Narratives of Celebration Fall 2020

Revisiting My Roots

Bao Y.

Dear future me,

Do you remember our birthplace? You do right? If you don’t, allow young me to

refresh them for you. It was a refugee camp, located in a Buddhist temple, Wat

Thamkrabok, in the Saraburi Province in Thailand. It was where dad grew up, where

mom moved in to live after marrying dad. You still have the baby photos right? In the

small, thick, square black photo album book that’s falling apart because the spine of

the book was ripped. You’re still flipping through the pages right? I hope you are.

Do you remember what was shown in those photos? The house that was made

of thin bamboo with tiny gaps between them; other parts of the house that had thin

metal-looking things instead of the thin bamboo. The roof that was made of thin

metal-looking things instead of hay that I see in Hmong movies. The house floor that

was of the ground’s soil and not tiles or carpets. The big bowls outside by the side of

the front door, where the dishes are washed in. The clothes that hang on the

clothesline outside by the house.

A long bamboo bed outside by the side of

the house. A crib that was also made of

bamboo. Some chopped up logs that are

stacked by the side of the house. A

neighborhood where everyone knew

everyone. Where the kids often gathered

together to play. Most of us toddlers

were playing around half naked most of

the time. Raining days were the best

though, we’ll hang outside in the rain

completely naked playing with the dirty

puddles and mud. Are they still there I

wonder? Bee said they’re not.

I’ll leave this here in case you forgot what the

crib looked like. That’s me on the right and Bee

on the left.

Remember when she came back from her trip to Thailand back in 8th grade?

She brought back snacks, which she finished within the next two to three days. She

also bought a gift for dad, remember? It was a stone turtle that was a palish white

color. Remember where she bought it from? It was from Wat Thamkrabok, from a

family that lived there that was touring them around the temple. She bought it for 500

baht, roughly 15.80 USD. She met our aunt and her family there. She was lucky enough

to be able to see the camp that we grew up in. She said that the camp only housed five

families there. Can you imagine that? A camp that used to be full of flourishing life, of

laughter, of shouting, of families, now only housing five families in the silent camp

where none of the previous can be found.

She said the families there were surrounded by broken down houses of families

who’ve moved out, either to bigger cities or emigrating to the United States. The place

where a house used to stand, now lays a rubble of concrete walls that were smashed.

Her eyes followed from one house to the other and they’re all the same, where a house

would stand, lays a pile of smashed concrete. Not a source of life could be seen except

from the house that the families lived in. Isn’t that kind of depressing to imagine?

Mom and dad went back to visit too, remember?

They went the winter of our junior year in high school for almost two months.

They went to have fun and just revisit the country that they grew up in and see old

relatives. We emigrated to the United States in 2004 so it had been fourteen years

since mom and dad had last seen them. I don’t recall them visiting the camp but they

visited a relative that lived in the mountain, away from the bustling city of Bangkok.

Remember what mom said she was shocked about? It was the motorcycle. It looked to

be more like a scooter though, like from those Asian dramas where the delivery man

would ride to deliver food. Mom said they gave ours away to a relative because we had

no use for it when we came to the United States. It’s been fourteen years right? So

guess what, mom and dad also revisited the relative that they gave the scooter to and

they saw the scooter. The scooter was still full of life, running perfectly. It didn’t

struggle to come to life. At. All. Mom sounded so shocked and nostalgic when she told

us about it, remember? She sounded so impressed that it was still functioning too.

They had a blast during their trip. They promised to take us but because of the

pandemic it was put on hold. So I haven’t gone to visit yet, but did you go?

I’ve always wanted to go back to revisit Wat Thamkrabok, the place that hosted

the camp. I want to go see the place where I used to live in my two years of life before

coming to the States. I know it’s changed, changed from a place blooming with life to a

place dead as night. Mom and dad saw the place, know the place, because they lived

there for a certain amount of time that it’s still in their memories. Bee saw the place,

explored the place, it’s still there faintly in her memories. So why wouldn’t I also want

to see the place? I’m going to go back to visit for sure. So I can finally say, “ahh, I’m

finally back.” That would be a good sentimental feeling, wouldn’t it?

Though the place has changed drastically over the past decade, it’ll be nice to go

back for a visit. As far back as my memories go, it never reaches the deepest ones of

when I was still in Thailand. Of when I’m playing in the rain, staying in the bamboo

crib, or even at the airport coming to the United States. My entire two years of

childhood memories of the place are buried deep in the back of my mind. Wouldn’t it

be nice to create new memories of the place? I think it is. Things aren’t meant to

remain the same as time passes, even I’ve changed, and I’m sure you’ve changed too.

New scenery, new me, isn’t that a good start of making new memories of the place? I

think it is. But were you able to visit the place?

Did you see the rubbles of concrete that Bee talked about? Are the rubbles of

concrete still there at all? Are the families that Bee said lived there still there? It’s been

seven years since she visited so I’m not sure if they’re still there. Is it really just a dead

wasteland now? How much has the place changed compared to the one in the photos?

Did your emotions swell up? Were you disappointed? I hope not, even I know the place

is going to be different from the photos, so you shouldn’t. Were you able to say that

you’re finally back? You were able to, right? Were you also able to visit our relatives

there? What’d they say about us? About you? Nice things I hope. How about the family

with the scooter? Were you able to ride it? Did they let you? How was it? Don’t decline

the offer just because you don’t have a license! No one has to know.

Until I’m able to visit Wat Thamkrabok, Saraburi, Thailand, see you.

Sincerely,

Young Bao, age 18

When Facing Hardships, One Should Always Persevere

E. Ali

You’re all alone with nowhere to go. In every direction you head towards,

darkness is all that surrounds you. Some may say there is light at the end of every tunnel, but in this

case that did not seem possible. In a distance, you can hear women and children scream in fear as

they witness the men in your village get killed one by one. In hopes that you don't end up like them,

you’re left with no choice but to run. It’s a battlefield out there, you try your best to maneuver

through the darkness, but must always be cautious since the ground is practically covered in bodies.

That’s when you start to ask yourself, “Am I gonna make it?”. This right here is exactly what my dad

experienced back in 1991.

My dad Razak, was originally born and raised in Somalia which is located in East

Africa. He and his family had been living there all their lives, up until the civil war broke out. This

caused them to flee their home, which most families attempted to do in order to seek safety. After

spending a few years at a refugee camp located in Kenya, he then filed and received a visa that

would allow him to live in the United States. I’m thankful that my dad took the risk to come to

America because I know that can’t be easy, especially since he was so unfamiliar with it. Not only

that but he would be going there all alone, and wouldn’t be able to see his family for a few more

years. He might’ve been hesitant, but he went through with it and because of that he got to meet my

mom and start a family of their own.

Before meeting my mother and making a life in Minnesota, my dad originally

lived in Virginia when he first arrived in America. During those early years, the economy wasn’t

doing too well and for an immigrant like my dad, it wasn’t easy to obtain a decent job. The only

choice he was left with was to work at a gas station until he could find something better. Working

long exhausting hours for such little pay seemed so unfair to my dad. And once a couple of years

had passed and no progress had been made, he started to have his doubts and was worried that he

wouldn’t be able to do better than this. Lucky for him, his sister had moved to Minnesota and after

being there for a while she couldn’t wait to tell him all about it. She explained to him that the job

market was so much better and that he needs to leave Virginia and come live with her. He could see

that he didn’t have much to lose, so he packed his bags and headed up to the Midwest. Till this day,

he considers this to be one of the best decisions he’s made. Even though you’ll see him complain

every time winter rolls around and wishes to live someplace warmer, he wouldn’t change what we

have for the world.

Another struggle was the adjustment to America and its culture. I’ll tell you one

thing, this was not easy for my dad. After 9/11, it made it even harder to live in the U.S as a Black

Muslim male. As I got older, I would hear stories from my dad about how people would mistreat him

for something he didn’t even cause. People would spit, yell, and threaten him all because of his

religious beliefs. Even my mom was shocked when she heard that those things happened to him.

She explained to me that at the time, she wouldn’t wear the hijab due to fear and so people couldn’t

associate her with the religion. The language barrier didn’t seem to help either. At the time, my dad

would mainly speak Somali since he had no one to communicate with other than his relatives.

Speaking a foreign language out in public seemed to upset a lot of people, he had to learn the hard

way that most people weren’t too welcoming in America. They tried to implant a fear in him, and

unfortunately, it worked because he started to speak English more often than he had to. It didn’t

stop there though, it only got worse. So bad to the point where both my parents were starting to

question if it was worth living in America. And as much as he missed his home country, my dad

knew he couldn’t give up because he wanted to create a better life for my siblings and me. And he

did exactly that.

My dad pushed himself in many ways to make it work. He’d make sure to put a

lot of time and effort into helping us succeed in school so that we’d be set in the future. I remember

the long nights we’d spend at the kitchen table going over the topics we had been struggling with at

school. And each weekend, we’d take a visit to our local library and pick out new books to read so

that we could improve our reading skills. We’d spend what felt like hours going through each row

just to make sure we’d find the book that was right for us. It was things like this that made me

appreciate my dad more and more. But of course, we’d have our ups and downs. I remember before

entering my freshman year, my parents decided to enroll my siblings and me into a new district.

We’d been going to school in the same city all our lives, which meant we'd have to leave all our

friends that we’ve known for years. My siblings and I were extremely upset. We had until the end of

summer to change their minds, but no matter how much we begged and pleaded they wouldn’t

budge.

At the time, I couldn’t understand why they wanted to do this right as I'm about

to enter my freshman year. I can’t even count the number of times I’d try explaining to my dad how

much I wanted to stay and complete high school with my childhood friends. I thought it’d be

impossible for me to make friends and get used to a place that was so foreign to me. Now after

graduating high school, I understand why the decision was made even though I had been against it

at the time. It wasn’t because he wanted to separate me from my friends, he just wanted to see me

succeed. The school I originally wanted to attend did not have the best reputation, and although I

was willing to look past it, my father wasn’t. That is when he decided that he’d take me someplace

better, much better.

While we attended school in a new district, my dad would be the one to take my

siblings and I to and from school each day. During those four years, my dad and I got a lot closer

and formed a strong bond. Thanks to those car rides, we got the chance to make memorable

moments with one another. Some of my favorites including our morning coffee grabs, because of

this you’d see us speeding down the highway hoping that we’d make it to school on time. Although I

hated fast drivers, this started to grow on me since I couldn’t let go of our ritual because of how

much it meant to me. Then there were the jamming sessions we’d have on the way home. We’d have

the windows down, sunroof out, and all the old hits playing that my dad grew up on. It made me

smile to see him have so much fun especially after a long hard day at work.

The most memorable moment I’ll never forget has got to be my graduation. I

remember seeing how disappointed my dad got when he found out I wouldn’t be having a

graduation ceremony. He understood the significance of it after attending my brother’s graduation

two years ago. He kept wishing I could get the graduation I deserved. Since it couldn’t happen due

to COVID, he decided that it’s up to him to make my graduation a day I’d never forget. The day

before my graduation, my school was holding a parade for the seniors to attend so that the staff

could celebrate our achievements. I remember waking up that morning to see my father’s car

decked out from top to bottom in all sorts of decorations. My name was even plastered on the back

window, when I asked why he did all this he told me he wanted everyone on the road to see that his

eldest daughter was a high school graduate. When the day of my graduation came by I could see

how excited my parents were, especially my father. When we got to school, we found our way to the

gym so that I could walk down the stage they set up for us and receive my diploma. As the lady in

the gym explained how everything would go down I started to get nervous. My dad could see this

and reminded me that I’ve worked hard for this and that everything will be just fine. I took a deep

breath then walked my way towards the carpet, then everything else fell into place. It all happened

so fast it’s hard to remember, but of course, my parents and siblings have recorded that moment on

several devices so that I could always relieve that day. I remember only making eye contact with

them when it came to taking photos as I held my diploma in the middle of the stage. Even then I

could tell how proud they all were. And that is something that I’ll never forget.

I’m grateful for my father for several reasons. Being able to make all sorts of

memories with him carry a lot of significance to both him

and me. My dad didn’t get to share a similar experience with

his dad growing up. He attended boarding school at a young

age and before he could finish and return home, his father

got sick and passed away. So in a way, it feels good to know

that he got to make it up with his kids because he never

forgets to tell us how important family is. If there’s ever a

fight between my siblings and me, he’ll always remind me

that at the end of the day, the only people I can truly count

on is them. There’d be times where I’d be too angry to agree

with him, but at the end of the day, I always knew he was

right. And for that, I’m truly grateful.

My biggest role model

C.O.

A person who has played a big role in my life is my sister Obehi. Without her who

knows where I would be menatlly in life. She was who I could talk to since my parents

are very tied to their Nigerian core roots and think nothing else matters in life besides

school and work. Since they were so tied to their core roots you couldn’t come and talk

to them about how you feel about something if it made you feel sad or mad because

they will diminish it, or think it’s not important at all.

The cause of my parents' core roots comes from our Nigerian (Edo) heritage.

The culture in Edo state, Nigeria is very different from the culture in Minnesota,

America. In Nigeria, it is

said to be disrespectful to

make eye contact with

elders, no retort on

offensive or rude

comments from elders

and so much more. Due

to that culture

conditioning, they have a

very archaic perspective

on gender roles on how a

man should conduct

himself and what a

woman should tolerate or

behave. A man should

work and forget

connecting emotionally

because that is deemed

not strong, a woman is

expected to be a

wallflower and not have

much of an opinion.

Lastly, another huge

factor that plays into their

core roots is just how

they were raised. Mental health was absolutely not a thing in Nigeria and they face a lot

of tough, harsh realities that are buried deep within their conscience. They don’t believe

that depression, anxiety or bipolar is real but they sometimes tend to be withdrawn. One

of the things my parents were taught growing up is to never speak back to your elders

even if they are wrong. To my parents, that's a sign of respect but to my siblings and I

we saw things completely differently. We had a different perspective that regardless of

age a person can be wrong.

My sister gave me so much advice that I have used in life to get to where I am

today. Advise such as what to say during job interviews and how to stay calm during

tests and how to act during certain situations ect. One of the most important pieces of

advice that sticks with me day in and day out is how to act around the police since they

are very prone to killing People of color and have a biased view on young men like

myself. She would always give me rides to my friends house to my games and to

school. I sometimes considered her as a 3rd parent because of the things she would do

for me because my parents were always at work.

My sister was my number 1 fan at a lot of my soccer games. She was always

the loudest in the crowd. At first it used to be embarrassing especially when she

wouldn't stop screaming my name at the top of her lungs anytime a through ball was

played to me. Of course Me being embarrassed used to make me very timid and pass

the ball a lot when I would hear my name being called out so loudly because I wanted it

to stop. I used to get very annoyed by that. But as I got older I used it for motivation in

games and passed the ball less and would do skill moves and take on players instead.

She was kind of my personal instigator. It felt nice hearing that in the crowd.

I have a lot of respect for my sister because of what she has accomplished so

far in life. She has done 6 years in the army and is also a nurse by the age of 28. That

to me takes courage and determination to be able to accomplish that much at that age

and still strive to accomplish more in life. Till this day it surprises her that she even was

in the army for her being short. She is about 5’3 and I used to always make fun of her

height. But for someone who is short she is very strong and can get real mean real

quick. It's like she has a mode she can switch on at anytime she feels like it. With all

that said I can never see myself disrespect her because of all the hard work she has

done so far in her life and how much she has done for me. I can not thank her enough

for what she has done.

In conclusion, it’s so nice to have someone you can look up and admire because

it makes you want to be a better person for yourself to strive to be like them or even

better. They help shape your life so you can try and achieve the things they did so you

can then teach others. Watching my sister handle the challenges and triumphs she has

encountered are admirable and commendable. I strive to be able to handle myself and

accomplish my goals with grace even in the midst of racism and sexism just like my

sister continues to do.

Able Enough to Click the

Sad Skip-Ad Button, but

Blind When it Comes to

My Privilege

By: Darartu Elemo

People have already assumed what

my ethnicity is without even asking. The

thought of being curious doesn’t even come

to people’s mind. It’s like they already know

what I am. Do people really know my

ethnicity? Do people know that I’m Oromo?

Do people know that Oromia is where my

parents were born? Do people know that

Oromo is the third biggest language in

Africa after French and Arabic, yet it’s not

even on Google Translate? Do people know

our struggle? Do people know our people

are dying and the Ethiopian government is

killing us? Do people know that that I don’t

need to call myself Ethiopian when Oromo’s

make the majority of Ethiopia? That

Ethiopia is stealing Oromo’s original land?

That the Oromo majority is being

oppressed? Do people know our people? Do

people care about our people? Do I care

about my people if other people don’t?

These questions ran through my head after a

very life changing experience. An

experience that happened one evening when

my father announced that we had to pack

our bags. We were going to Oromia.

My family threw a party and left. We

didn’t sleep that night. The night blended in

with the day as we soared off into the

clouds. I didn’t even know if it was possible

to not sleep for a day. We finally made it to

the first stop, Addis Ababa the capital, also

known as Finfine in Oromo. All around I

saw people. Lots of people. It was crowded

and busy. The streets were buzzing with

people negotiating trade prices or

maneuvering their tiny bajaj cars. What a

summer to be alive. We got in a car and

were on our way to Shashemene, the city of

my parent’s house. The driver told me to roll

the windows up because if you got your

windows too low, people might take stuff

from the car. That was enough to scare me

and shut it real tight. Hours later we finally

made it to Shashamane. It wasn’t at all what

I expected. In my head I thought Africa was

all the same. Hungry people and dirt all

around. I thought we were going to live off

in the wilderness, but it was far from that. It

was beautiful. The yard was huge. The

garden was lovely. The house was mirrored.

What a sight! It was even better than most of

the houses I’ve ever seen in America! It was

nothing like what I’ve heard about from

school. Slowly I was trying to let these new

images sink into my head, as my relatives

were pulling me to show me around the

house. I was going to have a great summer.

Before coming to Oromia everyone

was telling me stories about their

adventures here. I was so excited to see it

all. Was it going to be the green mountains

in Bale? Or the late-night bajaj shopping

spree in Aposto, Shashamane? Or eating at

every Oromo restaurant in the block and

seeing who had made the best

American-style food. I was up for the

mission, but reality slapped me in the face.

I was disappointed to say the least. I didn’t

go climb the mountains or shop a lot or eat

out a ton. Instead, my siblings and I spent

most of the summer sitting down counting

down the days to leave. 60 more days.

Since my dad was at his business site trying

to build his hotel, and my mom stayed

home with us, relatives would come every

day. At first I understood that they haven’t

seen my parents in years and that they

wanted to catch up with them, but I didn’t

expect the house to turn into people moving

in. It was a shock. The daily routine was to

wake up, greet family, and wait for the day

to end. Blood relatives who were supposed

to be very close to me seemed far, since my

Oromo talking skills were lacking and I

was very bored. Seeing new faces every

day and expecting to remember names was

exhausting. There were times my parents'

beautiful mirrored house soon turned into

reflections of sadness. A summer gloom.

Since word got out that we were

American, people thought we would be

millionaires, which I think is one of the

reasons why people wanted to stay over at

our house. We were not millionaires. We

weren't even close. I was thinking that they

were the ones holding us back from

leaving. I was pissed. Back in America no

one took my clothes without permission,

but one day I saw people wearing my stuff.

My brand new clothes! I was ready to ask

who opened my suitcase but I stopped

myself. I knew that this was going to blow

out of proportion, so I stayed quiet. The

next morning I found out someone had lice

and they shared the bed with me. Those

were the last straws. I was constantly

checking if I had lice and if this trip was

coming to an end.

Most of the time my siblings and I

tried to hide away from family members

and go to my cousin's house, where we

could have fun. Their father is an English

professor and so they know English. They

also know Amharic and Swahili and taught

themselves Arabic from the local Arab kid

T.V. shows. Everytime I hung out with

them it was a relief that we could just be

ourselves and practice our broken Oromo

with them. It was the simple things we did

that made the experience more fun. Things

like watching T.V. with them, eating

delicious food from their house, and just

exploring around the city with. As I went

out, it made me want to learn more about

Oromia. I realized that what I experienced

was so narrow minded and there was much

more to learn.

The sight of seeing hundreds of poor

people coming out on the streets on the

Muslim holiday Eid and begging for help is

something to never forget. The disabled

were rolling across the road asking for

anything. My mind changed then and there.

I thought, “Oromia has so much potential.”

Oromia wasn’t a place of people eating

from golden cups, it was a rare place of

people with golden hearts. Everyone was

optimistic. They were in between a huge

political division where people were

boycotting their business from running, but

people still went to their homes and played

with their kids. There was a lack of jobs,

but somehow people still made a few

scraps to manage to support their family. I

began to think. “How could this beautiful

place be in such a critical condition that

even the poor were smiling? The ones with

barely any clothes on their back and had

flies swarming around their kids and

themselves? The ones without any arms or

legs?” It was a place where the door was

always open and everyone knew everyone

around the neighborhood. It was that place.

Trying to focus on the positive I

remembered where I was. Oromia. This

whole time I got treated with nothing but

hospitality. Where when I was at my house

I was supposed to feed my guests, but they

fed me. Where when I was full I would still

somehow end up with a full plate. I realized

that I was blinded by my privilege. A

privilege where I could walk away from

this within hours. I needed to change.

On my last days, little by little I tried

to focus less on what I wanted and looked

more into what people needed. I decided to

buy food from the nearby shops and give it

out to people on the street. It made me

happy. Some people refused because they

would rather have money, but a lot

accepted because it was all they got. In the

end it made me happy that even though I

couldn’t change the world, I could at least

change myself. I could at least try to be

more grateful.

I look back now and see that the

guests at our house used those visits as their

last hope. How often do they get to see

someone from the West be wealthy enough

to invest in thousands of dollars into a

hotel? Looking back it makes sense. The

guests in our house weren’t our wealthy

family members, rather it was the ones

without anything. They wanted help but

were too shy to ask. They were taking my

clothes because they only had a handful.

They were sleeping on my bed because

they slept on the floor back at their house. I

was mad before, but now it makes sense. I

should've looked at their condition and tried

to help out.

Yes, my parent's home isn’t really

what I call home, but it’s somewhere that I

will always come back to. I want to give

back. I have to give back. My parents built

my future on their aching limbs- their legs

to carry themselves through the struggles in

Oromia- and their hands to raise my

siblings and I in America. My father has

been heavily trying to help the condition in

Oromia by being a part of a humanitarian

organisation that builds homes and

provides medical aid to Oromo’s. He does

this because he wants to give back to

Oromia. My mom has been behind the

scenes and donates as well. From this trip I

learned to celebrate gratefulness; to be able

to click on the Skip Ad button after seeing

a kid asking for food. In the future, I look

forward to making a school and hospital

with good equipment in Oromia. I look

forward to making more job opportunities

in Oromia. I look forward to making check

up clinics in Oromia. By being successful

here and raising awareness on the condition

back there, I hope to see Oromia thriving to

its potential. Looking back made me realize

to look forward. To not be negative and be

grateful for everything. Even though there

wasn’t much I did for Oromia, I will be in

debt for what Oromia taught me. Until

then, I will try again.

Hidden Hijab: More Than What Meets The Eye

By: Ifrah Haji

If you are given a choice to wear something that represents your faith, your commitment, and

makes you feel closer to someone you love. No doubt in my mind you would choose to wear that said

thing. I choose to wear something that represents those things and so much more but by society

standards I’m either a terrorist, being oppressed, or being forced. My hijab and modest dressing is my

greatest asset and also my biggest battle with society as a Muslim woman.

Finding your style and dressing nice is already a hard task for women but as Muslim woman

that task becomes 10x harder. As a Muslim woman it’s hard to find modest clothing that is acceptable

by religious, social, and personal standards. You might find something that fits your sense of style but

doesn’t fit the standards of dressing modestly or it might be modest and cute but society will look at

you like “ what is she wearing?”. Being a Muslim woman in today’s society comes with many

hardships. We are judged on first sight, that sight is our hijab. I soon as I walk into a room people

immediately know I’m Muslim by taking one look at the piece of cloth covering my hair. In my

opinion, that's so powerful because without saying any words people already know what I stand for

and what my beliefs are. To society, I walk into a room and they have already misjudged me without

me saying a single word because of the way single individuals have represented or have used the

Muslim faith as a cover for all the bad they did.

