Non-Fiction

All I Think About

By Jordette Cummings

In short, high school has ruined me. After middle school I felt as if the world and all its possibilities were at my fingertips. Ninth grade created a crack in my bubble of childlike wonder. The kind you see in cartoons. Small at first, advancing towards the feet of the main character who then falls off a cliff or in a hole. By tenth grade however, this bubble had shattered. It’s hard to know whether or not the world had always been cruel, if people were dying while I was swaddled against my mother’s chest, while the ribbons in my hair came undone, while I learned how to ride a bike. I’d like to think not. I’d like to think that before I turned fourteen life was as beautiful for everyone as it was for me.

Of course tenth grade mathematics annihilated me but most of my cynicism arises from the world around me, rather than my academics. Though I did learn that no matter how hard I want to pass math, no matter how hard we all studied the most efficient way to succeed was through a whisper and pleading eyes on the day of a test. When I go home I’m meant to have a reprieve from my high school woes. No, instead it seems like every day a new video of an innocent person being murdered in public. People who are five years older than me being shot on what was supposed to be a night out. Things are meant to be easier when you go off to college. But how can I ever go to a club or the movies when even now my chest get tight when a man in a hoodie walk inside of a dark theater?

Trayvon Martin died when I was twelve years old. Of course my family was furious, as was I. Because I knew what it meant to be innocent and black. But I did not yet know what it meant to be sixteen years old, as I am now. From my newly gained experience I can say that I still feel like a kid. And my mom still calls me her baby. Furthermore, I can say that one of my worst fears is that one day my mother will feel the way that Trayvon Martin’s mother felt. Second only to death. I found out the verdict of the Trayvon Martin case in a diner. My greasy fingers were wrapped around a glass of Coke but my eyes were turned toward the TV in the corner of the corner of the room. How could he be innocent after he murdered a little boy? How could the murderers of kids like me, men like my brother, women like mom be…heroes?

The truth is, I’ll never know what it feels like to not go to school because I’m a girl. As a matter of fact I was raised with the moral that a child’s only job is to excel in school and respect their elders. Recently, I’ve watched a documentary called Girl Rising and I’m melodramatic enough to say that it changed my life. It made me ashamed to complain about math when in Nepal, little girls who were younger than me were being sold off as Kamlari slaves. But in all honesty I will continue to complain. I will complain because I don’t think that anyone who has power truly cares about my education. I will complain because whenever we, the students try to fight back everyone who has a nice office goes silent because their hands are tied. I will complain because everyone gets to vote for my future instead of me…and they always pick wrong.

If I am ever to have children I have to make things better for them. And for myself too. It’s so important for me to change something. Right now in Shakespeare class we are reading Macbeth. In it Shakespeare says, “All our pasts have lighted fools The way to dusty death”. Which means that the hate and absurdity that was regurgitated to as by our parents, grandparents and so on is just what I called it…absurd. When we die we return to dust anyway. In my opinion, it is the responsibility of all of us to leave the world better than we found it. This is exactly what I plan to do. One way or another. I think I would like to be a humanitarian. Usually I change my career goal every month. I think this one will stick.

Jordette Cummings is a Jamaican born junior at Hillcrest High School in Queens, New York. As much as she loves writing, she much prefers to immerse herself in stories that are not her own—as they contain dialogue, which she has yet to master. Her three true loves are fiction (film and television included), memes, and debating. She prides herself on having strong opinions and loves defending them. She tries her best to inspire political action amongst her peers without coming off as the pretentious know-it-all that she is.

Skin Deep

By Chaeyeon Kim

The chilly, mist-filled, early morning breeze swept past my open window as the car slinked along the curved road. The grinding sound of gravel against the tires and the faint hum of the engine echoed in the silent countryside. Over the horizon, a faint light shone atop a distant mountain, beginning to bleach the edges of the dark night. Small houses made out of clay bricks and tiles clustered around the edge of a river; smoke lazily drifting out of their chimneys before dissipating into the sky. I lay sprawled in the backseat, tugging at the platinum blond hair of my favorite Barbie doll. I puffed up my cheeks and leaned forward, tapping my father’s shoulder. “How much longer until we reach the docks, Dad?”

