Issue 39

In a world where everything that is even a little interesting or funny is recorded for all of social media to see, I believe that when something happens and is not being recorded, the experience is so much better. That being said however, I would like to share one of the funniest experiences I had in South Africa.

We throw open our uber’s doors, saying a quick thank you, stepping out into the hot, South African sun. We are already extremely hot and sweaty, due to the fact that we had already visited Table Mountain earlier in the day. However, Table Mountain is not is not the subject of this story.

We exit the car and walk up to the ticket booth to buy entrance tickets to Kirstenbosch National Botanical Gardens. We buy our tickets as well as a map of the gardens, and the sun continues to beat down on as we enter the gardens. Since the sun is so bright, we decide to stick to the shadier trails. We start our walk by going to the most recommended trail, a “sky bridge” (it’s just a wooden bridge) that goes through the tree canopy. The birds in the park are very loud, and no matter where you go, you can probably hear them. We continue to walk along this bridge until it ends and goes into a gravel trail. The trail is surrounded by hundreds of various flowers and bushes, I’ve never seen so many different plants in one place.

We notice that it is a little past noon, so now we can finally take a break from walking and have some lunch. It takes about five minutes for us to walk along the trail to the tea house that sits near the back entrance of the gardens, and when we get there they immediately seat us at a shady table. By the time we sit down, we’re all hot, sweaty, and really hungry. I know the moment that I sit down that I am pretty sunburned, and that those will definitely hurt tomorrow. I’m sure that the servers think that I look like a tomato, though I know they’ll never say it (petition to servers at outdoor restaurants to tell customers when they look like tomatoes).

The moment we sit down, we immediately realize how thirsty we are. While we did have water bottles, the water had become hot, not room temperature, but hot. Because of this, I hadn’t really drank enough water (I am indeed one of those Americans who doesn’t drink as much water when it’s not cold, trust me I am not proud of it), and was desperate for some ice water. We order ice water for all of us, as well as a pitcher of mint-infused lemonade and our server goes back to the kitchen to get them for us.

Since this restaurant is technically a tea room, one of the things on the menu was a “tea experience”. This experience came with tea of your choice, scones, biscuits (american biscuits), two little cakes of your choice, and other various baked goods. All this said, the table that was directly across from us had ordered this “tea experience” and right after we ordered our drink, another server brought out a tiered tea tray with all of their baked goods on it and set it on their table.

Soon enough, our drinks are brought out and our server takes our lunch order. It is at this moment that I first notice the pheasant that has hopped over the low fence separating the gardens from the tea room. It is lurking around tables, eating the crumbs from peoples meals. This pheasant is not the only bird loitering, but it is by far the biggest one there. I watch as it slowly walks around the restaurant, hoping for some more food to be dropped.

One of the servers notices the pheasant and shoos it away, only for it to just stand on top of the fence. I can tell that it is at this exact moment that the pheasant notices the table across from us’s conglomeration of baked goods. Some of the other birds have also begun to notice the tier tray of goodies and are now standing around this couple’s table, invading their personal space.

In the blink of an eye, the pheasant that was perched on the fence flies up and attacks the tray of bakery items, causing the tray to fall over, covering one of the people in whipped cream. The other birds that were hanging out around the couple fly up and take their choice of the food on the table. They all grab as much food as their grubby little talons can possibly hold and fly off over the fence. The pheasant, however, just stays on the table eating like he had paid for this meal.

Having heard the commotion, a server comes out of the kitchen wielding a broom like a baseball bat. She swipes at the bird, who then takes one of the scones and flies off towards the rest of his friends. For a few seconds, everyone in the restaurant is silent, in awe of what just happened. But not long after the pheasant leaves, almost everyone (except the person covered in whipped cream) bursts out laughing. The server says that the pheasant and the other birds hang out here a lot, but have never actually done something like that before.

They move the couple to a different table and bring them some replacement food. The man covered in whipped cream disappears into the bathroom, presumably to come to terms with what just happened and to wipe off the cream (he comes back after a few minutes). A group of servers come out of the kitchen area and begin to clean up the mess the birds made. Thankfully, the birds didn’t break any of the glass cups that were on the table, making the terrible job of cleaning that table up just a little easier.