The hijab is a versatile piece of clothing that we can match with our dresses, skirts, and other

clothes we wear. They come in many different materials, sizes, colors, and designs. Viewing a girl

wearing a hijab from the outside and being the girl wearing the hijab has a double meaning. In this

case, the hijab represents Islam and from the outside Islam is viewed as this religion holding their

women captive without any freedom. Living as the women in the religion, we feel at peace, free, and

safe. By putting on our hijab and walking out the door, we are pleasing our God and being protected

throughout the day by Him.

There wasn’t one singular moment that made me want to wear the hijab but more of a

combination of things and people. Growing up all the Mulsim women in my life wore hijabs so I grew

up wanting to wear the hijab but I didn’t really understand why people wore it. My sister explained it

was because it was part of our religion to wear it around men that aren’t family. That was honestly

good enough for me but I never felt connected to this piece of clothing I would wear every time I left

my house until my sophomore year of high school. Me and a couple friends went to a seminar about

being a Muslim in America and they had breakout sessions discussing seperate aspects. Everyone was

allowed to go to three sessions of their choice and on my last choice I went to a session about hijab. If

I’m being honest I only went to that session because I was tired and thought I could sleep through this

one, that is not what happened.

I walked into the session with my friends five minutes after it started and the only seats

available were in the front, there went my chance to sleep in the back. I took my seat and looked at 4

beautiful muslim women in hijabs. I remember them talking about when they first started wearing

their hijabs and what wearing the hijab meant to them. One girl said “ everytime I see another sister

in a hijab in public I feel so much safer knowing that someone who knows what I’m about and why I

wear the hijab is their rooting me on. It’s like having a community of cheerleaders no matter where

you go”. That really stuck with me because I never thought of wearing the hijab as being a part of

something that was so much bigger than one person. Different women from all walks of life shared

different stories of how wearing a hijab has outcast them in places but they always remembered that

they weren’t wearing it for themselves but for their religion. One woman said “ I wear the hijab for all

the women that aren’t allowed to wear a hijab and celebrate their identity and their religion in

different countries. I remember no matter how bad I’m treated for wearing one, I STILL get to wear

one and that beats any type of hate I get.”.

Walking out of that session I felt a sense of comfort and I wanted to know more about what the

hijab stands for and what it means to wear it. That’s the day I knew wearing the hijab would be

something I proudly do. Wearing a hijab I personally feel so confident because in my hijab I am

representing a whole religion, a whole group of people without having to say a single word. I feel a

sense of showing the American society what Muslims are about by being myself and representing my

religion in the best light because we have already been put in so much darkness as a whole. The hijab

isn’t just about a piece of clothing on your head, it’s about how you act. My hijab is a reminder of the

lessons that are taught in our religion. Remember to be kind, be patient, and that God only gives you

tests that he knows you can handle. The hijab stands for modesty, beliefs, honor, bashfulness, purity,

protection, and righteousness. The woman of Islam are the faces of the religion and our hijabs are our

voices.

My Native Language: The

Language Fades

M.Y.

As a Hmong girl growing up in Minnesota,

I learned how to speak my native language

from my parents and my grandma. They

would speak in Hmong all the time since

English was not the language that my

grandma knew how to speak and it was

also not a language that my mom was

fluent in. My parents and my grandmother

spoke Hmong to me all the time while

raising me and I was able to pick up the

language while growing up. Now as I get

older, I see that many younger children

cannot speak the language fluently due

culture change. This issue is important to

me because the language is slowly

endangered as it will become harder to

communicate with families, elders, and to

the Hmong community.

From my experience, hmong was easier

for me to speak since it's the first language

that I learned how to speak and use

everyday. The first couple of phrases that I

was taught from my mom would be "Koj

lub npe hu li cas?" meaning "what's your

name?" "Koj niam thiab koj txiv lub npe hu

li cas?" meaning "what is your parents

name?" My parents would often use these

phrases so that I would remember how to

reply when someone asked me in Hmong.

It was easier for me to pick up the

language. And also, these phrases are

commonly taught for younger children

because they are the basic and easy

phrases. As for my experience with

English, it was difficult for me to speak

because my parents never spoke in English

to me and I never learned how to speak

the language until I went to preschool. I

did not know my alphabet nor how to

read nor how to write. I struggled a lot in

preschool but with the help from my

teachers, I was able to learn step by step

and how to speak small phrases in English.

Overall, the Hmong language is more

about connection with family and culture

while English is towards education and

opportunities. Speaking English is a part of

my identity as a Hmong American. I am

able to have more opportunities and

connections by being able to speak

English.

My grandma has also played a part in

teaching me Hmong. When I was younger

around the age of going to preschool, my

mom would always take me to my

grandmother's house. She would always do

chores around the house and work on her

plants outside. I remember seeing her

work outside the green open field in her

backyard every time I came by to visit. She

planted many flowers, green plants, and

vegetables. I would always ask her "Niam

tais, koj ua dab tsi hnub no?" meaning

"Grandma, what are you doing today?" She

would reply, "Kuv tab tom cog noob" or

"Kuv ywg dej rau kuv cov zaub" meaning "I

am planting seeds'' or "I am watering my

plants." I would often have these short

conversations with my grandmother. I

would say that it helped me learn how to

respond and ask questions in hmong. She

would help me with my pronunciation

and teach me basic words.

Whenever we have celebrations, most of

my family members and relatives spoke

only in Hmong since English was not the

language that they were fluent in speaking.

Most kids that grew up around the same

age as me learned more Hmong than

English. During family gatherings, the

younger group and older group are

separated. The younger kids usually play

games together, the young adults do the

preparations, and the elders relax and

converse with each other.

Nonetheless, I have noticed the changes in

the younger generation. In the world of

advanced technology and new trends, the

younger generation are moving towards

the American culture instead of the

Hmong culture. As parents are becoming

fully adapted to the American culture,

they often teach their kids more about the

American culture and lifestyles. More

English is spoken and technology is now

often used to teach kids with their

education. Some parents may try to teach

their children how to speak Hmong but

some refuse to learn. This has also

happened in my family. As my parents are

from the older generation, they are fluent

in the language. From my eldest sister to

my fifth youngest sister, we knew how to

speak Hmong since our childhood years.

Back in 2007, there was no technology for

us except for two small TVs where we

would watch hmong movies either with a

VCR or Disc. As of today, I would say that

my Hmong and English is still not

proficient because I use a lot of

Hmonglish when I speak with my family

at home. Even my three younger siblings

cannot speak fluently in hmong. My older

sisters and I would say, “Koj puas tau ua

koj cov homework?” meaning “Did you do

your homework?” “Mom hais kom koj

clean koj qhov mess!” meaning “Mom said

to clean up your mess!” Most of the time,

they can understand it but they don't

know how to respond, so they often

respond back in English. My family

members and I have tried to teach them

but they gave up most of the time.

To me, the Hmong language is important

because I have learned the language from

my grandma and my parents who were

very fluent in the language. The language

taught me about the history of how us

Hmong people do not have a country of

our own, how we have fought in the Secret

War and how we migrated and resettled in

different parts of the world to restart our

life. The hmong language has also taught

me about the Hmong cultural beliefs,

traditions, relationships between relatives

and clan members, etc. Within the hmong

culture, family, respect, and education are

very important as they are valued by

Hmong parents. These are very important

aspects in hmong culture and that the

Hmong people should learn about.

Although the new generation grew up

differently from me, the Hmong language

should still be learned to pass down the

language, culture and history to future

generations.

A Letter of over a thousand words to Mom’s Unconditional

Love

Dear Mom,

There are so many words that can explain how I wished to be like you. You build so

much courage in yourself and always choose to put me and my other siblings first before you.

You have always guided me while holding my hand in every aspect of my life. Till this day I am

still amazed by how much you can juggle in your life from taking care of five kids, to cooking a

family meal before you go to your 10 hour shift, and the ability to run errands less than 2 hours.

To explain how I want to be more like you It will be in three words, and those words are kind,

strong, and patient.

Kind. In a world where you give back from being kind you will also receive something

kind back. You have always carried such a kind and warm hearted soul. No matter what the issue

ever was you always found a way to make it positive than negative. A way I remember that

always showed your kindness is through grandma, or also known as your mother in law.

Sometimes when a Hmong daughter marries into a Hmong family the in-laws can be hard to live

with sometimes, especially the mother in law. In that case it was grandma. Whenever grandma

was always mad or rude to you, you mom would always take the negative complaints but still be

kind. You would go through the burden and always try to help grandma in a positive way no

matter what. People always ask how you can always go through those times with grandma. Deep

down inside in your heart you knew that grandma had daughters, but they didn’t make it during

the war. Though you may only be the daughter in law, you were always the closest thing to a

daughter that grandma will ever have to love her. While you are at church you always found a

way to reach those soft spots of people like your christen women group. You helped them build

trust in you when they were going through hardships like divorce or sickness. The soft and

encouraging words you say to others will always create a great aurora around you.

The second is strong. You are strong in building such great characteristics in you. You

always pushed yourself more than you needed to whenever it came to working or activities you

do. You always try to take everything under control and move forward with what is coming your

way rather than wait. I feel that you got even stronger during the time when you and dad were

having issues. I was only eight when I found out that dad was cheating on you. He even went the

extra mile and left our family behind to fly to Laos to see the other woman for two months.

During that time it was the hardest for you since all of us siblings were still young ranging from

age fifteen to four years old. It was difficult trying to take care of us five when you were the only

person around. I know that it was a very hard thing to cope with mentally, but you never showed

it. You mom was able to push through because you had so much support from your family and

grandma. Never once have I seen you cry nor shown your struggles, and I feel that you mom are

so strong for being able to deal through that situation emotionally and physically.

Lastly you are patient. Patience is something I feel that a lot of people struggle on

working with, but that is something that you can do with flying colors. Growing up dad was

never the patient person, but you were always patient for him. I myself even had anger issues

while growing up as a kid, and especially when I was going through the phase of a teenager.

There was one time when I was mad at dad for keeping my windows open when I had allergies

and was very sick during the fall. It was hard for me because I couldn't breath and allergies were

killing me to the point where I got sick. I lost my taste in food and every move I did I was

sneezing constantly like crazy. My throat also became so dry like the desert. You mom though

were patient with me and was able to calm me down before I was going to explode like a bomb.

You are always open minded with your time and wait for others no matter what, and this is

something that happens a lot when I go shopping with you because I take about 30 minutes just

to look at an isle. Not once have I ever seen you rush someone because you always place your

time with them, as you say time is valuable.

As you showed your three strengths to me mom, I want to start incorporating it into my

life to be more like you. First I will start being kind and learn to become a positive person for

others. I will always take my kindness and show it to my boyfriend, siblings, and especially you

and dad. Second, I will start to become strong by learning to take on hard obstacles in my life

such as college right now. College is very stressful for me currently but because of your

strengths you have shown me, I can start incorporating that into my daily life. Lastly I will make

a habit to be more patient. This will need a lot of work to do, but I am willing to take time to be

more patient with others for example, waiting on friends or dealing with kids. As you said before

time is valuable, and we will never know when it will be that last time we see that person.

Overall as you showed me these three great strengths on how I want to be more like you,

you have so much more. Your strength and love is like a tree branching out. You have given so

much to me in my life that I wish to pay you back the same when I become more mature. The

scarred and hardworking hands that you have guided me in are the most beautiful I have ever

learned and seen. You're someone that I will never forget in my lifetime. For this reason I pray

that in the next life I hope to be born to become your daughter once again.

Your Dearest,

Angelia Yang

The Kindness Behind The

Voice That Left

H.T.

When Karina and I met for the

first time during track in eighth grade.

Her dyed blonde hair cut to her

shoulders and a yellow hoodie having to

run laps in the heat of the coming

summer. Always racing each other to

see who would complete their warm up

laps first, which always made it fun and

bearable and that was all I thought of it.

She was just a fun person to be around

during an exhausting part of the day

and I didn’t think anything else of it little

did I know that it was the start of a

good friendship.

Karina is a very important person

to me and she has brought me comfort,

peace and joy during these months of

quarantine, racist violence and protests.

During these times we have been

hanging out having fun playing games,

having lunch together during her lunch

break and she has been the person I

have spent the most time with during

these past couple of months and there

is never a dull moment with her.

We have since rekindled our

bond very quickly after our separation

from freshman year of high school even

though I was unaware of her ever

moving away, til about sophomore or

junior year and even then I thought that

was that. But since our reconnection it's

like she had never left. Even after she

moved and I hadn’t seen her till this

year, after she found me on social media

by seeing a graduation post I was part

of and following me, we made plans to

hang out by going to a park with some

friends of hers and throwing a football

around between the five of us.

And since that day we have been

around each other more and more.

Karina can always make something fun

even if we were doing something

boring. She could make anything fun,

like painting which I don’t like very

much because I’m not much of an artist,

became fun very quickly cracking jokes,

laughing at the others creation and

mistakes and just overall having a good

time. We find the most comfort playing

video games, our favorite being mario

kart, though she is better than I am. We

always have fun since we are both very

competitive but even though I know I'll

lose I like to make it a challenge

anyways. Telling me how bad I am at

said games is also one of her favorite

things to do but I just shrug it off since

she has more experience with them.

And her voice also has kindness behind

it so I know when she's teasing me she

doesn’t mean it in a hurtful but playful

way.

Karina is a very important person

to me because I feel as though we are

very similar in many aspects but also

because of the time we have spent

together she has been the person who

has brought me comfort, peace and joy

during these months. And she has

shown me two things, one being that

not everything has to be so serious and

that I should have fun and be myself

more often like I am around her. And

two, that bonds with people can last

even after distance and time, because

even after not knowing if you will ever

see them again when you do it will be

like they had never left.

The Sacrifices They Made

Abril Sosa

I’m a low income student from immigrant parents. They are the ones that made me believe in myself and

make me want to become a successful person. They would tell me about the struggles they faced and what

sacrifices they made. My parents grew up in Mexico, faced with poverty, but still full of hope. They

didn’t have the opportunity of staying in school since they didn't have the money to pay for it. All they

had was hope that migrating to a new country with better resources would help them. I use them as an

inspiration to stay focused in school. Since my parents didn't have many opportunities as a kid, they

encourage me to do the best that I can be in building a life for myself.

We were first in Texas and I remember living in a small apartment. The kitchen and living room

together, and with only two small bedrooms. My parents would go to work at Taco Bell and leave us

alone with my big sister incharge. My mom would normally have made yummy mexican food that day so

we could just heat it up in the microwave in the evening. They would come home late at night and smell

like fast food, and sometimes they would bring us food too. For school my sisters and I would wake up

early and my mom would make breakfast like chilaquiles, while my dad would start up the blue Honda so

we could go to elementary school. I appreciated that they still took time out of their day to take us to

school instead of the bus. Sometimes I noticed how tired they were from the night before, due to their job.

We were still little so we didn’t know how to help, so naive about the struggles my parents had to keep a

roof over our heads and food on the table.

After living in Texas for 10 years my parents decided to move to Minnesota for personal reasons.

Since we didn’t have that much money and we didn’t have a home to move into, my auntie took us in her

home. The cycle didn’t change though, shortly after my parents found a job and started working again.

My aunt took care of us while they were gone, she would make us yummy mexican food. I still

remember that she would make us chocolate de abuelita (hot chocolate) with pan dulce if we behaved

ourselves. After a long day of running around and doing homework we would be put to sleep and I didn’t

see my parents until the next day, but sometimes I would wake up to my mom giving me a kiss on the

cheek and telling me “buenas noches”. I used to cry at night wishing my mom would be by my side in

bed, hugging me and never letting go. I missed them and wanted more time together. At the beginning, I

would get mad at my parents because I didn’t want to move to Minnesota and leave all my friends and

family behind. Now I realise that it wasn’t their choice and it was also tough for them moving to a new

state and starting a new beginning.

Being old enough now I appreciate and celebrate my parents. I look up to them and use them as

inspiration so I can become better. They don’t want me to face the same struggles they had. That’s why

they push me to be successful in life and in college, so I can have a career and break the cycle they

weren’t able to fully break. My family is very important and valuable to me, they have shaped me into the

person that I am today, and for that I thank them. Looking at the present, my parents still come home

smelling like food and looking tired from a long day at work. I try to remind them everyday that I

appreciate them and It’s okay if they feel tired and want to rest in bed on their days off.

They would always try to make time for us, they would take us to the zoo to go see all the wild

animals. My favorite animal at the time was a giraffe, because of how weird their tongue looks and how

long and yellow their necks are. I can still taste the buttery popcorn and chocolate ice cream they would

buy us because we begged them for it. Also feeding the goats food and petting their somewhat soft hair, I

was always excited for that part. At the end of our day we would take a family picture next to some type

of animal sculpture, like a seal or a gorilla. Another place we would always go to is the forest trails, the

big green forest full of tiny animals like caterpillars and spiders. We would always go walking on the trail

to be part of nature. I still love the smell of forest, it’s a smell you can't really explain but I think of it as

wet dirt and water streams type of smell. My dad who is the tallest, about 6’1 would always be behind us

to make sure no one gets left behind. And my mom who is 5’1 would lead in front because she knew the

trials, and my sisters and I could be in the middle. After finishing the trail, we would go back to the car

and our water bottles would be empty, we could still smell the bug spray we had put on before the walk.

All of us tired from the trails we had just finished, my parents would make the day even better because

they would take us to an ice cream shop close by and we would all get ice cream. I would always get

chocolate, my sisters would always get strawberry, and my parents would get coffee flavor which I

thought was weird but tasting it now I get why they like it.

My mom and dad have worked all their life, even till now. Sometimes life isn’t fair for them but

they have to push through to have a better life for their kids. And that’s exactly what my parents are

doing. I appreciate and thank them. Because if it wasn’t for them pushing me to my limits to be the best

and succeed in school I wouldn't be here today, in college. I don’t want to put their hard work to waste so

I need to make it count. Soon they will rest and retire in Mexico and I can’t wait for that day. Because

they will know they accomplished so much. And for everything they have done for us, I celebrate them.

Queer

Hmong

Women:

Hush No

More,

Speak Some

More

Annie Moua (King)

Being a queer

person is probably the

hardest part of my life

right now. Although

society is slowly

changing to become

more open and

accepting of queer folx,

that also means that

those who opposes it are

getting more upset.

People would go beyond

treating someone

inhumane in order to

fulfill what they believe

in. If they cannot do

something physically,

homophobes will say

something to mentally

and emotionally hurtful.

Not to mention,

homophobes are also

super ignorant and

arrogant to queer folx’s

preference and lifestyle.

For an instance, I had an

incident where a person

who I knew claim that

queer folx just have not

had opposite sex

intercourse. They also

claimed that if they had

sex with a woman who

was queer, they know it

will make the woman

would realize that she is

heterosexual. Of course,

I am no longer on

speaking terms with

that person anymore

because it was highly

disrespectful and

disgusting what he

claimed. However, being

queer is important to

me because it has taught

me how to be more

inclusive of other people

with non social norm

identities. For example,

Black Indigenous and

People of Color (BIPOC),

low income background,

and women.

I think being a

Queer Asian American

Woman who comes

from a low income

background is literally

one of the most

controversial thing. I am

not trying to say that all

the world’s issue(s)

revolve around me, but

I’m saying that the

world is afraid of me.

People who believe that

I am less capable

because my

intersectionalities are

afraid for the time when

a better decision making

leader arise. By that

time, the upper,

middle-class white men

know it is too late to

stop me from

dismantling issues that

should have been

resolved centuries ago.

Additionally, I

am a proud Queer

Hmong Woman. In my

Hmong community, I

see a lot of abusement

towards women. How

amazing and a great

privilege it is to love a

woman better than a

man can! I learned a lot

from my biological

father and mother’s

marriage. He was really

abusive emotionally and

mentally to my mother.

After their divorce, my

mother spiraled through

depression and lost

herself repeatedly

throughout my

elementary years.

As a third grader,

I remember the long

night trips with my

mother to Walmart as

she plays the saddest

Hmong song she knows

that reminds her of my

father. The sound of her

gasping for air as tears

are rolling down her

cheeks unstoppably. The

constant word of

reassurance I would

have to tell my mother

in hopes that she knows

someone is listening to

her hopelessness. Even

though ten years have

passed since, I still feel

like the little eight year

old who reassures my

mother that things will

be okay. My mother is

one of the women I

uplift in my life

constantly because I

know she needs me and

has hope in me as the

next generation to do

better.

I may have grown

up witnessing the

argument from my

father to my mother but

I did not learn how to be

an abuser. Actually,

quite the opposite of an

abuser. Something in

me as a kid knew that I

was going to love the

women my brothers, in

my community, could

not. Witnessing all the

internalized oppression

upon Hmong women

made me build a sense

of admiration and deep

care for them. For

example, my current

girlfriend, I treat her

with a lot of respect. I

believe that everyone

deserves respect and

consensual

permission(s)

throughout a

relationship.

Now, my identity

of being queer has

caused me some trouble

too. Since a lot of

Hmong folx know each

other, they would tell

my mother their

thoughts and opinions

about my sexuality. My

mother used to shame

me in front of my family

in hopes that it would

turn me into a woman

who can take a man’s

hand in marriage. In my

sophomore year of high

school, she called me

into the living room for

a family meeting. Before

I knew it, she began

asking my siblings if

they recalled something

happened to me when I

was a little kid.

Indicating if someone

has touched me or tried

to touch me physically

inappropriately. My

mother believed that

incidents like that may

be the reason why I do

not want to spend my

aging life with a man.

Holding and valuing

tradition was crucial to

my mother. She wanted

the dowry from my

husband when I got

married. Except now, it

will not be a man who I

marry but instead a

woman who I am in love

with. This caused my

mother and I to fall out

for years until April of

2020.

In life, there are

parts of us as human

beings that we cannot

control. Our gender,

sexual orientation, the

family we are born into,

and color(s) of our skin,

cannot be picked before

developing in our

mother’s womb even if

we wanted to. Hence,

this is why I believe that

the only way to make

the world a better place

is to stay true to all my

identities. With all the

heartwrenching

experiences that I have

gone through is a part of

me. The shame I feel

that my mother

spreaded over me in

front of my family to her

learning that queer folx

are still human too

makes me have faith in

humanity. If my mother

can learn how to

dismantle her

homophobic thoughts

and feelings to help

better society, anyone

can. However, that is

only if they are willing

to learn and teach

younger generations

better.

A Bedroom that Provides

for Me

M.L.

To be as comfortable as one can be

is a life goal. The feeling of comfort and

safety is provided to me in no greater

amount than my bedroom. It’s a package

deal, I have my clothes, a view to look out

into a portion of the world, a lamp, and

although not a television, I have my two

devices that can provide me entertainment

all in the same space. Although my

bedroom is not perfect it has been good to

me since I’ve known it. There’s four walls

and a roof that protects me from the

unfavored elements that can be cold,

freezing, humid, or scorching hot. Now in

the case of something favorable outside, my

bedroom comes with windows and a door.

Windows that I can open to feel the breeze

of refreshing air, a door that can open to

walk out into the hallway of the house and

eventually outside. But most importantly, my

bedroom gives me something everyone

wants to come back to everynight, a bed.

From what I can remember, I’ve

always had a bedroom. I’ve had this space

where I can sleep, talk to myself, do

activities, and be comfortable in. I’ve had

different bedrooms and sometimes even a

shared one, but this one right now here is

mine currently. I spend a lot of time within

this space, waking up every morning to the

bed here, going to sleep every night in the

same bed, and occasionally wrestling

myself with thoughts while in bed. I wake up

to my repetitive ringing alarm on my phone

and then unplugs it only after turning off the

alarm. Later I spend my day going to zoom

calls while sitting on my small setup of a

short table and a foot stool basically. Then

at night I turn off my lamp that was

illuminating my room all throughout the

evening, to turn on my nightlight that is

inserted into the wall socket. I do this on a

daily basis and thanks to my bedroom it was

what made it possible to do so.

During the summer my bedroom

would be much more pleasant to be in. I

would be in bed all day during summer

break of school. With my phone charging on

the right side of the bed to an outlet

extension cord and me on my side, I would

be on my phone all day going through the

internet. Most of the time I would be on

Youtube watching videos from my favorite

content creators all the while inside my

bedroom keeping to myself. Other times I

would get on my laptop and play games on

there. A game that I usually play is Roblox,

but with my uncomfortable table setup, I’d

only be on my laptop for an hour or two

before I become uncomfortable and have to

stop. Although this uncomfortableness

happens occasionally, my bedroom

provides other activities such as the former

mentioned phone.

