Non-Fiction

Dear R. F. Kuang,

I didn’t know who you were when I was in middle school. If I did, you would have been the person seventh grade me wanted to be when she grew up.

I had less access to iPhones and computers than my peers growing up, a decision by my parents that I credit with creating a love for reading and writing in the absence of the constant distraction that is social media. I entertained myself using the pages of books, both those authored by adults (J.K. Rowling and Rick Riordan, but also older, more arcane authors that made seventh grade me really think she was something of an intellectual) and by myself (I wrote constantly, in spiral notebooks and cloth-bound ones, carried them everywhere because a handful of graphite-smeared pages really did contain the boundaries of my world). My stories were long and winding, their plots propelled by contrived coincidences more than cohesive conflicts, their characters so blatantly derived from my favorite fictional protagonists it was as if I’d pulled them from the published page.

I wrote about Adventure and Magic and War and Love (as much as any twelve-year-old raised in a privileged suburban bubble can write about Adventure or Magic or War or Love), and I think if I knew what your books were about–which is to say, Adventure and Magic and War and Love (and also lessons on colonialism and imperialism and real life war crimes communicated through the lens of historical fantasy, except seventh grade me didn’t really know what any of those words mean and would have been distracted by the rawness of your characters and the shininess of your fantastical world over your stories’ real life implications, so I will overlook these issues for now)–if I knew what your books were about, I would have loved them, and my stories would have started to emulate them as they did everything I loved. My writing would have taken the shape of yours, my characters morphing their physical appearance and quirks and flaws to resemble your own protagonists, the system of magic I constructed in my fantasy world a mirror image of the type of magic used in your bestselling novels.

You became a published author when you were barely twenty, and in seventh grade, a published author was exactly what I wanted to be. I am certain that if I knew you then, I would have wanted to become you.

The problem is that I haven’t been a seventh grader for nearly half a decade. I’ve outgrown my graphite pencils and college-ruled composition notebooks, exchanged them for a laptop and Google Drive stuffed full of ideas for stories or poems with an eternal audience of one: me. Instead of spending free time writing at a desk, pencil flying to transcribe characters and plots and worlds from mind to finger to page, I take breaks from homework on social media, relying on a kaleidoscopic plethora of Instagram Reels to stimulate my exhausted brain.

I spend so much time on school and sports and extracurriculars I convince myself that I don’t have the capacity to pursue intellectual activities for fun, so my downtime is dedicated to consuming media over producing it. And with the loss of creative pursuits I’ve lost my desire to become an author, because growing up means realizing that if you are someone who doesn’t have the self-discipline to do homework for more than an hour without checking social media, a job with a work schedule that’s entirely self-imposed might not be the job for you.

Besides, no one wants to become an author when Chat GPT will soon be able to write better than a human can. No one wants to pursue an overpriced liberal arts degree in English or Comparative Literature when the job market seems saturated with opportunities only for people who study business or STEM. I once told my aunt, who graduated from Cornell with a master’s in engineering, that I wanted to study anthropology in college because I am interested in the connections between humans and histories and cultures. She laughed and told me to pursue a degree in engineering if I really wanted to be successful.

I think that growing up means learning which things are impossible under the constraints of time and the anxiety of living a real life. It is impossible to be a creative and successful person in a world that squeezes profit only from people who maximize their fields of study, their money, their time in the pursuit of the most obviously practical skills. To be successful in life is to pursue an occupation you might find unfulfilling, one you can only tolerate, something lucrative enough that you live comfortably but so inevitably exhausting that when you get home from work each day you have neither the desire nor the motivation to pursue the production of anything artistic.

To be creative in life is to spend your time writing silly little stories and silly little papers while your friends take college level courses in physics and calculus, is to acquire an overpriced degree from an overpriced institution only to fail to foster a worthwhile career, is to come back home and live in your mother’s basement at the ripe old age of twenty-seven or thirty. You cannot be both.

This is what I might believe, Ms. Kuang, if I did not know about you. How are you only twenty-seven years old and a published author of five New York Times bestselling books, a recipient of multiple degrees in East Asian Studies and Chinese Literature from institutions like Cambridge and Oxford and Yale? You are successful and important and studied something that really mattered to you, and every day you wake up and use your degree to do the things that seem to really matter to you (write about things that are important to Asian Americans and East Asians and simply The World, about British imperialism and the Opium Wars and cultural appropriation in the publishing industry, but write in such a way that you are crafting a beautiful narrative even before you are educating your audience).

