Tibsa, 10th - Berkley, MI

it’s weird to watch the two people you love the most completely separation 
it’s a slow fall that starts with one argument 
turns into a series of useless banters
the elephant in the room, picking
i’ve learned to ignore pretty well 
not my fault i’m always told 
but it’s present nevertheless
weekly turns into daily
my idea of love shifts 
what made it shatter 
actually, no
what combination 
of things 
broke our lives 
into 2 pieces 
a downhill staircase.
______________________
“You can take a break” , my mom says 
“You can do hard things” , my dad says 
I'm stuck in the middle, like the pillows separating them.

Irene, 11th - San Jose, CA
​
In every dream, I watch you die in my hands. I always stand in third person, mute and still, unable to save you. I hold you while your body turns cold.
***
Dear Little Sister,
You were born blue. Choking on the water inside your lungs, you fought for your breath as you entered the world from the ocean of the womb. I want to say that you lived. And you did, for a while, long enough anyway to master the basics of swimming. You loved the ocean, the waves, but you had some strange obsession with dolphins: dolphin plushies, keychains, notebooks, documentaries. We even went to Seaworld twice to see the dolphin show. But merely watching soon wasn’t enough. Eventually, and inevitably, you wanted to swim with the dolphins. 

As we grew up, our parents expected more from us. This meant more rules, more restraints. “Finish all your food, study as much as possible, practice the flute, and be back before dinner.” You broke. You always refused the food Mom cooked, skipped the classes Dad enrolled you in. You quit the flute after two days, because you thought you were wasting your breath in producing a note that sounded identical to a seashell cupped to your ear. 

Although our parents obsessively checked my grades on the online platform, nobody cared if you came home with a report card filled with Cs, or if you didn’t return home after sunset. “We can’t control her anymore. I think we should let go,” I overheard through the barrier of the walls, Mom whispering to Dad. 
Although Mom didn’t expect you to eat the food at the dinner table anymore, she always spooned out rice into your bowl first and set it down where you were supposed to sit (but didn’t), causing your place at the table to grow warm for a while.

The night you didn’t come home, I waited in front of your bowl of rice until my eyes began to stick together. I knew that you said you were hanging out with your friends, but I also knew they would already be in their homes by now. Just as the clock struck 10 PM, you slipped through the house through the gap you created during your halfhearted push. I didn’t ask. It was enough, at that moment, for me, that you were safe in the warmth of the house, protected from the wind blistering outside. 
That night in my dreams, you died in my arms for the first time.
***
Here is the dream I’ll never tell you:
In December, we sat on a bunk bed in Hawaii. You complained about shortness of breath. You told me not to tell Mom so you could go swim with the dolphins. I smiled and complied. I knew you had waited for this trip for a whole year.

In March, while the grass grew greener, your face became paler. I asked you how you were feeling. You snapped at me, “I’m fine. Don’t you dare tell Mom and Dad.” I didn’t. I forced myself to believe that you were getting better, like you always had. But this time felt different, like cold seawater seeping down into my lungs, my body absorbing the salt through the pores on my skin until I began to feel nauseous.
And just like that, you started to turn blue. While I was choking on brine, you choked on your very own breath. I froze in this fear, in this realization that you were dying. I simply could not accept that I would lose you. 

In the summer, we traveled to Korea. We ate food in the plaza smelling of scrubbed white tiles and plastic. You lay on my lap. Your body felt like fire, your breath shallow, like waves not strong enough to reach the shore. Mom and Dad were too busy eating to notice. Or maybe they were pretending everything was fine. I cried, “Save her! Please! Take her to the ambulance.” She’s dying. Those last words were the ones I could never say out loud. The words bit; I could not let them out of my mouth. I kept silent with salty tears streaming down my face. By then it was too late. You hung limp in my arms, your skin devoid of color. The fire extinguished, and your body morphed into an ashy stone. You were no longer blue.


Then I woke up drowning, drenched in cold sweat, lungs churning seawater into seafoam, my heart thrashing so violently I thought it might leap from my chest into the abyss of night. 
I knew you were already gone. 
***
When I try to unravel the meaning behind this dream, I always wonder why you never wanted to tell our parents about your illness. Was it the blank hospital walls, being trapped in the too-small bed? It couldn’t have been because you thought we wouldn’t care. You knew we would. Maybe that was the reason. We would care too much, and you wanted us to let go.
***
After the night, the night of the dream, I developed a new habit of checking your breath . I used to be a deep sleeper, but now I woke to the deafening silence of the room. I never dared touch your bed with all your dolphin plushies, but I ran my fingers right above your mouth and felt your breath becoming air. I listened for the sound of the ocean in your lungs. Your breath was shallow, turquoise waves drenching the shimmering sand. I could finally sleep in peace.

