Non-Fiction

The bright creature travels through the blades of grass. I can see its rays taking each patch of dirt into their care. Slowly, I come so that they shine within two inches of my face, and I’m forced to close my eyes. On this sunny day, I will be leaving my home of Bella Vista, the city whose name means Beautiful View. Thankfully, it will only be for a short while, and I’m already accustomed to this coming and going. Each week I am forced into the journey away–well, forced may not be the best word. I chose to pursue endeavors out of state, creating the need for me to leave every so often. I chose to do this, yet every time it feels against my will.

Propping my pillow against the headrest of my seat, I enter the car and prepare for the long travels ahead. As my mom and I drive out of Bella Vista, I try to do schoolwork, but I can’t help getting distracted by the tall trees that trace the city’s sky. In each season, these trees present a new landscape for me to be impressed by. With summer, there is a wide variety of greens that transition to oranges, reds, and yellows in the fall. Once all of their leaves have gone, it is a sure sign of winter. On this day, a few small leaves can be spotted budding amongst the limbs, indicating spring. When I peer at the ground, I can see flowers and wild plants growing, their presence creating an image that is easy on the eyes. These views come in only the first few minutes of our drive, with more bright lawns and large forests accompanying us until we reach a sign marking the start of Bella Vista. At this, I usher a sigh, but I realize that now I will be able to focus without the constant bombardment of nature calling my attention.

Once we arrive at our small apartment in Edmond, OK, I put my bags down. By this point, I’ve finished my workload for the day and am ready to relax. Seeing that there is little to do in a small space away from home, I turn on our TV and sit placidly for a few hours. Although my goal is relaxation, I can’t help but feel empty. At moments, I look out the window at the side of our building. It is almost a reflection of Bella Vista, only smaller, with its woodland creatures and few visible plants. It is a mockery of sorts to my home, but it still causes me some joy to be reminded of the place I love. Whenever I try to remember the moments I spent in our apartment at Edmond, I come up blank. Almost a placeholder for true memories, the dimly lit, four-room space only brings out the differences between home and away, the thinly veiled line between comfort and listlessness.

Three days go by in this way, until finally, the trip home begins. Most of the roads we take are long, tedious, and bland. Only the vivid sunset painting the sky in the first hour of our drive provides any sense of wonder while in Oklahoma. I become anxious, my legs sore and my heart aching to be free from the car’s tight space. After a while, it begins to feel like this will be my life for eternity. I start to believe that I will never get out of the vehicle’s harsh grip, never make it back home. But just as this dread begins to cover me, I see it.

The bright creature engulfs the surrounding area with light and fills the wavering souls of travelers with happiness. Its angled rays burst forward and highlight a sign that marks the end to our time away from Bella Vista. Although darkness surrounds us, the familiar shadows of ancient trees demand our attention in the sky. Moonlight provides sparkle to the already fruitful bounty of plants issuing from the earth along the road. Full of chaos and life, these integral parts of nature provide the tranquility I need to calm and prepare for rest. Finally, I see the familiar image of my house, and when I continue to the arms of my welcoming bed, I am able to fall asleep in the security that the beautiful view of Bella Vista promises to be there when I awaken.

 

Gibson Graham is a junior at Bentonville High School in northwest Arkansas. Writing, soccer, and traveling are some of her favorite pastimes. This is only her second publication, and she is very grateful to be featured in the Blue Marble Review!

You’ve likely heard the gist of climate change’s menace. You almost certainly are disturbed. If I were you, I might’ve even swiped away, under the impression that this is another climate horror story. So politicians, you’re my main target. Unless, of course, the rest of you are courageous enough to digest a mouthful of the future and spread my message.

Thankfully, we aren’t in the inescapable stage of such “horror.”_[2] Think of climate change like cancer: it becomes untreatable after a particular stage. We are currently in stage three — on the brink of inevitable disaster. Unlike cancer, however, we diagnosed climate change a much earlier century ago. And yet, we knowingly let it plague our green globe.

During my US History class, I couldn’t help but think about this issue. Each day we are taught to draw parallels and continuities throughout history. After all, the ultimate goal is for history to inform our modern decisions. So I thought of two very different eras: the gilded age and its succeeding progressive era.