Throughout my life I didn’t really like

going outside nor was I skilled sociably. My

bedroom gave me a substitute of a space

where I could have fun and still be able to

talk to my friends, through my phone. My

bedroom is something I appreciate because

it really does provide me with a shelter from

the elements of nature too. I’m able to have

a roof above my head and all these things in

my bedroom for my convenience. I’m able

to sleep at night and wake up in the morning

because of my bedroom. I’m able to have a

space for myself when I’m vulnerable, when

I’m joyful, or when feeling like being myself,

thanks to my bedroom. I’m able to have and

do all these things due to having my own

bedroom. I hope I can add more things into

my bedroom later on such as a proper desk

setup.

My Path that Lead to Success

Lee, David

There are times where we are struggling in

life or where a crisis has happened. What could we

do with it? Our hobbies can distract us from those

stressful situations. But can those hobbies be a hope?

Can those hobbies lead to a successful life? Lucky

for you, I am here to tell you that anything is

possible. Your hobbies can lead you to a successful

life if you believe in it. If you are not sure, I will tell

you my story of how my passion for coding leads me

to a successful life.

It begins when I was five years old. My family had bought our first PlayStation 2.

Additionally, it comes with “Crash Bash”, which is easier for us siblings to play together. The

game, “Crash Bash,” was a multiplayer party game where anthropomorphic — animals acting

like humans — compete with each other through several minigames and progress to the next

level as you beat them. It was as if you were competing in the Olympics. After hours and hours

of playing Crash Bash, I was influenced by the game itself and how each background has its own

rules; you can see the progress of your health and/or points to see whether you are winning or

losing. Additionally, each specific background has its own minigames. For instance, the jungle is

about throwing dynamites at players or bots — depending on whether you are playing online or

local — while eating apples to regain health. However, in every minigame, there is a time limit,

which is located on the top middle of the screen. My favorite minigames would be the huge and

flat ice chunk. The goal was to push other players off the chunk and be the last survivor. As the

times began to reduce, the ice chunk broke into fragments, limiting its space and forcing the

player to come closer. I began to imagine creating such a game where each background has its

own minigames. Crash Bash pulled me as if it was love at first sight. However, my parents

wanted me to have a bright future — like becoming a doctor or lawyer — and thought that video

games were an obstacle and ineffective in my future. Eventually, I have forgotten my childhood

dreams until my middle school year.

In sixth grade, I was required to take a computer application class because I do not know

how to use a computer or technology in general. As I entered the room for the first time, I

skimmed through from left to right. I went to a corner that has a window on the right and posters

on the left. As I was starting to sit down, the bell rang, and the class began. I turned my head to

the right and looked at the big screen that the instructor was displaying. He was teaching us the

basic coding of JavaScript in the Khan Academy. During that time, I was confused because I

thought it was about how to use certain stuff such as emailing or Google Drives. Additionally, I

had no knowledge of coding. As he began to give us assignments, I took a glimpse at the paper.

The whole page was filled with numbers and letters from top to bottom with some or little

instructions. I read it as if it were trying to tell me something, decoding it. Somehow, I managed

to complete the assignment by breaking it apart one by one. However, without realizing, I was

ahead on a couple of lessons. Out of all the lessons I have taken, there was one assignment that

attracted my eyes. We had to create a simple snowman and move it around. After typing with

these energetic fingers, I went and took a glimpse on the right side of my screen and saw it

moving. My eyes began to widen as I finally remembered my childhood dreams.

On our final project, we had to create animations from a software called Alice. We had to

begin from scratch and explain our concept of what the objects are doing. However, it will be a

competition classroom. The instructor can give us hints on how to do things, but can not explain

or help us with it. I was excited as if I completed it on the first day. The animations I want my

character to do was to pick up an item, throw it, start doing jumping jacks, and then run out of

the screen. However, that was the most challenging part. I did not know where to begin and what

to do. For two weeks, I was playing around with the software and finishing the animations. My

hands became uncontrollable as if there were two people in a single body. I do not know what

happened, but I was satisfied with the results. I realized then that there were only two days left to

complete the assignment. I began to panic and focused on what I could do quickly. Fortunately,

with satisfaction, I was able to complete the task. I did not care about the competition, but out of

all the class, I was in second place. I was astonished by my results. That result became a

motivation and began to set a path for me to see myself as a computer programmer. It made my

dreams become a passion, a hobby.

Beginning high school, I took engineering and coding classes, which I set for myself as

the next step of becoming a computer programmer. I began to learn a lot of coding languages.

C++, Python, Lua, and much more. Though each one of the languages has different formats, it

has the same concepts. I was able to transcribe from one language to another and successfully

pass the class. Eventually, due to my knowledge of coding, I became a teacher assistant to assist

other students who are struggling with coding and engineering. The teachers and other students

began to see me as one of the smart people who can do coding.

I am not going to lie, but there are times where I want to quit being a computer

programmer because the hardest part of coding is to skim through all of the codings just to find a

single error. It gives people a headache, causing the brain to overload, resulting in mood swings

and stress. Additionally, my parents were against me going to be a computer programmer

because I told them it was “game-related”. Though it is true, I had to explain to them how

computer programming works such as how Google or Facebook was made and the functions

behind those apps. I had to explain that there are jobs such as the office that do these kinds of

work and earn money. After hours and hours of explaining my thoughts of coding, my parents

approved of me to go into computer programming. They want me to have a successful life by

working anywhere that gives a good salary instead of working in fast-food restaurants. Honestly,

that is very biased, but I could understand that my parents do not want us to end up being like

them. They told me that as parents, they should support me instead of forcing me to become

something I do not enjoy. As long as the path I took leads me to a successful life, they will

support me through my journey.

Now I am planning to major in Computer Science at the University of Minnesota, Twin

Cities. Currently, I am taking half general classes because there were some classes that I am

required to take. That made me step back down to step one, but I know more knowledge of

computer science than before. Next year, I am taking the other half general classes to fulfill the

requirements so that in junior year I can focus on my major. I can see myself creating many

games: a fun MMORPG — massively multiplayer online role-playing games — where it

requires strategy and tactics to make it fun and competitive, a linear narrative game such as

Pokemon, an open-world narrative where people can interact and play with other people, and

much more.

These results could only happen because I believe in

my passion for coding. I believe that my passion for coding

could lead me to a successful life, especially when we had a

pandemic right now; there are COVID-19 and police

murdering, which forces us to lose our hopes of having a

successful life. But what could we do to cope with those

stressful situations? Our hobbies can distract us. Not only that

but if you believe in your hobby, it will lead you to a

successful life like me. Now, it is your choice to believe your

hobby.

Get Help From Music

M.L

Definition of music is very different

to many people. Some say that music is the

arrangement of sound and silence. Others

like myself say music is that and much

more. Music is an aural form of art that is

used to express emotion and touch the hearts

of the listener through the use of phrasing,

dynamics, style and tone color. Music is a

very universal art form. There are not many

people in this world who do not listen to at

least some form of music.

For me, the biggest achievement in

music is that I played the piano for twelve

years since I was 7. Started from learning

reading the notes and music to different

skills developing. The hardest thing for me

is that sometimes it needs to think separately

because there are several voices in a piece. It

feels just like separating your brain in

several parts or to pretend that your ten

fingers are not attached together. Each of

them should do different jobs, soft or hard,

quick or slow, melody or harmony. It is

quite difficult. I had ever not less than once

thought about giving up because it is hard

and is sometimes bored sitting there a

couple hours for practice, but I never

actually did that.

Besides the music and skill, It is

important for instrument players to know the

music history. For example, it is the most

basic to know that there were 6 music

periods. They are Medieval, Renaissance,

Baroque, Classical, Romantic, and 20th/21st

Century, with each fitting into an

approximate time frame. Personally, I like

Classical music the most, and my favorite

composer, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, is a

prolific and influential composer of the

Classical period. I really like the Turkish

March in his Sonata No.11. Mozart

composed Sonata No. 11 at the age of

around 27 - perhaps in 1783 in Vienna or

Salzburg. The third and final movement,

known popularly as the Turkish March, is in

the rondo form, and was entitled 'Alla Turca'

by Mozart himself.

Playing piano for 12 years, I had

performed at regional Shantou and

Guangzhou competitions in China prior to

arriving in America. In MN, I have been

fortunate to continue learning piano with my

private music teacher. I am glad that it is

still with me after the big change of life.

However, instead of having performance on

the big stage, I like to share my music with

my families and friends.

It was half way through my eighth

grade year, I transferred from my old school

to another because we moved to a different

city. Since it was the middle of school,

almost all students in my new class have

their own squat. I do not know if you ever

have experience like this, but it is hard to get

in a unity that people have been knowing

each other pretty well, especially for ones

that are not really talkative or active like me.

I had made friends outside of the class, but

still, I seem inconspicuous in the class until

the day we have music class and the teacher

was late. While the class was waiting for the

teacher, some of them went and played with

the piano which students would not get to

touch usually. Suddenly, I heard someone

screaming my name at the front of the white

board while I was sitting and reading quietly

at the very back of the classroom. I looked

up and saw a girl, JiaJia, who was in the

signed seat front of me, jumping excitedly

and waving at me as a hint for me to move

over. As I walked over, “Do you want to try

on this piano? We want to listen to you

play”, she said and people standing around

the piano nod and smile at me. I was

surprised they probably had a conversation

about me before then because I saw the

expectation in their eyes when they were

asking for it and I had only told JiaJia about

how long I have been playing piano. “Sure,

what would you guys like to listen to?”, I

answered. “Whatever you would like to

play!”, someone said. I sat down and

prepared myself. Für Elise is thought to be

written for Therese, a woman that

Beethoven wanted to marry in 1810. I

remember clearly that all of them around the

piano listening to me perform were

whispered to each other “wow”. It was the

first time I got that much attention from my

classmates. Also, it was the moment I

became steadfast on “music can help build

connections with others, with society, with

the world”. After class, classmates come

around and talk to me. Some praised that I

played good, some praised the song was

beautiful and asked about the piece, and

some wanted to know how long I practiced

each day. That was probably the day I

became part of the unity, and began making

friends in my class.

Compared to having fun with music

surrounding friends and family, I guess

having a professional performance in front

of tons of strangers is seen more like a

pianist. Different from play for friends and

family, we usually practice one piece for at

least two month before we go on the stage

for the performance. I am the kind of person

who is so afraid of making mistakes, so I am

always so nervous before I perform.

Generally, I memorize music using muscle

memory which means I do have the music in

mind but following my hand motion when

playing and my brain goes after hands. This

is the fastest way to memorize a piece but

also with the largest probability to lapse

when nervous. Because the hands are not

controlled by the brain and the brain does

not know what goes next, when the hands

accidentally run a wrong note caused by the

anxious shaking hand, my body will get

even more nervous and play even more

wrong notes, and that will ruin my

performance. I had never made a perfect

performance, until I met my new piano

teacher in Minnesota, before I switched to a

correct method of memorizing. I remember

this deeply; It was the third concert since I

met my teacher. She asked me how I usually

memorize the music. “By muscle memory”,

I said, and she told me that is why I lapse

when playing. Then she mentioned to me

that the best way to memorize is to

memorize line by line and have a clear

image of the music in mind. By this

method, I can see the music in mind and

know clearly what note goes after the note I

played. Even if accidentally running to a

wrong note during the performance, I know

where I am on the music sheet and what is

next. I remember clearly how I played the

“Notturno” of Beethoven perfectly without

any mistake, and the applause after I played

was so beautiful. I was so proud of myself

after play.

However, I had once lost it in my

life. When we first arrived in the United

States, My family was focusing on making

our daily life work normally and had no idea

on so many things; such as where to find a

piano teacher and how to get a piano. It is

difficult to transfer from one culture to

another. It was about a year after we arrived

in America, our life working okay since the

effort we made. I was busy learning English,

adapting to the environment, and studying

the new culture; Picking back up the piano

reduces so much of my pressure. It was a

piece called “River Flows in You”; I

remember how I feel relaxed and stop

thinking about what I should do to survive in

the new environment. Music was so helpful

during that struggling time.

Overall, piano played an important

role in my journey. Music or piano is

important to me because it is my partner for

a long time, or maybe because I know how

difficult and beautiful it is or because it

helps my life. Even if you do not play an

instrument, I suggest you go to a concert;

listen to music, it can be any kind of music;

and make a connection with music. You will

find that each piece of music is telling a

different story and expressing different

emotions. It's magical that we can get into

the music and empathize with the story.

How amazing that is?

Ihsan Ibrahim

The Value of Being Duo-Languaged

Growing up in America, where the primary language spoken is English, while being

Somali, meant that I had developed a sense of both the English language, and Somali language at

a very young age. For the most part, the two languages came naturally to me as my father is

fluent in both languages, and my mother is fluent in Somali. Since my mother had only spoken

somali, I was used to speaking Somali at home and English primarily while I was at school.

Being bilingual, meaning that I have the ability to speak more than one language, I would

say is a privilege. There are many reasons as to why I say this, including having the opportunity

to explore two different language cultures, helping translate from Somali to English at any time

if necessary, and being able to call out my siblings in public without 95% of the people around

me not knowing what I’m saying. Being bilingual also helps open new opportunities including

those in the career field. While there are so many great things that come with being bilingual,

there are a few inequalities I have faced because of my knowledge of two languages.

I remember being placed into the ELL (English Language Learners) program while in

elementary school, more specifically around second grade. I wasn’t tested into the program at all,

as my parents told me, it was a decision that the school made on their own to require students

who spoke more than one language to join the ELL program. There were a few students who

looked like me in the program, and those who spoke any second language at all were in the

program as well. We were pulled out of class for about 40-50 minutes in small groups to meet

with our ELL teacher about a few times a week. It felt kind of weird not being the same

environment that I was familiar with, as there were some new faces, and we were in a whole new

learning space.

I didn’t really grasp the concept of the “ELL” program and why we were placed into the

ELL program until about a few months in, when I would return to class after the program, and

see that I missed out on a lot of

the class activities, which I

started to feel bad about as other

kids would be raving about what

they have done while the few of

us that were in the program

were gone. I, in all honesty felt

like I was missing out on so

much by being gone for that

long during the school day, and

in a way I felt envious of the

students who got to stay and

learn the regular curriculum while, as I had to go and learn about the basics of the English

language, while being apart from my classmates.

I’m not going to say that being a part of the ELL program wasn’t beneficial for me, but it

is the fact that I wasn’t even tested to see if my reading and writing skills were as good as they

needed to be when being placed into the program, which is funny considering the following

years, I was placed into a spelling group that was a year ahead of my grade level, due to my

advanced skill level of reading and writing. I won my class spelling bee in fourth grade which in

some sense proves that I may not have needed the “extra” support given to me in ELL and that I

may have been just fine learning the regular curriculum like the other students. This is all ironic

seeing as now, I feel like I know so little about Somali language and speaking it can be a

challenge sometimes, because I didn’t focus on learning it growing up, and English trumped it by

a lot, as we used it in school.

There are also many different forms of Somali that I have yet to learn. There are so many

things that I do not know about the Somali language. This is a great thing as I have so much to

learn about the history of Somali, but it is also unfortunate because the less I know about my

native tongue, the less the future generations will know about it, and that will contribute to

language extinction which includes the “dying out” of a language due to lack of speakers, and

descendants. My younger cousins speak English so often, that they are starting to forget what

little of the Somali language they speak. They are always encouraged to speak Somali when

around elders who I was also encouraged to speak Somali by when I was younger. This is

because they fear language extinction as well. What I wonder is if there is a way to slow down

this language extinction. What can I do to keep my native language alive as I value it so much?

No Shame In Black Beauty

Meley Getachew

“Wanting to be someone else is a waste of the person you are,” a quote said by

Marilyn Monroe, which is something that I was grappling with my whole life. I was 12

years old when I first compared myself to someone else. September 2013 is when I

remember vividly walking through the St. Louis Park Middle School sign right above the

entrance doors. My 12-year-old self was wearing one of my favorite outfits at the time

since it was picture day. It was my zebra mesh long sleeve shirt with my blue leggings

and not forgetting the white converse to finish off the look. My hair was freshly out of the

shower with perfect curly spirals that would bounce every time I took a step. Walking into

the school instantly made me have that euphoric feeling of excitement but also

nervousness. As soon as I stepped into my middle school, I felt so confident with how I

dressed on the first day. After I took my pictures, it was time for me to go to my locker to

learn my locker combination and that was when I heard the voices of these two girls. My

focus from opening my locker to looking up at the girls changed so fast. It was two tall

girls with slim model-like body figures. They both had long blonde golden hair that would

reach down to their lower back. I remember looking at their faces, and I was astounded

by how pretty they were. They had flawlessly arched eyebrows to go with their crystal-like

ocean eyes. Their teeth were so nice that you could find an image of their teeth on a

dentist's website. Their cheeks were rosy pink and perfectly round but where you could

still see their cheekbones. They walked past me like I was invisible. I felt so insecure

about myself. After that school-day on

the bus ride home, all I could think

about was those two distinct girls and I

didn’t know why I couldn’t stop thinking

about them. Coming home, I looked at

myself in the mirror and was

comparing every little detail about my

features and would ask myself “what’s

wrong with me? Why do I look this

way?” I was at such a young age where

I first noticed my own differences from

someone else's.

I stared in the mirror and started

analyzing all of my flaws. My forehead

is something that I was self-conscious about and probably my greatest insecurity. I didn’t

understand why it’s so big. I noticed that my head was bigger than a lot of the other girls

in my school and I was very upset by that. My eyes then transitioned down to my

philtrum. I hated the fact that you can notice the peach fuzz since the hairs were so dark.

Just seeing the little hairs were making me eager to just shave it off, it truly looked like a

mustache. Then of course there are my teeth. I was looking at my teeth with such

disappointment because the top two front teeth weren’t straight. It was because of my

right tooth slants slightly to the right. From looking at my face, I now was examining my

body. My body was very scrawny, opposite to those girls I saw at school earlier that day. I

didn’t have any curves that would define the appearance of my body and made me start

to feel insecure. Maybe it was because I hadn’t hit puberty yet or that my body just

refused to go through the puberty stage. These girls could pull off being 15 or maybe 16

years-old while looking in the mirror, my body gave off the perception that I looked 10.

It was then after when I started getting self-conscious about the color of my skin.

You could say that the color of my skin is a golden brown with an orange undertone. I feel

like a big factor of me being insecure about my skin color was social media. Instagram

had just become a big social network site that blew up a couple of years before I started

middle school, probably when I was in the fourth or fifth grade. Seeing all these Instagram

posts of models who were predominantly white made me feel like I was not beautiful.

There were no black influencers in my feed that I could look up to and help me express

my blackness, and that was a major setback. It was then after when I thought that just

being around people I praised would help me have that feeling of fitting in.

Throughout middle school, there were different friend groups that people were in.

There were friend groups that were predominantly white and there were kids that were

predominantly black. Even though I am an African American girl, everyone considered me

to be a part of the group that was mainly white. I wasn’t bothered by it at the time

because that’s what I was trying to go towards, so there wasn’t a reason to be upset by it.

People would call me the term “oreo”, which means to be white on the inside and black on

the outside. That wouldn’t phase me at all and now that I see it, it’s such an offensive

term to call someone who is a person of color. There is no certain way to “act black or

white”, and people tend to not see that as it's fixed into society to view it otherwise. That

was one red flag for me that I would tell myself now if I saw my naive middle school self.

Coming into high school, I straightened my hair every day to avoid my naturally

curly hair. When people would ask me why I straighten my hair a lot, I would always say I

didn’t like it because “I don’t like how it looks,” but it was really because I was ashamed of

my blackness. I wanted to fit in with my peers and didn’t want them to think I was less

than them in any way. There was one day where my whole perspective changed, it was

the day the new girl came to our school. During passing time, as I was approaching my

girlfriends, they were already having a conversation. These girls I would say are the

“Regina George, Karen Smith, and Gretchen Wieners” of my high school. They treated

everyone like they were peasants, as they thought they were better than the other

students. I walk up and start going on my phone and start hearing one girl saying “yeah

the new girl, she’s not cute.” Another girl goes on and says “yeah she looks ghetto but

Meley you’re not and you’re really pretty for a black girl.” I instantly looked up from my

phone with such confusion that she had the audacity to say that in front of my face. I

clenched my jaw looking at the girl with a dead stare. I tried not making it obvious that I

was mad, but inside I could feel my blood boil while rushes of anger were flowing up and

down my body. I made the excuse to say that I’m going to be running late, even though

there were 3 minutes left until class started and my next class was down the hall. I

walked to my class with thoughts piling up in my head, making me second guess if these

are the people I should really surround myself with. Not once did I take what she said as a

compliment, rather finding it more offensive than she was trying to come off as. This day

gave me a whole new perspective on how I see myself and other people of color. Rather

than a way to be insecure about my blackness, I now embrace it.

Rather than straightening my hair every day, I now leave it curly so my fried heat

damaged hair can now revive. I used to refuse to go to any festivals or celebrations that

would celebrate my Ethiopian heritage. Now I always look forward to going, with the best

part being that I get to wear my traditional dress that is green and gold with little

rhinestones that sparkle in the sunlight. With the confidence I have, I don’t have to wear

clothes that make me seem like I’m fitting in, but rather just finding the style that I like

that expresses who I am. I also started following different accounts that help empower

women, specifically those of color, to not conceal their identity, but help embrace it. This

helps me have that mindset that I should be satisfied with myself and reminds me every

day of the beauty held within black women.

Everyone is different and that’s what makes everyone beautiful and unique. No one

should ever feel ashamed for how they look or what social background they came from. It

took me a long way to get to where I am at today. The thing that I was ashamed about

was my skin color. I am a black Ethiopian African American girl and if one can’t “see

color”, then you can’t see my culture nor the struggles that I have to wake up to every day.

If you can’t see color, you can’t see me.

The House on Cumberland Street

Kayla

When my mom and I had nowhere to go, there was always my grandma’s house. Not only is

my grandma’s house important to me, but my grandma as a person is even more important. My

grandma is the most important person in my life alongside my parents and brothers. I grew up mostly

in this house and in almost all my baby pictures it seemed to always be at grandma’s house. This

house is very important to me and it will always be the place I'd rather be at. Her house has always

been a safe place for me. She really is my best friend; I don’t know where I would be without her,

truly.

When I was about to start 5th grade my mom and I had to move into my grandma’s house for a

while. My brother Tyler was just born and we had been evicted from our duplex in Inver Grove

Heights. My grandma’s house has always been a place we were able to go to when we had nowhere

else to go. Ever since I was a baby, I was always at her house because my mom was always

working. I have probably moved over 10 times to different apartments/houses. I remember precisely

that I was actually sad about it because I was about to be a bus patrol at my school. I had waited

since second grade to be a bus patrol; they would walk around on the bus while the bus was moving

to make sure everyone was behaving and had their backpacks on their laps. It actually seems kind of

dumb to think about now. I have no idea why I was so sad about it. I literally only wanted to be one so

I could walk around on the bus while it was moving. So after we moved back to my grandma’s house I

had to start school at Como Elementary, which was the third elementary school I would have gone to.

I remember that staying at my grandma’s was stressful because it was my mom, my brother’s dad,

and Tyler in a super tiny room that was off from the dining room. That tiny room would actually end up

being my room when I moved in by myself. I just slept on the couch like I always did when I would

have a sleepover at grandma's house.

