future plans. We talked about China and the food we missed from home. If I hadn’t known him since I was five years old, I wouldn’t have believed what he said.

When my journalism trip ended, I flew back to my town in Northern California. On May 20th, Valentine’s Day in China, I posted his photos on my WeChat and Instagram, and I said, “I love you so, forever,” followed by a heart emoji. He responded, “You are my girl forever.”

At that time, I began to feel good about myself for the first time. I saw myself as successful in all I did: schoolwork, writing, music. With all the efforts I put into becoming skilled at my passions, I had begun to receive what I wanted—acceptance to a journalism summer program, first place in a music competition, the slow but certain publication of my stories in American literary journals. I was back to the girl who I was in China—the girl people believed in before I’d come to America. Now I was a successful young woman who had a boyfriend who loved me so much that he gave me his grandmother’s ring as a promise.

Three months after this relationship started, I received a photo on my phone. In the image, Rusal was in a hotel room hugging a young woman who had long blonde hair and Kardashian makeup. There was red lipstick on his neck. A friend of his had sent the photo to me as “a favor,” so I wouldn’t keep trusting Rusal. Apparently, Rusal had become a player of love.

For two months, I couldn’t get away from the image. It was my first relationship, and I experienced this terrible loss. I suffered different levels of sadness that involved the consumption of cheesecake, popcorn chicken, and cup noodles. All the shining points and achievements in my life felt suddenly wiped out. I started to question myself. Maybe I wasn’t good enough? Maybe I didn’t have the right body shape? Maybe my nails were the wrong color? It was foolish but it was also like a death, the first of many deaths that I was sure to experience in my whole life. They came to me all at once, and I was like the single flower in the grassland, suddenly wind blows, I was swinging but I still stood there and stayed strong.

But a few months later, I found myself on the award stage again, this time for playing zither. One young woman came up to me afterwards and said, “You played with such a true heart and real feelings.”

I realized then that I hadn’t lost anything. Nothing but some self-confidence, trust, and pride. Sure, my young heart had been broken, but I was still myself, and I had gained a story

 

 

As a freshman at University of Iowa majoring in creative writing and musical theater, Yuwei is a creative writer, musical theater actress, journalist, page editor, and professional Chinese Zither player. She is actively involved in school and enjoys joining the community. Yuwei is a professional Chinese Zither player, a 21-string traditional Chinese Instrument for almost 2000 years old, which she has done since the age of four and already passed Level 10 at 11 years old. She enjoys doing competitions and won first place in the National Chinese Zither Competition from 2009 to 2016. She also writes her own zither pieces included: Summer; That year, that river; Childhood; Homeland grassland, Homeland river, etc. As a member of the High School Music Collaborative and the leader of PLAY Chinese Ensemble, Yuwei enjoys using music to share the joy and happiness with other people in the community. Yuwei is a creative writer, even though English is her second language and she just came to America 3 years ago, she has already won the Scholastic Writing Contest, Bay Area Book Festival Writing Competition, and the Tri-Valley High School Writing Competition as the only double winner. She got the scholarship to study Creative Writing in CSSSA in the summer of 2019. She is also the page editor of Amador Valley Journalism class. She always tries her best to make the school and the Pleasanton Unified School District better as a leader in LINK, an active member in Pleasanton SIAC and a student representative in LCAC and DCLC. In her free time, she enjoys listening to music, reading books and cycling.

When I think of my mother, I can picture her eyes smiling at our guests — from familiar relatives and friends to newly acquainted coworkers. Her eyes would be curved into bent crescents, creased at the edges like wrinkled grapes. Below her eyes, I see a quick dash of rose blush blended with brown concealer as if her face were a palette of diverse pigments. Just a few minutes ago, she was getting ready for the guests. I like watching her; I like seeing her paint on her freshly washed skin like an artist in-the-making, seeing the twinges of excitement for the night ahead spearheading her rapid movements.

I think about the mantra my mother preached to me, her only daughter: A good hostess will array wine like bowling pins, clear shelves of clutter, and braid lights across the staircase — do whatever it takes to make the house tidy. A good hostess will cook with an apron made of metal armor, ready to mold stif dough into delicacies. An excellent hostess will make herself presentable because she is the first one to unlock the door and greet guests.

Indians are notoriously known for “over preparing” most things — for flashy, five day weddings, feet-touching for blessings, soft bread piled into guests’ plates. We’re known for our hospitality. We’re known for shamelessly sending our guests home with bundles of leftover curry packaged in secure tupperware, for giving a hug rather than a handshake when sealing a business deal. For my family, hospitality is a way to help those who cannot be helped. My father used to ask me what I would do to help a king. Would I bring him a jeweled crown or elegant, aromatic meals? None of the above; the king already has all of that, I would respond. Exactly, my father continued, but you could invite him to your house as you would a guest, listen to him speak about his experiences, and make him feel comfortable. You can always give your presence and open ears to even the richest.