The gilded age was marked by political inaction, lacking legislation and measures against excessive corporate power. The government was riddled with corruption, lobbying, and greedy interest. Criticism predictably followed. Henry Adams’ Democracy denounced the government’s lack of involvement and inefficiency._[3] Worse, this passive government has gone down in history as an abomination.

Unfortunately, we may be in global warming’s gilded age. Today’s conservative politicians refuse to help our climate. Their corruption, fueled by lobbying and refusal to rescue a dying climate, could not be more similar to gilded age politics. In 2009, congress dismally failed efforts to reduce emissions._[4] In 2015, Trump withdrew from the Paris Accords, an essential token of global cooperation._[5] And the prospects of the sweeping climate reform in Biden’s Build Back Better Act being passed look bleak._[6] This is looking more and more like the 19th century Congress which couldn’t get anything done.

Conservatives aren’t only at fault — liberals lack the tenacity that climate change begs for. Democrat, Joe Manchin, has consistently weakened the Build Back Better Act provisions, taking the place of his conservative counterparts._[7] Meanwhile, other Democrats have misconstrued The Green New Deal, allowing critics to characterize it as a “socialist” agenda that eliminates America’s adored beef._[8] But broadly, state climate plans have been squeezed by moderation.

Politicians, you have a choice: act now or be remembered as those who passively killed the country. Later will be too late.

No, the “preserving economy” justification will later be laughable when there is barely an economy. Climate change requires trade-offs for the sake of the long-run. Already, wildfires cost North America $415 billion._[9] The future holds temperature extremes that could cost $160 billion in lost wages. Over 7,000 companies could be suffocated by the climate’s consequences._[10] The alternative is subsidizing renewable energy, which itself will prevent such economic damage and generate over $2 trillion in business projects._[11]

Like I said before, an optimistic, green future would remind me of the progressive era. This juncture, praised by historians and politicians alike, fixed a failing society. Tools included reform, regulation, and repair. Progressivism set the stage for the new deal, the economic plan to revive the strangled economy, championed by FDR. Such unprecedented legislation gave FDR and his congress a legendary status. Legislators dream of achieving such a reputation. Some believe it’s impossible, but it’s not.

The comprehensive Green New Deal could gradually halt the pace of warming. From carbon taxes to grants to energy equality, it will transition our country to be a climate leader._[12] Like the New Deal, its green counterpart would be the first of its kind and a clear-cut opportunity for lawmakers.

Republicans, if not for saving our planet, honor history and cement your legacies by affirming the Green New Deal. After all, corrupt lobbying money can never buy an eternal legacy.

Solving this crisis should be a no-brainer. We only have three to five years until the window to save humanity shuts. The most proactive model is Denmark, where legislation deployed green technologies and invested in its green workers. It is expected to have zero carbon emissions by 2050._[13] Denmark’s politicians are high-fiving each other knowing that they’ve secured a heroic legacy. They will be the saviors that lifted their country out of the warming crisis.

Every era in American history has a name: the gilded age, reconstruction era, and turbulent sixties. Perhaps the next few years will be known as the climate era. One where law-makers either take initiative or lay afloat while watching the meltdown unfold. This era, though, will be one unlike any other. It defines implications for massive populations, reaching centuries later. Congress’s decisions now could directly impact people two hundred years into the future.

If you made it to this end, you’re a real trooper. Global warming is difficult to think about, nonetheless, read about. But to politicians: you took an oath to address every difficult problem — don’t break it. The reason to cool an overheating world should be self-evident and moral. Many of you clearly don’t understand this. So instead, you must understand that you will go down in history books, cited as the cause of catastrophe. That is, of course, assuming that there are any people left to read them.

 

Ashwin Telang is a junior in West Windsor-Plainsboro High School South, and writing intern for the Borgen Project. He is passionate about politics, and hopes to spread change across different communities.

 

 

 

Work Cited:

1: Greshko, Michael, and National Geographic Staff. “Mass Extinction Facts and Information from National Geographic.” Science, National Geographic, 3 May 2021, https://www.nationalgeographic.com/science/article/mass-extinction

2: Hertsgaard, Mark, et al. “Perspective | How a Little-Discussed Revision of Climate Science Could Help Avert Doom.” The Washington Post, WP Company, 25 Feb. 2022, https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/2022/02/23/warming-timeline-carbon-budget-climate-science/.