I am not naive: I know the shiny, perfect, academic bubble of a life you project on your Instagram account and Squarespace website are as fabricated as anything else on social media in 2024, and for all I know you might hate what you do and wish you were an engineer, an ophthalmologist, a woman in STEM. But I do not think this is the case; I think the facts speak for themselves. Your ability to derive success and profit from a degree with no obviously practical application, your budding literary empire that operates and thrives under the constraints of capitalism, speak for themselves.

I don’t think I necessarily still want to be an author. I do think I want to study anthropology, or history, or philosophy, to pursue education for the purpose of learning something I care about and to believe I can still build success at the end of it all. I think it doesn’t really matter what you pursue but how you take advantage of your opportunities, and studying something that’s not obviously practical doesn’t mean you will be useless for the rest of your life.

 

Dear R. F. Kuang,

I think you are still who I want to be when I grow up.

 

 

Juliet Rotondo is a high school junior from Rye High School in Rye, New York. Her writing is recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and featured in her school’s literary magazine and newspaper; she is on the editorial staff of her school’s literary magazine, newspaper, and Polyphony Lit. She loves using art and writing as creative mediums to connect her lived experiences with universal ones.

I Am Ana’s Anxiety.

More specifically, I am Ana’s Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD). Or, you could simply call me “Anxiety”, but it’s best if you don’t call on me at all, and pray that I never call on you.

Ana might not feel so fortunate to have me. There are many students who don’t wrestle with the weight of anxiety as she does. They call me “overthinking,” “stress,” and “isolation,” and frankly, I find these labels quite insulting. Afterall, I’m no lightweight when it comes to affecting Ana’s academic and social life. My primary residence is in her mind, but I have a way of infiltrating every corner of her world. My goal? To cast a shadow over Ana’s entire life.

So, where did I come from? Who knows? There are plenty of theories. Here’s my version:

Ana has always been a conscientious student, eager to excel academically and make her immigrant parents proud. But over time, this drive started to morph into something more threatening. It started as a persistent knot in her stomach before tests, the fear of making mistakes, and the crippling self-doubt that accompanies perfectionism. Relax, they said, but Ana ignored it.

My first appearance in Ana’s life was subtle, like the uneasiness that crept in when she was asked to speak in class, or the dread of group projects. “What if?” became my mantra, and I chanted it relentlessly. Anxiety, they called it, but Ana couldn’t easily escape my grip.

April 5, 2021. The first time I made my presence starkly clear. The trigger was seemingly mundane, a simple school presentation scheduled for that morning. But I tend to have a way with the mundane, if I must say so myself. On this day, I seized the opportunity to amplify her fears, manipulating the dread that had been building up inside her to its zenith. When Ana’s turn to speak arrived, her voice failed her entirely. Her palms grew clammy, and her breaths grew rapid and shallow, saturating her bloodstream with an excess of carbon dioxide. As the world around her became distant and surreal, her vision narrowed to a tunnel, her senses overwhelmed by the suffocating weight of, well, me. It was as if I had frozen her very being, rendering her unable to move, to breathe, or to articulate her thoughts.

I loved every moment of it.

From that day on, I decided to classify myself as a master of disguise. She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m the reason Ana avoids social gatherings and isolates herself in her room, looking to books for comfort. I’m the reason she can’t manage more than one meal a day, the reason her tears are a nightly ritual, and the reason her parents remain oblivious to her silent suffering. I single-handedly have been responsible for countless missed opportunities and strained relationships, and I take pride in it.

 

I am a skillful manipulator. I convince Ana that her peers are constantly judging her, that her teachers are secretly disappointed in her, and that she’s not good enough, no matter how hard she tries. I am the architect of self-doubt, the creator of negative self-talk, and the instigator of sleepless nights.

Ana has tried to fight me off, seeking support from therapists and practicing relaxation techniques, but I’m persistent. Sure, she may have hampered my strength temporarily, but I take comfort in my resilience, for  every step she takes toward recovery, I counter with a wave of doubt.