As firm believers in the “guests are God” dogma, my family makes no shortages in inviting guests to our home. Weekends are booked from morning till sundown with my brother and I put on tidying duty while my parents finish hovering over stovetops. Initially, I didn’t understand why my parents would race around the house hours prior to extended-family dinners just to rearrange couch pillows or spray vanilla-scented air freshener in the basement. The guests aren’t even going to see the basement, I would reason. However, over the years, I, like my parents, have memorized the precise geometry of dining room placemats and silverware. During family dinners, I’ve learned to take my seat at the table after everyone else has. My parents have trained me to lead small, polite conversations with guests, to smile at their jokes, and to pick up their dirtied napkins. I’ve learned to not question the imbalance of power between a houseguest and host, apologize if guests are unhappy, and meet their initial hesitation with a dutiful embrace. My people, my family, despite not working in the hospitality industry, are masters of service and caretaking.

When New Jersey enforced a mandated lockdown in early April, my family was not worried about not being able to host events or dinners. Although disappointed, they understood that health and safety rank above hospitality. Yet, although my parents were able to put my mother’s newly purchased dinner placemats into storage, they felt a much deeper remorse when shutting customers out of our family-owned wine shop. Since allowing customers to explore the shop and interact with employees is so central to their business, my family has found closing doors to be particularly painful.

How well do you know your customers? I’m sure they’re doing alright, I tried speaking to my father as he stared down at his curry one night during dinner. He paused, as if recalling a previous moment: I may not stand shoulder to shoulder with them — I’m across the counter whenever I see them, he chuckled. But, I know that Ms. Neiley picks up her order every night at 7 P.M; Joseph from the downtown train station always stops in to ask about sale items before lunch. I know that Christine from the hair salon complained about our slow delivery, so we tried to get her wine delivered quickly. I know that the boys soccer team comes to our shop first during their annual holiday fundraiser because they know we always offer candy. I was taken back by my father’s specific descriptions of distinct customers. I assumed his interactions to be momentary, fleeting glances, a quick exchange of dollar bills, followed by a brief, dim smile. Yet, his relationships with customers were like spontaneous friendships, crafted with care and concern. As a skilled host, he showed his customers the same warmth and companionship he did to friends and family.

Now, with lockdown rules slowly easing, my parents grin as they get back into the wine shop and watch customers approach, one by one, six feet apart, some wearing bandannas around the lower half of their faces and others voices muffled by surgical masks. Routine customers make their way towards the dimly lit wine shop and pick orders up from a table which leans against the doorway. They smile with their eyes, just as my mother does, as they wait in the short line.

On the shop’s glass window, my father hangs up a sign which reinforces social distancing and curb-side pick up regulations. He winces as he finishes taping the sign; the rules about maintaining physical distance are an inherent antithesis to the Indian ideal of hospitality, which encourages us to bring people closer and nearer to us. Distancing is a ritual we still aren’t comfortable with. My parents have traded natural, over-the-counter conversations with customers for momentary glances and weak hand waves. It is a bitter juxtaposition, yet one which reminds us of the community we have built through the wine shop and our hospitality mantra. Routine customers are loyal; they are undoubtedly present in the line outside the shop each day when they don’t have to be. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Christine waiting patiently as she tugs on her loose ponytail. Behind her, Ms. Neily is paging through a HomeGoods furniture manual with a ballpoint pen in hand. These customers choose to support my parents’ business and reciprocate their companionship, their hospitality, even in times like this.

 

 

Aditi Desai is a first-year student at Princeton University looking to study Neuroscience and Health Policy. She loves to read investigative journalism pieces which touch on the complexities of human health and mental wellbeing. Furthermore, she enjoys writing, running, hiking, and spending time outdoors!

It is only 5 PM but I already know with certainty that the day will end not in a period or exclamation point, but a sigh. I stare with wide-eyed dismay at the disarray of papers upon my desk. 3.8. 63%. 1490/1600. 10^th place. $50,000 per year. The clock in my heart is sprinting at twice the speed of the one on the wall; my hand, frantically trying to maintain pace. My mind stumbles into dark labyrinths, only to meet with dead ends and closed doors; thoughts tangle themselves into Gordian knots. Logic disintegrates. What is the integral of tan(x)? How much energy is dissipated by friction? What is the optimum annealing temperature for PCR? My mind is shrieking, screaming. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. Pain saturates my veins as a cold fear drenches me, until slowly, a paralysis grips my muscles up from my toes until all that remains moving is the rapid quivering of my pencil, my cramped fingers begging me to

Stop.