In these silent ways, warming up your place at the table, waiting for you to come home, checking your breath before I slept, I hoped that I could still save you. I knew you had strayed too far out into the ocean, where we could not reach you with our calls. But we hoped, one day, the current would carry you home, where we always thought you belonged. Or maybe you might swim back of your own will. 

At Seaworld, I learned that dolphins have no natural habitat; they roam around the sea for their entire lives. I wonder if you are so different after all. I wonder if you will ever find home, even if your home isn't ours.
***
The next winter, I watched your bowl of rice grow cold and harden. Nightfall greeted me with a raindrop. The drops fell onto the ground in an organized pattern, accelerating over time. When the leak in the ceiling dripped on your rice, I remembered. My mind flashed with your face, the color of the sea against the white tiles of the plaza. The heat escaped your body in an instant. If only I stopped you before, told our parents in that dream where you died, looked after you more. The rain reminded me of the ocean. I’m scared of the ocean. I dropped everything and ran to the market where you always went, feet halfway crammed into my sandy sneakers, soaking in the rain. The roar of the ocean plagued my ears; I felt smothered by the ocean’s cry.

I thought that I’d be able to save you this time.
It took twenty minutes to get there. I spotted you shivering in your t-shirt on the wet benches under the blue glow of the market lights.

I wanted to ask why you were outside in the rain, but I didn’t.
“I like the rain,” you grumbled at my soaked figure standing in front of you.
We walked side by side, enough distance between us for a third person to squeeze through. Rain surged down on us in patterns, overflowing and swallowing the world in blue noise, followed by silence. We breathed in this silence.
***
Dear Sister,
I dreamt of you last night. We swam with the dolphins in Hawaii. I was cautious stepping into the cerulean water, but you had already become one with the dolphins. You shouted, “Come!” but I was scared of the ocean. I watched you, your eyes burning with a new kind of fire not even the water could quench. “Don’t go too far!” I shouted. Maybe you didn’t hear me. Maybe you chose not to listen. 

From the sand, I watched you swim away with them, slowly growing smaller and smaller, until you melted into the color of the sky.

Rocky, 8th - Maryland

The first time I realized I was a male was my 4th birthday. A friends dad was dropping them off but popped by to ask a question, “Do you have a crush, or any girlfriends”. I, being 4, said no I didn’t. When I said that he assured me “not to worry” and that I would grow up to be a heartbreaker. I almost started crying because who would ever want to make someone feel like that.

The first time I realized I was a female was the same day, my 4th birthday. The same thing happened to me, a friends mom was dropping them off but popped by to ask a question, “Do you have a crush, or any boyfriends. I, being 4, said no I didn’t. When I said that, she assured me “not to worry” and that when I grew up the boys wouldn’t be able to get their hands off of me. Little did I know that less than 6 years later I would grow up for “the first time” I was taught to suppress my emotions was the second time I realized I was a male.

I was 6 and it was three months after I had lost a loved one. I had cried every day since then. One day, I came to school and started crying. Not even ten seconds after I had started bawling, the assistant teacher told me to stop crying because “boys don’t cry”. I wasn’t even ten before I was taught to suppress my emotions are always seen as “extra”. The second time I realized I was a female was on a day when I was ten. I was in a mood and angry for no reason. The next day I was asked if I was on my period. Knowing that when a female is on their period, they produce an excess amount of testosterone, a hormone found mostly in males, they thought I was on my period because apparently frustration and anger are “boy emotions” are no emotions. Because the patriarchy has successfully rebranded frustration and anger as “not an emotion” (that is if you are a male).

The third time I realized that I was a male was when I got into and argument with a girl. We were shouting at each other and eventually she ran off, crying. A little while later I felt bad and when to see her to apologize, but instead I heard her father trying to comfort her saying “boys will be boys” has to be one of the dumbest phrases I have ever heard, and yet it runs through my veins like a cancer.

The third time I realized I was a female was when I started noticing the pattern. The pattern that whenever I told someone “Hey this boy did ___” they would point down to the back of my hand. My eyes would follow and low and behold I would see the words imprinted on the back of my hand, “boys will be boys”. Males could never wear a dress or the color pink without being called “gay”. Females could never walk alone at night without the underlying fear of unwanted hands. We all have our problems, but we cannot keep comparing them because IT WON’T DO ANYTHING. We cannot take steps forward without looking backwards.