It’s a constant battle, but I thrive on uncertainty and fear.

I wish Ana the worst. It’s in my essence.

 

 

Saanvi is a senior in high school who has recently discovered a passion for writing. She enjoys playing her electric guitar and taking long walks with her dog.

The shiny mahogany table glistens in the sunlight of New Year’s Day. Black-eyed peas and collard greens rest in the center of the table in glass bowls engraved with flowers. My mother, father, and three sisters share their goals for the New Year, glowing as the sunlight rushes through the blinds and illuminates the room. We relish the delicious food of last night’s preparation, excited to continue this tradition. We celebrate our Blackness.

To me, Blackness is strength and struggle. Blackness comes from everywhere— every continent and country— and it is impossible to characterize this community as a monolith. We are diverse, strong, and powerful. We all have different customs, cultures, and practices in every nation. For example, the Caribbean loves plantains, and West Africa has endless methods to prepare rice. Blackness will travel: on screen, in government, into every community, and all over the world.

In all cultures, food is a staple. There is always a gathering with food, leftovers, and the love and laughter that comes from breaking bread. For African-Americans, food has historical significance. Most of the food we eat can be traced to the backbone of this nation: the trans-Atlantic slave trade.

Despite the pain and suffering of slavery, the enslaved people had the strength to keep going and celebrate the new year with hope for a better future. The tradition of eating this New Year’s meal is a reminder of that hope and resilience. It is a testament to the human spirit’s strength.

This meal— black-eyed peas and collard greens— comes from the American South. The black-eyed peas represent good luck. The collard greens, folded like money, symbolize wealth. The meal we eat at New Year’s comes from slavery. The beans and greens were the “poor” foods that slave masters did not want to eat and gave to slaves. As we enter the New Year, each part of the meal represents progress and continuation. This meal was never about eating; it was about the bravery and perseverance to continue under the most barbaric practice of history.

My memories of New Year’s Eve as a little girl are unmistakably clear. Then, I never understood the importance of this dinner’s preparation or the distinct methods my father used. I just hungrily watched in the kitchen. My father, however, spent hours on his feet, making sure everything was perfect for the holiday. The beans simmered in the pot, collard greens cooked over the stove, and his cornbread recipe was down to a science.

My father would always say his collard greens needed an extra level of careful precaution. It is critical to follow every step, not grow impatient and skip preparation. He would take the biggest knife in the house, make careful cuts around the core and remove it. Then, he washed them, paying close attention to removing all of the grit and roughness. He would rinse them once, twice, and strain them last. Then, he dried them, placed the leaves on a cutting board, and chopped them into bite-sized pieces. My father did this with ease. He is swift with his knife, he knows every edge, and how to be careful. He knew what he was looking for: the finest greens on earth.

This determination can be seen in every part of the meal. Unsoaked black-eyed peas take hours to cook. I can remember when my father was moving the black-eyed peas from the bag into a bowl, taking it to the freshly-cleaned sink, turning on the silver faucet, and waiting patiently as the pot filled with water. Then, it would sit on the countertop for six hours, soaking up everything it could.

My childhood followed the same process. My family would get me dressed, bring me to the bookstore, and let me soak up all the words. This is how I grew up: surrounded by knowledge and waiting to advance. I embraced this environment and pushed myself to learn more, striving to take advantage of every opportunity presented to me. I saw this as an example of resilience and strength— something that my ancestors had to do to survive. This was Blackness to me— learning to take advantage of my opportunities, and appreciate my ancestors. Through the books I read, I saw the power of knowledge and the importance of being a lifelong learner. I wanted to use my knowledge, to be a leader in my community, and be a role model for other Black people. Black-eyed peas were not just my culture, but my identity, and celebrated every year.

My entire family was like this too. They were quick on their feet, knew their way around every obstacle, and never gave up. They were focused on success. This drive was infectious. It spread to everyone they met, like the seasoning of the greens, only perfected by careful preparation. This drive they had was something they had nurtured and developed over the years. It was a result of their diligent work and dedication, and it was something they had passed down to me. They had a sixth sense that enabled them to navigate through life’s tricky waters.