My shaking mind slows. Somehow, somewhere, it finds an unlocked door amidst the pitch-blackness. It takes a while of groping around before my fumbling fingers find a doorknob and twist it open. Beyond it, I am greeted by a flood of light. I lift my face to embrace the sunshine, to allow myself to imagine—

What if?

I picture before me a sunset. The sky is awash with color— the sun bleeds scarlet, trailing in its wake bright oranges, warm yellows. Along the horizon, it peeks out from behind the silhouette skeletons of trees throwing their wild, flickering shadows across a wide expanse of grass. I stand, in the midst of a field, a field with no end, no limits, no boundaries. Surrounding me stand acres upon acres of shoulder-length grasses swaying their heads to the rhythm of the breeze, stretching in all directions a patchwork quilt made of all different variant shades of ochres, of umbers, of greens, illuminated by the orange light of the dying sun. As the last rays of its brightness fade first into soft lavender, indigos and ultramarines, finally into darkness, it scatters its ashes in the form of stars. I can see, in my mind’s eye, a resurrection, for the next day the sun will, like a phoenix, rebirth from the very ashes that mark its grave. The next day dawns a new day, a naked and innocent child untouched by the stress of the past.

In this world within my mind, I am content. I spend many a day setting my easel on the banks of a small babbling brook. Shadows flicker, bright stars blinking in and out of existence against the darkness of the stream. Time evaporates as the clouds drift by, as transient as my thoughts. The day wanders away as my paintbrush strolls across the canvas, light and springy on its toes. Birds take flight, mere specks wiggling like tadpoles across the cerulean sky. In this place, no worries exist. It is here where I am completely immune, completely invincible to doubt, to negativity, to the stubborn chains which have clung to me for so long, weighing me down. Here, the burdens of my past release their grip on their emaciated prisoner imprisoned too long in an inescapable reality. Nothing in the world could matter to me: I am completely carefree.

In this world in my mind, I am happy. I have left that world— I belong to another. There is no pain, no heartbreak, no death, no destruction, no desire, not even love. It is a world in which disease and famine have been cured and war abolished. I dwell in a small cottage by the brook. Each day, I am awakened by the chorus of birds, by the first few slanted rays of sunshine dancing across the floor. I can see my late grandfather, resurrected from the depths of his paralysis from Parkinson’s. He sits across from me in a magnificent library, impressive for our small cottage, and sways back and forth on a rocking chair. My sleeves rolled up, I am beside a small wooden table, pondering the meaning of existence as I stare out an illuminated window, my hand gently pressing open a book upon its spine. From the other room I hear my sister echoing my heart with a tune bursting with exuberant joy and unrestricted hope. Many an hour I pick up the clarinet and admire its silvery keys glimmering in the sunlight. My fingers flit up and down the wooden holes as I breathe soul into the instrument, infusing into it a life which reverberates past the walls of my cottage and resonates for miles around. It is as though I am speaking to an old friend, one who also speaks through my mouth, as though I have never left his company. In my mind, he is immortalized as that forgiving old friend whom I have never neglected to a corner to accumulate dust even as others were prioritized above him.

I want to remain there, in this wonderful season of eternal spring.

But alas, I at last am forced return to that lonely reality.

It is my mind who forges these fateful chains of reality, but also my mind alone who can shatter them. It is a fatal error belonging not only to me but to our generation. We have bound ourselves to the unending yet meaningless pursuit of success, denied ourselves the right of taking refuge in our own minds, the time to respite, to lose our minds into that terrifying prospect and wilderness of reverie. We have all confined ourselves to numbers, simple delineations between right or wrong, to reality, as a result elbowing out the possibility of imagination. We have deemed daydreaming a delusion, a delirium entertained only by the insane. We have rejected the childish immaturity of our youth out of fear that reality will disappoint expectation. And while these thoughts may be lies now, there is solace in knowing that perhaps there is still time yet to convert the fantasies of our dreams to reality.

I look down at the unfinished paper clenched in my fist. What is your dream college?

I answer with a serene smile.

I don’t know.

  

Adele Peng is an incoming freshman at Princeton University, where she plans to major in neuroscience. She is an avid biology enthusiast and aspiring visual artist/writer. She believes that love as we know it is nonexistent and has made peace with the fact. Find her at adelepeng.com and on Instagram @linaria17.