Grandma’s house was very old fashioned. It is definitely at least 100 years old. It even has an

“old house” smell to it. The house is in the Como/Midway area, on Cumberland St. When anyone

walks into the house it is most likely through the back door, which is actually the side door. The way

the house is built is kind of odd because the front and back door are actually just both side doors so

it’s not really a “front door”. After walking up the short driveway full of colorful plants on the bushes

and outdoor windchimes, you would walk in the back door that leads right into the kitchen. The set up

of the house has been the same since I could remember. The washer and dryer are on the right side

of the kitchen and the circle table is in the middle of the kitchen. It is also the same table and chairs

since before I was born. There’s old wallpaper from the late 1900’s all over the house. Parts of the

walls in the kitchen are painted pink for some reason. Whenever I think of this house the first thing

that comes to mind is the bird clock in the kitchen. Every hour there's a new bird sound that plays and

I remember always being woken up in the middle of the night from it. The dining and living room is

FULL of knick knacks. My grandma loves them. The rest of the house is pretty basic, the only thing

upstairs is my uncle Tim and grandma’s room. She hasn’t been up there in years because she can’t

get up the stairs so she has a new bed in the living room. I have millions of memories from when I

was younger, so some of them I don’t remember. Growing up I remember running straight from the

living room, through the dining room, into the kitchen because it was dark to get ice water from the

fridge in my purple cup that says “Kayla” on it. Another memory that I have was all the times my little

cousin would come over and we would fight over who would lay with grandma on the couch or who

would get to pick what we watch on tv. I was always jealous over my grandma and who she gave her

attention to. There was this one time we literally fought and cried to my grandma because we couldn’t

decide who got to play with the one baby doll that I loved. There was another time on Christmas when

I cried because my cousin got the cuter barbie doll from my grandma. I always made sure when my

grandma was wrapping the presents that I got the better present. The living room is even full of

pictures from my childhood of my little cousin and I. Any wall you look at you will see school pictures

of me from almost every year. Little memories like the ones with the water remind me that this house

is my safe place.

2016 was the year my grandma was diagnosed with Colon Cancer. These tragic events were

very stressful for me. When I heard the word “cancer '' I instantly thought of death. As my freshman

year of highschool started I officially decided to stay at my grandma’s house permanently because

she was going through chemotherapy and I was helping take care of her. My school was also only a

mile away so that was an advantage because my mom had lived on the West Side at the time. Taking

care of my grandma during these times definitely had me in a depressed state of mind. I had other

things going on and I ended up starting to go to therapy for my anxiety. Watching my grandma start to

give up because the Chemotherapy was killing her was very hard on me. I would always think that

she does not deserve to go through this. My grandma was literally the sweetest and most

independent person. She was never that one “old white lady” that was rude and racist. I realized that

she wasn't the same as one of my friend’s grandma when I was younger. I always wondered why my

friend’s grandma said hateful things about people’s skin color or religion; words like the N word would

come out of their family’s mouths. I realized later on that reason why my grandma wasn’t the same as

they were because she wasn't ignorant. You never heard hurtful things come out of her mouth. I feel

like the way I grew up, not hating on others because of their skin color or religion, is because of my

grandma. I was always around her and she always taught me to just worry about yourself and not

others. You have no business to care about what others are doing or what they look like. To this day

my friend’s grandma posts things on facebook about “Trump 2020” and I just think it is funny because

you can just tell she is a trump supporter because of the way she talks. But I cannot hate on what

someone believes in even if it is stupid. My grandma taught me that.

After my grandma was free from cancer, we actually found out she has dementia. I believe we

found out almost two years ago. This part of her life hit me very hard because I knew she probably

won’t be around to see me have kids. At least she was able to meet her great grandkids from my

cousin right? She eventually wasn’t able to go to the bathroom on her own or do everyday things on

her own. It was very depressing to see my very independent grandma not to be able to do simple

things on her own. In April of this year my uncle and cousin told me I couldn't stay there anymore

because of COVID and I work. This pandemic definitely ruined my life. I don’t really care about not

having a graduation, I just really care about seeing my grandma. I don’t want her to forget who I am. I

call every couple weeks but it's just hard to hear her voice because she can barely speak full

sentences anymore. And she can barely hear but she has been like that for the past couple of years.

It has been about 6 months since I have been home and it is actually the longest I have ever gone

without seeing my grandma in my whole life, and the longest I have lived with my mom since eighth

grade. Being away from my grandma this long gives me major anxiety because I am worried I wont

see her again if this pandemic doesn't end soon. Whenever I call her she always asks, “Why haven’t

you been home Kayla,” because she doesn’t really understand what has been going on. For her

birthday in August I dropped flowers off at the doorstep for her and I think she really appreciated it

even though I couldn’t be there. It breaks my heart to pieces to think about her every night. I just want

to hug her and let her know that I am here for her and I love her. She doesn’t even understand that I

started college or where I am going. I just want to lay next to her while watching Criminal Minds and

tell her how hard college is. I remember growing up I would always lay behind her on the couch and

watch Ghost Whisperer, Criminal Minds, or any Lifetime movie until midnight, everynight. These were

the times when my grandma wasn’t sick and I would do anything in life to just get those times back.

That couch was my safe place all my life. It is actually the same couch she has had all my life. The

indent in the sofa cushion is because she has had the same couch for so long. I miss just sitting on

that couch and if I were to go back home today I would literally just sit on it all day and watch tv with

my grandma. Growing up not having what other kids had but knowing your grandma had your back

was amazing. When my mom couldn’t afford to buy my school shoes most years my grandma would

always buy me some (even if they had to be K-Mart shoes, haha). She knows I am her number one

supporter and she is mine.

My grandma’s house and herself definitely hold the most important memories in my life. The

house is my safe place. I always had somewhere to go if there was nowhere else for me to go. I do

not know where I would have been without a warm bed to sleep in when we had nowhere else to go,

or when I wanted to live at her house and take care of her. Taking care of her made me very

depressed seeing her get weaker day by day, but it made me feel better knowing I could be there for

her. She took care of me for probably about half my life and I just feel that it was my turn to take care

of her. Everything I do is for her and I will always have that spot in my heart just for “Granny’s house”.

My Personality Makes Me Who I Am

N.G

If you talk to any of my peers from highschool

they’ll tell you that I am a quiet and reserved person. If

you asked someone I’ve been close to for a long time to

describe my behavior, they would tell you that I can be

engaging, friendly, maybe even a little annoying, but

comes off as reserved to others. This is because I’m not

comfortable around people I don’t know well. I value the

quietness and reservedness traits of my personality

because I’ve found comfort in keeping to myself at

times. Besides, quiet people are really good listeners. We

listen closely to every word that you speak. Being quiet

has also made me very observant. Since we usually

aren’t super chatty we observe the space around us to

feel present. We pay attention to the people around us,

like their mannerisms, hand movements when engaging

in conversation, and their overall behaviors. We spend

more time reflecting and observing than talking. This is

a great skill that would benefit me a lot with learning in

school. I am quite a private person too, so being

reserved is important to me because I feel like I am

protecting my privacy. I celebrate my personality

because my personality makes me who I am as a person.

The part of my childhood that I can remember is

that I came off as very quiet but curious. This made me

mysterious to some people. I would often hide my

emotions and thoughts very well and would not speak

that much to others that I didn't know well. Honestly I

think it was because I was a huge bookworm. As a kid I

would rather stay in the classroom with my teacher

during recess and read up on books like Harry Potter or

City of Ember. I feel like I’ve had an old soul my whole

life which is why I preferred being around adults from a

young age. At family gatherings I sometimes "Happy

STARt" by Heliophiliac, sentimental, nostalgic. is licensed under CC BY 2.0

would stay near my mother rather than run around the

gatherings with the other kids. Some guests thought that

my behavior was mischievous because I wasn’t engaging

much with the other guests, but I just wanted to be near

my mother to eavesdrop on conversations among the

adults. My quiet demeanor was often misunderstood by

others.

One unforgettable memory of being

misunderstood happened during high school. I was

always a good scholar thanks to being an observant and

active listener. But as I went up in school, so did others

expectations of me. “ Participation, participation,

participation ”. That word terrorized me for some time.

An increase in heartbeat, ringing of my ears, and dryness

in my mouth were three feelings I knew very well that

stemmed from me hearing the word “ participation ”. I

had one particular teacher that made a big deal about

participating. He wanted us to frequently raise our hands

and answer questions he would spew at us during a

lecture. I often knew the answer, the problem was that I

hated raising my hand because that meant every single

person in the room turned to look at you. It's like a huge

spotlight has been placed on you.

This teacher noticed I refrained from this form

of participation and decided to address me on it. He had

me stay after class to express his frustration with me.

Although he didn’t outright say it, I could infer that he

thought I disliked him. I didn’t dislike him, his class was

one of my favorite subjects. But he asked me if I was “

always in a bad mood ” because I “ acted ” like I never

wanted to be there (in his class). I told him, “ I do not

intend to come off that way, I just prefer to be quiet and

follow along during your lectures “. I felt hurt that he

dreamed up all this negativity about me because I wasn’t

an exceptionally sociable student, when instead he

could’ve just asked me If I preferred being quiet. I

remember this terrible memory that scarred me and

might stick with me for life. One day he was going on in

a lecture and I was deep in my own thoughts, when he

stopped mid lecture and turned to me and said to me in

front of everyone in the room ’ “ what's wrong kid you

look like you want to slap me in the face ” ‘. It sounds

too outrageous to be true and I wish it didn't happen but

it did. I was so taken aback that I ghastly said “ no... why

would I ever want to do that ”. It still hurts me to think

about it because not only was I humiliated publicly but

that day the “ angry black woman ” stereotype was

attached to me like a stain on a white cloth.

I took that personally. It often came up in my

mind no matter how many times I tried to suppress it.

I’ve had people who would tell me that before they

became my friend they thought I would be arrogant or

stuck-up or mean. They would never give me a concise

answer as to why they thought of me in that way, they

would only say “ I don’t know I just thought you were ”

. My answer is that they stereotyped me based on being

a black girl and reserved. Because they could never give

an example of when I was, “ arrogant, stuck-up, or mean

“ to them. I wanted to challenge that stereotype by being

more openly friendly and trying to prove to others that

I’m not what they perceived me to be. I had my bouts of

being socially outgoing after that. But I always seemed

to fall back into being reserved. It's like I have a social

battery that runs out, and to recharge I need time to

myself.

For a while in my youth I wanted to change my

personality to one that society wanted me to be. A social

butterfly, extroverted, and outgoing. I admired my best

friend for this, for her ability to make and carry a

conversation so easily. She was the extroverted friend

that every introvert might need in their life. She never

pressured me to step out of my comfort zone to become

more outgoing like her. I made the attempt on my own. I

would go out more, speak to new people first, and find

new friends instead of waiting for them to find me. But

It wasn’t long until I stopped and asked myself, “ who

are you trying to be “ ? I was nearly in an identity crisis.

So I stopped trying to pander to society and saw the

natural qualities that quiet people possess, qualities that I

possess. I see the many values in having a quiet,

reserved demeanor. People that are quiet have the time

to think before speaking. We like to make sure our

words have true meaning and substance. We are very

observant of others and spaces around us. We make

great listeners. I uplift my personality traits because if

they are important to me then they will also be important

to other people. I celebrate these characteristics and their

value they hold and I embrace it.

The Loving Guidance of My Mother

Z.F.

Someone who has played a

significant role in my life is my

mother. For her to be a single parent

and raise two daughters on her own,

there are no words to explain how

appreciative I am. I admire the

guidance and support she has given

me and my sister. Her determination

to provide us a good life is a way she

shows her love for us. The way she is

able to take longer shifts and not

complain is something I have seen

from her. Most importantly, her

willingness to help others with a

loving heart. Growing up she taught

us manners she learned from her

parents back in Mexico. These

manners were to respect our elders

and greet them every time we see

them, clean up for

ourselves, and be aware

of our surroundings.

From this day I

understand why it is

important to be

respectful to others and

I thank my mother for

that guidance.

As a child, most of my days

would begin with joy. Some days my

family and I would go out to the rose

garden. My mother would always

have a disposable camera and take

pictures of my sister and me. There

was a time she showed me her

pictures from when she lived back in

California and told me “Enjoy these

moments as much as possible

because once you get older you will

miss them.” For the time being, I

imagined my life being great. I could

not understand the meaningful

advice given to me. As I got older I

never thought anything bad would

happen to me. Since both of my

parents worked often, my sister and I

had seen less of them. We didn’t have

any relatives to rely on to take care

of us. All of our relatives lived in

California and Mexico. Eleven years

ago, on the 4th of July my family was

not planning on celebrating. While it

began to darken outside, I looked out

the window wishing for a better view

of the fireworks, my father suddenly

told my sister and me “I’ll be going

out and you two don’t stay up too

late.” I could tell my sister was upset.

She said “Goodbye come back soon”

while closing the door. Later that

night, my mother came home from

work and we were asleep. She

received a call from the police saying

that my father had been arrested for

drunk driving, and he would soon be

deported. My family knew our life

would change drastically.

After my father was deported,

my mother seemed clueless about

what would happen to us and herself.

Luckily, we had a close friend of

ours, Loui Tarango, to me he was

like a grandfather. He told us we

could live with him while we find a

place of our own. My mother told us

“There are people who are willing to

lend a hand when they most need it.”

If it wasn’t for Loui’s offer or the

friendship he had with my mother,

we would have been in a much more

stressful situation. Eventually, that

meant we had to leave the apartment

and memories behind. For instance,

when my mother would always tell

my sister and me to do our

homework, if not she thought we

were taking our education for

granted. She did not want us to leave

our studies behind because we had

resources provided. Especially,

because she did not get the chance to

finish school.

As time passed, I wasn’t

thinking about my father since I was

young. My mother realized we were

not able to take care of ourselves

now that my father was gone. We

had babysitters, some were okay and

others were a nightmare. Every day

we got left at those houses, I hoped

my mother wouldn’t leave us there.

One day my sister and I were having

lunch with our babysitter and her

children. It was chaotic to the point

where her son was running around

and screaming. He then opened the

fridge, took everything out, and got

inside without coming out. Our

babysitter did not stop this situation

or try to take him out. I can promise

my sister and I were ready to run

away. My mother apologized for us

having to deal with that and since

then we never went back to a

babysitter.

My family started to get our

life together. When my sister and I

got older, we had to learn how to

cook simple meals. I was not the

greatest but it was the only way I

could help out. We were also able to

keep improving in our studies. Going

to school was better than staying

with a babysitter. My mother would

remind us of the time when she and

a few of her siblings had to stop

going to school and began working

in order to provide for her family.

She told us it was a difficult time for

her because of the poverty in

Mexico. Her sacrifice was all to live a

better life and provide one for us as

well. She says to my sister and me

“You have to give it your all at

moments when you feel like you

want to give up.” I look back to this

advice when moments are difficult

because there is always time to learn

from them.

I have recognized when we

are of a younger age, we don’t

understand what could happen next

in our life. At a young age, I

always try to provide me with her

loving reassurance.

experienced questioning why we kept

moving, why we didn’t see our

family or even spend time with my

mother as much. I try to understand

all of this without feeling anger and

envy towards anyone else. I

remember and appreciate the

moments with my mother. I then end

up caring less about the past and

focus on the present. Instead, I focus

on what I want for my future and to

show my mother the progress I have

made. Because of all I’ve been

through, I have learned when it’s

time to move on. One thing I do

know is family will not always be

there for you. Moreover to be

grateful for the things you have and

take advantage of everything around.

Even though I lost my father, I

gained courage to be strong and be

the best version of myself. My

mother has been there for me in the

toughest times, I know she will

The superwoman of my life: My dear mother.

Jessy Dang

In our busy life, it is fortunate to look back and know that there is someone there for you

whenever needed. I am glad to have my mother who is always by my side. She played a big role

in my life. She isn’t only a mother to me, but also a friend, and a sister to me.

In Vietnam, life was much different for us. My parents own a company for printing. They

print newspapers, calendars every year for grocery stores, schools and churches. They didn’t

have to do anything much, because they have employees to do the work for them. All they had to

do was design the products. The printing, counting and folding job is on the employees. My

parents live the happiest life ever. I was blessed to live in a large house with four floors, with no

chores. I was an innocent kid worried about nothing. All I had to do was eat, study, and sleep.

One day, my parents received a letter from the US Consulate in the mail. Our grandparents are

the one who sponsored us. They took care of all the paperwork for us. Their hope is to have a

whole family unite in the United States. The date and time for the interview appear in bold

letters. I didn’t know about anything, until the night before the interview. My mother left the

outfits for the next day on my bed. I went to bed early that night to get ready for the interview.

“Congratulations” the translator explained to us that we passed the interview. On our way home,

my parents actually explained that our family is moving to the United States soon. I didn’t have

any feeling at that point. I didn’t know if I should be happy or sad. People living in Vietnam

think that the United States is a land of hope and dream for the future. At the same time, I have

to leave my mother’s side of the family, and my friends. I wonder “When can I meet them

again?”.

It shook me to even know the

ticket price, it’s unbelievable. It costs

us a thousand and a half for each

person to come to the United States.

My family paid a total of nine

thousands to get to the United States.

It doesn’t sound that much compared

to the high wage that each person

makes in the United States, but it is a

large amount to us when our wage is

much lower in Vietnam. My parents

are sad, because the savings account

is coming to an end. A month before

our family came to the United States,

my mother never came home until

ten at night. She drives to different

places to buy new clothes, new kitchen, house products,etc. for our family. In her knowledge, it

is much cheaper in Vietnam to purchase them compared to the United States. She is the busiest

woman I have ever seen. She knows what is best for our family.

Everything already planned, I arrived in the United States. Our family lives in my uncle’s

home. We are still undecided which city is the best fit for us to purchase our house. They wanted

to have the driver license first. After a month of practice, my mother got her driver license. I

knew she was going to pass, because she had prepared for it. She paid the driver instructor $300.

They practiced three days a week in the early morning, because that is the best time when the

street isn’t too crowded. At the time, our family could only afford an old car. It was their

“bestfriend”, because that’s the essential equipment to get to places in our everyday life. My

parents applied to a factory that was thirty minutes away from our home. They started working

early from three in the morning until five in the afternoon everyday. No matter if the weather is

hot or cold, they still come to work. After work, my mother also took her time to make dinner for

us. She gave her day 17/24 to us. My mother didn’t have any other choices, because that is the

only way our parents could support our family. Life is much more difficult for us over here

compared to in Vietnam. A woman who didn’t have to do much, has afternoon nap time

everyday in Vietnam is now turned into a stressed out woman. Everyday goes like a nonstop, no

rest routine for my mother. That’s the reason I decided to start working right when I got sixteen.

She wanted me to focus on school, rather than working, but I wanted to help her to make our life

easier. I started working at Mi-Sant, a sandwich restaurant in Brooklyn Park. My first paycheck I

brought home was for her. I wanted to help her, even though it wasn’t much, but something

better than nothing. In my mind, I know that she deserves much better than right now.

Time flew by quicker than I could imagine. As of now, she is a nail technician. After taking

classes and certified in a beauty career, my mother started working at my aunt’s nail salon. The

workload is now less for her. I always beg my mother to do my nails, because she is one of the

talented one. The gel manicure she did for me always lasts more than two weeks. Even though

she works six days a week, she still wakes up early every morning to cook food for us. She cares

about us even more than herself.

My mother did everything the best she could for me. The memories of me being sick, and

her care for me no matter if it's morning or night time. The stories about my life, I share

everything with her. All the advice that she gave will never be forgotten. I don’t wish anything

more than health for her. All I want for her is to stay healthy, and be happy.

My mother is a true definition of a role model. To me, she is a superhero. She never

complains, but sacrifices for her children. She gives me everything but she never expects

anything back for herself. I think about my mother everytime I make decisions for myself. I look

back at the memories, and force myself to be successful in the future. She is the strongest woman

I’ve ever seen in my life.

J.B.

I wrote about Naruto Uzumaki, this character isn’t a real person unfortunately, but his

lessons are beyond real. Naruto Uzumaki is an anime character who is an orphan because the

tailed beast that was sealed inside him was the same beast that killed his parents when he

was born. Naruto grew up to be a hyperactive knucklehead ninja who grew up with the hate of

the whole village because they are aware of what happened twelve years ago. He didn’t

understand why the village hated him and wanted the attention every other kid had, so he

resorted to doing pranks to get the attention of the officials. He was the only one in the village

who wasn’t aware that he had that beast inside him,so he didn’t get why people hated him, he

also was very poor and could only afford ramen, ( hence why he loves it so much). In his

journey Naruto slowly goes from being the most hated into the most beloved in his village and

proved everyone wrong by achieving the one goal he promised as a kid, to be Hokage (leader

of the Leaf village).Naruto was highlighted in my story because he means alot to me. He really

changed my lifestyle in terms of mindsets. Freshman year of high school was one of the most

fun moments in my life, I felt like I was in a new terrain. I was nervous, but was more excited!

The fear of fitting in after working so hard to build my reputation in middle school, to start from

scratch, to make my name known in a place that never heard my name once being spoken. I

had a best friend as did the main character of Naruto. It felt like at one point our bond became

like that. Naruto constantly chased Sasuke (His best friend) and had such a brotherly bond

with him, despite that Sasuke didn't show much effort at least not as compared to Naruto. But

one thing Naruto did no matter how hard his situation got was to NEVER GIVE UP. Now I grew

up with this show but watching it with a more mature mindset opened a new realm of passion,

love and discovery for the show. To the naked eye Naruto seems like a childish show, but that

show came into my life again when I needed it most. My ex best friend, our relationship felt so

one sided, even other people told me to just “let it go” as i constantly chased this person, trying

to change them in a way to help better understand themselves, I lost myself trying to find them

and used the broken parts of myself to rebuild them, so they could feel whole again. But

Naruto didn’t give up even though he was being told the same thing by his friends, even at one

point, Sasuke became a criminal and the whole village is trying to hunt him down. He

continued to see the light in the dark side of Sasuke, he never let go of that bond because

Naruto hasn’t felt anything closer since he grew up alone and hated .Even though at this point

the friendship left the point of it being toxic, I still believed deep down if I didn’t give up on our

friendship, they’ll turn around and come back is what I believed, the only reason why I tried to

keep going it because everytime I pushed harder I always managed to win. But I had to learn

the hard way that sometimes life isn’t as sweet and they’re is a deeper meaning and lessons

we must learn in life to help build our character. Naruto did save Sasuke, but their relationship

was way different even though similar to mines, of course they are anime characters and the

story goes by the author and plot, life is different and somethings must go wrong in order for

others to go right. Of course their situation was different they’re ninjas, Sasuke whole clan was

killed brother, that hasn’t happened to my ex best friend, so hence why I said situations and

understandings can be different. But just because something didn't work out doesn't mean I

should stop! I have to keep going because in my head there's a little,

Naruto voice that reminds me of the sadness I came from and how I am learning to love myself

and become the person I want to be, unapologetically.

A Forever Friend

S. Beran

A person could spend a lifetime trying to find their best friend in life. Rather I was born with mine. Who

would have thought I would be born on my brother's third birthday party. My parents told him that, “I was his

birthday present” and there was no doubt that I wasn’t. Growing up I was glued to my brother's hip. I was a

very shy child, I only ever talked to Austin. When someone would ask me a question as a child, I would simply

whisper into my brother’s ear and tell him what to say. I look back at this today and realize how much I trust my

brother.

Growing up we were always told how much we looked alike. I will admit to it, I am my brother’s twin.

We share the same unique eye color, nose and lips. We even have the face shape. Which is still accurate to this

day. I would even say it’s scarier to this day of how much we look alike. Besides the height and the weight

differences, we are very similar. The best part is that Aust can get into my phone using face ID. Now if that

isn’t saying how much we look alike then I don’t know what will. We practically wear the same outfit.

Typically a sweatshirt, preferably crewnecks and Carhartt, jeans or leggings, and some flashy sneakers. You

could say we are pretty simple.

We went from bath time, to walking, getting me to use the toilet for the first time, to learning to ride a

bike, and even drive. Austin has always been there for everything in my life. Eventually, we ended up going to a

school/ daycare which was called Kids Quest, this was where there were classrooms for each age group. Me

being me, I couldn’t be without my ‘brudder’, so I was always placed into the next age group classrooms.

Growing up I didn’t make too many friends, in fact, I really only was ever with Austin or my cousins.

We even share some of the same interests. Some interests would include our love of animals; dogs for

the most part. Together we have eight dogs, two akita, Brutus and Skuya. We have two xl bullies, which are a

hybrid pitbull meaning they are built bigger and stronger, their names are Mac and Douja. Then there's three

pitbulls, Mufasa, Karma and Suge. Finally, our ‘mut’ Smokey, he is a mix between a great dane and a pitbull.

We spend a lot of our time with the dogs. Whether that’s just taking them out, going for walks, or training. We

have this dream to someday run our own dog breeding company where we can share our passion of pitbull and

xl bullies to the world.