Soon after this whole ordeal is over, our server comes back with our lunch order, looking like she would be happy to go home and forget the pheasant who had made her day a lot harder. We eat our grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, still laughing about the Little Nuisance who attacked a tray of baked goods with the rest of his bird army.

 

Bethany Webb is a young writer with a love for exploring the world. She has previously been published in The Behemoth’s debut online magazine, and has won a poetry contest held by Creative Communications.

The sliding doors hiss open as I run into the Taipei hospital, breath ragged, heart thudding. A nurse bows her head, her mouth forming an apology I can’t bear to hear. I push past and her words dissolve into white noise–I know it can’t be true. I know I will be able to hear his voice again, feel his calloused gardener’s hands, smell the faint smell of oolong tea and cigarettes on his clothes–

But I am too late. His face is no longer one I recognize–but that of a stranger’s, devoid of life and joy, cheeks sunken and hollow. His skin, once golden from long walks under the sun, hangs pale and waxy like wet paper stretched thin over bones.

Cancer had taken him somewhere I could not follow.

“I’m so sorry,” a nurse whispers, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Your grandfather passed away two hours ago.”

Just two hours, and I would’ve made it in time.

***

Hospital staff murmur their condolences to me. My phone buzzes with missed calls from my teacher asking about my absence. Yet I collapse into silence. The crawling sensation of a thousand tiny needles pierces my skin; the eternal quiet from Grandpa, my fear of death, and the suffocating loneliness all blur together and cloud my thoughts. I no longer hear the shuffle of his slippers at dawn, his teasing when I hide behind my phone instead of going on a walk to Family Mart with him.

Our relationship had been a patchwork: every-other-year visits to Taiwan, handwritten letters, and care packages filled with special ramen flavors I couldn’t find in America. But what roots itself deepest in me is his voice–off-key, raspy, yet joyful and unapologetically alive.

What I remember: Grandpa slipping creamy niú gá táng candy into my hand when my mom wasn’t looking. Letters from Taiwan, addressed to me in his shaky handwriting, adorned with tiny doodles of fruit and street cats. His reassurance that the chemotherapy treatment was working.

What I don’t remember: His cough deepening into a wet, rattling sound that scraped his chest and brought up blood. Bones pressing sharply beneath skin that bruised at the slightest touch. The yellowing of his skin, his eyes, his nails, even his teeth. He died two years earlier than the doctors had predicted. He hid the truth from us, protecting us from the weight of his pain until the very end.

***

I’m fourteen again, crying after my grandpa’s cancer diagnosis, cheeks sticky with tears, my nose red and raw from rubbing it on my sleeve. Though the doctor says he has four years left, nothing seems to have changed. The kitchen smells like ginger, garlic, and the faint, smoky sweetness of his tea. Grandpa hums as he folds dumplings, dough creasing beneath his fingers.

“Will I be pretty? Will I be rich? Que sera, sera,” he trills, his voice wobbling off-key.

“Grandpa,” I say between sniffles, “that’s not even the right tune.”

He ignores me and instead, ladles dumplings into my bowl, careful not to let the soup spill over. The kitchen lamp casts streaks of gold across my face, warming my cheeks. I bite into a dumpling and savour the pork, chive, and hot soup that oozes from the tender dough. For a moment, the ache inside me loosens.

“Aren’t you sad?” I whisper, unable to understand how he could still find joy.

“Sad?” he echoes. Then, slowly, he shakes his head. “I have my garden of dragon fruit cacti, delicious bao zhi and dumplings to feast on, and a granddaughter to make me laugh.”

I stare at him and say, “But you’re sick.”

He sets down his chopsticks and takes my hand, his thumb brushing over the back of it like wind through a field. He points to the peach tree outside his apartment window.

“Every winter, it looks dead,” he says. “But underneath, it’s still alive, waiting for the right time to bloom again.” His eyes crinkle. “I think I’m like that tree. And even if I don’t see another spring, I know you will. And you’ll remember.”

He hugs me, and even though I don’t completely understand what he means, a smile colored with a thousand different shades of bittersweet memories slowly rises to my mouth.