“We’re almost there,” answered the authoritative voice behind the steering wheel. “It should come up three minutes after we pass the lepers’ compound.”

I peered out the window towards the side of the road. There, partially hidden by a jagged rock ledge, stood a solitary building. In the nineteenth century, when leprosy was fairly common in Korea, people separated those with the disease into compounds out of fear of contamination and out of disgust at the sight of their disfigured bodies. The compound seemed to loom over the village, the pale blue morning light glimmering off the stark aluminum walls. A thin line of smoke wafted out from a crude chimney slapped onto the roof.

“Do people still live there? I asked. My father nodded. “Why wouldn’t they want to come out after all these years?”

My father stared at the road ahead, twiddling his thumbs around the steering wheel. “Some people would rather live in isolation than integrate back into the same society that rejected them.”

The road rolled past the compound and merged into a four-lane highway. I shifted around in my seat hoping to catch another glimpse of the building, but it had become obscured by the rock ledge as the village shrunk into the distance.

“Don’t be too upset about them,” my father added.

**********

A slender hand hung over the side of the operating table, an IV stuck into its wrist. Suddenly the hand clenched, veins straining against the pale white skin. I craned my neck and stood on my tiptoes to try to get a better view, but the row of nurses standing beside the table towered blocked my view.

“15cc more,” my father commanded, and clear liquid trickled down the tube into the patient’s arm. The hand relaxed, falling back onto the table.

My father, clothed in mint-green scrubs and black tennis shoes, hunched over his patient. With a clean “snip,” he sighed and flexed his back. He gestured towards the attending nurse, and triumphantly set down a bloody surgical scissor on the metal plate. Plucking a towel from the side cart, he wiped down the patient and observed his handiwork.

“Come,” he gestured towards me.

The patient’s bloated face stuck out from a green surgical sheet, stitch marks running along the eyelids and on the side of the nose.

“She got a blepharoplasty and a rhinoplasty. I made incisions on the corners of her eyes to make them open wider.”

I nodded silently, carefully examining the changes to the patient’s face. The stitching across her skin seemed as intricate as the embroidery on my grandmother’s blankets, the evenly spaced thread contributing to some grand design.

**********

“Ms. Cho,” My father smiled exasperatedly, “you mean to say you want a second rhinoplasty?”

The middle-aged woman sat across from my dad in the consulting room, hands firmly pressed against the table. I sat next to my father with my hands respectfully folded across my lap. She inspected her stitches in the mirror before pulling a crumpled sheet from a magazine and smoothing it down across the table. She directed my father’s eyes to the airbrushed model smiling up from the cover. “I want a pointier chin and wider-set eyes. And-” she took out another magazine clipping, “I want my nose bridge modeled after hers.”

I stifled a snort and quickly glanced up at the woman. She had clearly struggled to yank up what gravity had weighed down, resulting in a permanent maniacal, almost fiend-like expression on her face.

“We’ve already put in a silicone insert-,” my father pleaded.

She impatiently tapped the picture. “I want my nose to be exactly the same as hers.”

My father opened his mouth, then closed it. “Very well, Ms. Cho.” Without a second thought, he took a notepad from his side drawer, scribbling down the details of her request and attaching the worn magazine image. My eyes widened and my foot instinctively nudged my father under the table. His eyes flicked to the side, instantly silencing me. I lowered my gaze and he continued scribbling.

**********

I sat on the edge of the subway bench, absentmindedly picking at the frayed ends of my jumper as the subway car came to a jolting halt and announced Seo-dong station. Only two stops till my grandmother’s house. My casual beach ensemble stood out amongst the businessmen and Korean students entering and exiting the train. Unlike me and my classmates back in New Jersey, they still had a month before summer vacation started. I looked up at the young woman across from me as she scrolled through her phone. Rhinoplasty, double eyelid procedure, I assessed. Further down the row, a woman flipped her hair to the side. Rhinoplasty, jaw reduction, and columella augmentation. Another dabbed on powder from a small compact. Double eyelid surgery and an epicanthoplasty. They were everywhere: a dozen double-eyelid surgeries, ten rhinoplasties, three brow bone reductions, three jaw reductions, and a cheekbone augmentation.