Austin played a huge role in me falling in love with vehicles. Ever since Aust taught me to drive we’ve

always talked about getting matching cars to drive the freeways with. We both have a passion for the Dodge

Hellcat and Scat Pack Charger. The engine in these cars are crazy, with enough horsepower to get up to sixty

miles per hour in under four seconds. We also have the tendency to speed, this might be the reason for our

liking of the Dodge Chargers. Something crazy to think about is, Austin and mine driving records are pretty

identical. We share the same number of speeding tickets. I like to believe he is the reason I have a heavy foot.

A huge life challenge we conquered together was our parents divorce. Our parents divorce was not

pretty or easy. We grew up with our parents always arguing but we always thought that was the norm. Over the

years, things began to be more physical between my parents and even towards us kids. It was very hard for us to

watch that as teenagers. It left me to question what real love was supposed to be. We both experienced the same

trauma so it only made sense we only had each other. We grew up in a small community, so everyone knew and

heard about everything. There were so many different rumors going around our community, surrounding towns

and even school. We both didn’t like to talk to others about the situation. We felt as if it had nothing to do with

them so why do they need to know. It didn’t really matter what we had to say anyways. As people already

labeled us and what our family was going through as their own opinions. This was where I believed to think it

was always going to be me and Aust against the world.

Today, our relationship is unbreakable. We raise our dogs as they are our kids, meaning we put a lot of

effort and time into our dogs. The first thing I do everyday once I get done with my school work is call Aust.

Usually right after the call I’m driving over to his house. We play with the dogs, work on fourwheelers, play

video games, watch a movie, and eat supper together every night. The bond we have grown to now is

unmatched to any other.

Austin has always been my go to person, we’ve spent our whole lives together. We’ve grown together

physically, emotionally, spiritually, and mentally. We’ve had our times of fights and arguments but they never

last more than an hour. We know we need and have each other so that’s why I believe we usually just brush

things off. Austin will always be my best friend and rock.

The power of music

An object that I would interact with every single day is my microphone. The mic allows me to make

and record music. I guess it plays a significant role in the passion and career I chose. The best part

about my microphone is it lets me vent out all my stress, anger, worries & all of my thoughts for as

long as I want and it will never get tired or give up on me. I got my microphone 2 years ago so I can

record music professionally. The microphone I got is Audio Technica AT-2020 and it has changed

and elevated the quality of my vocal recordings when I’m making music. The first song I recorded with

my new microphone was “Coldest Nights.” “Coldest Nights” is one of my favorite songs I’ve made so

far, I love it because I remember recording the vocals for the song and I was saying to myself “wow

that’s really cool, it changed the way my music sounds.” After I recorded the song, I released it and

everyone that heard the song enjoyed it. That’s when I realized that I don’t have to go to an

expensive studio to record my music, I can just do it by myself in my bedroom with my 200$

microphone for free. I love music and my mic gives me the ability to make music whenever I want and

it’s really convenient to the busy schedule I have on a day to day basis. My microphone gave me the

chance to make some of my favorite songs. One of my favorite songs that I’ve had fun creating is my

new song “Games”. I made “Games” over quarantine this summer and I remember singing different

melodies in the microphone and I was like “I really love this song” that day I recorded my music, I was

locked in making music for the next 24 hours, that day holds some of my favorite memory of making

music. That’s why I enjoy making music, I make music so I can get satisfaction and feel the

adrenaline that rushes through my body when I make good music. Music is something that anyone

can connect with no matter what part of the world they’re from and I want to be able to connect with

people from all over the world with my songs and that’s the reason why I make music. I always used

to write songs with dreams and aspirations of performing in front of people and my first big audience

was performing for my school in front of 1,000 people. I loved performing on the stage and the

adrenaline rush I got from it, I remember the whole crowd screaming and giving me a round of

applause, it was the best night of my life. Music is something that will always be apart of my life and I

can’t wait to see where it’ll take me in life.

Nebyu Bekele

The Music’s Chant

V.L.

As far as I remember, music has always been part of my life. Since the moment my

parents decided to name me Vanina, which is the title of a french song sung by Dave, a french

singer in the early 70’s, I was destined to fall in love with music. The song is about his love

named Vanina where he asks her to not forget about him or it will make him lonely and that he

is nothing without her. My parents loved that song but my mom also used to put on the radio

and listen to classical music when I was a baby, rocking me to sleep. Then at 8 years old I

decided to start learning music, so I went to my parents looking right into their eyes and told

them that I needed to play the violin. And that is how music made its appearance in my life.

Unfortunately, the music school I went to did not have any more space in their violin

class, so I ended up choosing the viola which is similar but slightly bigger and had one string

different. I was really passionate about it, and I loved the way the bow was sliding against the

strings creating that powerful sound that would resonate in my body. I first used the school’s

viola which was not the greatest at the time but good enough for the beginner that I was. It was

not until my teacher decided that to improve and enjoy even more playing music that I should

buy my own instrument.

I did not know where to buy one so I asked her where was a good place, and she smiled

at me and asked me when was a good time to go buy it together. We then met at that one

luthier shop in Paris, called Cordes et Ame which means strings and soul, to help me choose the

right viola. When entering the shop, in front of me were a bunch of shelves with violin, viola

and cello cases, a smell of wood and rosin was flying around, pieces of music were hanging on

the walls and the dim light coming in through the

windows, made it look like I entered some kind of

antic shop. There was a circular staircase at the end

of the room leading to the luthier space, where they

would carve the wood and make instruments. Next

to the cashier counter was a staircase going in the

basement and along the staircase were violins and

violas hanging from the ceiling. Everything was made

of wood and had a warm color to it, I felt at peace

and could not bring myself to walk further because

of how magnificent and magical it looked. Thankfully

my teacher was here to guide me and went talking

to the lady that was behind the counter.

We then went down in the basement to choose my viola and my teacher helped me

with what size and what to expect from a good viola. I tried to play on multiple violas as well as

bows until I found the one that I still have today. The viola has an oval shape and hollow, it was

smooth and had a shiny warm brown color, and the bow was as light as a feather. The sound it

made was so much more powerful than the ones we had at school, it echoed throughout the

store coming back in waves towards us. I could not believe that it was me playing, my body was

vibrating each time my bow encountered a string, and chills would run along my arms. With

sparkling eyes and a big smile on my face, I turned around and told my parents that it was the

one. My parents bought it for me and I hugged them as well as my teacher to thank them for

helping me and buying it.

My viola has been one of the most important objects in my childhood, it filled my mind

with music and kept me for hours occupied. I was practicing so much in order to be able to play

all the music my teacher was giving me, nothing could have stopped me from learning them

and being able to play them in front of my parents proudly. Playing music was like second

nature to me since a lot of my family members play some kind of instrument, for example my

two cousins played piano, my uncle and some of my other cousins played guitar, and my aunt

played the flute. All of them had their own little baby and mine was my viola.

It was not always as easy as it sounds, one day my viola teacher told me that I needed to

get ready for that one exam that would let me go into a higher level of music. The music

program that I was in had 3 exams that you have to pass after 4 or 5 years of playing in order to

be able to receive a certificate of music. The one I was preparing for was my first one so I did

not really know what to expect, even though my teacher was helping me throughout this

process. I had to play 2 pieces of music of my choice and 1 excerpt as well chosen by the judges.

I decided to play J.S Bach Cello Suite No.1 in G Major - II. Allemande transcribed for viola, and

the second piece was Fauré - Après un rêve.

It was a lot of preparation and stress, and eventually after practicing over and over

again I could not continue anymore because I thought that whatever I was doing was not

enough, so what was the point of continuing. I gave up at the last minute and procrastinated by

not playing as much as I should have, which ended up with me going to the exam feeling

stressed and not ready enough. The day of the exam, I got up on the stage, sweat was rolling

down my face and with my clammy hands I was holding my viola. It did not feel great at all. I

turned around to look at the judges and for the first time I felt chills running down my back, the

stage lightning was blinding me that all I could see were shapes dancing under the lights. I took

a deep breath with my bow on the string, and with a look to the pianist I started playing.

At the end of my performance the judges were good towards me, appreciating my music and

the way I played. They thought that I was good enough to go into the higher level but that they

would give me one more year of practice so I would be able to be more confident in my playing.

Going home that day was the worst thing, it was my first failure, my first regret, and my first

deception. I could not stop crying but understood that I should have not given up and kept

practicing. After that, I decided to get back into playing and not giving up. It taught me to be

more patient with myself, that even if I had difficulties, practicing diligently will always be

effective. Adding on that, I have always been a quiet and shy child but performing in front of an

audience gave me more confidence leading me to overcome that fear of judgement and that

shyness. Music is a form of art that does not ask something from you but gives you the chance

to create and give something out to people. It gave me the opportunity to express myself by

playing with my whole body, my heart and soul to show people that I had a voice.

Reaching out to people through music was something I really loved to do, I would play

music and think at the same time that I was telling my audience a story. I usually played a lot of

melancholic pieces of music that would allow me to immerse myself totally, and give out the

pain that I could feel through it. I also did play some more joyful music where I could express

my own story of what I thought the music was telling. Music has a healing part that I don’t think

a lot people really pay attention to. Through music you can convey emotions, stories that could

reach anyone and provide joy, sadness and more. You are giving out of your person to your

audience. I would say that music had a huge impact on my life again in that aspect because it

healed me by playing but also by listening to it, and one of the bands that gave me something

through their music was BTS.

BTS also called Bangtan Soneyondan and Beyond The Scene is a group of Korean pop.

There are 7 members called Kim Seokjin, Min Yoongi, Kim Namjoon, Jung Hoseok, Park Jimin,

Kim Taehyung and Jeon Jungkook. They are seven men

ranging from 23 to 27 years old from a company called Big

Hit Entertainment. They debuted in 2013 with nothing but

made it to the top in 2020 and all because of their music

and meaningful lyrics. Their songs almost all talk about

some kind of issue that we are all concerned about, for

example, the expectation of the adults towards young

adults, the problems of south korean’s education, mental

health, and how one should love themselves. I think it is

really admirable how they try to help people feel better

through their songs.

When I first met BTS I had a really hard time at that

moment due to my family moving from France to the

United States. I felt lonely, I could not speak english properly, I did not have many friends,

everything was so different and on top of that I had a really low self esteem. I found out about

BTS by chance on Youtube. The song was “Answer: Love Myself” and I felt drawn to the title, it

resonated with me. After the song finished, I felt tears rolling down my face, I did not

understand why but it just felt so powerful and touched me profoundly. I then decided to look

up the lyrics to know more about what the lyrics meant and fell in love with it.

As for example, in the lyrics of “Answer: Love Myself” one line says “Even all the scars

from your mistakes make up your constellation” meaning that whatever you did in the past that

you consider as mistakes are part of who you are. You grow from those mistakes and learn from

them, that you should embrace them instead of being ashamed of them. A lot of their songs if

not almost all of them have great lyrics with powerful meaning. Through that song the

underlying message that they conveyed was that everyone should love themselves and

appreciate what they have, that even if there are problems arising, you should never give up.

They taught me how to love myself and brought joy when I had a hard time during my life

through their lyrics.

As of today, I still listen to BTS and follow their career closely, loving their songs and the

message they try to spread around the world. However, at the same time my passion of playing

the viola slowly faded and now as a college undergraduate I decided to stop playing the viola

because I felt like I needed to close that chapter of my life. It helped me through my childhood

and my adolescence and I still really love music but I do not have that same envy, passion as I

had before. I will still probably go back to it later when I would feel the need to play but now

after gaining that confidence and more self esteem, I want to keep it as a good memory that I

could recall back to when older. Music will always be a part of my life, it has had such a huge

impact on me since childhood by learning how to be more patient, pushing myself to become

better, love myself and become more confident on who I am. Music makes my body vibrate, it

resonates in me by giving me chills, and follows me everywhere I go. It really is an art that gives

out to people and where you are able to share stories, emotions, and lessons. I grew up in it

and still grow up with it today. Learning more and more through it as the years passed, it

shaped me into the person I am today.

Look out for the BIPOC

S. H.

Breakfast seems like the most important part of the day. A time of rejuvenation;

distressing the worries of yesterday. However, I dread mornings. I dread the feeling of

walking into the dining hall at my university and grabbing the dry and bitter blueberry

muffins. I dread anxiously trying to find a seat among the sea of blond hair and Nike Air

Forces. My eyes dart from one white girl to the next, while thoughts seep into my mind:

“What if they’re judging me because I’m black?” “Are they surprised I’m accepted into

the U?” “Do they support the Black Lives Matter movement?”

Although the discomfort of being around others puts me on edge, especially in a

pandemic, it’s the indirect microagressions in required books and unpleasant zoom

meets that make the disconnection from others all the

more uncomfortable. There have been cases where topics

concerning racism and prejudice would come up, and I’d

shuffle around in my chair, waiting for the last minute of

class.

Being a minority in America, now more than ever, feels

like a 10,000 pound adult elephant that I can’t shake off of

me. The elephant relentlessly follows me, and as hard as I

try, I can’t dismiss it. Sometimes, I embrace the elephant,

and show it compassion. But, other times, I find myself

hating the elephant, and hating the skin I was born in.

This dangerous love/hate relationship is the hardest to

explain to others who can’t relate, so I settle with “Hi, I’m

Black.”

I believe that the ones who show hate to a race or identity, secretly envy it. This

can be seen in a book I have been reading for a class I am currently taking. The

protagonist’s friend was expressing how much she loved black boys, and fetishized

them to the point where I had to set the book down and take a break. A friend of a

friend had also released some music with unpleasant references to George Floyd and

Kobe Bryant; two black men who have both tragically died in 2020. Although this essay

doesn’t scream of celebration, I celebrate having a part of me I can’t change. I celebrate

being different and being able to share my experiences to bring awareness in society

today. The neverending and constant struggle I face strengthens me. I celebrate being a

black, independent, young women in the city of Minneapolis, attending a state college

as a first generation Muslim scholar. From the henna on my legs to the unruly curly

hair on my head, I love all of me deeply; intensely.

It’s a good day to find another BIPOC at a primarily white institution, like the

University of Minnesota Twin Cities. Maybe it’s because of familiar warmth they give

off, or the similar racial and social background. Nevertheless, I am drawn to people who

can empathize with the prejudice glances I receive almost every day. I honor the people

relentlessly showing advocacy in both social media and in public. The bravery to step

outside one’s comfort zone of their school, their job and their neighborhood to speak

on social justice is an attribute I am still trying to acquire. It will definitely take a long

while, but having a support system and friends who look like me would absolutely help

heal the scars society has placed on us.

Identifying identity

S.D

With my mom being from the country of Eritrea with a lot of beliefs and traditions

and my dad being African American from the United States I had a lot to learn from

both sides. When being around on either side of my family I felt that I had to act

differently to fit their expectations. Growing up I was raised around both sides equally. I

would spend one weekend on my dad's side and we would usually have huge family

cookouts with all the family and eat and dance to the loud music. When it was the

quieter days we would usually watch movies and hang out outside. The next weekend I

spent with my mom’s side and we would start off our Saturday mornings with a big

breakfast that my grandmother made for the smaller family we had. We would have

small conversations as we ate with my grandmother starting off how has school been?

As for me and my siblings, each taking turns telling her how it is going. Then she'll go on

to tell how important our education was and how it was important to succeed. After

breakfast, we would drink boon “Eritrean coffee” but all it tasted like was milk because

of how much she put in it. Then we would wake up Sunday morning and go to church

then from church we went to Sunday school where we learned about our culture and

learned to speak our language Tigrinya. Those weekends were more educational.

This continued as the years went on. I swapped from two different families

almost every weekend. This is when I began to see the differences between my family. I

started to get older and everything mattered more than ever, my grandmother was more

strict on my appearance. She wanted me to be as pure and perfect as I could. She

made it a point to tell me to never ruin my body in her words with her east African

accent “ don't dye your hair, don't write or color on your skin, and don't put holes in your

face”. I could tell how important it was from the tone of her voice, unlike her my other

side didn't tell me what to look like or what to like whatever I did they accepted. I was

confused about who I was. I didn't know what I could like or what I could do because

both sides of my family were different, one side accepted something and the other

didn't. It came to a point where I had to act like two completely different people around

them. If I like anything that my mom's side didn't approve of I was lectured on how it

could affect my future and how it's not appropriate. My parents never judge me on my

likings to anything they would give me their opinion but will never tell me who to be.

With my mom being from Eritrea but was raised in America. She went through the same

experiences as me growing up. She struggled with finding herself in a whole new

country with more expectations. As my mom grew up she learned to just choose who

she wanted to be and how to live her life. Though of what her culture wanted her to be

and she expected her children to do the same. My parents never told me I had to

believe in either thing I was taught and I could choose, but it was hard. I was strictly

taught and told so many things from a young age that it was hard choosing who to listen

to.

It was this period where I didn't want to listen to anybody anymore. I just wanted

to do what I liked without being judged, nor be looked at differently from the rest of my

family. I would wish I could've lived one life and not a double. I wanted to try new things

and live my life how I wanted with no expectations. I wanted to learn from my own

experiences without being judged by my family. I was confused. I felt like I could only

show a little part of myself to both sides. I never felt like I belonged either. Honestly, I

felt Americanized on one side and too cultural on the other. I started to not enjoy being

around my family because I spent so much time pretending to be somebody else and I

was getting tired of it. I wanted to get a nose ring and dye my hair but I knew how my

grandmother was going to feel about it. As bad as I wanted to listen to my grandma I

knew it was time that I did what made me happy but before I did I had to sit back and

think, was this what I really wanted to do? I went back and forth deciding if I wanted to

make my grandmother happy or do something for myself? The thing that I loved with my

other side was that they let you live your life how you want. There weren't a lot of

expectations and their culture wasn't as strict. I could tell that I really never fit in. I was

always asked why I do what I do on both sides. On my mom's side, I felt like the center

of attention. I was the tallest girl. I was taller than all my aunts, cousins both boys and

girls. I was a few inches shorter than my uncles. I was always questioned why I acted

like a boy. I could tell that it was weird for them to see a girl so into sports the way I was.

I was the only girl in the family that was athletic and who played sports competitively.

They thought that playing sports as a girl meant I was a boy. My grandma would try to

force me into wearing heels and dresses when I wasn't into wearing them. On my other

side though I was still the only girl to play sports and they did call me a tomboy growing

up but they never made me feel bad about it. I was actually asked by my older cousins if

I would play with them which made me feel better. It wasn't weird for them to see me be

me.

It was time that I chose who I wanted to be and what I wanted to believe in. I sat

down with my pen and notebook on my bed and I wrote cultural and American then I

split a line between them and wrote a list of things that I liked about each side and what

I didn't like. I found that I did love the idea of the American side choosing who I wanted

to be and doing what I liked but I also loved my cultural side. I sat there for hours trying

to choose which side was more like me but let me tell you I never did. I had finally told

myself that I can't be both. I'm never going to live up to everybody's expectations in life.

I'm not able to make everybody happy. I can't be on both sides of the list but I could be

in the middle. I could be me and chose what I believe and what to respect, and I did,

There were things on both of the lists I wanted to do and I did them still while being me.

Eventually, I got blonde highlights in my hair and got my nose pierced. With that, I'll

embrace it and not feel ashamed of it because now it's part of me. When around my

family I didn't show it off because I wanted to respect the fact of my culture although I

chose to go against it. It was noticeable but I didn't make it a big deal. I was

complimented on my dad’s side of the family but not so much of my mom’s side. I was

told by my grandmother I disobeyed my culture and I should take out my piercing and

go to the store with her to buy a black box dye. She lectured me about how it's not

allowed and what would happen if I did that back home. I could see how disappointed

she was with me, she asked me why I would go against who I was? and why would I do

that to my face?. But grandma who am I? I know she wasn't trying to hurt my feelings

but that's who she is. She is a person that stands by her culture 100% that all she

knows she raised in Eritrea with people that were just like her. They didn't live in another

country to see how differently they lived. And she wanted her grandchildren to do the

same. With that, I explained to her how I felt and how it was difficult for me to find out

who I was. I told her how I was trying to make everybody happy and while doing that I

was only hurting myself. I told her there were things in my culture that I would stand by

but there were also some things that I chose to not but still respect. Eventually, she

gave in and allowed me to be the person I was. Deep down I know how her culture

meant to her and it hurt me to know that I turned against who she wanted me to be after

teaching me for many years. But to this day when I do crazy things she tells me that she

doesn't like but still makes it a point to show that she still accepts me. Now I have

learned how to love and respect both cultures but be myself.

Explore the place that was my Childhood

Maggie Wang

The past can be a big part of you from things, people, or even places that you’ve touched.

One of my happiest memories came from when I lived in New York and China. I was born in

Manhattan, New York where I spent most of my early childhood years and I also went to China

to explore the place where my parents once grew up.

Throughout my time in the big state of New York, I have been to four different parts of

New York which fill with different wildlife and manmade attractions. New York is known for its

busy streets, sky touching buildings, and amazing tourist spots; for example, the Statue of

Liberty, the Empire State Building, and the place where Twin Towers once stood. I have been to

beautiful cities such as Brooklyn, Manhattan, Jamaica, and Coney Island. I spent some time in

Jamaica, New York where my grandparents opened their restaurant. Over time we moved to

Brooklynn, New York where I grew up until I moved to Minnesota. Even though I didn’t live in

Manhattan and Coney Island, I have been to those places more than a dozen times. It always

brings back the happiest memories when I go back there. Either shopping around the busy streets

of Manhattan with my family or going to the bright sunny beaches and exciting amusement park

at Coney Island. I lived in Brooklyn most of my life during my time in New York.

Before moving to Brooklyn, I used to live in Jamaica, New

York. My grandparents had opened a restaurant there before it closed

down. I was 2 or 3 years old, so I don’t remember most things. I could

still remember the smell of the musty room underneath the restaurant

that was filled with boxes of supplies that stacked so high. I remember

that the temperature of the musty room would switch from hot, stuffy,

and humid in the summer to a chilly in the winter.

One thing I do remember clearly was the convenience store right next to

the restaurant, and I would go there with one of my uncles. I would sit

on top of his shoulder feeling so high in the sky that brought me so

much joy as a kid, and we would get fresh snacks for my cousins, my

brother, and me.

After we moved to Sunset Park, Brooklyn, there was a big

difference. Some of my family members already lived there before we moved. My cousin lives a

couple of brick houses down, and I would go over there all the time to hang out. I lived in a

small house, not exactly an apartment, but many others did live in the different parts of the

house. We lived in the back so we owned the backyard, where I remember playing all the time in

the dark soil and wires going through the yard where we hung out clothes. I would step on the

soil and grass as I watch the clothes flow back and forth with the soft winds. The place was small

but it was home to the six of us: my brother, cousins, aunt, and grandma. My parents were in

Minnesota working hard and didn’t have time to take care of us. I stayed with my caring

grandma until I was in second grade. My parents did visit and stay for a while but would always

go back to work in Minnesota. I loved that house; it was everything, the place where my

childhood began.

The house was close between the town, the park, and the school. If you go right, you

would end up where the restaurant, bakery, bike shop, nail salon, and the phone shop stood. Take

a left and you will see the lively park. It is a huge park, and at night it gets crowded with people

watching the soccer games, old ladies dancing to loud music, children with their parents filling

the playground, and people just enjoying each others’ company. There was also a huge pool

there too filled throughout the day with people yelling with wide smiles on their faces. Near the

park is a school that was stories high; it was where I used to attend kindergarten and first grade.

The place was huge. You can get lost easily if you don't know the school. I remember after

school there would always be a guy outside selling giant cotton candy cones, and I would plead

with my mom to get one for me. Sometimes I was able to convince my mom to get me one. The

taste of the cotton candy was amazing, the way it slowly melts away leaving the sweet flavor of

strawberry or blueberry. The best thing to eat after a long and tiring day after school. But

sometimes I would be disappointed when my parents said no, and I would plead for one until the

cotton candy slowly disappears from my sight as I watch him with sadness. I would walk home

from school since it was close to my house. There was a pizza place just at the corner of the

block. I could smell the dough, spices, and pizza that was coming out of the open door. I saw the

many dishes of hot and fresh slices of pizzas behind the counter.

There were many exciting places near my home especially the fun

and exciting park and the delicious smell of pizza on my walk home.

There are many places to explore in Brooklyn, but we would go out

of Brooklyn too. Brooklyn was very close to Manhattan, I would

always take either the bus or the subway there. I get car sick, so

every time I would go take the bus to Manhattan I would sit by the

window and crack it open for the fresh cold breeze to come in and

get rid of the musty and sweaty smell that would hang on the bus.