***

Two hours–just two hours–if my mom and I had known that he really wasn’t getting better, that it really wasn’t four years left but two, if I had really listened to Grandpa’s voice that sounded thinner after each call instead of nodding distractedly while chasing the things I thought mattered at the time–like college and careers and bullet points on a résumé to build a life when I hadn’t even thought about what I truly wanted–if I had paused to ask for time off or noticed how quickly he was fading with cells mutinying in his body, his camera off because his face was too gaunt, because he couldn’t swallow food–maybe I would’ve realized what was happening. His death was so sudden, even the doctors were surprised. But maybe I would’ve made it in time. Maybe I would’ve been there in time to talk to him one last time, and maybe I would’ve understood earlier that dumplings made with love and stories told under a yellow kitchen light mean more than anything I could earn or win or prove, but I didn’t.

Now I sit beside my mother on a plane back to the U.S., tracing the wrinkles in her tear-streaked hands while the hum of the engines fills the silence between us. I think about how the peach tree outside his apartment will still bloom this spring, even if he’s not there to see it, and how he didn’t want the weight of cancer to reach me. But all I feel now is the weight of a silence I can never fill, because no amount of remembering will bring back the warmth of his hand, or the sound of his voice, or the crinkle of his eyes when I laugh.

So I sit, above the clouds, the cold air wrapping around me. My mother sleeps beside me, her lashes still wet. I think about the things I should’ve said to Grandpa, the hugs I should’ve given, the songs we should’ve sung together. I think about those two hours I was too late. I gaze out the airplane window, the clouds below a blur of blossom pink and mourning gray. And somewhere between heaven and earth, I softly whisper, “Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.”

 

 Grace Ji is a homeschooled rising senior with academic interests in engineering, history, and political science. Her writing tends to focus on analyzing U.S. policies or personal narrative essays.

It’s hard to believe it’s not even been a year since I watched my first episodes of Bluey. It was early May, and I was in a hotel with my family. My sister turned on the TV. There are very few shows that all my family members will sit and watch. And we all sat and watched Bluey. And every one of us laughed.

Bluey is not new to the spotlight — it was the most-streamed show in the United States in 2024, coming up from being the second-most-streamed show in the US in 2023 and the eighth-most-streamed show in the US in 2022. The animated Australian kids’ show premiered in 2018 and gained global popularity during the COVID-19 pandemic. It only continues to grow its fanbase.

There are many reasons for the popularity of Bluey. It’s colourful and joyful without being overstimulating. It celebrates play and embraces family and all its messiness. Unlike many other preschool-oriented shows, Bluey doesn’t talk down to its audience. The dialogue is genuinely clever, realistic, and not cloying. It doesn’t do the “call and response” of shows that I grew up on like Dora The Explorer or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse:

“Do YOU see the purple bridge?”

“That’s RIGHT! It’s just over the GREEN HILL!”

Even as a toddler, that annoyed me.

No, Bluey is something totally different. I would describe it as more of a sitcom than your usual preschool show, focusing on the Heeler family’s humorous and relatable experiences. It spends almost as much time focusing on the parents and their learning as it does on the kids.

Of course, there are some potential negatives to Bluey. It has resulted in kids around the world talking in Australian accents and using Australian slang, much to the confusion of their parents. Other parents have observed their kids imitating the bad behaviours of the kids in the show, and while that is a genuine concern, none of the characters are perfect and that’s precisely what makes them so relatable. Both the kids and the adults have something to learn.

Sure, kid viewers will love Bluey, but adults will be able to fully grasp the humour. Bluey even made The Rolling Stones’ 2021 list of 100 best sitcoms of all time. That’s pretty remarkable for a preschool-oriented show consisting of mostly 7-minute episodes, one 30-minute special and a handful of 1-3 minute “minisodes.”

What drew me into Bluey was the way I saw a younger version of myself in the titular character. When I saw Bluey indecisive on how to spend her money in “Markets,” I thought of the countless times I had been in similar situations. I remembered how my sister and I would collect free paint chips at the hardware store, much like Bluey and Bingo did in “Hammerbarn.” I laughed when Bluey discovered in “The Dump” that her dad had been throwing out her old drawings, remembering when I made similar discoveries as a child.