My eyes fell on a girl wearing a pleated skirt and a collared shirt quietly seated next to a heavily made-up woman in stilettos. I recognized her uniform from a high school near my hometown. She sat with her hands folded in her lap. Once in awhile she’d nervously lick her lips, exposing a row of wire-framed teeth. The student turned her head and timidly peered up at the woman beside her: a woman with long, silky black hair, a chin augmentation, and bright red lips set in a haughty pout.

One woman flicked her gaze toward the student, then did a double take. Her brows crumpled with annoyance, and her lips curled into a sneer. The student quickly lowered her eyes, slumping down in her seat as an embarrassed blush bloomed across her chubby cheeks. I looked down at my stubby toes that peered out from my cheap flip flops; they were baked to an earthy brown by the sun and sand from Hae-Un-Dae’s beach was still caked under my nails. I adjusted the spandex band of my training bra, still unaccustomed to its sweaty constriction, and diverted my gaze to the student as she sat with both feet planted while mine still dangled in the air.

When will she first go under the knife? Will she become that woman that so easily dismissed her?

Will I become that woman?

Sensing my stare, the student looked up. My mouth curled upwards, attempting a grin. My gesture was not reciprocated. Her gaze flickered down to my shoes, then up to my tangled, still-damp hair. She quickly turned her head away from me. The train plunged into a tunnel and the harsh fluorescent lights drew sharp shadows across my features. In the window, I could not recognize the foreign girl who stared back at me. I frantically searched my face looking for some similarity to the other subway passengers, but there were none. Tanned, unkept, different, alien.

The subway came to a rumbling halt. The student quickly stood up, glanced at me once more and shuffled out. The doors hissed closed, and I sat in the almost-empty car, my feet still dangling.

**********

I pushed up the plastic window shade as the double-decker plane leapt into the sky and peered down at Seoul’s buildings becoming specks. In thirteen hours I would be home. Soon, all I could see below me was white. Wispy clouds streaked past the window and soon my childhood home disappeared from view. My younger brother squirmed in the seat next to me. “How much longer?” he whined, pushing his coloring book to the side. I had asked the same question at his age. I thought of the lonely leper compound looming underneath the mist; smoke curling out of its jagged chimney. The smoke dissipated into the sky, and became one with the clouds. Had I isolated myself from my society or had my society isolated me? I looked out at the blanket of clouds, the orange yolk of the sun beginning to settle into its pillowy folds. Or was just I headed for a new horizon? Soon, from the ground in Korea, the plane had become a solitary dot floating in the sky as I steadily drifted back home.

Chaeyeon (Annika) Kim is a high school junior from New Jersey. Originally from South Korea, Chaeyeon explores the concept of identity in her writing. She also enjoys binge-watching Orange Is the New Black, eating breakfast for dinner and playing with her cat, Butterfly.

Five Years Old

By Brittany Kang

“Come here. You said you weren’t Chinese, correct?” A stout, middle-aged woman said in a commanding voice. At the bold age of five, I was proud of my origins; it was known by everyone in my grade that I was not “another Chinese kid” and that I was the only “Korean.” Just the week before, I had figured out where the peninsula was located in Asia on my older brother’s globe and had admired the land’s vivid fuchsia color on the circular map. A piece of my heart felt like it was home, despite that I had never stepped foot in the country.

I nodded my head vigorously, trying to suppress my excitement. Why would a teacher call me over? Was it for a special treat? Had she somehow bought some Korean candy or snack? I had introduced many of my friends to Korean foods before; they had always raved about it whenever we had play dates at my house. The thought of a treat filled me with joy. She motioned me to stand beside her, where she was holding a food wrapper of some sort. “Can you read this?” I tried to ignore the pang of disappointment, before looking at the shiny blue plastic. It appeared to be from some assortment of cookies.