 

~This story was previously appeared in Threshold, the literary magazine from Thomas Jefferson High School for Science and Technology. ~

 

Writing, for me, is not easy. Is that a bad thing to admit? Whenever I picture a writer, I see two thin white hands: one curled around a cigarette, the other scribbling with a pen across their notebook— all of their thoughts pouring out of their heads and onto the paper instantly. Or sometimes I see my sister’s wild excitement, the way she spills over with her ideas and then runs off to write them down without hesitation. It is somehow harder to imagine my own brown hands hovering over the keyboard, willing the blank document to fill with words that are somehow immediately beautiful and perfect and necessary.

I started writing when I was five years old. My sister would spend hours in front of the large family computer, editing clunky WordArt titles for her stories. And I would watch as younger sisters do, with jealous admiration, until I decided that I would be a writer as well. As an origin story, it feels rather embarrassing. Writing wasn’t a part of me naturally. I willed it to be so. Now whenever I sit down to write, my heart starts to beat too quickly and I have to stop. I hit the backspace key one too many times. If I manage to make it through a first draft, I check it over once, twice, and then a third time until it feels like I’m trying on somebody else’s clothes that don’t quite fit me right, and then I start to think that maybe that is what I have been doing since the beginning. Since I was five and jealous and hopeful.

When you are young, you do not have enough sense to be insecure. You are far too busy believing that because all of your thoughts are new to you, that they will be interesting to everyone else. I cannot recall a particular moment when someone read my work and said, “Hey, this bad,” compelling me to hide all of my journals and pencils and files. I just grew up. I preoccupied myself with the things I could prove I was good at. An ‘A’ on an assignment was an indisputable fact. My confidence was hardly strong enough to stand as an opinion.

If I found anything I didn’t like, I deleted it. I have lost so many pieces of myself this way.

It was either through God’s grace, a glitch in Google Drive, or a combination of both that I was able to recover several stories I’d written in middle school. And I surprised myself by reading every plot hole, every poorly written scene, every shred of immature dialogue with incomprehensible joy. All of them to an extent were poor imitations of stories I’d read, but they were mine. Isn’t that good enough?

I am always seeming to answer this question when I write. Is my writing good enough? The question is incomplete. Good enough for who? I’ve circled around this a few times, attempting to answer if it is for myself, if it is for others. But it doesn’t matter. It will never matter until I answer the real question that has sat in the back of my mind since even before I was hovering outside of the den doorway, quietly watching my older sister. Am I good enough? I believed it then. I was certainly capable of spelling words on the computer and constructing a simple story. I was even capable of creating those unappealing clunky WordArt titles. However, as I grew up, writing became less about the sheer capability and more about me. Were my thoughts and ideas worthy of being shared?

The only appropriate answer to this question, I feel, is nobody knows. But more importantly, who cares?

I didn’t write those stories on Google Drive when I was in middle school because I saw myself as a literary genius with new and sensational ideas. I wrote because it was fun. Because it made me fill up with the same excitement as my older sister when I had stories rush in my head faster than I could type them. I wrote for me. And when I found those once lost pieces, it brought me the same overwhelming happiness. Because at that moment, I was good enough for myself.

This is how I write: I turn off all sounds and shut the door. I stretch my fingers after I’ve written a paragraph without stopping, breathe in and out as a way to congratulate myself. I was afraid to admit my insecurities with this art form, my art form, because I felt as if it could not rightfully belong to me. How could I be a writer who curls up at the mention of writing?

However, this thought too is incomplete. I am not at all appalled by the act of writing. It was simply that I could not stand to be a writer who wrote anything unimportant. I had not grown yet to realize that writing is a deeply personal, self-indulgent task. Which is just a nicer way to say that it is selfish. Nor had I realized that there was and is a great possibility of me never writing anything that mattered much to others. But also, that it is okay. It is okay to write something half-decent. It is okay to fail. It is okay to look back at something and cringe. It is okay to be imperfect. It is okay. It is okay. It is okay. And more importantly, it is enough.

Yes, a writer can be a deeply intellectual white man with a leather-bound journal and a nicotine addiction. But a writer can also be me: a black girl who has enough courage and humility to keep writing when it isn’t easy until one day it is.

 

 

 

Justice Hatcher is from Jacksonville, Florida but now lives in Concord, North Carolina where she attends Cox Mill High School. Although she has yet not had her work published, she has always found her sanctuary in language. Since childhood, she has been an avid reader and writer but was unsure of how to share her creations. After receiving local recognition in middle school from the Cabarrus County Soil & Water Conservation for an essay contest, she began her journey of finding her voice, which she is now beginning to release.