Black-eyed peas and collard greens are part of Blackness. Blackness’ beauty, resilience, and power were given to me in this New Year’s tradition. This was not only a physical tradition, but an emotional one as well. I was able to carry on these values through the years, and I rely on them today. This New Year’s tradition continues to be a reminder of the strength of my ancestors and the power of Blackness. When I sit at the table, the hearty broth of collard greens dances on my tongue and raises my spirits. Most importantly, my place in history perfectly aligns with my ancestors. We are stars coming into place in the sky, shining beacons of hope overlapping throughout history.

 

 

Rainey Reese is a high school student from the vibrant city of Chicago, Illinois. With a fervent passion for the humanities, she has embarked on a personal journey of self-expression through her writing. Inspired by her New Year’s resolution to write more authentically, her essay titled “The New Year’s Tradition: Blackness, Resilience, and the Power of Food” explores the cultural significance of a cherished family tradition and aims to shed light on the meaning it holds for her and her loved ones.  Rainey’s work has been previously published a in Teen Ink Magazine, and you can explore more of her writing at 

https://medium.com/@raineyreese. 

In college, I took a class on video game criticism, which was not something that I knew existed before I enrolled in it. I spent the entire course listening to my classmates discuss abstract concepts in complex video games and pretending that I also did all the readings. When the professor assigned essays, he often used Tetris as an example because it was a simple game that everyone had heard of. No one actually wrote a paper about Tetris until the class final, when I decided that I was going to be the first. In place of a final exam, we were supposed to choose a video game and make an argument about it. The vagueness of the prompt made the opportunity too good to pass up. I downloaded the Tetris app onto my phone, breezed through a couple hundred levels, and called it “research.” Hey, I wanted to gain a better understanding of the game for my paper. The motive was education.

The Tetris Company claims that Tetris satiates the basic human drive to create order from chaos. Falling pieces—Tetriminos—are randomly generated one at a time, and their placement occurs shortly after their generation. A “Line Clear” occurs when a horizontal row is completely filled with blocks. The row disappears, and all pieces above the Line Clear shift down to fill the space. Bonus points are rewarded for clearing multiple lines at once. Clearing four lines at once, the maximum, is called “Tetris” and gives the same type of satisfaction as watching a scene in a movie where a character says the movie’s title. The Line Clear makes the game addictive and theoretically endless.

In the middle of my Tetris adventure, the game got personal. I went through a pretty bad breakup, and by “pretty bad,” I mean that it absolutely destroyed me. While the relationship lasted, it was the best thing to ever happen to me, but all of a sudden, it was over. I felt like the best part of my life was also over. Things are never going to be good again, my mental illness liked to tell me. I’ll never recover from this. No one is ever going to want me again. I’m worthless and unwanted and broken and unlovable. I don’t have the capacity to get to know another person like that. I don’t have it in me to keep trying. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.

The truth is, I was in terrible shape long before the relationship ever started, and the relationship was a tool to cover up all my problems. The breakup wasn’t anyone’s fault, and neither was the aftermath; it just exposed all the shit that was already there. I fixated on the tragedy as a concrete explanation for my poor mental health.

Naturally, I began playing more Tetris. Life was majorly sucking, and the game was a good distraction. Playing didn’t cost too much brainpower, and succeeding made me feel better for a moment. The only thing I wanted to think about was colorful falling blocks because every other thought hurt too much. I threw myself a pity party in which the only activities were crying and playing Tetris through bleary eyes. For a few weeks, my life looked like this:

1. Position the blocks.
2. Place the blocks.
3. Complete the lines.
4. Clear the lines.
5. Cry
6. Sleep
7. Rinse
8. Repeat

I developed a bit of an addiction, and I honestly shouldn’t have been as shocked as I was to discover that I had Pavloved myself to associate Tetris with heartbreak. I didn’t forget that I had a paper to write, but I procrastinated so much that I had to whip up the whole thing in less than a day. I played more Tetris during my writing breaks. I submitted my essay with twenty minutes to spare, and I proceeded to delete the game off of my phone. I decided that I could never play Tetris again. But I still think about it. Clearly.

 

 

Lila Wu was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota and grew up in Houston, Texas. She’s finishing her final year at Northwestern University, where she studies Radio/Television/Film and Creative Writing. Her go-to icebreaker fun fact rotates between her favorite ice cream flavor (chocolate chip cookie dough), having five younger siblings, and having attended clown school.