“This isn’t Korean,” I said defiantly, staring at the loopiness of the characters. “I think it looks Japanese.” The woman looked puzzled at my words as if I had uttered some gibberish to her. She was one of the after school program teachers who looked after children whose parents were too busy to come as soon as classes were over, although I had yet to talk to her. She seemed aloof most of the time, and not interested in whatever games we children had.

“But isn’t it the same?” I frowned at her question, furrowing my brows. I could not bring myself to meet her gaze, and steadied my eyes on the blue wrapper. A flash of light from the fading sun distracted me, and I shook my head slowly, sneaking a peek at the woman’s wristwatch. It was almost time for my mother to pick me up from the after school care. I did not want to stay here anymore. I could hear my friends, their shrill voices behind me somewhere on the playground in a vicious game of tag. A part of me longed to join them, but a larger part of me wanted to vanish under the woman’s scrutinizing gaze.

“We aren’t the same. Japan is an island. Korea isn’t!” The woman shrugged, and I felt a flare of anger at her obvious disinterest. It was worse than the children who always assumed I was Chinese—at least they would acknowledge South Korea as a country after I spoke. “You can just ask my mom when she comes.” It seemed almost like a desperate way for me to prove myself, by dragging my mother into such an issue. The woman nodded, her gaze unfocused on me. She lost whatever scrap of care she had for me the moment I made my uselessness to her evident. At age five I would not have known that there are hopeless cases to walk away from, but I was too stubborn to leave, my feet glued to that spot on the asphalt. I watched children run by, their shrieking laughter begging me to join. I did not.

By the time my mother came to pick me up, I was still standing beside the woman, my determination to prove her wrong overwhelming. She was fiddling with her phone, not sparing me a single look. My mother’s warm eyes were wide in anxiety as she saw me standing there, and I could see the panic on her face. She was worried I had caused trouble, and the teacher was reprimanding me for my behavior. I waved at her brightly, my pigtails flickering from side to side at my enthusiasm, before I pointed at the discarded blue plastic on the ground, picking it up to show off the label.

“Is this Korean? It isn’t Hangul, right?” I pestered as my mother looked over the blue wrapper. The woman put her phone away, diverting her attention back to the wrapper. She stared at my mother, ignoring the glee on my face as my mother shook her head. I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out, while the woman quirked her lips slightly, a hint of a frown revealing itself on her face.

“This is Japanese. I’m sorry I cannot help you.” My mother spoke in her gentle voice. The woman forced out a chuckle, and it was obvious she could not simply state that they were “the same” as she had before. My mother gripped my tiny hand in her own before bidding the woman farewell. I did not wave goodbye.

Brittany is a high school junior from northern New Jersey. Interested in psychology, Brittany explores the concept of character development in her writing. She also enjoys drawing, playing with her dog Angel, and baking goods to share with friends and family.

NYSSMA Warrior

By Michelle Zinger

As I neared the school, the aroma of freshly cut grass seeped through the car window. My dad halted to a stop and as I hopped out of the car, I instantly noticed the large football field and roaring stands. It was just a normal, regular day. A day like any other that could change a distant other. As I rounded the entrance, I saw another boy (about my age) carrying a full size violin. I took note of the tension on his face. Wondering if he had gotten into all-county and similar thoughts most likely railing through his head, edging at his mind. I continued on my way into the school to be greeted by a mildly welcoming room of friends, old teachers, and peers.

As I unpacked my violin my hands trembled with the thought of what was to come. But I knew this year was different in many ways. For starters, it seemed like a competition now more than ever. I worried about how much I had riding on this. It was a nerve racking thought. I dusted off the instrument noticing things unseen to the naked eye before. Like the sticky spot right behind the front, on the top right shoulder of the violin. Or the rosin goop at the bottom of my bow, closest to the frog. I tightened my bow and slowly attached the 4/4 chin rest to my full size violin.