And perhaps most impactful of all — I saw myself in “Movies.” In the episode, Bluey is at a movie theatre with her Dad and younger sister Bingo. Bluey is hesitant about the movie because of a scary scene, but she manages to watch it and see herself in the hero’s triumph over their struggle. She learns from the hero that it’s okay to be different.

I may be a young adult — a university student studying media production — but I have always been drawn to children and family storytelling. Unfortunately, many cinephiles I know look down on that. Their ideas of “true cinema” are gritty stories, mostly R-rated and morally grey. And despite my friends’ enthusiasm for these movies — like Bluey, I feel like I’ll never like that stuff. I feel different.

But I think that “true cinema” isn’t necessarily what is most popular among critics. It’s what you connect with. It’s where you can see yourself and grow through what you see on screen. That’s something we all need, regardless of whether you’re three or thirty three. Stories that tap into universal truths and make us think shouldn’t be just limited to adults, and stories that teach lessons should not just be limited to children.

I think we all need a little more Bluey in our lives.

You can watch select episodes of Bluey on YouTube and stream the series on Disney Plus.

 

Abby is a multimedia storyteller creating through diverse mediums. Her photography work spans concerts, conferences, and gallery openings, but she has a particular passion for nature and travel photography and highlighting the hidden beauty in our world. An author of stories, poetry, essays, and articles, she has more than 50 bylines in publications including Faith Today, Keys for Kids, Ekstasis, and Love is Moving.

You can find her on social media at @abbyciona or visit her portfolio at abbyciona.com.

The scent of wet soil after soaking rainfall, the distant hum of church hymns thumping on a neighbor’s radio, the warmth of her mother’s embrace—these were the essentials my mother, Eunice Dominguez, carried with her when she stepped onto an airplane to America in the year 2000. Born and raised in Santa Rosa Guachipilín, she had known the soothing rhythms of rural life. But at thirteen, she traveled to Metapán to begin middle school, a transition that was her first taste of freedom. Years later, another transition—one far deeper—would utterly displace her life. With her three-year-old son, Andres, in tow, she packed only a suitcase, a tourist visa, and a heart full of hope and terror.

Back in El Salvador, she had been comfortable, even prosperous, but security was an empty concept when MS-13 and other surrounding gangs roamed the streets, preying on the young and vulnerable. It was not poverty that had driven her from her home, but fear—the sort that penetrated a mother’s bones at the threat of her child being torn from her and swallowed up in a world of violence and brutality. She had witnessed it happen to other mothers, their eyes vacant with loss, their throats hoarse from crying out her child’s name into the abyss—only to be met with nothing but the hollow echo of their own grief. My mother would not be one of them.

She recalls the morning she made up her mind to leave. It was on the news as she was getting ready for work. A bus had been ambushed right in front of the El Salvador International Airport, its headlights flashing like a final plea for mercy. MS-13 had swooped in like vultures. They plundered everyone in the bus first, necklaces torn from throats, wallets extracted at gunpoint.

Then, as abruptly as they came, they doused the seats and aisle with gasoline. Somebody screamed, a raw, guttural sound. A match was struck, and in seconds the bus was ablaze, flames licking at the humid afternoon air, bodies inside melting into silhouettes in the fire. The acrid scent of burning flesh clung to the air, thick and suffocating for weeks.

That was when she knew, if she stayed, if she waited, her son could be in one of those buses. Or worse, he could be the one to set it on fire.

Her first destination was California, where my tío Andres lived. The Golden State had seemed like a beacon of promise, but reality was unkind. Without papers, without the right to work, she found herself trapped in a limbo of uncertainty. Every door she knocked on slammed shut. No job, no insurance, no security for her son. But what filled her with the most desperation was Andres’ cleft lip. She needed a doctor, he needed surgeries—multiple—but time and time again, bureaucracy turned its back on them. “Mira, se lo ruego, mi hijo necesita un médico.” She had been reduced to begging, her voice cracking as she fought for his right to healthcare. Yet, with no legal status and no health insurance, the response was always the same: denial. The fear of not being able to get him the medical attention he needed consumed her, and California no longer felt like a viable option.

