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“Yeah can’t talk with a gun in your mouth, huh?” I sang sternly.

“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!”

“It’s just a song,” I said to my mom.

She frowned, “Sing something more positive,”

“But it’s just a song!”

“Stop chanting that music, it’s brainwashing you.”

“Okay, I guess.” I chuckled.

Whenever I listen to and share my music, I am constantly criticized for what I like or who I listen to. I can be listening to one of the greats such as Biggie or Tupac and as long as it abides by my mother's rules, she’s fine. But as soon as I say something that I like, I get criticized for being myself. It doesn’t matter what genre it is, it can be pop, hip-hop, jazz, RNB, whatever it is, as long as I’m listening to it or even saying the words, I am “drawling” or “need to calm down”. It makes me feel out of place. Like I am some kind of weirdo that is obsessed with music.. But it’s not like that though. Well at least not in my eyes. Just because I like music, people think that I am now out of the place of a “Human being”: it means that I am special in my own way. Is there anything wrong with that? NO! Yes I sing lyrics but I don’t live that lifestyle and that's where my moms problem starts because she feels like if I sing the song then I will live it. I know funny right?

I have a deep connection with music. Ever since I was younger, like an infant, my dad would play his old dj tracks in his headphones and put them on my head. I even have a picture of that. I’ve loved music ever since. This may sound far fetched but my Dad is literally like the only one who understands me when I talk about my musical side of me. I have friends that I can talk with about different stuff related to music, but when I talk to my dad about music, we can relate to much. So many  different songs or albums from different time eras from the 70’s to now including tracks off of movies, tv shows or just tracks in general because we just love it that much. I love how strong of a musical connection me and my Dad have.

Don’t get me wrong, I still love my mom but the connection me and my father have on a musical level is crazy. We like the same genres and we are open to most musical content. I can talk to him for hours about music but when it comes to my mom, she’s more oldschool and likes the singers and is not really intrigued by rap like I am. We have a connection so strong sometimes it feels like rap could be a person, I have a love for rap. It's a part of me. And no, I’m not just ignorant to like rap, I like multiple genres of music but rap is my favorite genre of music.

Some of the artists that I like the most are Kur, Trippie Redd, XXXtentacion, Ski Mask the Slump God, Comethazine, The Notorious BIG, Tupac Shakur, NWA, Mos Def, Mase and Junior Mafia. I like these artists because they are popular but because they make music that speaks to me

Many people think that rap is all bad and thought there may be some negative things but, these artists are always pushing positive vibes regardless to their lyrics. They always show creativity in their music. They can talk about more than how many guns they have or how many women they fornicate with or how many racks or bands they have. I mean yes, they have all mentioned it but it’s not always about that with these specific artist. They can paint a picture with lyrics alone and that's what makes them so amazing in my eyes. Regardless of the music they make they were still good people and most of them know how to differentiate music from life. That's what makes these artist so good and why I fell in love with their music.    

Mo Kelly

Pahomov

English II

21 September 2018

Sexual Assault in the City

“Do you wanna hang out with me and Ida tonight?”

The text was from my friend, Kate. I instantly smiled and replied with a yes. It was the first warm night of the year, and I was desperate to leave my stuffy house to hang out with my two closest friends.

When I got to Ida’s house, they came right out.  They were dressed similar to me; in shorts and a tank top, the perfect spring clothes. We all shared a smile and began to walk down the street.

“My mom told me not to go to the playground once it gets dark, but do you want to go anyway?” Kate asked.

I thought about it for a while. I’ve lived in the city my entire life, and I’ve never encountered anything scary in the night before. It was only a playground, what was the worst that could happen? We all agreed and went on our way.

The warm breeze hit our face as we laughed and talked on our way to the park. It was great to finally be able to be outside again and even better to be with friends during it. The sun was slowly setting, and the pink and orange sky lit up our path ahead of us.

At the park, we found a place to sit down and continued talking. Around us there were some kids playing. As the sun set, they slowly began to leave. Soon, we were the only people there.

What was her mom so worried about? I thought to myself. After all we weren’t kids, we were teenagers. We knew how to be safe.

In the middle of my thought, I heard a rustle in the grass. The others heard it too. I looked up and saw a group of kids on bikes laughing. They were acting just like we were, I paid no attention to them. It was just a bunch of kids having fun.

But, they slowly started getting closer to us. The kids with bikes started circling us and began laughing louder than before. Still, I tried my hardest to not pay attention to them.

“Hey,” Someone shouted, “You guys are cute.” We muffled a thanks and started shifting away from them. I started to get very uncomfortable, “Are those IPhones?” Kate shot up and started walking away, quietly telling me that we needed to leave.

Still, they kept following us. I said goodbye to them, trying to be polite, but they wouldn't leave us alone. One boy started throwing rocks and sticks at our legs. We just moved faster.

            “They grabbed my butt.” That was when I knew I needed to get out of there, and fast. I shared a look with Kate, and we began running. The warm breeze that was so refreshing earlier was now just an obstacle getting in the way of my safety.

I ran until I noticed that Ida wasn’t with us. Panicked, I tried to search for her. My heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my throat.

“Where is she?” I shouted.

As I was spinning, a portion of the same group of kids marched up to us. Behind them, I saw Ida, slowly walking with the other kids. She was visibly scared, but she was staying cool, calm and collected. I almost wanted to laugh. She was much smarter than us.

She made her way back to us, and we yanked her away from the kids. Thankfully, there were a few girls there who stopped the group from doing anything else to us. They left as loudly as they came, and we turned the opposite direction.

“Are you okay?” We all asked each other. Everyone said yes, but no one really meant it.

I was pulled into a group hug, and I could feel everyone shaking from fear. We reluctantly pulled away and began our walk home. Although it was only a few blocks, it felt like miles.

Ida explained to us later that she thought we were right behind her when she started walking with the kids. She was walking with a few girls, who she said were actually really nice to her.

“I didn’t want to scare them or anything,” She said when I asked why she stayed with them, “I was just trying to stay calm.”

What she did really opened my eyes on what to do in these situations. You can do dumb things when you’re scared, like we did that night. Running away only made us more vulnerable. If I stayed calm, they would’ve seen that I wasn’t afraid of them and they would've left. Most young kids that do things like this just want to try and scare you.

After that night, I have been hesitant to go out in the dark or go out at all. It was one of the scariest things I’ve ever experienced. But, now I know what to do in a situation like this one: stay calm. Getting in a panic will help no one.

I made a mistake that night. But, that mistake helped me realize something incredibly valuable. Something I will never forget.

“Okay everybody, here is your benchmark project instructions.”

The day after Ms. Gasser gave us the project, we brainstormed some more ideas and came up with two inspirations for our city. We were going to take some inspiration from Philadelphia and Elon Musk, CEO of Tesla Motors. We chose Philadelphia because that is where we live and we wanted to use its street systems to help us design our own. Elon Musk was going to help us with naming our city and its buildings/streets. We had two weeks to finish this project in its entirety.

On January 9, 2018, we decided to walk around center city after school to look at the street system in Philadelphia. We were gonna take a few SEPTA buses around center city and take some notes on what we noticed. Our first bus trip went almost flawlessly and we got some great notes on how our cities streets work. On the first bus, we rode up and down Market street a few times to make sure we didn't miss anything on our notes and then the bus broke down. The person next to us was really angry. He was a twenty-something-year-old guy in business attire. He shouted at the top of his lungs.

“I’m late for my interview dammit!”

After what felt like forever, they let us off the bus and a tow truck came and took it off the street.

Our second trip went worse. When we got on the bus, it wasn’t very crowded, but after the first two stops it felt like the entire city was on the bus.

“Hey stop bumping into me. Thank you,” someone said.

“It’s not my fault this bus is so crowded,” they replied.

It was impossible to take any notes on there because we couldn’t see and we didn’t have enough room to pull out our phones to take notes on. At our last stop, we decided to get off and walk back to the original stop.

In the freezing cold temperatures, it was a painful walk back. Every few blocks we had to jump inside a store for a few minutes, but we made it back to the stop alive and now we were going to get on our final bus for the day.

This was the worst trip out of the three. Mostly because I got us lost, but partly because it was still cold outside. While waiting for a bus to take us back to SLA, it started snowing, then we saw a bus come down the street. I told Ari and Matthew that it was our bus and they followed me on without checking the bus number. It took us maybe 10 stops before we realized that we were on the wrong bus. We hopped off the bus urgently and tried to figure out where we were. Our phones came out of our pockets without hesitation. We found out we were only a 15-minute walk from SLA so that’s what we decided to do.

The snow, wind, and temperature made the walk brutal.  When we finally got back to SLA we were freezing cold and covered in snow, so we took a break and decided to warm ourselves up before we looked over our notes.

The most important note that we had was that there were no unnecessary streets. Every street was used and helped the flow of traffic get through the city quickly. Also, most of the smaller streets flowed into bigger streets to direct traffic to the main streets. So, when we designed the road system of our city project, we used a minimalist approach. We used as few streets as possible and we only had a few main streets, but every small street led into the main street.