Walking over to the registration desk, I saw my old elementary school orchestra teacher. She reminded me of the first time I had gotten into all-county. I couldn’t believe my luck, I thought, as she told me I would be going on the big yellow school bus all the way to a new county to play violin with some of the best players in our county. Although, in the back of my mind I knew it wasn’t luck. It was my skills of playing that allowed me to achieve and grow as both a person and a violin player. I thought back to the day when we were allowed to choose an instrument we wanted to pursue throughout our lives. I wanted to play a band instrument because I thought it was cool! I didn’t have the lungs for it, however. I guess you could say it was fate, or just my terrible ability to play the trumpet, but I ended up choosing violin. At first, I hated it and felt like I was being forced to play, but my mom told me to keep going and to never give it up. So, I pursued it and now, it’s more than just my hobby. Now, looking back, that felt like just a distant memory, nothing eternal.

Breaking my thoughts like a wave casting a ripple effect, my dad said “C’mon Michelle. We’re going to be late if we don’t get a move on.” I followed him out the door to the audition rooms, leaving behind the sound of chatter and worry as the door closed shut. “What’s the room?” my dad wondered.

“It’s S205” I answered. Hurriedly, we fast walked to the room running past anxious kids and tedious faced judges, seeing old friends, people I recognized, and the sounds of music blasting throughout the school. Music everywhere. Once we found the room, we looked for my time.

“10:45- Michelle Zinger” my dad said as he read down the list.

“Yep, this is it”, I replied. I slowly scanned my judge, looking her up and down. It seemed like she hadn’t a care in the world.

I pondered whether she actually enjoyed the job of being a judge. I always wondered why people became judges if they didn’t want to. Why wouldn’t you do something that you loved? I put down my case and dropped my blue, J.Crew sweater along with my drawstring bag on the floor. Handing my dad my empty case filled with my empty hopes, I mentally prepared myself for the audition. While doing this, I started to realize that everything would be okay. It didn’t matter what the score was as long as I did my best.

“Ready?” the judge asked, coming out of the room.

“Yes” I answered, and maybe, for the first time, I actually meant it.

Michelle Zinger is currently in ninth grade at Mamaroneck High School. English is one of her favorite subjects because of the freedom it allows to express your deepest feelings. She feels that writing is not only a passion, but also something so priceless in our society.

Michelle has been playing violin since the third grade, and won the poetry live competition at her school along with some of her other peers. She loves to spend time with her dog, take pictures, and explore.

Striving for Oblivion

By Elli Ratner

Am I dead?

I don’t think so.
I hear voices, but I cannot quite make sense of them. They seem far away.
I hear my heart in the beeping of a machine. Too fast. Then too slow. Faltering. Panic in the voices around me. I am sliding in and out of consciousness. My senses are beginning to dull. I can no longer feel the cot beneath me or the voices around me. I am a feather drifting away. Gravity has released me and now I am shooting across the solar system at a thousand kilometers per hour. All around me is blackness. I revel in the alluring emptiness.

But gravity has decided to take a hold of me again, dragging me back down to Earth. I try to resist but now I can feel the cot beneath me and the soft cotton of the blanket draped over me. I try to move but there is a pain in my arm. Something sharp moving under my skin. I force my eyes open. Everything is hazy and it takes me a few seconds before my vision clears. The culprit preventing me from moving is an IV needle, taped onto my elbow crease and hooked onto an infusion pump, which is dripping a clear liquid into me. I feel the chill of the liquid that is being dispensed into my veins.

As a matter a fact, I am hooked to several machines. I suppose I must be in a hospital room. The walls are a faded yellow. In the right hand corner there is a paper towel dispenser above a dark blue counter with a sink. The color matches the leather chair next to my bed. The one my mother is sitting in. My mother. She looks worn, like she has aged several years since I last saw her. She is speaking to a doctor. A tiny woman with dark hair, skin, and eyes. Their voices are low.

I am laying down, but the cot is tilted at an angle, allowing me to inspect my body. I am clad in a powder blue hospital gown and I can see little white stickers, the size of quarters, dotting my arms and legs. On my finger is a white clip, the kind they use at a doctor’s office to determine your pulse.