3: Meacham, Jon. “Henry Adams’s 1880 Novel, ‘Democracy,’ Resonates Now More than Ever.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 11 Sept. 2018, https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/11/books/review/henry-adams-democracy-.html.

4: Pierre, Jeffrey, and Scott Neuman. “How Decades of Disinformation about Fossil Fuels Halted U.S. Climate Policy.” NPR, NPR, 27 Oct. 2021, https://www.npr.org/2021/10/27/1047583610/once-again-the-u-s-has-failed-to-take-sweeping-climate-action-heres-why.

5: Zhang, Yong-Xiang, et al. “The Withdrawal of the U.S. from the Paris Agreement and Its Impact on Global Climate Change Governance.” Advances in Climate Change Research, Elsevier, 31 Aug. 2017, https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S1674927817300849.

6: Pramuk, Jacob. “Democrats Are Unlikely to Pass Biden’s Social Spending Plan This Year – Here’s What It Means.” CNBC, CNBC, 16 Dec. 2021, https://www.cnbc.com/2021/12/15/build-back-better-act-democrats-unlikely-to-pass-biden-social-spending-plan.html.

7: Ludden, Jennifer. “Manchin Says Build Back Better’s Climate Measures Are Risky. That’s Not True.” NPR, NPR, 19 Dec. 2021, https://www.npr.org/2021/12/19/1065665886/manchin-says-build-back-betters-climate-measures-are-risky-thats-not-true.

8: Houck, Brenna. “Why Conservatives Won’t Stop Talking about Burgers.” Eater, Eater, 1 Mar. 2019, https://www.eater.com/2019/3/1/18246220/aoc-green-deal-burgers-backlash-creepshot.

9,10,11: Padilla, Jazmine. “How Climate Change Impacts the Economy.” State of the Planet, 20 June 2019, https://news.climate.columbia.edu/2019/06/20/climate-change-economy-impacts/.

12: Friedman, Lisa. “What Is the Green New Deal? A Climate Proposal, Explained.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 21 Feb. 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/21/climate/green-new-deal-questions-answers.html.

13: Searchinger, Tim, et al. “A Pathway to Carbon Neutral Agriculture in Denmark.” World Resources Institute, 5 July 2021, https://www.wri.org/research/pathway-carbon-neutral-agriculture-denmark.

 

 

We spent most of last summer somewhere between the kitchen, the Walmart parking lot, and her white-silver Audi. On the kitchen island, our feet dangling in the thick air, on the tile floor, our backs pressed against her mahogany cabinets, dark red varnish with nice silver knobs. The Walmart in our Illinois town, and, when we grew tired of looking at bruised produce, the Walmart in the town ten minutes over. One weekend, on a whim, she picked me up from work and we drove to Milwaukee. Midnight, new smells, beer signs, my mother blowing up my phone, and still, we ended up in a Walmart. This is the great fucking thing about Walmarts, she said. The ubiquity. You travel states away and your home is through the automatic doors. Who knew Wisconsinites ate the same instant oatmeal as us.

The employees at our home Walmart must have noticed our repeated presence, our slouchy pace, but we didn’t rearrange shelves, or cause commotion, and we bought at least one item per trip, even if that item cost three dollars, so they left us alone. I say that we bought. Really, it was always her, for the same reasons that we drove in her car and used her card for gas and sat on her marble kitchen countertop. She bought the same thing every time, a small flimsy cardboard box, which contained a chocolate egg, a scrap of paper, and, inside the egg, a plastic Peppa Pig, dressed in one of sixteen fun thematic outfits.

In late July, my parents were divorced. They sat me down to give me the talk, but I had known what was coming, the dining table crusted over, the kitchen walls sweating, and our lawn wouldn’t stop dying, even though my mother paid a nice college boy to treat it with an emerald-green solution. We love you very much, said my father. This doesn’t change that. I nodded back at him. Ran my thumb over Princess Peppa in my pocket. Texted her with my other thumb. Come pick me up.

You’re being quiet and weird, she said in the Audi, her foot heavy on the gas. Stop it.