New York became her second chance, not because it was easy, but because Andres’ father was there and offered temporary shelter. And so, my mother, who had once walked the sunlit streets of Metapán with confidence, now walked the cold indifferent avenues of a foreign land. She felt completely invisible, just a walking statistic. The first few years were defined by instability: bouncing between countless apartments, from cramped attics to dimly lit basements, each space not feeling like a home and more like a reminder of how far she had yet to go. Some nights, the walls would tremble with the sounds of the city, and she would close her eyes, imagining herself back in the quiet of Santa Rosa, where only the cicadas sang at night.

Every morning, she left before the sun had fully risen, her hands already aching from the scrubbing and polishing that awaited her. Andres, too young to understand, clung to her sleeve, crying as she tried to slip out of bed in the morning. She’d whisper the same promise to him: “Cuando regrese, jugamos.” But by the time she returned, the stars had already taken the sun’s place, and all she could do was kiss his forehead and collapse onto the thin mattress they shared.

Unlike many other immigrants, though, she never struggled with English. Back in El Salvador, she had worked as a secretary, where learning English had been a necessity. It was one of the few advantages she carried with her, a small but powerful tool that allowed her to navigate a system designed to alienate her. But language alone could not shield her from the indignities of being undocumented, from the cold stares of those who saw her only as an outsider, from the fear that at any moment, everything she had fought for could be stripped away.

It was only when President George W. Bush re-designated Temporary Protected Status (TPS) to Salvadorans that the world cracked open for her. With a calloused hand, she held the piece of paper that granted her a work permit, a social security number—a legal existence. The weight of the past few years lifted, and for the first time, she could breathe. Through New York’s public healthcare programs, she finally secured Medicaid for Andres, and the long-awaited cleft lip surgeries that had once seemed impossible became a reality. She became a cashier, earned her driver’s license, and carved out a semblance of stability in a country that had once seemed determined to swallow her whole.

Still, the cost of survival was steep. The years stretched on, and she lost more than just her homeland. When my grandmother fell ill, my mother could do nothing but listen over the phone, the static between them a cruel reminder of the distance. She heard her mother’s voice grow weaker, heard the pain woven into every word, and when the day came that silence replaced that voice, she was thousands of miles away. There was no last embrace, no final goodbye. She grieved alone in a country that did not mourn with her, in a world that demanded she keep moving, keep working, keep surviving. “No estuve allí. Se me fue, y no estuve allí,” she whispered once, her voice breaking under the weight of those words. I saw it in her eyes, the way regret clung to her, the way it became an unshakable part of who she was.

Yet, even now, she wonders if it was all worth it. The price of safety came at a cost: missing her mother’s last breath, enduring the gnawing loneliness of a land that still felt foreign even after decades. Though she built a home here, raised her children among the towering buildings and restless energy of New York, her heart never stopped beating for El Salvador. She dreamed of the day she would return, not as a visitor, but as someone coming home.

Last December, after twenty-five years, she finally stepped onto Salvadoran soil once more. The air smelled the same, the streets murmured with the same familiar voices, but something had changed. She had changed. New York had shaped her, hardened her, given her children a future, yet it could never replace the country that made her.

My mother is a woman of two worlds: one that offered her safety, another that gave her identity. And as she turns fifty this summer, she stands at the crossroads of both, knowing that while her body may remain in one, her soul will always belong to another. “Nada se puede comparar a lo que se siente para tu propio país,” she tells me. Nothing can amount to the emotional connection one has with their home country. But I know that in the quiet moments, when she closes her eyes, she is walking through the streets of Santa Rosa Guachipilín, walking in the rain, breathing in home.

 

Andrea Dominguez is a freshman at Fordham University, where she is pursuing a major in psychology and a minor in English. A recent graduate of New Rochelle High School, she enjoys writing personal and cultural essays that explore Latinx identity, immigration, and politics. Her work often reflects her connection to her Salvadoran roots and her interest in amplifying underrepresented voices. She turns eighteen this October and hopes to continue using writing as a way to bridge personal experience with broader social issues.