Victor, 10th - Soweto, South Africa

A Childhood Shrouded in Shadows

I rose from humble beginnings, where scarcity reigned
School days dawned with empty pockets, a constant refrain
December's clothes, a rare delight
But school trips passed me by, without a fight

My friends' laughter echoed, a painful jest
As I hid my struggles, and felt ashamed to confess
But then I found solace in words so true
Writing poetry and stories, to see me through

With every line, a glimmer of hope appeared
A chance to break free from the darkness that had persevered
I vowed to rise above, to shine so bright
And chase away the shadows, that had haunted my night

I hope someday, I'll emerge from this plight
And shine with a radiance, that will banish the dark of night
My words, a testament to the power of the soul
A beacon of hope, that will make me whole.

Sophie, 10th - Providence, RI
​
I was a bull in a china shop. During the summer after my junior year, I began a research internship at a college laboratory. While most of the other interns were college or graduate students, I was merely a high schooler with no prior experience. I seemed to mess up even the smallest details, like putting a cap down the wrong way or throwing out a pipet in the wrong bin. I began to wonder if I even deserved to be there. 

My lab instructor saw me struggling to find my place and asked if I wanted to help with one of the experiments the lab was running. We were stimulating hyperglycemic conditions in roundworms by feeding them glucose-based agar. After the experiment, the worms would be genetically tested for biomarkers associated with Type II Diabetes. Fascinated, I jumped at the chance to be a part of the experiment. 

When I observed the worms under the microscope, I was awed. They were barely visible to the naked eye, yet slithered like sea monsters under the microscope. I breathed a sigh of relief, reassured that they were alive; I knew it was my job to keep them that way. For the next two weeks, I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into the worms.

When the time came to extract the RNA from the worms, I was riddled with anxiety. I knew I did everything I could to care for the worms, but with science, you can never be too sure. When my instructor told me that the samples had been contaminated, I was shocked. I teared up out of frustration. How could I mess this up?

A conversation with my instructor helped me to realize that this is what science is about. Though you can do everything to the best of your ability, sometimes experiments just might not work out. Science is not about getting it right the first try; it is about revising over and over until it works. 

We decided to repeat the experiment. Though I was frustrated that my hard work over the last few weeks had gone to waste, I was determined to get it right this time. I made sure to triple-check every measurement, every label, and every petri dish. This time, by the end of the two weeks, there was no contamination and the experiment worked. Though I was relieved, a little part of me felt sad that it was over.

My grandmother, who was a medical school professor, would tell me that if something can go wrong in an experiment, it will. But, that is not necessarily a bad thing. Einstein didn’t theorize Quantum Mechanics overnight, so why should I expect an experiment to perform flawlessly the first time? I love science because it is not about getting everything right all the time. I find purpose in improving the journey, not reaching the destination. That is the mindset of a scientist.​

Zoe H, 11th - Brussels, Belgium 

     People say a child’s first love is their mother, then their father, but parental love is different from the love one garners from someone who is not obligated to love them. The kind of love that is not owed, but offered. From there, love can be defined in many different ways. The Greeks believed that there are eight different kinds of love: eros, philia, ludus, agape, pragma, philautia, storge, and mania. I would like to address the latter of these forms of affection. Mania, otherwise known as manic love, is what I like to think of as the most humbling of loves. In particular, when it is brutally unrequited, like it will be in this story, so buckle up. 

    When most people think of their first love, they think of a wholesome, teenage romance. However, this will not be one of those stories. I am among the people with untold stories of shame buried deep within the soul completely hidden from society out of fear of what may become of them if it is discovered. Deep within me lies the memory of one John Quincy Adams. Despite their striking resemblance, I do not speak of the sixth president of the United States of America who served during the time of the utterly monumental and totally world renowned first Oxford University Boat Race. Instead, I am referring to the seven year-old boy I met in the second grade and developed a nearly demented obsession with. Why his parents decided to name him after the less famous Adams president is beyond me. However, I do know that his name makes this entire situation far more mortifying. In all honesty, I can not quite remember what I saw in him that had me so incredibly infatuated. My recollection of him is limited to three facts: he had green eyes, prior knowledge of multiplication, and a dog named Stalin. One can tell quite how much fun his parents had with names. I think the thing I found most attractive about him was his skill at multiplication. I had decided at the ripe age of seven years-old that I needed a man whose intelligence could rival my own, and John Quincy Adams was the only child in the second grade who could compete with me at multiplication table races. Another thing to take note of is that the summer before second grade I had been introduced to Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I had attempted to read it, realized it was far beyond my Lexile level, and watched the movie instead. I proceeded to spend the remaining month of my summer rewatching the movie over and over until I could practically recite it from memory. Therefore, when I met a boy who was mostly indifferent yet borderline bothered by my presence alone from the moment we met, I was elated. I was convinced he was my Mr. Darcy. However, this eager beaver was not interested in waiting for the boy to make the first move; she decided to strike first. 