Walking towards the barricade was an uphill climb, and my legs wavered from months of disuse. In another life, it’d be exhilarating to break the law so openly. Instead, it was terrifying to be outside in the quiet with only the cry of cicadas to accompany me. They’d become more noticeable in the absence of cars and busy roads, city highways turning empty. But I wasn’t alone. There past the wire fencing, standing just beyond the short stretch of no-man’s land, was a boy who owed me a date.

In the overripe spring of May, in a locked-down Shanghai choked by heat and regulation, normality was a distant dream. For three months, we’d longed for simple things: walking in the sun, biking past streets once familiar and lively, seeing each other again. Over text, he’d say, We’ll go everywhere. When this is over, I’ll take you to the French Concession’s best cafes. His to-do list was never ending. I’d always reply, exasperated: Okay, okay. I never had the courage to ask, Are we getting our hopes up for nothing? Will I see you again?

 Now he was two meters away, halted in place by a second fence, our hands barely close enough to touch.

It was 9th grade P.E. class all over again; staring at each other from across the gym, then looking away. Blushing at a first crush, a first love. We’d imagined that the following months would go a little differently. The things that seemed so constant in our lives were now a luxury: dim restaurants and bustling city nights, hot steam rising from a bowl of ramen, the song “Stay With Me” by Miki Matsubara playing in the background. I’d imagined dates to be more than just the highway. Had I been given a choice, it’d be in the Lebanese restaurant on Anfu road, in the season of plum rain and wisteria. But seeing him again after months of isolation was enough. So I reached for him on the other side, no-man’s-land separating us from an embrace. He held onto my fingers gently across the distance, both of us pressed up against the metal railings. His hair had grown longer. He looked tired. Yet there was still a giddy smile on his face, as if he couldn’t believe what we’d done.

“I’m going to get into so much trouble,” he said.

I sighed, thinking about how my mom had wrinkled her nose at me earlier in the morning and said, “Really? You’re breaking the rules for a boy?”

“Me too.”

“But think about it this way,” he amended. “We can tell everyone else that we got out months earlier than they did. We snuck out! We’re badass!”

His exuberance made me blush. I didn’t say anything else to keep myself from stuttering.

But I leaned into his warm touch, comforting even in the humidity and 37º heat. “When this is all over, we’ll go everywhere,” he said.

I let myself believe him. His endless supply of hope. I imagined the barricades falling down, cars rushing back onto the highway. I imagined holding him close in a picturesque cafe downtown, the French Plane trees on Avenue Joffre blowing pollen everywhere.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”

 

 

 

 

Jessica is a poet from Shanghai. She loves art, music, and Arabic poetry.

On 250 acres cornered between North County streets and a dense backwoods of possibility, I am working the land. This is no estate in the country. It is an urban farm, a suburban paradise. The land switches to rural once my car enters this enclave. I pass rows of lettuces and herbs, gardens trimmed by the work of volunteers and happy workers. There are banana trees to my left and right, small stumps that look like tiny Californian palms. (They will not make bananas). I don’t quite know why they are here, and not back home on a beach. I pass peach trees, budding with firm fruit. They look like gooseberries, feel like fuzzy beginnings. Am I in Georgia?

People wave hello. There are smiles on faces I have never seen before: a man who seems like a hipster with his nose ring, long hair, and burning blue eyes, but talks softly and slowly and carefully as he washes kale… “Hey dude,” he says, and I am comforted by his calmness. I envy his style: a soft collared shirt tucked beneath bright yellow waders. A lady with big round glasses shows me her herb garden (zen is an understatement). I rub my fingers through her chamomile, and my hand smells like staying home in bed all day.

I approach manicured rows of greens with curiosity and caution; I realize I don’t quite know what this place is. Even the hawks circle overhead with slight confusion. Wind blowing off the occasional car lifts them upward. I want to tell these hawks there is no prey here, but raptors do not speak english. Instead they soar in the bright blue sky where the clouds are simple, unlike those of the thunderous tropics or those raggedy and wispy ones from the cold north. They’re a blend of those long, outstretched mats of white on the great plains, and the cotton shapes which peak through my city’s skyscrapers.