Noticing my movements, the doctor turns to face me.
There are two of her and both of them seem to be blurred along the edges. My eyes are camera lenses, focusing and unfocusing. Clear and blurry. I have so many questions I want to ask. Where am I? What’s going on? What are all of these machines that I am attached to? Why am I still here? What went wrong? But I am unable to form coherent sentences, and my words tumble out nonsensically. She says something. I can hear the words but I cannot register their meaning. “Is that the earth quivering beneath me?” I wonder idly. Or is it my body that’s trembling? I’m so tired. I am heavy. I am sinking. My eyes close of their own accord.

When I open them again, I realize I must have drifted off.
The doctor is gone.
My mother is dozing.
A nurse is attaching wires to the little white stickers and attaching said wires to a machine. It takes me a moment to find my voice.

“What’s going on?”
I sound like a heavy smoker.
She explains to me that the little white stickers are electrodes and they’re measuring my heart’s electrical activity. Normally, once the procedure, an EKG, is done, the electrodes are removed. But I was a special case. Apparently I had this same procedure a few weeks ago (I could not recall this but then again, I couldn’t remember my own name so I suppose that’s not too surprising) and the results were normal. But now they are dangerously irregular. They are worried my overdose had permanently damaged my heart. They want to monitor me. The clip on my finger is so they can keep track of my erratic heart rate. I will be transferred soon.
In a different city.
More specialized.
I have to strain my brain just so I can comprehend her words. I miss details, but I am able to grasp the gist, which is an improvement.
I try to sit up, but again there is a sharp pull in my arm. The nurse adjusts the IV and presses a button on my cot. I feel the back end of it rising, gently nudging me into a sitting position. “Why do I need an IV?” “We are trying to wash all of that medication out of your system.” “Isn’t that what pumping someone’s stomach is for?” “We weren’t able to. By the time you arrived, the drugs in your system had been absorbed into your bloodstream. We weren’t able to use activated charcoal either.”
And then it really hit me. I had failed. I was still here. I am crying. I don’t usually cry in front of people, and would never, ever let myself cry in front of strangers. But I am crying, sobbing actually. Tears rake my body.

I am terrible at living and I am terrible at dying. I am choking on them. Why can’t I do anything right? I can’t breathe. I can’t believe that is happening. Nothing feels real. This is someone else’s nightmare.
I am shaking. I did so much research. I prepared. What went wrong? I can’t be here anymore, I need to get out. My body shakes like a leaf. It is a separate entity from me. I stare down at it, repulsed. I wonder what it’s feeling. What’s making it convulse? What’s making it gasp for air? What’s making it claw at it’s own skin as if it is trying to escape itself. I just want to be nothing.

I want to be a part of nature. To disappear into the infinite expanse of the universe. To be recycled matter. To be nothing and to be everything. No more racing thoughts. No more flashbacks. No more panic attacks where my heart feels like it is trying to burst through my rib cage. Where I am a fish out of water, gasping for the oxygen that my gills cannot process. No more long periods of numbness with intermittent intervals of depression so severe that I cannot get out of bed. No more long sleepless nights, where the little sleep I do get is infested with nightmares. No more waking up soaked with sweat and silently screaming. I explain this all to the psychologist, who comes into my room hours after having been injected with a sedative medication.

He was a small, frail, and balding old man with thick glasses that were almost bigger than his face.“What do you have nightmares about?” “My father.” “Do you want to elaborate?” “No.” “Was there a history of abuse?” “Yes.” “Has it been reported?” “Yes.” I’ve driven him into a dead end so he changes tactics.

“Besides flashbacks and nightmares, how else does your PTSD affect you?” Is that not enough? “The majority of the time, I am watching myself go about my day to day life. It’s like watching a movie. The life belongs to somebody else. Therapists tell me it’s a defense mechanism, that it’s just my brain is trying to protect me. That way when he would hurt me I wouldn’t be there to feel it. But I feel out of control and powerless. I am a bystander in my own life.” His pen is scratching away at the paper it writes on.