Even after getting lost, the freezing temperatures and the broken down bus studying the street system in Philadelphia allowed us to create a beautifully designed city for our project. The journey around Philadelphia allowed us to prevent the problems we faced when we designed our city. We created a street system that would, in theory, prevent people from getting lost, long waits on broken down buses, and overcrowded buses.

The teacher begins to teach her lesson on propaganda and its influence in society. She shows us 3 videos on how the different aspects of it trigger different ideas. Of course, the first one triggered emotional ideas and it had to be a film on the poverty in Africa. I felt several pairs of eyes burning into the side of my face. Here we go.

How the media portrays the living situations and lifestyles of Africans is a very inaccurate, yet vivid image. They painted us as the lowliest and the loneliest. We’re seen as anorexic, dirty, needy, and uncared for people in a neglectful society. When you think of Africa, your mind redirects to wild animals roaming around the village and little kids in minimal clothing. Or a medical station with cots all pushed together while the cameraman zooms into the little boy, his bones defining his body and his sweat matching his mother’s tears. Or better yet, a short documentary of a little African girl walking 5 miles to her only source of water, with healing feet that get the same recurring cuts everyday due to lack of shoes.

“With only a dollar a day dramatic pause, zooms in on stomach of hungry child, sad music gets louder we can help feed all the starving children in Africa.” I hate this, why do we have to listen to this bullshit bs? Can a dollar a day help educate this woman? Sheesh. Why is it that this is so easy to believe? But God forbid it be true that kids can grow up stable, have an amazing childhood and never fear for food not being on their dinner table. That education is provided, that clean water exists, and that they walk from place to place in shoes, and still are raised in Africa.

I hear someone across the room make a smart remark, “Do they even have clean water?” I take it upon myself to raise my voice and say “Yes,” head turning as fast as my soundwaves reach the ear of the imbecile. Turning back around slowly, sharing a glare and an eye roll with them and their peer. Mainstream media and their lies leave a permanent mark in the heads of the close minded. There are many places all over the world that lack proper distribution of food and resources. Why is it that they choose to bash Africa? Even if it were true, that Africans have very limited resources, why do people make fun of it? Poverty must be funny right? Where does the term African booty scratcher even come from? When you surround yourself with lies, you end up sounding just as foolish as the person behind them. Yes, some parts of Africa suffer from severe poverty, but so do many other places around the globe. Didn’t we learn that many countries in Africa were raided by invaders because of their resources and goods? Or did that history lesson jump over your head and all you got from it was enslavement?

To be African has several different definitions. Either you embrace the fact that your ancestors were slaves or indulge in the greatness that you and/or your parents are African immigrants. My parents with their Ivorian and Malian blood makes me genetically apart of two countries in West Africa. As a family, we’re all gracefully allowed to take pride in being bilingual, or so in my parents case, multilingual. Growing up African was never something to take pride in. To continuously be ridiculed by a bunch of uneducated nuisances, for being different and an outsider had a lot of cons to it, barely any pros. I wasn’t known as Hawa, I was known as an African booty scratcher who isn’t familiar with clean water and buildings as if I built huts in my free time. I didn’t consider this as bullying and I still don’t. This was a time in my life where I was forced to find the beauty in where I come from, because I am who I am and no matter the negative and biased opinions that come with it, the pride I take in my African blood is far greater than the irrelevant and ignorant comments deriving from a sad soul.

Kankoue D. Folly

Ms.Pahomov

English 2

18 September 2018

                                                  The Pain Microaggressions Cause

It really started two summer ago, racial profiling that is. It began once I started to grow taller and taller. First, it was the unintentional staring and the pulling back of purses that occured on the bus and public areas. At first I didn’t care, however things start to get annoying over the course of time. I thought it would go away, I thought I would soon be safe from the stereotypes that come with the color of my skin, this never happened it never got better if anything it worsened. I eventually got used to this daily mockery is what I considered it.

“Goodbye.” I said to my parents before I exit the house.

“Have a good day.” My mother answered back with a heavy accent.

It was a chilly morning so I put on my hood as soon as I got out of the house, put on my headphones and started walking to the bus stop. When I  finally reached the bus stop there was no one there except for a lady with a handbag and cigarette between her fingers. I walked past her and stood behind the bus stop, mostly to avoid the smell of the burning cigarette.  As soon as she saw me I could see the fear she had instilled in her, she held her bag closer to her, I ignored this.

“She’s just worried about her belongings, it's normal” I thought to myself. I took out my phone in an attempt to make things less awkward. Then,I started to get anxious,

“Whats taking the bus so long?” I started thinking to myself. The bus seemed to be nowhere near us so there I stood with this lady that would look back at me every fifteen seconds to make sure I wasn’t going to rob her. The bus eventually came and when I got on I sat all the way in the back, to avoid making any more people second guess their safety because of my color and size. The bus picked up more and more people at every stop, then we eventually reached the transportation center. I walked down the stairs and went into the terminal and there I waited for the broad street line southbound express to arrive. The terminal was pretty packed I could tell that the train would be packed as soon as it arrived, I shook my head in discontent.

“Doors are opening ” Said the robotic voice as when the train arrived and started opening its doors. I entered the train and unsurprisingly it was packed. I made my way over to the closest empty seat and unfortunately for  me it was an older civilian. This resulted in the usual response of gripping the bag and facing the window to avoid eye contact. I sat there and pretended not to care or notice, but the longer this went on, and the harder I tried, the  angrier I got. It wasn’t normal anger, rather it consisted mostly of confusion, I was angry about how I was being treated and I had no idea as to why I was being treated so.

“Why do you clench your bag?” I thought to myself. As the train stopped in Race-Vine, I thought about asking the lady the question, however I decided it was not worth my time. I got  off at the next stop and took off my hoodie. I took off my hoodie as if it was going to make any difference. As I was walking it came to the conclusion that people will always judge me based on the color of my skin, no matter how hard they try. This made me understand what I was going to have to endure everyday for possibly the rest of my life. Something not only unique to me but to every other black male out there. It made me think about how I was a lucky one, the fact that I haven’t been shot, or killed like some black males my age. I was lucky that I was alive.  Now that I look back on certain incidents, I do not blame people for what they do, rather, I blame their surroundings, for people are a product of their surroundings. People do not just act towards me the way they do because I am black rather it is because of the things I, a black male, is portrayed as in society. To this day, I still undergo racial profiling on a day to day basis. Everytime I see that my presence causes the squeezing of belongings, I too squeeze my eyes shut, and I think of a better tomorrow.

Michal Czapla

9/21/18

E-Band

POL-ish

“What’s that weird food?”

I mindlessly closed my SpiderMan lunch bag. It was a new week of Kindergarten, and I thought that I would bring one of my favorite meals for lunch that day. Polish potato dumplings, or “pierogi”, were quite literally heaven in my mouth. The soft, doughy shell enveloping a pile of toasty mashed potatoes danced on my tastebuds. I always ate it at home, as my family would always make them every now and then. It was normal to eat them. So, when a kid named Brendan pointed them out, goosebumps tingled down my skin. My mind felt hollow. All those years of chowing doing on my beloved pierogi were now shameful memories.

“I don’t know,” I replied,”My mom put it in my bag.”

I felt the sweat oozing out of my pores. Brendan, however, simply spinned around and waddled along his way.

It seemed that I always had trouble with being open about my Polish heritage. I felt like an alien around all these Americans discussing about things I didn’t grow up with. While they were talking about ‘Tom & Jerry’, all I could think of is ‘Bolek & Lolek’, a Polish show about two brothers fighting with one another and getting into trouble. Playing football was news to me, since Poland’s main sport was soccer. I practically had a ball by my feet at all times, which most didn’t understand why. No matter what, I could never fit in. So naturally, my solution to that was acting. If they saw me as on of them, they wouldn’t judge me.  

One day, everyone in my class was hyped up. The wooden desks were shoved to the corners of the room, and the big red beat box was brought out. As soon as “Teach Me How To Dougie” came on, the class went nuts. It was a flood of 6 year olds shuffling their light up sketchers all over the dusty plank floor. My mind spiraled out of control. My heart pounded from under my chest as though it would burst after every beat.

What on earth was going on?

I was so used to hearing Polish Disco: a lot of bass drops and catchy choruses. My type of dance was hopping up and down, or taking a pretty girl and twirling her around. This was nothing I had ever experienced before. Lifting up my feet felt like a dumbbell was pulling it to the ground. My legs tangled and intertwined as I tried shuffling my shoes, which turned out to look like me trying to kick the ground. My limbs were just flailing in every direction. It was almost as though I was in a different body.

The funny thing is, I probably received more weird looks trying to do the shuffle rather than suggesting my own music. I continued not to realize that, though, and I kept on shuffling. It wasn’t until one day, while we were in a reading circle, that everything changed. I had a select group of friends in my class, so anyone else who wasn’t part of it was just a stranger to me. That included the girl seated next to me. Our teacher, Ms. Gudis, assigned us as reading buddies. Naturally, as we sat down and started reading a picture book, I asked a bit about her.

“So, what’s your name?” I questioned.

“Karolina.”

My eyes widened, jaw cracked open. That sounded just like a Polish name. I had to be sure, though, so I pressed on.