I apologized. Thought of Chef Peppa and Pirate Peppa standing two inches tall on my windowsill. That summer I picked them up and shuffled them every night before bed, as if they cared about movement. I thought of Nurse Peppa. You have to turn bedbound patients every hour, she might say. Or else they’ll develop sores. My head started to hurt. I imagined Pirate Peppa’s eyepatch, brimmed hat, raggedy striped shirt. Eye on the horizon. Everything shifting under.

It’s been an autumn and a winter since that summer, so the details of each of the sixteen figures escape me, although there was a time when I knew them, could spot a Peppa from a mile away. Actually, much of that summer escapes me. I turn to my camera roll and find nothing, because I never thought to reach for it, in those days, perhaps deemed nothing worth keeping, at least not with a third party. She gave me approximately one of every six figurines, keeping the rest, although she must have had doubles and triples of some characters. I lined every one of mine up on my windowsill, plastic cartoons smiling towards my bed. Although she came to my room at least twice during the summer, she never noticed.

In her kitchen she pulled out another cardboard box, unopened, sealed with a dab of tape. My mom got it for me, she said. I didn’t go without you. Although I could. Another bolt of pain ripped through my head. She noticed me wince. You need to stop drinking Polar, she says. That’s what gives you those headaches. It’s the bubbles. Straight through your bloodstream.

Stop drinking my Polar, I heard. I paused in my path towards her fridge. Sat back on the floor. Turned my parents over in my head, like a wind-up doll, tried to turn the key, familiarize her with the contours of their juddering movements. I need a divorced Peppa to explain, I thought to myself. A Peppa with a removable ring-piece. Immediately I dismissed this as ridiculous. There are no interactive Peppas.

She bit carefully into the egg, split it down the seam. It cracked into two neat pieces. Inside: the familiar curl of paper. Sixteen printed Peppas, side by side. She dropped the paper onto the floor, where later the housekeeper swept it up, where later I fidgeted uncomfortably, unsure whether to move to make space for her broom. Do you think, I said, and then stopped. She didn’t look at me, but she stopped disassembling the egg. This was how I knew she was listening. Why, I said to the back of her head, do you think you buy stuff like this?

An awful pause. Then her fingertips resumed. Look, she said, look, forget that. It’s Knight Peppa!

I celebrated appropriately. The moment slipped past. The housekeeper came and went like I knew she would. Through her kitchen windows I could see the lush greenness of her backyard, the spiraling hedges, the bursting gardenias, the morning glories winding up trellises sturdier than most city buses.

You have chocolate on your teeth, I told her.

Do I? she responded, swiping her tongue over her upper lip. Did I get it?

No.

Yes, I told her. Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, you have it.

 

Anne (she/hers) is a high school senior from Chicago, Illinois. She can occasionally be found on Twitter at @anneechen1 and has never eaten a radish.

 

In my girl group’s high school coming-of-age movie, I’m the Token Gay character. You know–that comedic relieving gay best friend that is only in the movie for the pride points and the main character’s support. While I do know a few other lesbians, all of my best friends happen to be straight (shocker: not every gay person is friends with every gay person). As a high schooler, friendships are a huge part of my life. My best friends keep me from stressing about finding tablemates at lunch, finding partners for projects, and finding roommates for field trips. Not to mention all the tears, fears, and secrets we’ve shared. These girls are my sisters at heart and their friendship is nothing short of a blessing.

But, being the only lesbian in a friend group of straight girls can be…well…queer (please excuse the pun). It’s not that my friends have ever had any problem with my sexuality. We’ve all been very open and interested to hear about each other’s different walks of life, and we celebrate that. Still, there is a certain loneliness that comes with being the gay friend. I never share the giggles that erupt as the apparently “cute” boys walk by like my other friends do. I don’t get to jokingly make fun of my friend’s crushes without hearing that I couldn’t understand it anyways. I don’t feel that same rush of uncertainty and hopefulness around school dances due to the severe drought of queer people at my school. Of course, none of this is my friends’ faults. There’s simply a barrier of understanding that straight people and lgbtq+ people have yet to transcend.