People would pack into the tiny bus like sardines, all trying to get to

Manhattan. Since there are so many people on the bus, you can smell

the person right next to you. Some of them do not exactly smell the

most pleasant. But I would ignore all of it and look out the window

of the bus crossing the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan, the view was just breathtaking. The big

river that ran under the bridge, cars, and bikers filled the bridge as I rode past them and the site

of the city was just beautiful. Every time I would go to Manhattan, I would visit Chinatown and

explore it with my family. Chinatown was like a miniature version of China and more western

than it too, but going there would always remind me of my parents’ hometown. The difference

between Chinatown and China, from my experience, is that in Chinatown there are more people

of different ethnicities and a lot more noise. In China, you can hardly hear so much noise since

my parents’ house was a bit farther than in the city. But I love visiting both places, and even

though Chinatown brings back a lot of memories and a place that reminds me of China, there is

one more place that is very important to me.

The last place in New York that was important to me is Coney Island, a huge

entertainment destination with beaches and amusement parks, it was a huge tourist attraction. It

was always jammed packed. It is close to Brooklyn so I remember going there a lot as a child.

We would take the subway there and play on the hot beach or go on the tall Ferris wheel at the

amusement park. The last time I went there was in 2015, one of my favorite things to do was a

race with my dad and brother at a car race. Being there with my whole family brought me so

much joy and was one of my favorite memories that I hope to never forget.

Another place that I hold close to my heart is China. I would visit where my parents grew

up before they immigrated to the USA. China was like a whole new experience with different

cultures and foods. Although I can not remember much about China, since I was young when I

lived there. I do remember the smell of foods coming from the stalls that are lined across the

street. People trying to sell their foods, clothes, and other items.

My parents grew up in Fuzhou, China, an area in southern China near Taiwan. Since it

was near the ocean, fresh seafood was one of the most popular dishes there like snow crabs,

crabs, shrimp, fish, and so much more. Although both my parents are from the Fuzhou province,

they met through a friend in New York. The odds! Their homes were not so far from each other,

only a couple of hours away! Even though they are from the same province, my parents grew up

in a different lifestyle. My mom grew up in the cities while my dad grew up in the countryside,

so when I visited the house of my parents they were vastly different. The difference between the

small house in the big cities or the big house in the country each with the unique details that

made me fall in love with them. The housing is so different wherein the cities the house was

clean, white, and modern compared to the big house in the country that was made from bricks,

concrete for floor, with steep and narrow stairs. Even though the houses

were so different, they all bring back happy childhood memories and

reliving the life of my parents.

From what I can remember, China was a big place, even though I

lived in New York with people crowding around me and noises are

everywhere. Nothing compared to the hustle and bustle of the big cities in

China. People were everywhere you look! Stores so high up it looked like

they were touching the clouds. Even if the place was so different from what

it was like back in America it still feels like home to me. Being able to

experience what my parents did as a child and explore where my roots

came from.

There is a huge difference between New York and China, from culture to a different

tradition. For example in New York, it is not just one ethnicity in the community. People from all

over the world live here, all combined to live in one community where everyone can learn and

share their culture. While China was mainly an Asian community. Most people will think that in

China everyone has the same culture and everything is the same. But now there are more than 50

different groups of ethnic groups in China, all with different cultures, languages, or manners. For

example, there is a Zhuang, which is the biggest group in China. Something similar that both

New York and China have is that in the countries there is more than one language.

With the busy streets of China and New York, I have enjoyed and loved every experience

it had to offer. It shaped me as a person today, making up the majority of my childhood. I loved

the different cultural aspects of this wonderful childhood. While New York and China shaped me

and my childhood, I can’t wait to see how my future will turn out and the new places that will

complete my story.

Swallowing Your Pride, Yet Choking On Silence

S.V.

I smell the aromatic herbs and seasoning. I hear the water running from the sink. I see

food like egg rolls, springrolls, pho, and laab set on a table. Using my senses, I follow the

kitchen and I am met with womxn. There are all kinds of womxn. Womxn who have curves.

Womxn who have long black hair. Womxn who feel comfortable with themselves. Despite

their differences, all womxn have a beautiful soul. Within our roots, Hmong womxn have

always felt that they’ve known each other for generations. We treat each other as sisters and

look out for each other when we are in need of support. We all have a bond and strive to

make something of ourselves. However, some womxn look to make something out of

themselves by men. In Hmong family gatherings, there were always two things I noticed, all

of the womxn were in the kitchen, cooking and doing the chores, while the men downstairs

were gathered together to get drunk and have the time of their life. These gatherings are an

example of the Hmong community living in a patriarchal society. Hmong men are held as

high beings and put on a pedesal, while Hmong womxn live to serve the men.

Hmong womxn are expected to be “good” daughters, daughters in laws, and mothers.

To be considered “good” you have to ignore your individuality, you have to swallow your

pride so others can do and say what they want to you, you have to be silent in the face of

injustices, and you must submit to cultural traditions.

However, my mother never gave in to these expectations. When I first see my mother

I love to see how my mother shows off her beautiful features. In the morning, using the palm

of her hands she uses an emulsion and pats the creamy texture on her clear face to brighten

her skin. She lets her loose dark brown hair and it falls loose down her delicate back. The

way she uses the sets of makeup brushes to swift it along her pale face and uses lipstick, to

emerge the colors in her lips to make them fully perked with the different shades of maroon

red. My mother would use her daily perfume that smelled like lilacs and roses we garden in

our backyard, which seemed to attract the different people in her life. Finally, at the end of

her beauty routine her eyebrows were the most striking. She’d maintain the arch of it and

used the thin angled makeup brush to apply light shades of brown, which greatly enhanced

her features, such as her plump lips, dark brown eyes, and her small even nose. In the

Hmong community, a womxn who is considered beautiful, is also a slut if she is married. My

mother never paid attention to the rumors and gossip about her. They would always say she

was looking for attention, she craves for men to be fond of her, or she must be having all

sorts of affairs. However, beauty in her eyes meant she could use her makeup as a way to

empower and express the womxn she is today.

From a young age, she married my father at the age of seventeen. It was never an easy

marriage, if my mother did not listen or obey to my father, he would endlessly beat her until

her skin became a bluish violet hue. She would be left there with traces of blood on her body.

I would hear the endless cries in the middle of the night. His words spewed out

manipulation and gaslight. He said he loved her, she believed him. However, when my little

sister was born and was bedridden after labor, he would take us to our grandmother to look

after us as he brought multiple women in the house. For seventeen years, my mother dealt

with repeating cycles of physical and mental pain caused by my very own father. Although

she was too deep into the marriage, it was the last straw when he decided to choose himself

over his own family. The anger she had within herself, shackled her from their toxic

relationship. Her courage made her take a step forward and she eventually decided to give

him the divorce papers. Despite going through hardships of being a single mother, she

remains to be a strong independent mother who looks and takes care of her children,

deciding to not look back from the past and keep moving forward at the end of the tunnel.

Today, after receiving her associates degree, she works as a medical assistant and does her

best to support her children. To others, she is considered a single mother, but to me she is

simply my mother. Therefore, my mother never gave in to these expectations, she didn’t

want to be a good “nyab” because she was expected to do so, but because she genuinely

wanted to be a good mother, sister, and aunt to her family. My mother thought about her

family and put them first, she didn’t want her family to be driven away by a man who did

not love her. Despite how hard it was for her to transition being a single mother and

supporting her children by herself, we remind her everyday that we are proud of her for

being the strongest beautiful womxn we know. Womxn do not need to prove to men they

are womxn, because they already are.

Unfortunately, my mother followed the same

pathway as my grandmother, who also had to struggle

through the misfortune of the misogynistic values in the

Hmong community. When I see my mother going

through the hardship of coping with her trauma, I also

think of my grandmother, who was a sacrifice to her

family. Similarly, I can see that the relationship between

my mother and grandmother is powerful, they both relate

to a hardship that is much difficult to heal from. Their

freedom was taken away.

My grandmother is the most resilient and strongest person I have ever met and

known. However, being strong comes with a sacrifice. From a young age, I learned that due

to my great grandparents struggling with financial issues. At the age of 12, my grandmother

was sold to my biological grandfather. My biological grandfather had many wives. My

grandmother was told she was responsible for the house chores, she was told everything had

to be spotless. However, if she did not do her tasks “properly” or did not satisfy him, he

would beat her. She would yelp and scream out for help until her throat became numb, but

no one did anything. They were too afraid. Too afraid of what he might do to them. Too

afraid of what his hands were capable of. She would be left there with bruises that had the

hue of livid bluish colors, blood trickling down from her head to the tip of her toes, and scars

that she knew would remain forever on her body and were the trace of her worst nightmare.

At the age of 17, after living there for 5 years, she became numb. In the land of opportunity

where people arrived to achieve the american dream, it was far from hers. She dreamed of

survival and happiness. However, she had no idea if the pain she felt everyday would

eventually drive her to madness. Therefore, in order to survive, she conditioned herself to get

used to being thrown around and eventually succumbed to the pain.

Then, she had my mother and uncle. They were the light of her life, all her years of

being in the dark struck her when she found the meaning of motherhood. The stretch marks

and battle scars were proof it was not an easy birth, however the feeling of their cheeks

against her own breasts and their warm tiny hands that seemingly connected to her cold

rough hands, which were toiled away by the fruits of her labor. The caressing and loving of

her own children could not be replaced with anything else. She was fulfilled. Her children

would be the reason to steer themselves away from their father. Her children guided her to a

life where she can finally be on her own and live a happy life with her children. My

grandmother went back to Thailand and eventually remarried and had four more children.

Despite how much trauma she went through, her husband was there to emotionally support

her. Today, she is happily working with my grandfather and are selfless people who work to

financially support their family.

In the Hmong community, it is a tradition for grandparents to pass down a fine

possession to grandchildren. My grandmother gave me a golden necklace to pass down her

legacy and heritage. My grandmother gave me this necklace from the fruits of her labor. I felt

the love my grandmother had for me through this necklace. Hearing the stories of my

grandmother and witnessing the pain my mother went through. The necklace that was given

to me represents a line of resilience.

Growing up, I was conditioned to submit to these expectations of Hmong womxn. As

a young girl who was still curious about the world, in these family gatherings I would be told

by Hmong men I had to be in the kitchen. I was even told by my very own father “You

belong in the kitchen”. Hearing this shattered me, knowing that my very own father did not

see me as a daughter, but an object. I felt forced to be put into submission, like I was a toy to

be played with and someone to entertain them. When I confronted them, I saw eyes all over

me, judging me and I can hear them say “She doesn’t have a place here”. When they said

“here” I knew they meant I was not entitled to step anywhere above the line where the men

were. Hmong men were in a position of higher authority. For example, there are 18 clans in

total and all of the clan leaders are men. These clan leaders are in a position of leadership.

There are no womxn leaders, because Hmong men think they are incapable of holding

leadership. Thus, in spite of calling them out for their patriarchal bigotry, although the

womxn around me knew they were in the wrong, they stayed silent. Those eyes made the

womxn around me frightened and through those eyes, I knew what feared them. If they

made a mistake, even if it was a small one, they would be judged by the people in their

community and would spread bad rumors about them. They were afraid that these rumors

would harm them for the rest of their life. Despite defending for myself, I didn’t go any

further. As a young girl who was still figuring out about the world, I was scared to be judged,

I didn’t want others to see me in a bad light. Thus, I eventually conformed to these

expectations. I would always help cook or clean in the kitchen, offer drinks to my relatives,

never talk back if someone was saying bad things about me, was silent when someone was

intentionally trying to hurt a womxn. These expectations created a lot of internal oppression

within myself. I hated my own identity. It was hard for me to comprehend all of these

expectations I had to live by. I was ashamed of living as a Hmong Womxn, I didn’t want to

stay silent nor ignore my individuality. Being a Hmong daughter/womxn is harshly difficult,

unjust, and damaging.

However, in the face of hardships, I look at my gold necklace and it reminds me to

stay strong. It reminds me of my mother’s and grandmother's story, who had to face the

struggles of being a womxn in the Hmong community and was able to overcome that

hardship. This valuable item is a significant part of my body and soul. It tells me I must face

hardship in order to overcome challenges and grow as an individual. Despite the eyes that

were putting me down, I realized then why men were furious at me for speaking out. I can

see that their masculinity is so fragile, they are forced to exert their authority and power in

order to get what they want. However, I cannot tolerate the excuses men use to get away

from their actions. Following this realization, I’ve learned to embrace my Hmong identity

and my womanhood. I’ve discovered that it is not easy to accept your identity, but once you

reclaim the identity that has been taken away from you, you do not need someone to make

something of yourself, but rather make yourself feel a whole and being whole is the best

satisfaction one can receive. Today, as a Hmong womxn who is invested in social justice

work, I feel it is my duty to not only change the systematic oppression BIPOC communities

face, but also the patriarchal society within the Hmong community. I believe Hmong womxn

deserve to be valued not as objects, but as human beings. Through my social justice work,

I've connected to other Hmong womxn who've had similar experiences as me as we

discussed in healing sessions for Asian American womxn. We would talk about the

expectations Hmong womxn are put up to and the challenges we face and discussed how we

should include more narratives of Hmong womxn in the community for people to

understand the injustices we encounter. Therefore, I will not let these expectations put me

down, I will not live by them. I stand with strength. I shout with all my might, so those who

don’t have a voice can be heard. I hear every womxn out there struggling to get by. I will

never be silenced again.

Hmong womxn when a man tells you you're not enough or breaks your heart. Free

yourselves from the shackles Hmong men have binded you, once you do, you will know very

well that they cannot stand having their masculinity taken lightly. Let go when you need to.

Shout it all out. Let your agony and pain put a kindle through the lump of your throat, then

into your lungs, and the tears streaming down from the window to your soul. Do not hold it

in, holding it in all at once could ignite a fire full of grudge. Flow with the universe and

release everything so you may heal.

The Land I came from, Oromia.

M.U

A flag. The dictionary defines it as a

piece of cloth used as the emblem of a

country. Its design and colors symbolize

nations and identify their values, beliefs,

and history in different ways. They also

convey profound messages. As for the

flag hanging on my room wall, It is

supposed to represent the Oromo

people. It contains three horizontal

stripes of red, green, and red. It has a

yellow rayed disc in the center, and this

disk has a green Oromo

tree, named sycamore or Oda tree within

it. Above the Oda tree, there is also a

small five-pointed red star. This little star

on the flag shows our willingness for

self-determination from the oppressive

government system. I bought this flag a

couple of months ago when I attended a

protest against the Ethiopian

government, which was held at the state

capital. Ever since then, It has always

been hanging on my wall. Every time I

look at it, I see a part of me in it. I can be

found in the flag—a young, proud,

Oromo woman resisting against the

oppression of the colonizers.

Oromos are the largest ethnic group in

Ethiopia, which is a country located in

East Africa. The Oromia region contains

a huge Ethiopia's land area and

population. Oromos have been

experiencing systematic oppression

under the Ethiopian government, and

they have been forced to adapt to the

colonizers’ culture, language, and

religion. Until now, the Oromo people are

being tortured, enslaved, depopulated,

massacred, and their resources are

being destroyed and looted by the

government. Therefore, this flag

represents the inequality we, the Oromo

people, have been fighting for decades. It

symbolizes the sacrifices and struggles

that my people have been facing for

hundreds of years.

As Oromos, we have our language,

culture, tradition, and food. Our language

is known as Afaan Oromo. The policy of

marginalization was also exercised to

build a country of one language, religion,

and culture. The promotion of the

language was inspected and strictly

forbidden. Therefore, the Oromo

language in general and written Oromo

literature remained less studied.

Personally, as an Oromo myself, I was

getting blocked from knowing about my

cultural identities. Even though I grew up

with my family, I spend most of my time

at school. I was four years old when I first

started going to school; my mom

registered me in a private school where

you can only learn in the Amharic

language with Amhara people. Amhara is

an ethnicity, just like the Oromo ethnicity,

which was found in Ethiopia. Amharas

are the second largest group of ethnicity

in the country. They speak the Amharic

language, which is also an official

Ethiopian language, so private school

uses the Amhara language. When

Ethiopia was formed as a new state, the

Amhara nation became dominant both

politically and culturally, resulting in

political oppression, land alienation, and

the imposition of Amhara language and

religion on the rest of Ethiopian nations,

including Oromos. When I go to school,

all my friends are Amhara, so I get forced

to learn their language and culture

instead of understanding my language;

even though Afan Oromo is my first

language, I don’t have that much

connection. As a kid, I was eager to learn

the Amharic language and forget about

my culture because I want to fit into my

school community. I remember the first

two-three months; I struggled with

making friends because of the language

barrier. After I get home from school, my

mom used to try to teach me Amharic so

that I don’t feel down at school; I

remember when my friends used to

make fun of me because of my accent,

and that made me want to be fluent in

the Amharic language.

My mom sent me to a private school

because she wants me to get a better

education. What my family and I did not

realize is how it is limited to know more

about my culture. It prevents me from

writing and speaking fluently using Afan

Oromo. Growing up, I started learning

more about my culture and realized how

my ethnicity mattered. I begin to question

myself about what Oromo means. Don’t

get me wrong, of course, and I know

what Oromo means but do I know the

cultural background and oppression my

people are facing. Those were my first

two questions that I asked about my

culture, do I know what odaa is? How is

that connected to me? As I started

thinking about those questions, I started

learning more about it. I learned about

my flags and how it represents the

struggle of my people.

Besides symbolizing our

struggles, the flag also identifies Oromo

people’s values and beliefs. For instance,

the Oromo tree or Odaa found at the

center of the flag represents a shade

where spiritual society gathers together

in a crowd to worship their Creator, to

solve divorce issues, to make

reconciliation, and also to formulate and

amend Laws. Even though I never have

seen the odda trees or presents to

celebrate with my people, I learned about

it from my mom. She used to tell me her

story of going to the odda tree and gather

with people until she learned about how,

as Muslim, we are not allowed to worship

anything besides one God. As I said,

some parts of Oromo people use the

trees worshiping basically. However, as a

part of Oromo, we consider Odaa as one

of the sacred sites because it grows in

the areas where there is abundant water,

and since water is a source of life and

fertility, we think it is impressive. The

beautiful thing about the Odaa tree is that

it remains wet even during long periods

of drought. No matter the condition of the

weather, It always stands in harmony

with its roots, trunk, leaves, and fruits.

And that also represents me as an

Oromo individual. Like the Odaa tree, I

am always standing strong and proud

even when our oppressors are hating on

us and torturing us. I am still persevering,

learning how to be resilient, and just

bouncing back no matter what happens

in my life. The worship rituals under the

shade of odaa was a tradition held not

only by the followers of the traditional

Oromo religion, waaqeffannaa, but also

by other prominent religious followers.

Even though, as young, I wasn’t

encouraged to learn about my heritage,

there are values and norms that I have

learned which are respecting my elders

and serving others with exceptional

hospitality. Being Oromo, we valued

respecting elders a lot. When elders are

having a conversation, we weren’t

supposed to give our perspective. I was

taught to obey elders no matter what

their status in the society is, as long as

they did not instruct me to do something

unethical. I have learned to value people

and to honor them despite what I may

see of them, for it may be that Waqa

(“Oromo way of saying God”) sees them

in an entirely different light. Especially

obeying my parents is key to the formula.

Even when they yell at me for something

I didn’t do, I had to wait until they were

done in order to explain myself. In the big

event or gathering, I was taught to give a

spot before I even sit. I remember one

day we were celebrating Oromo day, July

4th, where all Oromo gathers and spends

the best time together. There was music,

poems, and traditional food. I was

volunteering that day; my work duties

were to ensure that elders were getting a

better spot, making sure they were

getting food and drinks before anyone

else, and making sure they are

comforted. Elders always first, then we

can have things we want, but first, we

have to make sure they are getting

enough food. Sometimes, as a kid, I

curve to test food or eat before my

parents eat but in a lot of gatherings, that

is prohibited, doing that people can

misvalue you, especially if you are a girl.

These unwritten laws from a young age

had allowed me to understand

boundaries and to form long-lasting

relationships. To be responsible and

respectful when connecting with students

with other cultures and backgrounds.

Taking care of people and providing

excellent hospitality is another one of my

priorities. I was taught to be very

welcoming and to serve others to the

best of my abilities. We also valued

social life a lot, as it helps us to stay

connected as a community. When guests

come over to my house, my family

always welcomes them with a lot of

respect. It doesn't matter whether the

person who came over is wealthy or not.

Wherever the guests come over, we

always value them. I remember many

guests came from different cities called

dire Dawa. They were three and stayed

with us for almost fifteen days. Even

though our house wasn’t that big, my

family still welcomed them with a lot of

joy; we stayed happily together. Even

though the guests followed different

religions, we had never had any issues.

As an Oromo myself, I have very little

knowledge of the Oromo language from

the conversation my parents have with

me but other than that, I was not able to

use the Oromo language in public as

much. Growing up, I was not proud of my

culture because of my little knowledge. I

ignored the fact that my brothers and

sisters tortured, massacred, dying on the

streets. I admit that, yes, I was careless;

however, after I read many books and

knew my history, I learned how many of

my ancestry, family members, brothers,

and sisters sacrificed to make the Oromo

people live in freedom. Until these days,

this night, my people are dying; they are

suffering in our land, Oromia. The fact

that I kept myself away from my culture

had me be ashamed. However, I did not

want to hold myself back; I want to

contribute and stand with my people.

This last summer, I held up my Oromo

flag and stood together with my people. I

have been protesting for my people.

Although now, since I am in college I will

find ways to help them. I will use my

platforms to raise awareness about what

is happening in Ethiopia. I long to see a

free Oromia. where our younger

generations would not have to

experience what our ages and the older

generations experienced oppression. I

long to see them walking in the streets

with their heads high up, proudly, and

without being ashamed of their identity. I

would love to see our beautiful Oromo

culture blossoming.

My older brother, my influencer, the one who made

me, me

Tiana T.

"Tiana! Malachi's here!" And that's all I'd need to hear before I'm up and running. Night and

day, he was there for me, whether it was in person, or over the phone. He was the one who showed

me so many things, leading me to different experiences. He was the one who helped me at my

toughest times when no one knew I was even struggling. He was the one who tried to always make

time to see his family. He’s my older brother, my influencer, the one who made me, me.

Growing up, we both had different mothers who we respectively stay with, but he would

always visit and stay with my family a couple of times throughout the year. He is four years older

than me and has always been about two heads taller. We have different colored skin and we don’t

look much alike, but that's never been a problem for us as he’s still my brother. He’s a pretty quiet

person, and he keeps to himself most of the time. He rarely gets upset with people and even more

rarely would yell at someone. Despite his quiet type personality, he is very hardworking, always

keeping himself busy. While growing up, he didn’t really change much and kept the same type of

temperament. Living in separate homes, I had lived in Lincoln Park, Michigan while he lived in

Ohio, It was about a 4 hour drive between us. We would only see each other a couple of times a

year, five times at most, but as we grew older and he entered highschool, he became much busier

with that and football, and we bagan to see each other less and less.

It was because he’s my older brother and due to the fact that I rarely saw him, that I feel like

he influenced me quite a lot while we were growing up. He influenced me from little things such as

my dislike for peanut butter for a long time(I actually quite like it now), to me starting to draw.

Malachi is a very talented artist and I would always watch him draw when he would visit and would

make him draw me things. There was the time he drew me a drawing of one of my favorite

characters from a show. I loved the drawing so much. The next time we saw each other though, we

argued, and fought over the drawing, resulting in it getting ripped. It was this moment that

influenced me to want to start drawing, despite my lack of talent for it. Although, by time I reached

middle school, I realized I could do it as well. I would constantly show him my work and he would

show me his. Seeing his work, from the way every line was straight and every color was blended so

well, would just encourage me to do better. Our time together would always make my day and only

influenced me more to want to draw more as he explained new things to me. Today, I don’t draw as

much as I did back then but every now and then, I like to look through my old drawings or pull out

my dusty supplies and work on a new piece.

He not only influenced my love for drawing, but also my love for anime and manga. Anime

is a japanese styled cartoon and manga is the japanese versioned comic. Whenever he would visit,

we would sit in the living room and he would play the shows for me. These were the bonding

moments we would have. I remember we would be watching these shows and reading these novels

together as he explained everything to me. He explained who the characters were and how to read

the books. The ones he showed me at the time though were a little more mature for my age but it

was still enough to catch my attention. Now, mangas are my favorite type of style reading. I love

reading all sorts of mangas, webtoons, and web novels.