“Where are you from, Karolina?”

“Oh well I was born in Philadelphia…”

Why would I get my hopes up?

“...but my family come from Poland.”

I nearly let out a screech. My slouched posture on the pillow underneath me had now turned into straight one. At that moment, I did the unthinkable: I told her about my Polish heritage. For the entire class period, we shared countless stories about how we struggled to fit into the crowd. We discussed things such as not celebrating April Fools Day, but rather Smigus Dingus, where boys would pour water over girl’s head on Easter Monday. With each story, I grew more and more excited about the topics. For once I felt proud of my culture.

I am not going to sit here and say that everyone loved my Polishness, thought I was a cool cat, and I lived happily ever after. However, school life did become more enjoyable. Everytime I opened my lunchbox, I could munch on my snacks in peace and even give a little story about them. Every now and then, I would sing a tune from a ‘Disco Polo’ song. The world didn’t end, and people simply accepted that it was me. A few kids even loved it!

The point is, you shouldn’t be ashamed of your roots. Your culture is just part of the building blocks that make you, you. Sometimes, it even spices things up. Not everyone is going to like you for it, but not everyone is life is going to like you anyways. You just have to express yourself the way you’ve always wanted to, and the positive people are the ones that will be attracted.

Randy Le

Ms. Pahomov

English 2

September 21, 2018

911, What’s Your Emergency?

The aching sounds from my father was painful. I felt like it was looping through my mind as I tried to sleep. I wondered if closing my eyes would help, but it only made the sound louder.

I got off the bus and walked along the sidewalk to my house. I was feeling the scorching hot rays from the sun that laid upon me. Every step, I could hear a different noise that resembled the painful sound from my father and would never stop—until I stop.

I finally arrived at my house and went directly upstairs. My father was lying on the ground, next to my bed. I looked to see if he was okay, but I couldn’t tell because he was sleeping. I went back downstairs, put my bookbag on the couch, and proceeded to find some food.

When I was younger, I was not entirely focused on anyone’s well-being. I was loud, energetic, and only wanted to play around. I remember my father doing some heavy-duty work, but it was nothing that I really cared for. Most of the time, I would be at  my grandma’s house, playing with my cousins. Until I got older, this was the story of my relationship with my father. Eventually, all the heavy-duty work built up and caused some wear and tear on my father’s body. It was not until I was age 11, where I could see the detrimental side effects of the sciatica. It would come back every year and strike my father with excruciating pain. I wasn’t the only one witnessing his pain, but that didn’t make me feel safe with how my father’s welfare was going.

My dad shouted from up stairs, “Randy! Randy!”

“Yes? What’s up?” I said, rushing upstairs to his room.

My father asked, “Can you get me a bottle of water?”

“Sure, no problem.” I replied back while rushing downstairs to grab a bottle from the fridge.

“Here you—” I said as I walked in the room, shocked at what I seen.

My father started to groan in pain while I stood there in shock. He was rolling on the ground, pointing towards his back and left leg while my muscles tensed up.

My brother, Kenny, rushed in and asked “What is happening?”

“I don’t know!”

Kenny and I panicked as he told me to go get his medicine from downstairs. I searched through multiple plastic bags, in hopes I could find a bottle of pills, but no luck. I went upstairs with a disappointed look on my face as I saw Kenny holding a phone to his head.

I unintentionally shouted, “Who are you calling?”.

“Keep it down, Randy. I’m on the phone with the ambulance.”

I sat down on my bed and waited for Kenny to be done talking. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen but the thought of my father being gone shadowed over my mind. I tried to not think about it but, the pain I just witnessed was like no other. I felt my throat begin to choke up and my face becoming numb. The ambulance finally arrived as I could barely watch the process of getting my father into the truck. The ambulance team had to act quick and needed certain requirements to bring my father from the second floor to the first floor. The first step was to check if my father was in a suitable position to be placed in a mobile chair. The team had to work together with my father so no one else gets hurt because the team must lift my father down many steps. At some moment the agonizing pain would build up to my father as he began to yelp in pain.

“Sir, we need you to stay still so we can transport you to the vehicle,” said one of the ambulance workers.

Eventually, my father would be brought to the ambulance and my brother joined them to make sure he was okay. My mom told me to go to sleep because it was getting late, but I just couldn’t. The thought of my father wouldn’t go away. There was a indefinable sound that I couldn’t put my mind to, but it haunted me for the rest of the night.

Ever since that day, I wish for sciatica to never strike back at my father (or anyone). He had returned from the hospital in just a few days after, and he’s in good shape today. I found that, just in an instance, one thing could turn anyone’s life in any direction. Without my parents, I wouldn’t be living the life I have now and the days without my father being home were the worst. After being seperated from my father, it made me realize that my parents were the most important people in my life.

I peer out of the cramped window as the skyline of Toronto comes into sight, my field of view increasing as the plane descends.

I hear the captain on the PA system, “Flight attendants prepare for landing.”

The first thing I see is the CN Tower, the tallest building in North America. I feel overwhelmed with excitement as the small wheels come out from beneath the plane. I get to experience the cultures of a new city!
As a present for my 15th birthday, my mom gave me the choice to visit either Chicago, Washington D.C, or Toronto, Canada. At the mention of going to Toronto, my heart fluttered. I had been to Canada once before and had desired to go back since then.

“I’ll let you think about it,” she said when I didn’t respond.

“Toronto!” I exclaimed.

“Well, you’re enthusiastic. I’ll look at plane ticket prices tonight.”

A few weeks later, I was setting foot on the train that would take us from the airport to the city. A video plays when the doors close and the train starts. “Whether you are visiting Toronto for the first time or are returning home, welcome!” The calming voice of the recorded message plays. I lean back in my seat and stare out of the window. We pass a friendly looking park as the video names famous attractions in the city. All I could think was that I could not wait to visit all of those cool places!

I sit at the table next to my mom, her computer set in front of us.

On the screen, it reads, “Top 20 things to do in Toronto, Summer 2017.”

We read the travel blog’s article together. It lists the typical things you find on a travel site, such as museums or landmarks. However, one thing catches our eye.

“The Canadian National Exhibition: Celebrating 150 years.”

“I forgot, Canada is celebrating its 150th anniversary this year! We have to go to this,” my mom tells me.

After they scan my ticket, I walk through the turnstile. I gasp at everything I see, trying to take it all in at once. A huge banner, with every color imaginable, announcing the 150th anniversary spans my vision. Many pavilions stretch across the 192 acres set aside for this festival. My mom and I are not sure where to go first! Perhaps the food pavilion? How about the petting zoo? I wish there was something like this back in Philadelphia; I could stay here all day.

“What else should we do in Toronto?” I asked my mom. “We are spending three days there, but there is only one thing we’ve planned.”

We were going to the Canadian National Exhibition, but so far that was it. While we both had ideas of what to do, nothing was permanent.

“We should visit my dad’s cousins,” my mom mentions. “I haven’t seen them in a long time. They do live in Toronto.”

“That sounds good. We should meet them for dinner one night,” I respond.

We climb out of our Uber and head towards the restaurant. I am excited to see my family for the first time since my Bat Mitzvah, two years ago. I wonder if they’ll even remember me, I think to myself. Of course they will silly, you only saw them a couple of years ago, I reassure myself

A hostess greets us and brings us to the table with my family. The butterflies in my stomach flutter, making my insides churn. Why am I so nervous?

“Hi! It’s so good to see you! You’ve grown so much!” My great-aunt Vera stands up and embraces me in a warm hug. The butterflies fly away, and I immediately feel more relaxed. We eat and talk for what seems like forever.

Finally, my mom looks at her phone and announces, “It’s Ten o’clock, we should be heading back to the hotel.”

I am so happy I got this time to catch up with my family. I am also glad to get back to our hotel and rest. This vacation has been so much fun. I really got to see cultural differences between Toronto and Philadelphia. Even though the city is just a short distance away, the culture is still different. Toronto is focused on the environment and urban improvement so much, I quality I would love to see everywhere. Everyone there is so kind to everyone they meet, from passers-by to new friends. I can’t wait to come back to Canada.

It was July of 2017, in Cambodia, where it was always a scorching 98 degrees almost daily. That day was no exception, and it felt even more humid than it ever was. Still, I wasn’t going to let this weather ruin my day of walking and sightseeing one of the most famous landmarks in all of Asia: the Angkor Wat. I was born in Philadelphia to a Khmer family, and I’ve only visited Cambodia once before then, but I don’t remember much of it. Now, I’m visiting the once rich, and flourished country again. To get there, we took a car, and during the ride, I could not stop but smile and think about the marvelous ruins and luscious plant life that is found in Angkor Wat. As soon as we parked the car, I hurriedly opened the door and took a step outside, breathing in the fresh air and smelling hints of river water and various trees and plants. All around me were other tourists; some were locals who took annually flocked to their most prized source of pride in the country while others were tourists who came internationally, from countries such as China, Mexico, America, India, France, etc. It appears to me that they were all here for the same reason that I am.