Being queer as a teenager can feel as if that High School Musical life you imagined as a kid is passing you by, or like it was never built for you in the first place. A queer person who “peaked in high school” is virtually unheard of. And while it’s true that high school is an all-inclusive hell and that many straight people suffer it as well, they can at least have a hopeful chance at that Prom Court Dream while queer people are forced to accept their reality as the pre-dance decorators. Along with popularity and external validation, that Prom Court Dream is about something else: The Knowing. The Knowing is the consciousness that this is where I’m meant to be. The Knowing is the assurance that I will be fine wherever I go. The Knowing is this abstract feeling that if people like me enough to put a plastic crown on my head in a school gym, then I’m probably doing okay in life.

Unfortunately, it takes more than a plastic crown to reach The Knowing, it takes community. The best way to find who you are is to find others who understand your reality. While my straight friends try to do this for me–and I appreciate their efforts–there are certain realities we will never be able to see for each other. They don’t know the stress of rummaging through outfits, looking for one that seems “gay” enough for me to feel seen. They don’t understand the meticulous dissections lesbians must undergo to figure out whether we’re talking to another lesbian, or just a really nice girl. They don’t see the furrow of my brow as I listen to a straight girl complain about how “unfortunate” her attraction to men is and how she “wishes she were a lesbian.” I think that’s why high school is such a bleak place for most queer people. We don’t know others like us so we don’t feel seen. We don’t feel understood. We don’t feel Known.

Although this may all seem a frivolous issue, suicide rates and attempts in lgbtq+ youth are disproportionately higher than their straight counterparts, which can likely be attributed to the incessant loneliness that is high school for a queer person. If we could build a sense of community and belonging for queer teens in school, I believe we would be much closer to solving the suicide epidiemic. Straight friends of the world, try to listen, see, and understand–even failed attempts mean more than you can understand. And for people like me, I hold the knowledge that high school is temporary and that we will find each other when we are meant to. Somewhere out there, there is another person understanding, seeing, and Knowing.

 

 

Lydia is an aspiring writer from North Carolina. She hopes her writing will serve as the sign someone is looking for.

I never knew a thing about Georgia in the fall, until we plowed through forests in a rental car, its silver exterior lightening and slackening in the cold October sun. I got this from him – that thought that if I play the same songs on the broken stereo, and bring up the same three stories I can count on to warrant a reaction, that the trees lining the road will blur until indistinguishable from sand or sleet or Dallas, Texas where my father and I had that car ride without the speed bumps, or anywhere else we’ve been before. Both of us, always burdened by a sweet tooth, a tongue craving only what it’s tasted before. This wasn’t the ride through San Pedro where he spilled confessions onto my hands, which were still learning about steering. It wasn’t the slope down into the Spring snow when he screamed at me with black ice under the Subaru tires, either. I was eighteen, I had learned how to admit things, and forgotten how to drive. He was somewhere between blond and gray, a man who knows better than to change. The most callused hands that ever held me, and the softest ones that ever let me down. My father, my killer, who taught me the difference between trusting and believing. I watched the silhouette of his weathered face as he drove north of Atlanta, where he was alone in another condo with the same coffee machine – motherless, daughterless. I never knew if he was thinking so much at once that it hardened his face and furrowed his brows, kept him looking mean, but tender, just as he was, just as I became. Or if he’d heard so much too soon that he’d learned to tune it out, to tune me out, and watch the road and the rearview instead, and maybe that was why we hadn’t seen each other in three months and he’d forgotten to ask me a single question. I knew better than to try to keep my father, to even try to speak to him. I knew my father through the thick, curving scars on his hands, from ocean rocks and dirty brothers’ fingertips, and through the fights we fought just for a reason to burn and to talk, while my good sister watched. He gave me his agony, his ecstasy, the cracks in the sidewalk, and the tendency to not rinse blood off of clothes. I got temporary constitutions, we preach and retract. I catch him when his words come out all at once and step on each other’s toes, I step on his foot but I’ve never asked him to stop speaking. He can’t walk fast enough for cities, and I can’t sit still, so we drive, it is the only thing we know how to do. It is the only way to stay in steady motion, the place where he is right and I am wrong, we are big and we are small. Nothing meant a thing to me about Georgia in the fall, except that it wasn’t New York in the winter, except that he put his heavy map of a hand on my knee, and my lips were parting into teeth and my eyes were damp with the depth of it all, and he would love it, and so I never let him know.