“How does this make you feel?” “ Hopeless. Helpless.”
“Where do you see yourself in the future? What do you expect from yourself?” What future? “I will never be able to go to college, or hold a career, or have a family. I will never amount to anything. I have no purpose.” “Do you do poorly in school?” “No.” “Then why do you believe you won’t be able to get into college? “I never said I wouldn’t be able to get in. I said I won’t be able to go. I’ll get in. I’ll manage a couple months before it is too much for me. And than I’ll have to drop out. Same goes for a career. I’m useless anyway. And if anyone’s crazy enough to marry me, it won’t be long until they realize what a monster I am.” “So you don’t have many friends than?” “No. I have friends” “I’m guessing they don’t think you’re a monster?” “Most of them don’t know me. If they got to know me, they’d hate me.” “Why?” “Because I’m a terrible human being.” He closes his manila folder.
“Is that why you tried to end your life?” “Part of it.” “How do you think your death would affect those around you?” “I mean people would be sad. But they’d be better off.”
“What about you parents? Don’t you think you would break their hearts?” “They’d benefit. Mom’s always complaining about me being a burden. And according to my dad I’m a waste of space. And money. And time. And resources. And everyone would be better off if I was dead.” “Do you like your father?” “No.” Then why do you take so much stock in what he says?” “I mean it’s all true. My brother is like the sweetest guy in the world and he’s super honest, and he says I’m stupid and sadistic and mean and egotistical and well a lot of other things. And my dad’s a horrible person, but my mom is actually a very good person and even she’s always mentioning how expensive I am and how much space I take up.”
“All children are expensive.” “But I’m particularly expensive. I have a lot of health issues. There are so many different doctors I need to see plus all of the different procedures I need to have plus the different medications I need to take. It all adds up.” I wait for the psychologist to fire out another question, but he was silent. He took off his large glasses, wiped them clean, and placed them carefully back onto his crooked nose.

After an eternity of silence he spoke again. “I’m not supposed to share personal stories. I’m not supposed to do anything besides assess whether or not you are eligible to be hospitalized…” “Am I?” I interrupted. He ignored me. “But my sister’s son was a bit like you, very anxious. Very depressed. Unlike you, he self-medicated. When he was twenty-two he died of a heroin overdose. That was twenty years ago. It still eats her up. She blames herself. She thinks about all of the ways she could have prevented it. She wonders why her love wasn’t enough.” There were tears in his eyes now. I had to look away, ashamed. “I understand you believe you chose the right course of action. But believe me, it would have destroyed your mother. There is no benefit from losing a child.” Silence. “Good luck.” The lump in my throat was too big to allow me to speak. I just watched him walk out the door. I heard him saying something to my mother. After a few moments she walked back into the room. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face seemed gaunt. And suddenly I missed her. She was right in front of me, but I missed her so badly it ached. I reached out for her and she took my hand.

Elli Ratner is a high school senior whose academic interests include developmental, criminal, and abnormal psychology; environmental policy and sustainability; macro and cellular biology; and peace studies. In her free time she enjoys reading, writing, yoga, running, making jewelry, and interior design.

The Psychological Impression of the Hindu devotees towards their god

By Arjun Dahal

God! Definitions can vary from person to person with their own answers inside their range. Those who believe in him, place their complete hopes and beliefs, hoping for their betterment. Humans on the basis of their caste, creed and religion have their own moral way to please their god to receive blessings according to their same hopes during their prayers. All devotees are extremely loyal to their god and are willing to do anything just to please him.

I am by birth a Hindu and by caste a ” Brahmin”, typically considered as a holy man to make prayers and perform rites and norms for the sake of all people irrespective of their caste and creed. Hinduism is considered as the oldest religion on the earth. By my academics, I am a student of physics and mathematics rather a priest by my caste. So, when it comes to the word god, I am bounded within certain limits by my professors, as I am a student who needs to deal with the physical reality rather than fairy tales. Also, by my religion, which does have some accounts, though considered as highly paranormal and supernatural by our modern society, I am obliged to follow them either blindly or consciously. I do fear, if I resist those norms, then the general people may outcaste me or even may throw stones at me, stamping me with an ink of insane.