There is an old stone bridge that would normally take me towards the main entrance of Angkor Wat, but its status and shape are so bad that it has been closed for renovations and examination by Cambodian and Japanese experts. Instead, I cross a temporary floating bridge that is able to contain hundreds of people walking on it at once. As I walk closer, I can see birds flying around on the jungle-like trees and various tiny insects crawling on the old stone ruins that leads up to the bridge.

When you start to walk on the bridge, there will be officials on the bridge who gives you a simple test; they say Hello to you in Khmer. The catch here is that if you respond to them in a language other than Khmer, they will stop you and ask for your “ticket” which is essentially a tourist admission fee. If you say hello back in Khmer, they will assume your of Khmer ethnicity or a local. I know it may seem like a shady practice, but believe it or not, hundreds of thousands of people visit the Angkor Wat every year, and about 65 percent of them are tourists, which makes this a very lucrative source of money for the government and officials. Luckily for me, my family is all Khmer and we had no trouble getting past officials. Looking back, I saw a lot of officials talking to foreigners and at the time, I didn’t know why we were not stopped and all my dad simply said to me was “They are just looking for directions.” Being born in America, I never really witnessed an event similar to this, but today I understand now why my dad didn’t tell me the truth and I respect him for that.

Walking on the temporary bridge did not take long and soon, I was ready to explore the Angkor Wat in all its glory. As I headed into the main courtyard, I visited one of the shrines and was given some money and a piece of silk fabric which acted as a gift for which we were supposed to give to the shrine and the monk that was present. The monk said some blessings and prayers and gave me a red bracelet, which means good luck in Cambodian culture. After this, I headed to the main courtyard that led to many different small and various temples.

The courtyard had a rustic charm to it, and the atmosphere was archaic but in a cool way. All around me were guides, vendors, and photographers, all of which were implemented to generate income for the country, which relies heavily on tourism so it was no surprise that every employee was bugging us to buy their services. We just ignored them as we walked by. I kind of felt guilty because these people are usually people in poverty which is a common sighting today in Cambodia.

After that, the entire day usually went on as normal. I took many photos, and read plaques that were scattered along the walls of the temples, which detailed the history of a particular part of the ruins. For example, there was a huge wall in which there were thousands of carvings that depicted heavenly nymphs and it was a sight to see. I also happened to get the chance to ride an elephant! Not many people can say that and it was such a riveting experience. The elephant ride was slow and calm, but I was very high up as we went around the main courtyard in a circle. I even got to take some photos along the way. It just felt like a magical and exotic experience that you could get nowhere else in the world.

In the end, it was a truly magnificent experience that lived up to my expectations. The breathtaking views of the ruins combined with the majestic and dense jungle-like vegetation made it feel like you’re hiking on an expedition and it will be a journey that I will never forget.

¨Rising, Come Outside.”  

It was my sixteenth birthday and my father, who refers to me as Rising, was in the back of the house. I got up from the brown, cat hair speckled couch, that sits in my living room, and went outside. He instructed me to get in the glistening black Honda Civic that we lease, but this time I sat in the driver's seat. I was immediately overwhelmed with a clash of exhilaration and anxiety over my new seat of power. Painstakingly, I drove down the tight, dark, tar creased alleyway I had know my whole life. As I drove slowly past my neighbors’ houses on one side and their parked cars on the other, my dad nervously yelled, “don’t hit anything!” Thankfully, we reached the end of the alley unmarred. He glady states, “that's enough for today,” and I got out of the car.

As I walked home, the humidity causing beads of sweat to appear on every inch of skin, my mind wandered off. I ponder my sister driving, trying to reach back into my memory and remember how she passed her test. “Did she have a driving instructor?” I thought to myself. “Wait, maybe it was a book.” However, I could not recall. Either way I wanted to be like her. Driving seemed to come easy and she passed both her permit and driver's licence test the first time around. Now, with a sense of the competition between us, I was more inspired than ever.

Convincing myself I was good enough at driving, I immediately informed my dad that I was ready to take the knowledge test. He responded with a simple “How?”  Pushing me to realize I know little of what it might take to get a permit. He quickly whipped out his phone, typed in the four digit password and began his research. “You will need a social security card, a physical, several forms of identification, and there is a written test  that you have to study for.” I felt as if the chances of my success were being squeezed out of me like the juice from a lemon. “I can’t give up-- I want this!” I hopefully thought.

Growing up, I had always been fascinated with my parents´ driving and now I wanted it for myself. The idea that by simply turning the wheel you could steer the large metal mechanic box excited me. The sound of the wheel sliding back through the hands of my parents as they evened out the car soothed me. What I was most enthusiastic about though, was how fast a car could take you to places, new places. I loved peering out of the foggy window, seeing grass fields, houses, farms, buildings, and lakes quickly flash by like a movie without sound. It was entrancing. “When can I drive?” I would murmur to my parents.

Before I collected all of the items I needed to take the test, we departed on a 10-hour car ride to North Carolina. Four boring hours in and I realized this was good time to study for the test. I opened the app in my phone titled, ¨PA Driver Practice” and took the test multiple times, each time getting a different variety of questions on a range of topics, from driver safety to road laws. On the way back I did the same, this time reading the questions aloud to my parents. As we rolled along the grainy highway, my dad, who was driving, pointed out different signs and had me provide an explanation for what they were for. “What does that yellow sign mean?” He bellowed, hoping to stump me. “That means there’s construction ahead,” I proudly responded. By the time the trip ended, I was constantly scoring in the high nineties, which were passing scores!

A few weeks later, my mom gathered my expired passport, my birth certificate, my school ID and the required form and we headed off to get my social security card. We walked to the Chestnut Hill Train Station and waited for the 7:35 train to center city. We boarded and 45 minutes later exited the cool train at Suburban Station. From there we walked to the tall building in which I would hopefully receive my card. We took an elevator up to the top floor and then waited in a line for security to check us. ¨You can't bring that in,” the security guard chastised the man at the front of the line, who was understandably drinking coffee. He stepped to the side to finish his coffee and the line moved on. As I dragged my feet on the carpet marked with a strange pattern of blue and green, we made eye contact with the coffee drinker and he shook his head and laughed as if to say he did not approve of the guards judgment. I giggled.

We got through security with no problem and sat on uncomfortable metal chairs, marked with holes. We were called to the window behind us to the left. “What do you want?” The woman behind the glass rudely asked. Her voice sounded as if her nose was being pinched. “I need a social security card for my son,” my mom politely responded. She gave us the number fifty six and we headed back to the uncomfortable metal chairs to wait again. When our number was finally called we approached the window to my left. This man was much more upbeat. “How can I be of your assistance?” He inquired. We handed him the form and the various forms of ID as my mother explained our purpose cheerfully. He took a moment to examine them and then proceeded to ask me questions. “What's your mom's middle name? What's your full name? What's your best friend´s name?” He asked the last question with a chuckle and I realized it was not on the form. I answered all the question correctly and he happily said, “It will arrive at your house in 7 - 10 days.” “Great, more waiting,” I exasperatedly stated to my mom and we left the fresh smelling building.

The card came as promised, but I still needed a physical. I had to get a physical for soccer so why not get one for my permit at the same time. The physical was the last thing I needed, the last obstacle between me and my permit. I was thrilled and laughed as the Doctor completed a series of strange tests on me. Bending my limbs, checking my heart rate, and testing my eyes. “Have a great day,”she said and I knew I would because the only thing stopping me from driving that shiny black car, was a test that I knew I could pass. “Why did it take so much work to get a learner's permit I wondered?” I understood that you would not want people driving who had bad eyesight or some potentially dangerous health condition, so the physical made sense. It was also clear that people had to know the rules of the road otherwise there would be chaos, not to mention a lot of accidents. Nevertheless, why was it necessary to have a Social Security card, and why did that require several forms of ID and a face-to-face interview? Slowly, it dawned on me. Until now, I had been identified as a child of my parents. My identity was tied to theirs. Even with a Passport, I could not travel anywhere unless I was accompanied by one of them. Now, I was taking the steps to be identified as an individual. A driver´s licence was the thing that would officially identify me as me. It would say that I had all the rights and privileges of an American citizen. It meant that someday I could steer that mechanical metal box to some new destination-- alone.

Skrrrrrrr. The train comes to a complete stop and a cluster of people gather around the door to enter, myself included. The train is empty except for one man standing, walking cart to cart while holding clear bottles full of perfume. I take a seat and increase the volume of my music to enter my own little world, as my chain dangles and dances around my neck. A couple years ago my mom married a muslim immigrant who shared his culture and beliefs with us, which lead me to find a new meaning in things. I began to share the same beliefs as him as he took me under his wing. As the years went by my family took a trip to Egypt, without me, to meet my step father’s family. They brought me back a necklace that says “God is one, Muhammad is a profit” to show a piece of my religion. I haven’t taken it off since the moment I got it.

The man enters my cart, eyeing the amount of “future customers”. He’s wearing white Air Force ones with nike sweats and a Kufi (an islamic prayer cap), we share something in common. I see that he is holding clear bottles of perfume, trying to sell them to an open customer. I put my head in my phone trying to avoid eye contact because I’m not interested in buying any perfume.  