“Leave me alone!” were the words he yelled at me the first time we fought. In our whole life,

the two of us have only fought 3 times, and all of them left a mark in some way. The first time we

fought, we were little, I was around 6 years old and he was around 10. Around those ages. I had

dropped his DS out of the car and it broke. That was the first time I saw my brother cry and he was

angry at me. He didn’t speak to me the rest of the day and told me to leave when I wanted to

apologize. It is this reason that I have the tendency of not wanting to hurt others. I can’t stand the

thought of making someone so upset/angry with me, that they completely shut me out. The third

time we fought was initiated by me. I was about 10 or 11, and had just gotten a laptop for christmas.

One morning, I went to use it, only to notice it was locked by a password with the key being “What

is your favorite pie?”. Pie. I don’t even like pie. Well I did but only pumpkin and even when I

entered that, that wasn’t right. The only person who liked pie, was him. He loved pie so much that

he wouldn’t shut up about it and it didn’t help that he was the last one to have used the laptop. I

immediately accused him but he denied it. We argued over who did it then and for him to fix it

before I ended it all and this time I ignored him. We never figured it out and I couldn't use the

laptop anymore. Maybe it's karma for the DS, This was the reason why I never let anyone touch my

stuff really anymore, especially electronics.

Malachi plays his role of a big brother very well despite the distance between us. As we grew

older and saw each other less and the distance grew between us(Literally as we moved from

Michigan to Minnesota) he still always managed to help me in some way. We never really fought

much, maybe only once or twice, and he never really physically and verbally shows his affection. It's

all in his actions. I know if I ever had trouble with something, I knew he could help me. There were

countless times where I would message him during my AP human Geography class or my math

class, looking for his help. He would stop whatever it was he was doing and answer my questions,

even doing research to better help me. There have also been many times where he would drop what

he is doing to try and come visit us when we would go to Michigan, making the 3-4 hour drive even

if he’s tired from work.

I could never ask for a different older brother and I'm glad I've had him. He’s influenced me

in so many ways, from my likes and dislikes, to my personality, that I don’t know what kind of

person I'd be or how my life would be if he wasn’t around. I couldn’t ask for a better older brother

than him and I'm so thankful he was in my life.

The Boy and the Hmong Green Dialect

Mouachee Thao

The Hmong language, a language of tone and

expression, used to not have a written form but

was only taught by conversing with each other.

Hmong words are weird because of how you

can change the emotion of a word by changing

the word's tone. Who would also have thought

that there would be two different ways to

speak Hmong. I, however, learned that as I

navigated through life. Born into a Hmong

immigrant family where I was raised into the

Hmong culture and spoke Hmong language, I

had no idea that there were some differences

in the Hmong culture and language. As a young

boy around the age of 5 with short black hair

and skinny legs and arms, I was taught to

speak Hmong and learned about the Hmong

culture. My parents, siblings, and my

grandmother all spoke the same language as I

did and as a naive boy, I thought that all

Hmong people spoke the same language. I

thought everybody did the same thing as what

my family did but I discovered some

differences when I entered Kindergarten.

Kindergarten was, first, a culture shock

and second, a language difference among my

Hmong peers. At my school, I noticed there

were some other Hmong students and I

wanted to communicate in Hmong with them.

We only spoke English to one another because

speaking English was more convenient and

easy for everyone to understand. During class, I

had a chance to speak Hmong to my Hmong

classmate but the lunch bell rang as I began to

open my mouth. School lunch was terrible. I

remember during lunch, the aroma of the food

was slightly odd for me. The smell of steam,

fried, and boiled food filled my 5 year old brain

with strange images of American food. As we

lined up to get our food, there was something

unusual about it. I did not understand why the

school gave us blue rectangular lunch plates

with weird shapes molded on to it. I

remembered having milk and juice together on

the plate as well as some other exotic food like

pizza, mashed potato with gravy, and peas. As I

received my food, I sat down at the lunch table

with some of my friends and the first bite of

American food was mind-blowing because of

the different flavors that attacked my taste

buds. My mouth was invaded from the flavors

of the greasy pizza to the bland mashed

potatoes as well as some cold orange juice.

Every flavor was destroying my tongue. In

addition, tasting American food made me miss

my Hmong food because growing up with my

family, we only ate Hmong food. Hmong food

consisted of a bowl of rice with some side

dishes and some drinks. Sometimes the side

dishes would be fried chicken, Hmong

sausage, or cooked steamy chicken with some

green veggies. The thoughts of those types of

food made me miss home and the delicious

and mouth-watering food that my mother and

grandmother makes. After lunch, everyone

went back to the classroom and we had free

choice for the remainder of the time before we

leave for the buses. While I was playing, I

wanted to see if my Hmong friends knew

hmong because we were speaking English the

whole time. This was my opportunity to see if

my Hmong friends spoke the same dialect as I

did.

I said in Hmong green, “Koj ua dlaab tsi”

(what are you doing).

My friend responded with a soulless

expression. He looked at me with a slight head

tilt and his black round eyes were filled with

confusion as if I spoke something foreign or

gibberish to him.

My friend answered in English, “are you

asking what I am doing?”

I responded in English, “yes.”

There was a slight pause as if he was trying to

process every word into his brain like a copying

machine.

Then my friend responded, “you should

say koj ua dab tsi (what are you doing) instead

of what you just said earlier.”

When he said that I was lost at words and had

a moment of realization. As a young boy, I

thought all Hmong people spoke the same

dialect but I was wrong. The way he spoke

Hmong was so different from what I spoke

from his tone to his pronunciation. Now it was

my turn to process his words like a copying

machine. I was speechless and embarrassed.

Then I said in Hmong green, “koj puas

xaav nrug kuv moog ua si (do you want to

come play with me)?”

“What are you saying?”, My friend

exclaimed in English. “Are you saying that we

should play together?”

I shook my head nervously hard like a bobble

head toy. I was surprised that he still managed

to understand my foreign language. After that,

my friend and I went to play together but I was

disappointed and sad because I thought

everyone spoke the same language dialect as I

did. This was when I discovered that Hmong

had two different dialects with different tone

and word pronunciation.

When I entered elementary school,

everything continued to shock and surprise me

especially when speaking Hmong. My father

moved me into an elementary school with

more Hmong students than my previous

school. The school was quite big for an

elementary school but the building looked old.

There were some chipped brick walls and old

creaking doors that did not open easily. On the

inside, there were old heating vents with yellow

paint to hide the rusty appearance. The floor

was gazed with intricate patterns but the

ceiling lights looked ominous and dim like

those in horror movies. Everything about the

school was eerie but I adapted to it quite fast.

As I continued going to school, I kept

encountering a language dialect barrier. A

similar situation happened to me and it was

during lunch where I sat with all my Hmong

friends, and we talked about games and Yugioh

cards.

I asked them, “mej puas xaav saib kuv

cov Yugioh card?(do you guys want to see my

yugioh cards?)”

All of my friends paused and wondered what I

just said. I felt all of their eyes glaring at me

like I was their prey and their mouths dropping

down like waterfalls.

One of my friends asked, “koj yog

hmoob ntsuab os(are you hmong green)?”

I paused not because they misunderstood me

but because their reaction made me feel

embarrassed about speaking Hmong green. I

was so shocked that I just remained silent and

replied in English.

“Yeah I think so.” I replied, “what about

you guys?”

My friends responded in unison, “yeah,

peb yog hmoob dawb(we are hmong white).”

When my friends said those words, I felt alone

because I felt that people looked at me

different, and from that point on, I knew I might

be the only person who spoke the Hmong

green dialect at my school. Another incident

happened when we were in Hmong class

learning about the Hmong language. Since

there are more Hmong white speakers than

Hmong green in my school the Hmong class

course is highly focus on Hmong white words.

The Hmong teacher was teaching us Hmong

color words like “dawb”(white), “dub”(black),

and “xiav”(blue). As someone who spoke a

different dialect, I was unsure because what I

learned from my parents was different from

what my Hmong teacher taught us. However,

my classmates and I sat there repeating the

Hmong white color words that my teacher said

but deep inside me, I felt uncomfortable

speaking a dialect other than my own.

After school, I went home to ask my parents

why there are two different dialects in the

Hmong language. They gave me a brief history

about the Hmong people. My parents told me

that all Hmong people originated somewhere in

China and they originally spoke Hmong green

but as Hmong people migrated into different

areas in Southeast Asia, the language got

changed. And I asked how it changed but they

gave me an unclear answer. For Hmong green

and white speakers, it varies between clans

and families. Sometimes it would be a different

Hmong clan speaking Hmong white or green

but it depends on the family. Sometimes it

might just be a family dialect language where

their ancestors spoke either Hmong green or

white, and they passed it down from generation

to generation. They also told me that the term

“Hmong green” originated from the word

“Hmong Leeg”. “Hmong green” was a term

used by Hmong white to describe “Hmong

leeg” women because they were wearing a

skirt with colorful patterns while other Hmong

white ladies were wearing only white skirts.

Both dialects are mixed within the Hmong

culture and community but the majority speaks

Hmong white.

As I continued into middle school, I had

to adjust my Hmong dialect so others can

understand. I felt that my own dialect made me

different from my friends and I did not want to

be excluded from them so I glued the Hmong

white dialect into my tongue. I spoke Hmong

white to everyone but spoke Hmong green to

my family members or close relatives. Balance

speaking between Hmong white and Hmong

green was hard because some words have

different meanings and different tones. Some

differences between the dialect such as “daim

pam”(hmong white) and “dlaim choj”(hmong

green) which both words translate to “the

blanket”. Some words can be completely

different but still mean the same thing like “poj

niam”(hmong white) and “quas puj”(hmong

green) which translates to lady/woman/wife.

I began to speak more and more Hmong

white which resulted in losing some of my

native dialect. I began to lose the pronunciation

of some Hmong green dialect words. I also

began to lose the ability to translate some

English words into my Hmong green dialect for

my parents when they needed translation. I just

started slowly losing my Hmong green dialect

because I wanted to fit in with my friends and

wanted people to understand what I said. I did

not want to be the “weird” person at my school

or be someone who is different from the rest.

This problem continued to haunt me until my

junior year of high school.

In high school, I was still yet scared to

speak my own dialect language. Sometimes

when I speak to my Hmong friends, I would slip

some Hmong green words into my Hmong

sentences to see if they noticed anything. Most

of the time, they did not and so by doing that, I

began to gain some confidence. In high school,

I also noticed that there were some Hmong

green speakers but they only spoke english in

return when I tried to speak Hmong green to

them. Finding other Hmong green dialect

speakers was hard since mostly everyone that I

knew chose to speak English or are Hmong

white speakers. I remembered this one time

when I told my struggles of speaking the

Hmong green dialect in public to one of my

Hmong green friends. He told me that he was

having the same struggle as well because the

majority of his friends were Hmong white

speakers. Hearing that my Hmong green friend

had the same struggles as I did, made me

realize that I was not the only one struggling

alone and that I should speak it more often

despite feeling embarrassed or alone. This was

the turning point of my Hmong green speaking

trauma. I slowly started speaking more and

more Hmong green to my Hmong white friends

and tried to encourage other Hmong green

speakers to speak the Hmong green dialect. I

also reflect upon myself that if I lose my

Hmong green dialect, It felt like losing my

identity, my Hmong green culture, and my

history since my ancestors were all Hmong

green speakers. I felt like I had to maintain it

and keep continuing to speak the Hmong green

dialect as if it was my duty.

Eventually in my junior year, I gained

enough confidence to speak entirely Hmong

green when I have a conversation with my

Hmong friends. I felt that being the weird one

makes me unique in so many different ways.

For example, sometimes I would brag to my

friends that I can speak two of the Hmong

dialects which most of my friends could not

do. I also bragged about having the ability to

translate English into two different Hmong

dialects. Slowly with confidence, I was able to

regain my Hmong green dialect and I was able

to speak it without feeling embarrassed. If my

friends were ever confused with my Hmong

green dialect, I would gladly explain it to them

so that we all can understand each other. I

think it is important to maintain the Hmong

green dialect because losing it will be like

losing a piece of our origins and culture since

Hmong people originally spoke Hmong green.

As Hmong green becomes less common than

Hmong white, maintaining the green dialect will

help preserve a history that not many people

know about. Through all of these experiences,

regaining my Hmong green dialect made me

more appreciative of my identity and my roots

as a Hmong green speaker. I learned to love

my Hmong green dialect from the

pronunciation to the different words, and I

continued to build my confidence as I converse

with other Hmong folks in my community.

“Well grandpa, I’m going to college”

Genuine Song

I am and will always be the oldest grandson in my family. In

the Hmong culture, being the first grandson in the family is considered

a high priority. My grandpa was especially the most delighted. Having

boys in the Hmong culture is the finest to show triumph to continuing a

legacy. Hmong relatives will customarily throw a party with feasting

and celebration. I was born and raised in Minnesota; I was unsure of

what was taking place during this family gathering. I was going

through a lot at the time being a month old. So, I can’t say how the

celebration went, but my mother would often tell me that my relatives

from California flew to Minnesota just to see the first grandson of the

Song family. So, I’m kind of a big deal.

Growing up and throughout my childhood. My parents were busy working throughout the

weekdays and weekends, so I often spent most of my childhood at my grandpa’s house. I called

my grandpa Yawg which meant grandpa, but in Hmong. To this day, his house still stands and is

in the Song family. His house is a one-story house with orange bricks in the front for texture with

a far slanted brown roof. I would spend most of my time helping him buy me new toys, going

hunting and enjoying the wilderness, or going fishing.

When I was in elementary school at Nokomis Montessori, my grandpa had taken me on a

short fishing trip at a small river north of the Twin Cities in Minnesota. The fishing location that

my grandpa was fond of was an average 10 minute walk from the parking lot that had hardly any

cars and a dirt pavement that was broken into pieces. While on the long walk I was collecting

twigs and skipping rocks down the gravel trail while my grandpa was carrying both our fishing

poles and lures. The river was murky like the color of a mocha beverage from a Starbucks,

almost just like mud flowing through stained peanut color rocks. The river was surrounded by

shamrock green pine trees. Almost like a forest that is inhabited by wildlife animals, but close to

the cities that there was too much commotion. The sky was clear of clouds and was deep sky

blue close enough to baby blue but not quite. To fish in the river, you must climb down

unleveled soiled rocks and branches which had fallen from the trees. While climbing down these

uneven rocks. I had stepped on a rock that was not set in place. I stepped on this uneven rock and

tripped into the rushing and brisk water. My grandpa quickly tossed both our fishing poles and

lures into this air leaving nothing to lose and jumped into the water knowing his clothes would

be drenched. It took my grandpa less than a couple of seconds to get to me before I was swept

from the strong current that had kept me underwater. I blinked once and he was right by my side

helping me, as my head was underwater. He lifted my arm and was able to bring us both to shore

safely.

As I became older, I spent less time with my grandpa, less time fishing, hunting, and

communicating, and more time focusing on school. I had slowly lost the connection I once had

with him as well as the language. By the time I had reached middle school and was transitioning

to high school. My grandpa told me that during this time in my life, I should focus most of my

attention in school. He explained that I must obtain a higher education to support my future

family. My grandpa, a refugee who came to the United States in the late 1970s said that I must

lead my cousins in success so they will follow. As being a refugee from Thailand. The transition

from having nothing to buying a house in Minnesota was difficult. He explained that if he

received an education in Thailand, that at least he would be able to have an advantage in the real

world and land an entry-level job.

One of my grandpa’s immense desires is for me to earn an upstanding education and a

successful career. In my immediate family, if I was to attend college. I would be the first among

my parents, aunts, and uncles. Education was important to me and my grandpa because I

wouldn’t be the first from my parents to attend college, but the first in my immediate family. My

grandparents had over 10 grandchildren by the time I was in high school. And if I was to attend

college and graduate. I would set a great example, then maybe my cousins will be able to follow

in my footsteps.

During my freshman year of high school. My grandpa became older and with that, he

became sick and ill. He would visit the clinic once a week, he would need assistance using the

restroom, he would sleep throughout the days and nights. There were no more fishing and

hunting trips. There was only staying home lying in bed. I would try to visit him as much as I

could, but school and homework took up most of my time. I focused in school so my grades will

be high and I will be admitted into colleges just like what my grandpa would want. Although I

was occupied. I always intended to visit him to ask him how he was doing, how his health was,

for him to tell me his fishing stories, and his experience as a refugee. As my grandpa became

older he had forgotten most of his memories. I’d try to call him and ask him if he would

remember the time when I fell into the river and he saved me. His response was “No Genuine, I

don’t remember when that happened. I’m sorry for forgetting”. That was the point when I

realized the greater issue. My emotions came rushing into my body. I felt lost. Like time is

limited, I lost interest in school. Nothing else mattered except him, he was the only person I

would think about. My grandpa was sick and I had an even bigger motive to visit him before

he’d forget me entirely. As I tried my hardest to visit him. I was only able to visit him from time

to time. After my dad told my grandpa that I had been trying to leave school to visit him. My

grandpa would call me and tell me “Don’t worry about me Genuine, school comes first”.

Months after his illness, I was sitting in the front row of my grandpa's funeral with all my

aunts and uncles. I felt isolated. I encountered vivid flashbacks. I received flashbacks to when I

would spend my Friday nights at his house just watching old cartoons, playing outside in the

snow, making a snowman that had an unrounded body with a missing carrot with a nose and

twigs that my grandpa had collected in the fall for these moments, I received flashbacks to when

he first taught me how to cast a fishing pole and the first time that I caught a fish, how he was so

excited for me, I received flashbacks to when he saved me from drowning when I fell into the

river, how I almost drowned, but yet he was there to save me, but I wasn’t there to help save him.

Most importantly I will always remember him telling me “Don’t worry about me Genuine,

school comes first”.

Transitioning into my senior year of high school, I landed an IT internship at Land

O’Lakes Inc as an IT Help Desk Analyst while I would take an average of 30 infrastructure calls

a day. I was taking four AP college courses on top of a second Part Time job at Cub Foods as a

Customer Service Manager on the weekends and weeknights. Taking this amount of workload, I

can picture in my head that my grandpa would’ve been so proud for pushing myself..

The college applications were around the corner, I already had an idea of what schools to

apply. I knew that my grandpa would want me to attend any college to have an advantage in the

future. With knowing the schools in Minnesota. In the upcoming months, I had applied to 15 in

state and out of state universities that drew my attention and that are well known. I was accepted

to 13 of the schools. I wasn’t sure which one to decide in the end, but I knew that my grandpa

would’ve been happy for any that I settled with. Accepting my application to the University of

Minnesota, I know how proud my grandpa would be. On the night of receiving my acceptance

letter, I stood on the balcony of my house, looking into the dark sky with minimal stars. Staring

at the round adjacent moon with a cool breeze hitting my warm skin and looking into wherever

my grandpa was and say “well grandpa, I’m going to college”.

Even while my grandpa isn’t present. I carried his words throughout high school, I

carried his words throughout my high school internship at Land O’Lakes Inc, I carried his words

during high school graduation. To this day, a student at the University of Minnesota. I still carry

his words and would know how happy he’d be if he saw me in college.

P. Shell

When You Yell, I Whisper Back

You’ll agree with me that a good mother deserves all the love there is to give in the world. As

you know, the whole reason to you being here and alive in this world is all thanks to your

mother. Sure, she had the choice to give you up for adoption or have an abortion but she decides

to keep and love you with all her heart.

My mom became the reason I am alive and healthy in this cold hearted world, she gave me

purpose to move on and be happy. There are parts where I question whether I’m supposed to live

in this world. I want to share this letter to my mother with you.

You give me life on May 29, 2002, I opened my eyes for the first time and saw a blurry face of

what it seemed to be you. Being born on a Wednesday, you said I would become ignorant,

clumsy, and give you a lot of troubles but I turned out to be the only daughter that seemed to do a

lot for you.

From being a clumsy little girl from birth to

12 years old to being an independent

woman at 18, it was probably hard to

manage my attitude towards you and I am

sorry for that. Ignoring, pretending not to

hear you, and not caring whenever you ask

me for favors such as asking the spelling of

“communication”. During that time when

it was just me and you sitting on the couch,

both of us deeply entertained by our cell

phones in the living room alone, you asked

me, “How do you spell the word,

communication?” I don’t know why but I

didn’t have the energy to tell you the

spelling of the word. You kept nagging at

me and kept asking me because I think you

think I didn’t hear you but I heard you loud

and clear. So I yelled back to you,

“Ughhhhhh, IT’S

C-O-M-M-U-N-I-C-A-T-I-O-N!” My

attitude is so random and not

understandable when it comes to you, it’s

hard to describe it because not only I have so much love for you but I also have so much attitude

towards you. You love me and I love you so I am very thankful you manage to put up with it.

I can trouble you too by asking you so many favors such as asking you to drop me off at school

because I was late for my bus, taking me to go shopping at the mall because I was in need of new

clothes, or I need a ride to my friend’s house. Back then, I was still a child and I was ignorant to

not put your needs first. After working a total of 36 hours a week, getting ready to go to work at

5:30, leaving the house around 6:25, driving for 22 mins, and punching into work at 6:50. It was

probably tiring and time consuming because of the long drive to work but I understand now of

the hard work you put in for me and my siblings to get what we want and have food on the table

everyday.

Most times there will be essays due the next day, or I’ll come back from work or volleyball, and

you suddenly call me to pay bills, call customer service for the phone bill because you didn’t

understand why the payment that month was more than the last month, or you wanted me to

clean up the house. This upsets me because I wanted rest and peace with no distractions. I am not

blaming you for all my tiredness, I just wanted you to understand that I wanted rest because I just

came back home from doing something very tiring like volleyball practice. My brother had an

argument with his wife and it upset you but instead of talking to them, you take me somewhere

to get out of the scene with my little sister. We just drove to Walmart or Target because not only

you were in need of shoes to wear for work but you were upset at what happened. You just

yelled towards my face in the car but I know it isn’t on me. Situations like that hurt my heart

because for you to get your anger out, you took a hit at me with your words about how mad you

are. I try to understand that you need someone to listen to you to make you feel better so I am

fine with it because I know it may or may not be directly at me.

You put on many faces for people to not see you hurt, I try to understand you so I leave you

alone. You look sad, you look pretty, you look fresh, you look hot, you look cold, you look

beautiful, you look strong, you look weak, you look new, you look old, you look young, or you

look tough. There are so many types of faces you have shown me through my 18 years of life.

These emotions are what I remembered through my life on Earth, you could have maybe put on a

mask to hide your emotions but it is also hard to feel empathy for you because you’re never

talking to me about what goes on or what is making you feel this way.

There will be days we move on pretending our arguments never happened. When you asked me,

“Poe mu, can you clean up the kitchen and the living room?” I replied back, “Ughhhhh, I don’t

want to! Why can’t you ask your other children to do it?” Because at those times, I feel as though

you only call me to clean up around the house but never my siblings, that’s why I give you so

many attitudes. I feel inside of my heart sometimes I am Cinderella, you’re my stepmother, and

my siblings are your real kids because of the difference you treat me and them. So you start to

yell at me saying, “Why are you so lazy? I never see you do things for me. You never help me

out.” I wanted to yell back at you, “What do you mean, never?! I clean up everything and

everyday around the house. I helped you out by making meals so you won’t get hungry, I helped

my siblings out with homework when you don’t have the time. And you’re going to say I never

do things for you, fine I won’t so stop asking me to do things from now on.” You always choose

the wrong times to ask me to do things for you. At that time, I was tired, restless, and not in the

mood. Why is it I always give you so many attitudes whenever you ask me to do things when it’s

not everyday you asked me, I asked myself. After giving you attitudes and you hurt me, I would

cry myself to sleep wondering whether you love me or not. I also wondered why it is you I only

give attitudes to.

Those are little of how you treat me, the bad things of how you treat me are .2% which are the

upsets you get from your situation like the drama between my brother and his wife. 99.8% are

the love you give me, you spoiled me with love and care not the money we need.

Even with all the attitudes, you manage to stick by my side and put up with it. Without having to

lecture and yell at me because of my attitude, just your silent ways teach me to become a better,

understanding, nice, and reliable daughter for you to depend on. No matter how far I will go,

how far I will reach out to you, or how far for you to reach me. Your mindsets, actions, beauty,

and brain is another me in a younger body.