Recently, my family decided to hold a ” Shreemadha Bhagawata Sapataha Gyana Maha Yagna”. a seven-day long ceremony of divine stories delivered in a form of speeches depicted by my religion. It ended up by teaching the devotees, how to pave their way to heaven at the end of their life.

Well I must confess to my holy gods and ask them to forgive me as I conducted a series of experiments through the second day till the seventh day. It is considered as Immoral to put a question or conduct an Experiment involving the name of god. Also, when it comes to the name of god, Hindus have 3.3*10^8 number of gods and If we consult a highly religious leader the number may even increase. Nevertheless, the limits of my religion, I got success in my experiments allowing me to observe the psychological anomalies of the people regarding their devotion towards god. I may be a bit weird to say, but the people in the ceremony resembled to me as a flock of sheep, where the leader leads and the rest follow the leader, dumb, deaf and blind. This was visualized vividly by the way of their prayers and the mentality they had, during their time of prayers. In the theology of Hinduism, ‘Lord Shiva’ is considered to be the godfather of the gods and his son “Ganesha” needs to be worshipped at first in order to complete the norm with success. All other gods are considered as highly powerful, but the majority of the people pray to them with higher devotion.

It all started on the very first day, when the way of prayers by the devotees caught up my attention and left me as dumb, watching all the incidents that move on every second. During worship and prayers, the people were giving high priority to “Shiva” and “Ganesha” and the offerings made to the god were significantly higher than in comparison to others.

On the second day, as per my experiment, I personally did some mischiefs to know how much I can fool the general people in the name of god and indeed I succeeded. In the place of the same two gods, I personally put some flowers, money, fruits and other offerings and the result came as per my prediction. Except for some, almost all people gave high priority to the same two lords almost neglecting the others.

I thought it was unfair to neglect the other gods, so on the third day; I gave high priority to other gods, neglecting the previous two gods. At the end of the day, I found the offerings were almost fair to all of them. I was amazed by the result, no one forgot to worship the first two lords, but also provided a fair prayer to all of the gods.

On the fourth day, I increased the offerings to all of the lords but by biasing, giving more priority to the same two lords. At the end of day, after prayers and worship, I noticed that the fund and offerings collected were almost five fold greater then the previous day.

In the remaining last three days, I repeated the experiment in the reverse order because I knew, on the last three days; the crowds were going to increase. Despite the number of people attending the ceremony, the results also repeated.

The conclusion was clear to me. Even in the name of god, the holy disciples of the god prioritize to only those lords, where the offerings are at peak. They are not making prayers to their lords for the deeds they (lords) had done, or to obtain blessing from them. Instead the people are worshipping because the rest had done so, as like the flock of sheep, where the sheep imitate the works of their leader.

To be more concrete on my conclusion, I hurried to all nearby temples and the results were the same and in fact much bolder. In generalization, most of the people had no idea on their worshipping and prayers to their gods. A few of them had answers, but not factual and meaningful.

By my knowledge and academics, I know these things are irrational. On the other hand, I have found myself as one of the sheep in the flock. I have no idea on the existence of god, but honestly, I am not an atheist. I have been counted as an educated person by my country census and yet I am stuck in the boundary of religion and science.

Despite my literacy, I am obliged to follow the same centuries old traditions and beliefs, deaf, dumb and blind. The psychological impression printed on our brain by our ancestors gives me the clear meaning upon the attitude of my society towards the gods, but I have no idea how to deal with them either knowingly or unknowingly. I have been following the same things and still, tending to follow as my ancestors did as my mates, friends and families do. Nevertheless, of the limits of my religion, I got success in my experiments allowing me to observe the psychological anomalies of my society towards the god. I must stay inside the limits of my religion, but now-onwards, if I am going to make a prayer, I am going to treat all of the gods fairly.

Arjun Dahal is a twenty- year- old student, studying BSc. in Physics (BSc. 4th year running now) at Tri- Chandra Campus, Tribhuwan University, Nepal. He is highly interested in the fields of Physics, Mathematics, Music, Literature and Philosophy. This is his first publication.