Social media has had a big impact on the way I think about things. I’ve seen multiple posts on my timeline warning me about people trying to sell perfume, when you sniff the scent it causes you to pass out and allows the person selling it to kidnap you or you not be aware of your surroundings. This causes me to be alert at the sight of the man.

I bury my head in my phone avoiding all movements. I’m scrolling through my instagram feed and suddenly a blue tinted clear bottle gets put in front of my phone. My heart starts racing as I lower my music, take one earbud out and lift my head to make eye contact with the man.

He proceeds to make an argument on why I should invest in his perfume, I make eye contact but I’m not really listening. I then acknowledge the kufi on the man’s head and look down to make eyes at my chain hoping he realizes the sign. I raise my head to see if he has caught the sign I was trying to make and he did. He then places out his hand and greets me “As-salāmu ʿalaykum”. I shake his hand as I respond “alaykum as-salām”. He then leaves me and goes about selling his scents to other people as I put my earbuds back in and go back to my daily train ride.

Later in the day, while I’m daydreaming during class I think about what occurred on the train. It lead me to think that the man on the train only went away because we shared something in common, our religion. It lead me to believe that once he realized we were almost one of the same, he wasn’t interested in selling me his product but he was interested in protecting me from it.

I then started to think deeper, people take it upon themselves to figure out how you identify, white, black, muslim, asian, male, female, but who said that’s how you identify? I realized that the man on the train was eager to sell his product to me while I was looking like any other ordinary white boy on the train, but after seeing we shared a common belief his mind had changed. I believe people are more prone to protecting people that they share a common belief with, especially if what they believe in leads them to discrimination. Although it’s comforting to feel united, we associate ourselves with the ones we’re comfortable with, leaving the others to be on their own.

“Nicola Breedy-Caesar please board the plane at gate C”

My body froze, I knew it was time to finally face one of my biggest fears and hop onto the plane. I had never been on a plane before and 6 year old me, listening to all my older cousins the night before talking about how birds love to fly into engines and cause the planes to crash, my imagination began to run wild. I started to imagine all the possible ways the plane could have crashed into the ocean. My mom yelled at me and told me to hurry up before we missed our flight. This was a big opportunity for me, I told my mom that I had to go the bathroom. I was trying to find anyway to make us miss the flight, my mom said that there were bathrooms on the plane. I knew that there was no way to try and make us miss the flight, if I had tried anything else the belt would have made sure it didn’t happen again.

The flight attendant had passed us our boarding tickets, and I wanted to just throw it away. The flight was booked and because we were riding on standby, I wasn’t going to be able to sit next to my mom and sister. This made the ride even scarier, I got onto the plane and went to my seat nervously. I got the window seat and sat next to an old man and his wife. The flight attendant had gone over all the things to do in case of an emergency. When they said it was time to buckle up, I grabbed the seatbelt and tied it so tight to point it felt as if I was stopping my blood circulation. We were on the runway just waiting to go into the air, and we soon began to takeoff.

When we got into the air, I had felt some turbulence and it made me go insane. I started yelling, “We’re going to die, we’re going to die!” I had caused a scene and all the other passengers had started to look at me. I kept going on and on for about 5 minutes, until the co-pilot had came up to me. I thought that I was going to get kicked off the plane, but he smiled and told me that everything was going to be fine. I didn’t believe him, and said that we were going to fall into the ocean. He laughed and told me to follow him into the cockpit. I was a bit skeptical at first, but still decided to follow him.

“Woah this is amazing” I said.

The cockpit was beautiful, there were so many buttons and I was able to touch the wheel. It was a lot of fun and the pilots were really cool to me, the kid that had caused a bunch of hell on the flight. I had almost completely forgot my fears and that we were almost 30,000 feet in the air. Those kind pilots had taught me to not be afraid of airplanes and that you should always face your fears. When we had gotten off the plane my mom had reminded me of what was going to happen once we got home, because of the scene that I had caused. I didn’t really care at that point, I was really happy, because I was able to face my fears and get a cool experience to brag to my cousins about, except for the crying and yelling part. From that somewhat embarrassing experience, I learned that you shouldn’t let your biggest fears haunt you, and that you should try to think about how to overcome those fears instead.

.

Yasir Thomas

Systems Essay

Growing and maintaining my hair has always been a struggle for me. Every day I would think about what I would want to do with my hair and how it would turn out later. I’ve been on a long journey with my hair. I hated it, loved it, cut it, and grew it. I’ve also been through many different styles. It’s crazy to think about how many different styles I had over the course of a few years.

I was in fourth grade when I first began growing my hair out. It was longer than it currently is. I let it grow out because my father had cancer and all of his fell out. I would grow it out for him because he asked and I thought that it would inspire him to continue with the therapy, but trying to maintain my hair was always a struggle. I was tender headed and every little thing that happened to hair, even when it wasn’t braided it was still hard to deal with. After a while, my mom would always ask me when I would get it cut.

Once I reached fifth grade, I got a haircut. I felt like a new person. I could feel the wind brushing against my head and the sun beaming down on it. It has been a while since I felt the feeling. When I walked into class, no one recognized me, and when they did, they were surprised. Being nearly bald felt amazing until I realized how much I missed my hair and the feeling of the just having something there and playing with it. I started missing my long hair and thought about growing it back.

The summer before 8th grade, I began to grow out my hair again without even realizing. I came back to school with a mini afro and once again, I looked like a new person. 8th grade was the time that I struggled the most to keep up with my hair. Everyone would say, “I love your hair! Can I touch it?” When someone asks if they could touch my hair I would usually think that they meant to feel the texture, but they would play in it, pull it, and just mess up my hair completely. I used to put a lot of effort into making my afro look good. In the middle of the school year, I decided to get braids because I tired of everyone ruining my hair. My hair was growing but it wasn’t as long as I wanted it to be.

My freshman year here I started off with braids for a week or two. Then I took my braids out every other week and had a messy afro. I would also have designed cornrows and other types of styles. One of my favorite styles that I had was a braided mohawk, I felt like it was amazing because I didn’t think that it would look right. Soon after, I wanted a haircut but not a full one. Soon after I a drop-fade (the hairstyle I currently have). Right after I got my fade, I was filled with joy since it finally happened. When I walked into school everyone was overly excited and wanted to touch my hair. I felt like a brand new person because it was new and exciting. It's easier to take care of since I have half as much hair.

Looking at the amount of hair that I have now, I regret cutting off all my hair when I was younger. It’s probably one of the biggest regrets that I have. I miss having a lot of hair and being able to do a lot of things with it. Now, I’m just experimenting with my hair seeing what things I like and what things would look good on me. The next few things that I would try doing with my hair are curls, hair dye, and another type of braids.

We were in the locker room when coach said this is the game we all been waiting for. We knew that we had to win the game because this was the world series. We wanted to play this team the whole tournament. You could instantly feel the tension with the other team as soon as we got on the field, because on the first day we were at our hotel their players kept bragging about how they were the best team. They continued to say how they were going to beat us. As we were on the field  warming up they said “ Rays, Rays, Rays “, which was the chant that they would say after every game they won. By them saying that they were implying that the game was basically over before it had even begun.

We were the home team so we were able to throw the first pitch. The first three of there batters  struck out so our energy was up and theirs were down. We put up an 3-0 lead in the first inning. Their whole team was down and our energy was through the roof like the game was over and we already won. Our pitcher was on fire, he struck out the next 6 people. So now it's the top of the 4th inning. Score was still 3-0 we started to slack we thought we had the game in the bag. They started to get hits and started to get on base, the whole game knowone from there team touched the bases into the 4th. We still stopped them from scoring but now there energy was up and it was like ours was going more down as theirs came up. The 5th inning came still 3-0 but not for long, we walked 2 batters and a passed ball caused them to advance from first and second base to second and third. The next batter hit a pop up the our left fielder and the guy on third SCORED! 3-1. 4

Our coach called time and came to the pitcher mound and had a talk with the whole infield. “ Guys come on wake up, this game is not over we have two more innings left of baseball don't let up now “.  We went back to our potions, the next batter hits a ground ball to our third basemen, he fields it cleanly but makes a bad throw home causing another run to score. Now ts 3-2 one out and a man on first and third their power hitter is up now he hits a shot over our center fielder head both men scored. 3-4 Rays are winning! Coach came back to the mound and changed pitchers. Our new pitcher struck the next two batters out. This is our last chance to come back and we were at the bottom of our lineup. Tampa put in a new pitcher and struck the last 3 of our batters out to end the game Tampa won the world series. I was s hurt because we could have crushed them but since we were up the whole game we slacked and they showed us that you play the whole game your hardest into its fully over.  

Ari Burstein

English: Ms. Pahomov

Gold Stream

E-Band

September 21, 2018

Word Count: 688

Beep Beep, Beep Beep. Beep Beep, Beep Beep. I turn off my alarm and slowly roll out of bed. Nine o’clock is too early to be getting up on a summer morning, I think to myself as I pull up my black jeans. I go to the bathroom and splash my face with water. I get ready quickly, and I’m out the door by 9:35. I unlock my bike and get ready to head towards 19th and Market, where I will be working for the summer. Marathon Grill. I wonder what it will be like as I begin my three-and-a-half mile trek from West Philly.  