     There is a long list of things that I did and said that I could include in this essay, however, I would like to retain some of my dignity, so I will only offer a few of the moderately traumatizing ones. After the first week of school, when I decided that John Quincy Adams was the love of my life, I created a shrine for him consisting of thirty poorly drawn portraits, eight pencil I had stolen from his desk, three printout pictures of President John Quincy Adams that I had told my parents I needed for a history project, and one of his lunch boxes. I have utterly no recollection of how I got my grimy, seven year-old hands on his lunch box, but I know with absolute certainty that it was in my shrine. Another moment that I find most telling was when I went up to John with my polaroid camera during silent reading and directly asked him if I could take a picture of him to add to my shrine. The horror I saw on his face was most surprising, and when he said no I was shell shocked; how dare he. I was very offended and decided to take the situation into my own hands.

     Over the course of the next week, I took about forty-five pictures of him without his knowledge. Shockingly, John Quincy Adams’s affection for me did not grow with my many shows of devotion. About halfway through the year, we had an elementary school dance coming up. Everyone was super excited, and I knew what I had to do. This was my moment. This is what it all came down to. I was going to ask the boy of my dreams to the dance. I debated making a poster or bringing him flowers, but that seemed a tad excessive. I decided I was going to just go as myself, and if he truly loved me, that would be enough. Three days before the dance, I went up to John during recess. Our entire class was watching, and my excitement grew as they “oohed” and “aahed.” However, my elation shrouded from me the look of disgust on his face. As I finally popped the question with such hope and fondness, I was wholly unprepared for the anger he let loose. He screamed and shouted at me. He let out all the frustration and irritation he had held in the past semester at my fanatic and boundary-crossing behavior. He yelled that he saw me taking pictures, that my shrine was weird, and that he wished I would just leave him alone. I ran off, tears streaming down my face, and with my friends following in tow. They tried to comfort me, but I was inconsolable. For weeks, I sulked around and wallowed in my rejection, and I completely refused to attend the dance. My parents had no idea what had happened, and I was too ashamed to tell them. 

     With time, I recovered, and despite how devastating it was to me at the time, I believe it was an extremely important lesson for me. The time I spent thinking about the situation taught me a lot about myself. I came to the realization that I was never truly in love with John Quincy Adams, but rather the idea of him. I wanted so badly to have the love I had seen in the movies that I had gone out and manufactured it. I not only learned about the importance of boundaries, but the value of truly knowing oneself and one’s own emotions. I learned that regardless of whether or not it was something I desired, romance is not a necessity; I can be perfectly content being without it. This sentiment has stayed with me since then and saved me a lot of needless heartache and stress. I have learned that it not only pertains to manic love, but the other types of love as well. I do not need every kind of love in my life, nor do I need it from everyone.  Healthy affection from just a couple important people is enough. Learning what I did so early in life was a blessing, so despite not really doing all that much, John Quincy Adams impacted the way I think, the way I live, and the way I love.

Mhayiwezizwe, 11th - South Africa
​
We embark on a journey, from the moment we're born
A path that unwinds, through joy and through scorn
With every step forward, we leave something behind
And the choices we make, shape the person we design

Through forests of wonder, we wander and roam
Discovering our passions, and making our way back home
We meet fellow travelers, who join us on our quest
Together we navigate, life's twists and turns, and find our best

But darkness descends, and shadows fall deep
Fears and doubts creep in, and our hearts begin to seep
Yet still we press on, through the blackest of nights
For in the darkness, lies a chance, to find our inner light

With every step forward, we grow stronger and wise
Our hearts beat with purpose, our souls open wide
We learn to embrace, the beauty and the pain
And find the courage, to love and to love again

Through mountains of challenge, we climb and we strive
And reach the summit, where our dreams come alive
We gaze out upon, the landscape of our past
And see the journey, that has made us who we are at last

And when our journey ends, and our time on earth is done
We look back upon, the life we've lived, and the battles we've won
We see the love we've shared, the memories we've made
And know that our journey, has not been in vain

Keorapetse, 10th - South Africa
​
I am a proud tsonga not a “shangane”
I am a proud zulu not “mageza”
I am a proud xhosa not “kwedini”

I'm not ashamed of my culture…. 
I'm ashamed of who you think I am. 

Why....Make fun of my culture 
Why call with hideous names 
We are not made from the same seed, but we came up from the same soil