A car rolls by and the hawks pitch away. They do not know what to make of this patch of prairie—what with the street grid confining it and the metropolitan area surrounding it. I don’t either, so instead I let the wind guide me.

Pea plants nudge themselves up from gravel and the three propeller leaves of strawberry dot the walkways. There are garlic shoots, comfrey bushes, marigolds and sunflowers.The landscape is immaculate. Every plant has purpose, and has a companion. I see stems of false elm rooming with the peach trees. Behind them, in the fields are patches of beans, and last season’s cover crops. From this nitrogen bomb, the lettuce grows high in the fallout. The war of the summer has begun, and fittingly the lettuce will win it. In the next row there are white buds of cilantro and yellow petals of mammoth dill—flowers everywhere to attract the eager pollinator.

Cool air pushes across plots as if it were exhaust from the hawks’ tail feathers. It shakes leaves of garlic and planks of hearty purple cabbage—rustles leafy lettuce and tall rye. That rye—sticks tastled with grain—rocks back and forth. It is out of place: its time to prosper was the winter; it does not belong here. There are houses across the street; they all have trimmed kentucky or bermuda grass, not covercops like rye and vetch. The rye will be pulled soon to make way for this summer’s watermelon. Then it’ll return in the winter, when the neighbors will look out their windows as snow falls, gazing across the street at heads of green which’ll push through white.

In another plot there are pepper seedlings, bushels of bok choy and tatsoi. The mustard greens are fragrant against the smell of asphalt and oil. (They taste much better too). Down the road, kids are in school. Here, a child walks past me with his mouth wide open, mesmerized by a wand dispensing iridescent bubbles for the wind to take. Others run across the gravel path, playing with each other with nothing but their young bodies under a hot sun.

I see people bent down, picking white cabbage and collards. Music plays and I am more unsure of my location. First I hear the strums of Frenchmen and -ladies in a dimly lit bistro—then some Spanish guitar and a South American bongocero. I could be in the borderlands of France, the rare plains of Panama, but the distant telephone lines and buildings across the street bring me back. Where to? I am not fully sure.

A child with a speaker makes it harder to tell. Memphis’ “Jailhouse Rock” makes me want to rock and roll as I help a farmer build a trellis. A lady with the 50’s blues migrates up from the deep south. Punk rockers, indie girls, and alternative boys invite themselves too. A family and I jam out to the visiting Mr. Bombastic. His flight from Kingston arrives as we nail down a tarp over composted grown.

I’m on all fours, straddling mounds of fertile soil beneath my body. The ground is squishy from the weight of my knees, shins and hands, and I feel like an infant on his mother’s belly. That would make me but a child to the ground I call Earth. I get up, and find more of my kin.

I stand over a row of the victorious lettuce, from left to right a pithiness of life and color: spotted green and red (a Very Hungry Caterpillar), shimmering ruby (a sprouting rose), dull and steady green (a turtle shell), bright emerald green (a green giant). I look closer at the row while at the same time blurring my vision. A hearty worm emerges from the ground, takes with him leaves and wood chips. A ladybug falls from the green giant, which sprouts outward like a particularly vain tulip, then flies to the ruby rose. I didn’t know she could do that. Words I remember and wings I see teach me the truth of this fair lady.

The exhale of an Italian accordion. Startled, I stop to ask myself if this is a cult or some smoking circle! I only see smiles and despite all the sweat and heat, the toil is not hard. The only clamor comes between a lost tray of purple basil, and the children are only angry with each other because they can be. This place cannot be another world, for it’s entrenched in this city’s boundaries: the strip mall and liquor store, credit union and fast food joint are only a mile away. No, this place is here for a reason. I can feel it in the Northside’s desperation, in how little green can be found in the grocery store, and in the abundance of the antithesis of food like this: food grown locally, sustainably, and beautifully. As I look at the rows of color and am driven through the backwoods to the Missouri River, I think about all those gas stations, liquor stores, and drive-thrus. Soon I reach the river—a brown aquatic ogre lined with pretty little yellow flowers—and I’m reminded how special a place can be.

 

 

G.F. Fuller is a young writer from St. Louis striving to accomplish the feat of making people think. He has been published by newspapers in the Midwest, as well as the writing journals Élan and Teen Writers Project.