I am full of excitement as I try and anticipate the day ahead of me. Although being a busboy isn’t the most glorious job, it will be a good learning experience for me, as well as a way to make some money. I can’t wait.

I get to my Marathon Grill at 9:53 A.M.; 7 minutes early. I take a few moments debating whether or not I should go in early and decide I should. As I walk in, I sense the other employees notice my aura of nervousness.

“Are you Ari?” an older woman says from the Employees Only door.

“Yes,” I reply uneasily.

“Hi, I’m Cheryl. Have you ever worked in a restaurant before?” she says as she hands me a black shirt with a neon green M on it, the Marathon Grill Logo.

“I have not,” I respond unsure of what this would mean for me.

“Poppa,” the woman yells into the kitchen, “I need you to train someone.”

A few seconds later a burly man comes out. He is about 6’1 with a trimmed beard and dark skin. I shake his hand. It is rough, calloused by many years of manual labor.

“My name is Poppa,” he says with a thick Haitian accent, “In the next hour, I am going to train you to be a busboy.”

The next hour consisted of me following Poppa around and learning about the tasks that were required of me and how to do them. I changed the trash bags, filled up each serving station with ice, wiped down tables, and cleared dishes. By 11:00 I had a pretty solid understanding of my role in the restaurant. Now I am ready to go off on my own.

“You will be in charge of bussing the outdoor tables and keeping them clean,” Poppa says.

I nod at him and prepare for the onrush of lunch customers. I walk around, inspecting each table to make sure they are clean. I walk back to the bussing station as the flow of people starts to increase.

The day goes on, and I do my job well. I am amazed by how smoothly everything runs, from the kitchen, to the food-runners, to the waiters, and finally to the busboys. Everyone has a role to play. Two o’clock comes by. I clock-out and begin to bike home.

When I get home I take a long, hot shower. Warm water rolls slowly down my tired body. I feel relaxed. After the shower, I go to my room to watch American Horror Story.

“Ari,” I hear someone saying faintly, “Ari, wake up.”

I open my eyes to see my dad standing over me. I must have fallen asleep.

“What time is it?” I ask my dad in a flustered manner.

“It’s almost six o’clock,” he replies. “It’s time for dinner. We’re going to SangKee.”

We get to SangKee and are seated rather quickly. However, I can’t help but look at the restaurant with a different perspective. I watch the waiters taking orders and the runners taking food out from the kitchen. I see the hostess seating people and the busboys clearing tables. I now have a greater appreciation for those who I took for granted before.

We finish our meal, and my father gets the check. As we begin to leave, I get $3 from my pocket and leave it on the table.

A week before my sophomore year had begun, my emotions were all over the place and not just before of first day jitters. I honestly didn’t know how to feel, but I knew something was off. My body was no longer at ease. All I knew was that I was supposed to feel something I just didn’t didn’t if it should be pain, sadness, awe, angry, or grief. I knew my mom felt something but I couldn’t interrupt what she was feeling either. I only had one specific memory that I could base my emotions off of.

The first time I met him was at a Fourth of July cookout at my brother’s house. I had to be around eight or nine and he was a year younger than me. I distinctly remember our conversation. We were talking about our zodiac sign and how we were a year thirteen days apart. Even though we were connected by blood I didn’t know him enough to feel a strong connection, but I did feel some sort of hurt because I knew this situation was not okay. What brought me the most discomfort was the fact that no one felt the need to tell me what had happened; I had to find out through Instagram. The funny thing is, if it wasn’t for my older cousin pointing it out I would’ve kept scrolling. Even though I have around 25 first cousins we still should know each other or at least be aware of each other’s existence.

My uncle has seven kids in total and I only knew about three of them existed until the Janazah (Islamic funeral), but I still didn’t meet all of them because the youngest lives in Florida with his mother and stepfather. I love my uncle to death but I felt a little anger towards, yet I was still hurt for him. I was sad because I knew my “ fun young” uncle’s light would be dimmed. As much as my family pretends that everything is okay nothing will ever be the same. There will always be a hole in my uncle’s heart that will never be filled because of the lost of his son and that’s what hurt me the most.

On August 22nd of 2018, Mu’aawiyyah Jalil Meekins was taken off life support and it felt like the world was at a standstill. It was sad that he had died but there was a slight feeling of peace. There were no more long nights or early mornings at the hospital nervously waiting for any sign of life. Since majority of my maternal side are Muslim, we had to move quickly because the burial had to place no later than three days and my uncle asked if the gathering to be at my house. I knew I wasn’t going to the viewing or the burial because I knew there was going to be a lot of people and I’m too emotional for funerals. My mom and I had a day in an half to clean the house. There had to be at least 400 people at the Janazah and at least 150 of them came back to my house. At first I was annoyed because all these people that I didn’t know were at my house and my mother constantly kept telling me “Be nice, they’re your family.”, but it honestly didn’t feel like it.

I knew eighteen out of twenty five of my first cousin and most of us were extremely uncomfortable. I’m not really a people’s person so I tend to be very distant to people I don’t know and I found myself doing and so did my mom. My cousins and I had realized that, that day wasn’t about us. We had to understand that we have to people to these that our parents call family. When I did eventually open up to “my family” I felt comfortable with them.

It was sad that we had to get together as a family because of the death of a young one but on the brightside we finally got to meet, and I can thank Mu’aawiyyah for that. He brought us together as a family and we are forever connected. Once everything was over, I realised that you never know how important something is until it is taken away from you.  

I can't fully remember the crowded airports and hours of waiting that took place when I immigrated to Philadelphia, but my family does. “Don’t worry abuelito and abuelita I will always have you in my heart” my mother those were one of the last words I said to grandfather and grandmother before I left for Philadelphia.

I have always taken pride in the fact that I was born in Ecuador, and how my family immigrated with little resources grew to where we are today. Immigrating to Philadelphia at a young age was grueling. I would be lying if I said it was all sunshine and rainbows.

There were days where I would walk home crying because the words on the board and in books were too hard for me to comprehend. I can still recall the guttural feeling shame and fear when I walked to schools some days. My mother noticed this and decided to push me into the right direction. We started to go to the Free Library of Philadelphia. I would read for hours on end every weekend. I went from reading books about fairies to reading classics like “The Giver” and biographies about every historical figure you could think of.    

I used all my confusion and channeled it into trying to learn. I learned, grew and adapted because of my background. Situations like that were what made me the person who I am today.

My story is very similar to other immigrant families. Packing up and sacrificing for a better life down the road is a common theme for most families that immigrated to different countries.

I can empathize with immigrants because I am one. Everyone no matter where they were born should be able to empathize with people's struggles and have a basic respect for all. Sadly, there are some people who are so insecure and closed minded that the thought of people who talk or look different than them is mind-boggling.

“Hola mamá, estoy casi en casa.” I had called my mother to tell her I was coming home. She proceeds to thank me for notifying her in Spanish. I responded “De nada, hasta pronto”. Just as I said that I saw a woman look at me with a face that is hard to really describe. It was a look of disgust combined with a look of superiority. As soon as our eyes met I looked away and kept walking. I wouldn't say I felt ashamed after that but I just felt confused for that woman.

There have been so many other times where people are judged for what language they speak or just their looks. Someone I know was in their apartment lobby just waiting for an elevator. As soon as an elevator opened the woman standing next to her said: “I’d really appreciate it if you went on a different elevator, I want to be with my own people.”. My friend was so in shock that she just stood there and let the woman go by herself. When my friend told me this story she had tears in her eyes. That surprised me because I barely see her. This just shows how someone's ignorance can affect people.

Actions like this don’t just happen in the United States through I've even seen this in my own home country of Ecuador. There is currently a gigantic crisis happening in Venezuela. The inflation there is unbelievable and there is little to no medical care for those that truly need it. This crisis has caused many Venezuelans to immigrate to many countries including Ecuador. Many of these people are families that only have a bag to their name and are just trying to survive.

The problem is a lot of Ecuadorians that don't want Venezuelan immigrants in their country. I saw a prime example of this in a car ride back to my grandparents. My grandfather switched the station and he stopped on a woman talking about Venezuelan immigrants.  She was literally yelling about how Venezuelans would make the country impure. She then stated word for word "We already have enough black people in this country, what would make you think we want more.". After that, I had to tell my grandfather to turn it off because I didn't want my 9-year-old sister to hear such toxic ideas.

I do believe that immigration reform is needed in Ecuador but if you just spew hate nothing gets changed. You need to make sure immigrant families are getting jobs and education to help the country in the long term. There also need to send aid and legal reform to Venezuela itself, so they can get back on their feet.

In conclusion, All of us need to be able to accept that we are all different. We must learn to acquire the basic human dignity to respect each other. Without actual empathy from all sides nothing will change.

For as long as I can remember I’ve struggled with my cultural identity. Both of my parents are Ethiopian, which ultimately makes me an Ethiopian. However, I live my life as an African American. Whether it be me not understanding a word of Amharic. Rarely attending Ethiopian gatherings. Or even my transparency about being Ethiopian. For some reason, I’ve always tried to hide who I am, up until now.