 

 

Lovisa Lohmann, has been writing short stories and poems ever since she was little. Anytime she feels anything, her first inclination is to write about it, so that she can capture it before it disappears, and make sense of it. She writes most about the people she’s close to, and writes exactly the way she thinks,— so showing people her writing is like showing them a little piece of the inside of her brain. This is her first time having anything published anywhere, and she’s working on learning how to share her work with other people.

 

 

From shows like Riverdale and Euphoria to all the bestselling young adult novels, the media is overflowing with depictions of steamy teenage romance. Sixteen and seventeen-year-old characters are shown to be entirely absorbed with the drama of their love lives, while the rest of their time is spent taking down the mafia (Riverdale), inciting nationwide rebellions (The Hunger Games) and engaging in other farfetched action that presents them as the exact opposite of normal teenagers.

Pioneered by iconic works such as Twilight and The Princess Diaries, this particular shade of teenage entertainment has been popular since the early 2000’s and is widely consumed by its target audience today. However, these books and scripts are written by adults; the shows and movies feature adult actors. When young people—already eager to grow up—are told that the gorgeous superstars on-screen are supposedly teenagers just like them, they seek to reproduce the same illusion of glamor and maturity, whether through acts of rebellion or the passionate romantic entanglements they have been convinced is normal for kids their age.

The hit 2019 HBO series Euphoria features some characters whose growth and conflict revolve almost completely around romance. A rift forms between two best friends, Maddy and Cassie, when Cassie develops an infatuation with Maddy’s boyfriend; cheating, arguing, and manipulating ensues. Both characters’ internal strife centers around their mutual desire for male validation—and while it is valuable to depict the common struggles that teenage girls face, as well as to present these characters as real, flawed people, to reduce the entirety of their characters to boy problems and “cat fights” is not.

Through word of mouth alone, it’s common in high schools to hear about so-and-so’s breakup and her fight with so-and-so, while many other couples break up within weeks or months. Shows like Euphoria, which cast beautiful actors in their mid-twenties and thirties to play high schoolers, contribute to the urge among teenagers to grow up as fast as possible.

Among others, a common way that young people think they can achieve this is by getting involved romantically. There is nothing inherently wrong with romance, but kids who have not yet reached emotional maturity are often unable to pay proper attention to a partner. Teenagers may find themselves going through the same exaggerated struggles of the characters in their favorite shows—though unlike the actors, they will experience real harm.

Though much less of a rough ride than Euphoria, the New York Times best-selling series and Netflix movie franchise To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before is just as inaccurate and misleading. Despite the initial emphasis on the protagonist’s mixed Korean and white heritage, Lara Jean’s racial identity is seriously glossed over. In the movies, it is essentially summarized in a brief hanbok montage (hanbok: a traditional Korean dress) with K-Pop playing in the background, and a few shots of her deceased—and apparently irrelevant—Korean mother. To top it all off, the actress cast as Lara Jean is not half-Korean at all, but is actually of Vietnamese descent.

Rather than devoting some time to flesh out Lara Jean as a character—and her identity as an Asian one—the series makes her sexy jock love interest the focal point of the story. The boy and Lara Jean make out in a hot tub; Lara Jean defeats his ex, the jealous popular girl. There is nothing wrong with To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before in its most basic form, which both at its heart and on the surface is cute entertainment for young girls. What makes it problematic is the bland, one-dimensional protagonist that Jenny Han has written to lead it, and while unintentionally, she is normalizing the lack of goals or personality in female characters beyond romantic love that is already a common feature of modern entertainment.

In reality, a romantic relationship is more than just two people’s interactions; both are already their own persons, with interests and beliefs that exist beyond the sphere of their partner. To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before is just one example of an unfortunate lack of such depictions in teen entertainment.

Chances of a development, however, are far from slim, and we can always hope to see changes as the world of entertainment evolves every day. Until then, teenagers should by all means continue to enjoy their favorite books and shows. But they should take care to differentiate reality from fiction.

 

 

Ming Wei Yeoh is a sophomore at Minnetonka High School in Minnesota. She edits and occasionally writes for the school paper. Her dream is a career in journalism and creative writing.

 

*This essay previously appeared in the Chanhassen (MN) Villager *