All of my Ethiopian friends can speak Amharic, except for me. The main difference between us is that I grew up in a single parent household. Which led to my mother having to constantly work in order to provide for my siblings, and not around enough to teach us Amharic. The language barrier has always held me back from getting more involved with my culture. I always felt discouraged because most of the time I had no idea what was being said, and I really wanted to know what was going on. Ethiopians always speak to me in a language I know nothing about, and that just makes me feel uncomfortable. At times, I even feel like an outsider even though it’s who I am. In addition to this, my non-fluency in Amharic has always held me back from visiting Ethiopia. I’ve always been a bit ashamed of myself when I’d see a family member, and they’d speak to me in Amharic. I could never respond to them because I had no idea what they were saying. This makes things awkward, and I’d have to put on a fake smile to try to ease the discomfort. In an effort to combat this, I always promised myself that I’d learn to speak Amharic one day.

On a normal year, I might go to two or maybe three Ethiopian gatherings. While the rest of the community goes to 12 events minimum. The get-togethers have always felt boring and lifeless to me. While everyone else is dancing and having a good time, I’m just in the back on my phone because no one is speaking English, thus I’m oblivious to almost every aspect of the party. I have no idea what the music is about or what’s being said. I feel isolated there. My head is in a different place. I’m not connected to anyone or anything around me. But at the same time, it feels like I’m running from my true self. Whether I’d like to admit it or not, I’m Ethiopian. My race is Black/African American, my nationality is American, but my ethnicity is Ethiopian. If I’m Ethiopian, then why should I not surround myself with other Ethiopians? On one hand, if I step outside of my comfort zone by visiting the country or learning the language I’ll be uncomfortable. But on the other hand, if I don’t immerse myself in the Ethiopian culture. I’m not being true to myself.

Lastly, I’m not very open about my ethnicity. All my friends have an Ethiopian flag emoji in their Instagram biographies, but not me. It seems like every Ethiopian besides me broadcasts their heritage to the world. I experienced an awakening recently. This Summer, I spent a lot of time with my cousin in Buffalo, and I spent a lot of time with her Ethiopian friends. When I went to an Ethiopian graduation party, I didn’t feel so left out. I knew who to talk to and everyone seemed so welcoming. I was no longer the outsider. I had deep conversations about my future with complete strangers. It didn’t feel forced. When I got back to Philly I began to look at things more clearly. And embrace who I am. I was intrigued to say the least by the idea of being an Ethiopian. My transparency is definitely something that will begin to change these next couple years. I want to hang an Ethiopian flag in my room, I want an Ethiopian flag in my Instagram biography, and I want to surround myself with more Ethiopians.

My cultural identity is always something that I’ve struggled with and will continue to be a struggle, but at least now I know who I am. I might not be able to speak Amharic yet. I know that I have trouble socializing with Ethiopians. But, now that I have clarity on who I am, I will work on those things and better myself as an Ethiopian.

There aren’t a lot of things that were passed down in our house, no engagement rings from Grandma, no fine china in glass cabinets or enchanting silver candlesticks. The few things we did have, a dining room table set or some clay Christmas figures, had to be sold to people who had the space in their house or had to be thrown away cause they broke into dozens of pieces. Instead, we have a single wooden chair that creaks when you sit on it and 23 sets of decorative salt and pepper shakers, none of which we actually use.

Before it came to live in my great-great grandmother's house, this chair was probably used so school children could practice sitting with their back straight because of how stupidly uncomfortable it is. If you slouch even a little bit the chair digs into your back, forcing your body back into awareness no matter how much you want to rest. When my great-great grandmother died, she had six of these chairs and one dining room table to go with it. She also, coincidentally, had 6 children. So instead of giving them her jewelry or her books or even her house, she gave each child a single chair. Who got the table, no one knows. My great grandmother hid it under piles of boxes in the basement, my grandmother put it in a corner and used it as a decorative piece, and now my mom uses it a in her office because she doesn’t know where else to put it.

Downstairs in our living room, we own is 23 sets of decorative salt and pepper shakers. It's 23 more than we need, seeing as we use an entirely separate pair of bland looking salt and pepper shakers from Target in the kitchen. They’re not decorative in the sense that you can’t use them, they just include lots of colors and are prettier than the shakers from Target. I didn’t even know they existed until she decided to put shelves up in our living room. I asked her what she was going to put on them, and she said her moms salt and pepper shakers. When I asked her where she had put them before, she just told me they were in a box for the past dozen or so moves, and left it at that. I never asked why she hand’t put them on display before, and she didn’t tell me.

We don’t really talk to my moms side of the family. Ever since she moved to the city and had me, there’s always been some kind of disconnect between the two of us and the rest of them that gets us uninvited from small reunions or get togethers. I think that’s why the few family heirlooms we had always were stuffed into attics or into dusty boxes, because she’s always wanted to keep her family hidden away. I think we’re both more at peace now that we have our few heirlooms out in the open of our house, now that we’re recognizing the family who has come before us.

Her eyes squint, subtly at me as if I were a Rubik's cube that she couldn’t figure out. She opens her mouth to speak but returns back to thinking. Her face was familiar, almost identical to the other strangers who’ve wondered the same thing before. I could hear her question before she even asks it. I dread it but I ease back and wait.

“So,” here it comes, “what are you?” my hairdresser asks.

I say almost automatically, “I’m Wasian. Half white, half Asian”. She opens her eyes in surprise and takes a closer look at my face.

“Wow, I thought you were Puerto Rican,” I want to roll my eyes to the back of my head. I have this mental file in my mind full of the different ethnicities that I’m mistaken for: Latina, “white mixed with something else”, Italian, and of course, Puerto Rican. Very rarely will people actually assume that I’m part Asian.

“Yeah, I’m half Korean on my mom’s side.” You’d think I’d be used to this question but after fifteen years it still stings to hear people mistake me for something else.

She pulls up a picture of her quarter Korean daughter and replies, “This is my daughter, she’s twenty-five percent Korean.” I examine her closely and her very prominent Asian features. “She looks more Asian than you,” that hurt. I look up quietly and force a smile.

When I was a baby, people would ask my mom, “Are you sure that’s your baby?” Sure, an Asian woman carrying around a blonde baby sounds pretty odd and I guess it was. Usually, people would just assume that she was my babysitter. I think about what she tells me and can’t help but feel as if she was being discounted as my mother.

As I grew older, I began to almost entirely ignore the rather obscure half of me. The fact that people couldn’t actually recognize my Asian made it hard to celebrate my ethnicity; I was surrounded by people who enjoyed representing their cultures but I felt differently about my own. I began to resent this side of me that has roused confusion since the beginning of my life. Since I didn’t look the part, why should I play it?

She brings out a curling iron from one of the drawers hidden in the counter filled with clips and combs varying in different sizes, plugs it in and waits for it to heat up. She sets her eyes back to me and asks, “Do you have any siblings?” I open my phone and go to my sister’s Instagram to show her a picture of my brother and sister posing together on prom night.

“This is Quinn,” I point to my sister. “And this is Emmet,”. I know what she’s thinking; they look more Asian. Anyone with a set of working eyes could see it.

“Oh,” she squints her eyes to get a clearer look at them, “I can see that they are Asian a little more, but none of you guys look fifty percent.” It’s true; although my siblings did have darker hair and more Asian features than me, none of us really looked like the traditional Wasian. And although it wasn’t her fault, the physical vagueness of my Korean side upset me. I mean, even quarter asians usually look more Asian than me.

It’s human nature to match a face with an assumption. Since he wears glasses he must be smart or she must be popular because she’s pretty. For me, people often believe that I identify with my white side since my face doesn’t have many Asian characteristics.

As she continues to curl my hair, thousands of thoughts roll through my mind. Some were thoughts of annoyance and others of grief but there was one that stood out from the others. It was different from the others that I’ve had in a situation like this. I look at myself in the wide set mirror ahead of me and think to myself. I can’t change and it won’t help thinking about someone else that I’ll never be.

I managed to release all my tension that I’ve held throughout the conversation. People have explained this to me over the years but I never really made anything of it. “You’re yourself and no one else, just accept it,” I’d hear their advice but never really listen. But for some reason this one visit at the hair salon made me realize that maybe I should’ve.

Once she finishes curling my hair, I get up from the chair and thank her. Although this encounter wasn’t very different from the others, I left the salon not feeling, but knowing that my ethnicity doesn’t define who I am.

“Yeah can’t talk with a gun in your mouth, huh?” I sang sternly.

“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!”

“It’s just a song,” I said to my mom.

She frowned, “Sing something more positive,”

“But it’s just a song!”

“Stop chanting that music, it’s brainwashing you.”

“Okay, I guess.” I chuckled.

Whenever I listen to and share my music, I am constantly criticized for what I like or who I listen to. I can be listening to one of the greats such as Biggie or Tupac and as long as it abides by my mother's rules, she’s fine. But as soon as I say something that I like, I get criticized for being myself. It doesn’t matter what genre it is, it can be pop, hip-hop, jazz, RNB, whatever it is, as long as I’m listening to it or even saying the words, I am “drawling” or “need to calm down”. It makes me feel out of place. Like I am some kind of weirdo that is obsessed with music.. But it’s not like that though. Well at least not in my eyes. Just because I like music, people think that I am now out of the place of a “Human being”: it means that I am special in my own way. Is there anything wrong with that? NO! Yes I sing lyrics but I don’t live that lifestyle and that's where my moms problem starts because she feels like if I sing the song then I will live it. I know funny right?

I have a deep connection with music. Ever since I was younger, like an infant, my dad would play his old dj tracks in his headphones and put them on my head. I even have a picture of that. I’ve loved music ever since. This may sound far fetched but my Dad is literally like the only one who understands me when I talk about my musical side of me. I have friends that I can talk with about different stuff related to music, but when I talk to my dad about music, we can relate to much. So many  different songs or albums from different time eras from the 70’s to now including tracks off of movies, tv shows or just tracks in general because we just love it that much. I love how strong of a musical connection me and my Dad have.

Don’t get me wrong, I still love my mom but the connection me and my father have on a musical level is crazy. We like the same genres and we are open to most musical content. I can talk to him for hours about music but when it comes to my mom, she’s more oldschool and likes the singers and is not really intrigued by rap like I am. We have a connection so strong sometimes it feels like rap could be a person, I have a love for rap. It's a part of me. And no, I’m not just ignorant to like rap, I like multiple genres of music but rap is my favorite genre of music.

Some of the artists that I like the most are Kur, Trippie Redd, XXXtentacion, Ski Mask the Slump God, Comethazine, The Notorious BIG, Tupac Shakur, NWA, Mos Def, Mase and Junior Mafia. I like these artists because they are popular but because they make music that speaks to me

Many people think that rap is all bad and thought there may be some negative things but, these artists are always pushing positive vibes regardless to their lyrics. They always show creativity in their music. They can talk about more than how many guns they have or how many women they fornicate with or how many racks or bands they have. I mean yes, they have all mentioned it but it’s not always about that with these specific artist. They can paint a picture with lyrics alone and that's what makes them so amazing in my eyes. Regardless of the music they make they were still good people and most of them know how to differentiate music from life. That's what makes these artist so good and why I fell in love with their music.    

God bless the smooth, creamy substance that binds itself to the sweet and sticky darkness alongside the inner walls of two pieces of bread.

A knife is drawn. The skilled wielder swiftly dips it into the tall jar of jelly with precise accuracy to grab the perfect amount with one swoop. The satisfying slap noise that echos in the small kitchen by the jelly hitting the bread fuels the wielders energy to slide it over the bread in a perfectly even spread. The adrenalin in his veins only increases when he goes to rinse the small amount of excess jelly on the blade, preparing himself for the second round of this ancient process. Paper towels are the key to making sure the utensil is truly prepared for the next step. One square cut towel is all you need to cleanse the blade of wetness. Once the knife is dried of all liquids another jar appears. Although this one is no simple jar, for it is a container of peanut butter! Rich, silky peanut butter that sticks to the blade with one twirl in there. This part of the procedure requires the most experience. To be able to seal the deal with the perfect ratio of peanut butter to jelly is respected across all lands.

At last. The final step in the short but enthralling journey is the best part. Slapping the two prepared pieces of bread together. It's almost as if there is an invisible audience applauding the maker of the sandwich. A satisfying thing indeed.

Who doesn’t like to travel? Being in the YPD, you get to travel to a lot of different cities, states, and even countries. The YPD stands for Young People’s Division, it is an organization for young Christian missionaries from ages 2 to 26.This organization is not just about traveling, but more importantly,  it is about learning who God is and learning more about yourself.

We have mission projects. They are basically us providing for the less fortunate. Mission projects are very important, because it is giving back. I  think of mission projects as a way of being blessed by blessing others. One of our meetings was held in Dallas, Texas. While there, we had a pajama party. In order to get into the party, we had to bring a pair of pajamas and a book. This project was to help deal with the fact that some children are never read bedtime stories and maybe don't even own a pair of pajamas. Also, we went to a nursing home and sat with the elders to talk to them and sing hymns. It was a great experience. It made me feel good inside that I got to make someone smile, especially elders that live in that  type of environment. You can tell by their faces and by the way they kept thanking us that they enjoyed us and was thankful that we came. Every year we go away, we have to bring something whether it's soap, deodorant, or toys.

In Atlanta, we went to visit Martin Luther King’s grave site. This was very informational, and I really enjoyed my time at the grave site. We also went to the Ebenezer Baptist Church which is where Martin Luther King Jr. and Sr. preached. It felt good to be in the same place MLK once was. I felt like he was right there with me when we went in the church. Lastly, we had a moment of silence as we experienced visiting the Lorraine Motel where MLK was assassinated. This experience was a scary one. Before we arrived there, I really didn't know what to expect. I actually felt like at any moment there was going to be a shoot out. As I stood where Martin Luther King Jr. was killed, I honestly didn’t know how to feel. There was so many emotions flowing through my body but overall it was a nice museum.

My favorite place of all was Bermuda. In Bermuda, it was more of a fun trip than a church trip. We had a lot of free time to go sightseeing and do a lot of activities. Our usual annual meeting is just for the weekend. Friday night is opening service, Saturday morning is workshops then we have a couple hours of free time. We have a banquet on Saturday night and then we have a social which is just like a party. We have a closing service on Sunday morning. We stayed an extra day in Bermuda to do some fun activities. We had a clear bottom boat where you could see the fish and every other animal in the ocean. Also, there was jet skiing, zip lining and parasailing. I would love to go back to Bermuda and make many more memories. I really enjoyed my time in Bermuda.

The YPD is a great organization that teaches the young people of the AME church  how to please God and others by helping those who are less fortunate. It provides us the opportunity to travel, meet new people,  and have a good time while doing the work of missions. I am so glad that I am a part of this organization, and I am excited about what the future holds.

“What does it feel like?”

I played with a loose thread on my sweater sleeve, trying to spit out the words of my response. My eyes grazed over the faded beige walls of my therapist’s office, to one of those childish posters of cartoon-ish faces displaying different emotions, to the tips of her leather boots, back to the walls.

“I can’t really… put it into words.”

How do I describe something like depression to a trained professional? People often confuse it with just being ‘sad’ or ‘angry at the world’. For me it isn’t any of those emotions. It’s bleak, and dark. The absence of ANY emotion. So I shrugged, picking at some exposed cotton on the couch.

She sighed, pushing up her glasses and uncrossing and crossing her legs. “Well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Art therapy is useful for a number of reasons.” She smiled warmly, setting her clipboard down and going over to her wooden shelf. It was grainy and stripped, as if it had lasted through the civil war. She tugged out a bin of art supplies and fished out a pencil and a blank piece of printer paper. She sauntered over to me, setting them down and folding her hands together. “Your mother told me you loved to draw. So I want you to draw what it feels like.”

My eyes flickered down to the blank sheet of paper. Reluctantly, I picked up the instrument, and sketched my way through what having this mental illness felt like.

I started with a silhouette of a heavy set girl. Growing up I of course had issues managing my food intake, to the point where it concerned my mother how heavy I was getting. She dragged me to nutritionist after pediatrician after psychologist, to get the same responses she didn't want to believe: “Your child eats when she’s anxious or upset, and that seems too often. What’s happening at home?” It felt awful, having to be seen in public, being an embarrassment to my own mother. My seventh grade math teacher even made a rude comment about my weight, one that I laughed off, even through the twisting feeling in my throat.

I drew a smile on her face. Not a sincere one, this one was crooked and exaggerated and painted, like the Black Dahlia’s after she met the wrong end of a blade. I used to get picked on, teased for everything. Until I started to smile. If I could make someone laugh, if just for a moment, then they couldn’t see what was hurting. If I kept myself smiling, no one would guess that every night I’d curl up and sob, because I wanted to die so badly. If I made other people happy, they’d never guess that the only reason I haven’t killed myself is because of the ache in my heart when I picture my mother’s sobbing face as I’m lowered into the ground in a casket.

I drew a pit in her stomach. I drew scratches, scribbles, shaded it with harsh strokes, so much so that my therapist raised a curious eyebrow. I drew this storm brewing on the inside, but not one of rage or a fit of emotion. This feeling was anxious, dry, and it ached. It was waking up early and staring at the ceiling to try and find the meaning in getting up. It was people asking, “You’re depressed? Well, why can’t you just be happy?” Which is akin to saying, “You have alzheimer's? Well, why can’t you just remember?” And instead of seeking help, you drag yourself through life, trying to ignore the fact that it isn’t normal. Not everyone goes through this. It’s not like being stabbed with a knife, it’s like being stabbed so many times that you go absolutely numb. I scrawled scars on her forearms. I drew dry and crusty eyes, I drew a facial expression that no one knew wept because she couldn’t just be happy.

She glanced back up at me, her eyes tender and soft. “I see…” she murmured, as I let go of the pencil that I had been squeezing so hard my knuckles were white. She set her glasses down, breathing out a sigh. “Have you ever considered to yourself… that it’s okay to not be okay?”

My lips parted, the concept foreign to me. I met her eyes, for the very first time. “I’ll try.”