The place where I spent my childhood

By H.Reda

I was born in Mekelle, which is part of Ethiopia, in the 11 kebele house. All my

brothers and sisters were born in a different state. When my mom was pregnant with me,

they moved to the house at 11 kebele. As my mom told me, when they moved to 11 kebele, it

looked different than now. The house is surrounded by Various flowers such as Marigold,

Anemone, Aster, Aubrieta, and Bellflowers. Most of these flowers have bright colors yellow,

blue, purple, and gold; you will find them in the mean entrance, and the different colors of

the flowers make the house look brighter and more beautiful.

When my mom told me she always makes coffee in the morning between the flowers

and around the fresh air, making you feel there is another day for everything. Ethiopian

coffee ceremonies are different from other countries. The reason that makes it different is

the Coffee ceremony is it is a sign of respect and love. The other purpose of it is getting

together with mainly relatives, neighbors, or other visitors. The ceremony is typically

performed only by women of the household. The first coffee steps are; first, you have to brew

by roasting the green coffee beans over an open pan, blend it, then pure it into hot water.

The coffee has to wait for at least 30 mins on fire. Then it will be ready for serving. In almost

all houses, they make coffee in the morning inside the house or outside. My mom prefers to

make coffee out, surrounded by the flowers. When she makes coffee, she invites the

neighbor to the house. All the neighbors and my family gather together to drink coffee, talk

and play different activities. When they finished drinking coffee, my siblings went inside and

watched movies. My dad started watering plants, keeping an eye out for yellow or droopy

leaves, and making them get enough sun lights. When he does that, my mom goes to the

back-yard garden to get some fresh tomatoes, potatoes, and vegetables that she needs to

make lunch. After he finished gardening the flower, my dad went to the back yard and did

the same thing to the vegetables too. After he has done, he will bring some from the fruit's

papaya, mango, and avocado.

My dad always comes back home around 12:30, and it's almost lunchtime. When he

comes back, he usually enters the kitchen because he knows my mom will cook for lunch.

The house structure is different from here. When you enter the concourse, you will find the

living room connected to the master bedroom (my mom and my dad's bedroom). Next to

this room, you will find my sister and brother's room then the kitchen. The living room was

one of my favorite places because everything was traditional. For example, the coach is made

up of leather, which is very comfortable and has cattle smells when you enter the room. It

was one place where I spent time with my family. The living room is where all families sit

together and talk about school, companies, and watch movies. Also, every night my dad tells

us different stories and jokes. The kitchen was also made traditionally. Like, modern kitchens

don't have a dishwasher and cabinets. It only has a sink and some old oven that works with

carbon. After my mom prepared lunch, she went outside and called my siblings to come and

eat lunch. Usually, we eat lunch together in the living room on one plate, the traditional

Ethiopian way. When we eat closer, some sit on the couch, and some of us sit on the floor.

When we start eating, we have to pray, and the first grursha (the first bite) is from my dad's

hand. When my mom told me the history that happens before me, I will imagine how their

life looked.

After one year, I was born in this house. One new baby was added to my family.

When one woman gives birth in our culture, she must stay inside the house for 12 days.

People come to the house to visit the women and the new baby and bless them. After 12

days, women can go out of the house and see the sun. This day is a small celebration for the

baby and the women. My mom's friend came and made coffee and other cultural

preparation; when they were doing that, my mom gave me a massage under the sun to get

some vitamin D.

When I was starting to crawl, the first thing I would like to do was go to the flowers,

touch them and play with them. My dad sometimes becomes angry because I used to miss up

the garden and to cut the flowers. When I was starting to go in that direction, everyone was

trying to stop me. I cried a little bit and forgot about the whole thing when my mom began

to sing for me one of the Ethiopian kids' songs, "windema yakobe." I grew up eating fresh

fruits and vegetables from our house.

When I was six years old on the weekend, I liked to go with my dad to the garden to

water the plants and plant new seeds. I learned how to plant a seed, water them, and many

things about plants from my dad. When we return from the garden, we bring with us

different vegetables and fruitiest. As soon as we enter the house, my siblings will come

running to take some fustiest. That time we will start fighting by saying that I want this one,

but I always take the one I like anyway because I was the youngest and let me choose

whatever I wanted. My house has many memories for my family and me, the place where we

started to learn new things and the place where we fight and love each other.

I grew up eating the fruits and vegetables from our garden in this house. This house

has a good childhood memory for my siblings and me. When we decided to come here, it

was challenging to leave a beautiful home for someone else. The reason we moved here is for

a better life and to get a better education. It's always hard to move from the place you grew

up and from a place where all your family and friends are, but to get a better life for you and

your society, you have to scarify everything for a better tomorrow. We all were crying when

we left the house five years ago. It was a tough time. Whenever we start to talk about it, we

become emotional and remember everything we did in the house. Last year my mom went

back to Ethiopia to see the house and everything around there. As she told me everything is

changed, our beautiful flower is gone. The people who rent the house couldn't take care of

the garden and flowers, so; everything is gone now. The beautiful home now looks different

and not attractive anymore. I want to go back there and make it as before.

Nothings Yours, Your Life Isn’t Even Yours

Nicole Pearce

Dear Mom,

I love you, I really do. I want to thank you for turning me into the woman I am. For

making me strong, and resilient. You put a good head on my shoulders and I personally

believe that I’m a really cool person. But before I can thank you for the good things that

came, I have to first remind you of what you put me through to get here.

I could start with the time I went to see how heavy my pink plastic piggy bank

was. I could start with how I found the top carved open. The silver coins, removed, and

the few pennies that remained. How sad I was to see you had gutted that plastic pig.

How sad I was to ask you about it and get an “I’ll pay you back,” as a response.

Or maybe I could start with explaining how anytime something I thought

belonged to me went missing- a charger, maybe a pair of shorts- I knew to come to you.

How if I asked for it back you’d say, “Nothing’s yours, your life isn’t even yours.” Or how

anytime I’d cry you’d ask me what I was crying for followed by, “Well stop.”

Or maybe I should start with how really late at night your voice always sounded

different to me. As the night drew on, the rasp in your voice scratched deeper like

sandpaper. How after learning that you abused drugs that those two things were

connected somehow. That I never found it weird that you never seemed to sleep at

normal hours.

What about the time when I had started listening to family who described you as

conniving. The family who called you a thief, or a drug addict. How I’m only your favorite

when Danielle has pissed you off and you’re quick to flip the script the moment I do

something that makes you irritated enough to run back to my sister for attention.

When you told me you kept your bangs long so people couldn’t see your eyes I

didn’t know it was so they couldn’t tell if you were high or not. When you told me to, “do

as I say and not as I do,” I didn’t know that drugs were even in the cards. Didn’t know

the stakes when you spoke those words.

Skip further ahead to when I found a meth bubble in your boyfriend’s couch.

When I was trapped in a tiny trailer four miles from town and I had to walk those four

miles to a McDonalds to use their WiFi to contact my sister. How you called me lazy for

staying on the couch reading all day. How I found

your old government phone in the glovebox of your

Lincoln and called every number that I knew to get

me out of there. How even when I hit my lowest and

was having suicidal thoughts, you didn’t seem

concerned.

Or when you told me to watch my mouth and I

got in your face telling you to hit me. How you

laughed and told me not to test you before backing

me up to the couch and sitting me down. You really

did surprise me that day when you walked away. To

be fair you do love keeping me on my toes.

You trained me to protect you from a young age and even now I have to stop

myself from coming to your defence, and I’m still working on placing boundaries

between us. I was taught not to tell people what went on in our household and to defend

your name. I still have to stop myself from falling into your web and remind myself that

I’m not like you. I still get looks at family gatherings because you’ve burned every last

bridge offered to you. Destruction follows you everywhere.

And before thanking you, for the sturdy head on my shoulders. For the talent of

knowing who I can trust, of knowing how to be independent. For teaching me who NOT

to look up to, and the amazing work ethic and drive. For showing me instability so that I

could recognize when it came. For always having a roof over our heads. For letting me

grow up as a kid who “could have had it worse” and teaching me how to appreciate

what I had. For helping me understand that nothing lasts forever.

Even though growing up fast isn’t exactly a good thing and I definitely wish I’d

had more time without any responsibilities, I thank you for not trying to convince me that

the world was a great place. I learned very young that life wasn’t fair so nothing has

been able to surprise me as I’ve aged. You taught me how to smooth talk and get out of

hairy situations. You taught me when to be on my guard and to trust my gut if something

doesn’t feel right. Because of you I basically sniff out bad friends and know not to let

them too close to me. You made me strong so I could pick myself back up after I fell.

You made me independent so I didn’t have to rely on anybody.

There are many things you didn’t teach me though. You didn’t teach me when it

was safe to let down my guard. You didn’t teach me how to let anyone in. You didn’t

teach me who was safe to trust. You didn’t tell me that my own mind could be my worst

enemy. You didn’t teach me how to protect me from myself. Didn’t warn me that

depression ran in the family. Didn’t tell me why we moved so much.

Didn’t tell me that you were my heaviest anchor.

In regards to me thanking you for who you’ve made me, you don’t even need to

hear it. You know I’m an awesome person because you molded me. I just wanted you to

read all this so you could remember what I went through to get here. So I guess thanks

for keeping me alive, just know, that I haven’t forgotten.

Best wishes,

Your Colie Bear.

Why Some Sacrifices Are Worth Making

By: Selena Moreno

Being the first born child isn’t always easy, but it does have its perks in the long run.

Growing up, I was always very mature for my age and also really responsible. Much of this is

because I often had to take care of my younger siblings throughout my whole life. Although this

was sometimes very difficult to handle, especially when they would not listen to me. They didn’t

always see me as being in charge since I was their sister and not an adult. This often led to

arguments about who did what chores, especially dishes or the bathroom. This also limited my

social life by not being able to hang out with friends after school or get involved in outside

activities. However, I am so happy with the way that things turned out with my relationship with

them and also for the qualities that I developed as a person. We are all so close and do almost

everything together. Every time one of us goes somewhere, someone else always wants to go

with. I could just be going to the store and I will hear someone say “can I come too?” as I’m about

to walk out the door. I would do anything for them and they would do the same for me.

It all started with my little brother, Dante. He was born just after I turned two years old

and I was so excited for him to be born, even though I didn’t fully understand the concept of how

babies worked at the age of two. We did

everything together and I always tried to help

my parents take care of him. They say that I

always tried to change him and put different

clothes on him when he was little. He never

minded and would laugh and smile at me all

the time when I tried to play with him.

Basically being a baby still myself, it was nice

to have another child to interact with and be

close with.

Five years later my little sister, Mariah,

was born. At this time I was seven and old

enough to understand how younger siblings work and what they need after experiencing my

brother. Once I got to around the age of ten, I often was put in charge of my brother and sister

when my parents went to work. We definitely had our bad times with arguing and chasing each

other throughout the house when we were angry with each other. Any time that my brother

thought that I was being too mean, he would try to call my parents to tell on me. Even when I

wasn’t really being mean at all and just making him help me do something or telling him to do his

homework when he refused. He didn’t have his own phone and would try to call them on mine,

but when I wouldn’t give him the phone, he would chase me and try to take it from me. Even

though we had these tough times, we became a lot closer throughout the years. Many people

don’t have as great of a relationship with their siblings, many think of younger siblings as being

annoying and in the way. However, I think of them as close friends and hold a lot of protection

over them. Whenever I hear that they are having a bad day, I always comfort them and try to find

something to take their mind off of it, such as board games or coloring. For example, I remember

one time my sister got home from school and was very upset. She tried to hide her face over her

sweater hood and went to her room without saying anything to anybody. I knew something was

wrong and went in there to see what happened. She explained to me that there were kids who

were bullying her at school and that it was very hard for her to handle. I instantly felt horrible for

her and wished that these other kids would stop being mean. I saw the look on her face like she

was embarrassed and didn’t want to make a big deal out of it by saying, “it’s okay, you don’t have

to worry about it. It’s nothing really.” But I knew that it was and I wanted to make her feel better,

I did this by coloring with her because she loves art, and we just did that for a while until I knew

she was okay. There were also times where my siblings didn’t get along at all for long periods of

time, like when they would scream my head off or purposefully get each other in trouble, just like

any siblings. Despite this, we always knew we could go to each other for help.

Years passed and I thought that I wouldn’t ever have any more siblings. I got used to being

there for them and how to take care of them. But that thought quickly changed when later on

when I turned fourteen, my mom got pregnant with twins, Briana and Devin. I was shocked but

also excited to help take care of them and watch them grow up, but this time I would be able to

remember the experience more since I was older. I was nervous to try and take care of a few

month old babies, since I have never done that on my own before. But, when I saw their little

faces light up when I was around and learned how to take care of them with my mom, I knew that

I could do it. Now here I was, taking care of four younger siblings at once. It was very stressful at

times and I sometimes felt left out of my friend groups because I wasn’t able to do things with

them. I never got to go over to other people’s houses, or hang out after school. I always had to go

straight home before my mom left for work to make sure I was there to take care of them. My

brother being twelve at the time, was nothing like me. He was nowhere near responsible enough

to take care of a few month old twins, so I knew I had to. This also kind of changed my

relationship with Dante because a lot of the times I was frustrated with him for not helping me as

much. I would always have to ask him multiple times to do something before he would actually do

it, such as changing the twins’ diapers or helping me feed them. He always tried to hide out in his

room or leave to hang out with friends to get away from helping. Mariah was still pretty little at

the time, so I understood why she didn’t always help. Even though these struggles arose, I gained

so much knowledge from this experience.

My siblings taught me a variety of skills in many different ways. For example, I used to

help them with their homework after school each day, because I knew that they would forget to

do it if I didn’t tell them. When helping my brother, Dante, he would always get frustrated. It was

always while doing his math homework and he never could really understand the material well.

The numbers jumbled along with letters confused him to the point that he felt he could never

succeed. I could see his face get red and heard his voice start to shake out of frustration. But, I

was determined to help him understand his homework so that he wouldn’t feel like that anymore.

I also tried to think of different ways of helping him to see if a different perspective or situation

would help him. I did this by showing him different types of methods and examples, or finding

videos on the internet that explained it better than I could. Eventually, he would understand it

better and I could see him calm down, this also gave me happiness because I knew I helped him

get there. This developed my problem solving skills. My siblings also taught me how to be

responsible, while taking care of them I was the person they had to look up to. Whatever I did,

they would be able to see and learn about how they should act. So, I was always on top of my

school work with my face shoved in my textbooks and showed good behavior in hopes that they

would do the same. So, not only did I teach them these skills, they taught me too. If it wasn’t for

having to take care of my younger siblings, I might not have learned these skills as well as I did.

Looking back, I would never change a thing about my siblings and how I had to take care

of them every day. They taught me so many things, such as how to be responsible and be a

support system for them. We are all so close and I am thankful for that. The twins, who are about

to turn four, see me as a parental figure. One of them even calls me ‘mom’ sometimes, which I

think is hilarious and adorable. A lot of people probably wouldn’t be able to handle doing this,

which makes being an older sibling difficult at times. However, I wouldn’t change it for the world.

I know that I am loved and respected by all of my siblings for doing everything for them when

they couldn’t. I also believe that that is the reason why I was able to accomplish a lot of my goals

in life so far. By taking care of my siblings, I learned the skills of responsibility, determination,

problem solving, and more. Without this experience, who knows how well these skills would have

played out for me. Still to this day my siblings teach me new things. I still take care of them every

so often, but they don’t only rely on me as much now that Dante and Mariah are old enough and

more mature to help out too. The twins are now about to turn four and it has been amazing

watching them grow up into what they are today. I am forever grateful for the experiences that I

have gone through with each one of my siblings, and I know that they will always be grateful for

me taking care of them.

What if brothers were quiet

every day and didn't cause

chaos?

Y.Ll.M

In the summer of 2009, at the age of 8

I was no longer an only child, I had a

brother. I still remember going to the

hospital and seeing him in the crib

they had for newborn babies and him

sleeping peacefully. Although I always

wanted a sister seeing my brother

Freddy for the first time is something

unforgettable.

My brother is someone who I had to

take care of and tend to him. Being

the oldest I had the responsibility of

feeding him his bottles and sometimes

changing his diapers.Being young I

had to grow to be able to care for him.

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

When we were young, Freddy was 2

and I was 10. We found out we were

going to have another brother. In June

of 2012 the same week Freddy was

born just two days before his third

birthday, our youngest brother

Emiliano was born. Caring for him was

a little easier since I already cared for

Freddy, Emiliano was quieter as a

baby. As we have grown older my

younger brother Emiliano easily gets

annoyed by both of us, sometimes and

we purposely annoy him, he goes to

lock himself in the room. During

quarantine spending extreme

amounts in a house with my family

was never something I would choose,

I’d prefer to go somewhere other than

staying at home.

Over these months I learned more

about my brothers and how we

adapted to the norm of being stuck at

home. I guess from spending time

with them, I became dependent on

them. I grew as the annoying sister

that is always asking them “Where are

you?” “What are you doing?” One of

the many questions I ask on the daily

basis. Before the pandemic we would

have no school days we would go to

the mall and go on the city bus and

explore the city.

My brothers changed my perspective

on my future. Spending time with my

brothers , I was always interested in

teaching children how to learn and

simple rules that they would

remember in life. But somehow it

changed my perspective when I

noticed that Freddy would be sad or

mad suddenly. His emotions are very

hard for him to express and control.

He sometimes tends to get very upset

when I or my younger brother would

be playing and making jokes about

each other.

It made me interested in psychology

because of how you can understand

how people become upset or

emotions. I can become a psychologist

to better understand children and

provide guidance for emotional

control or helping them get through

problems they are being faced with. I

can also learn the skills I will to

understand children's minds and the

growth they go through.

The Familiar Place: A Ecstatic Memory

B.I.

In my childhood there was one place I basically grew up in. This place is called Brian

Coyle Community Center. It resides in the neighborhood of Cedar Riverside and Currie Park.

Brian Coyle appears to be big in terms of size but it’s so familiar to me it seems small. There

are many rooms and offices within the building. In addition, there is a basketball court and a

small cramped library space. The hallways are filled with flyers and posters. Many of the people

who use the community center are people from the Cedar Riverside neighboorhood. People

come here for services such as the food shel. Also, if one needs assistance there are many

resources offered to help people. Brian Coyle is a support system to the people of the

community.

I remember our community center used to hold a summer program and an after-school

program. In the summer program we just enjoyed ourselves and had fun. We would play in the

gym or go outside at the park where we either played in the soccer field, basketball court or

pool. Every friday we would go on field trips to different places of our choice. We didn’t have to

pay for anything mainly because the program has got us covered. My parents didn’t really take

us to places other than the Mall Of America because my dad was always busy and my mom

didn’t have a source of transportation. My favorite field trip to go to was Como Zoo. I

absolutely loved going to the zoo. I would be bursting with excitement being able to see

different animals. A memorable experience I had at the zoo was when a lion pounced on the

window inside it’s cage. Mainly due to the reason that my friends kept annoying it by tapping

on the window. Irritating the lion to get its attention. Once they caught it’s attention the lion

pounced on the window scaring the life out of my friends. They learned their lesson and never

dared messing with a tiger again. I couldn’t stop laughing the whole bus ride home and ended

up in tears of laughter.

Brian Coyle is the place where I learned to play basketball and is where I met my best

friend. My best friend's name is Anisa and we've been friends till this day. The first time I met

her was at Brian Coyle. Her mom signed her up in the summer program. She was so shy as a

kid just like I was. She was obsessed with glittery clothing, hats, nail polish and ect.. If it didn’t

have glitter it was not right in her eyes. She liked playing some sports but not all. We loved

playing dodgeball in the gym, it was so fun. However, I hated playing soccer every time and I

mean almost every time I would get hit. Whether it was in the face, stomach or head. I got hit

in the head so much I developed a megamind forehead. I was so paranoid I just stood in the

corner till the game was over. Anisa was just as paranoid as me when it came to soccer. As time

went by she started to opening up to me. We related on so many levels. Both of us were the

only girls in our family so we really had no one to talk to other than our mothers. Slowly, we

became like sisters whenever we got in a fight our mother would force us to talk and get along.

Since our mothers are close friends. My favorite hobbies were introduced to me by her. Now

my favorite shows to watch are Korean dramas and anime.

I first learned to play

basketball at Brian Coyle. I used to

get bullied by my brothers all the

time when I played basketball with

them. I was so short and weak in

third grade. The rim seemed so high

up back then all I could do is airball.

At one point I just started throwing

the ball with one hand.

During the school year we had

an afterschool program at Brian Coyle

where we got homework help from

tutors and afterwards participated in

activities. There were also basketball

games held in the gyms for both boys

and girls. Everyone in the

neighborhood would come to watch us play. It was kind of nerve wracking because you got your

coach yelling from the benches and your family yelling from the bleachers. We would have

basketball competitions and have free giveaways. The first time I entered one of the

competitions I was so nervous and didn’t even want to compete. They would place one person

on each court and have them shoot off from various places on the court. I could see my mom

and brothers yelling and cheering me on. It was my turn to compete. When I shot the first time

I missed but on the next shot I made it. Then I kept making every single one after that. Every

single shot I kept making I could hear my family cheering me on louder and louder and the

audience started cheering me on too. I happened to win the first place prize. I was honestly

shocked with myself. I didn’t believe I was going to be even close to winning .

My mom decided I was not going to participate in the summer program in sixth grade.

Instead I had an in home math tutor. I was so angry because only I had to stay home when my

brother who’s one year younger than me got to have fun. My mother saw my report card and

saw I was doing poorly in math. I missed all the field trips and all the fun events. I lost contact

with some of my childhood friends but I would still see them in the neighborhood or at the

park. Later on I decided not to go to the summer program anymore. I’ve officially become

programmed to be a homebody meaning a person who stays home all the time. I barely went

to the park only when I felt like playing basketball with my brother or cousins. During the

school year I continued to play basketball for Brian Coyle. Our girls team was made of a lot of

girls in the neighborhood and some from the city. We lost a lot of the games but I enjoyed

playing regardless.

As I got older I noticed there was a lot of opportunity being given to the community. I

took advantage of the opportunity and joined a STEM program where I joined different girls

around the Twin Cities to take part in this program. Our program took place at the U of M and

the YWCA. I learned about the healthcare field and the different careers options. I’m very

grateful I was introduced to this opportunity. It helped me pick going to the University of

Minnesota as my school of choice.

My community center holds a significance to me, it allowed me to come out of my shell.

I used to be a very quiet kid who didn’t like talking to no one but I learned how to express

myself. I learned how to communicate with others and play with others. I started to care less

about what people thought about me and started to just care about what I think. My

community center was like my second home. Even though I don’t go there as much as I used

to, my community center will always have a place in my heart. It’s where I made my life long

childhood best friend. Holding precious memories of my childhood and allowing me to open up

to the person I am today. Providing support to the people of the community and offering

opportunities to help others.

Memories Of Mom: Who

Has Supported And

Loved Me The Most

By: Ifrah Ibrahim

Fadumo Mohamed Ali wasn’t

always just known for being a wife and a

mother. She was a daughter, a friend, and

a sister before she was a mother. Fadumo

grew up amidst a huge family that started

small in Mogadishu, Somalia. Her mom,

Xalimo Hirsi, gave birth to five children

with her being the youngest. She passed

away a couple months after she gave birth

to her, so my mom grew up without ever

knowing her mother. Her dad moved on

to eventually marry three other wives and

had even more children with them. In

total, my mom has seventeen siblings, but

she only grew up with the children her

mom gave birth to, which is just four

brothers. Whenever I ask my mom to tell

me about her life before she had children,

she won’t because she doesn’t like talking

about those days. She always says

“nolosheyda waxay bilaabatay markaa aan

edindhalay adinka” which translates to

“my life started when I had you guys”, so I

don’t really know much besides the fact

that she struggled a lot. In her life, my

mom remarried twice. In her first marriage

she had four children, one girl and three

boys. The three boys, my half brothers,

passed away when they were just kids.

Soon after, mom married my dad and had

four children, three girls and one boy with

me being the youngest.

There was a civil war going on in

Somalia when I was born, so my mom

took all of us and fled. My dad refused to

come because he loved Somalia too much

to leave, he said he wanted to die there.

We eventually ended up in a refugee camp

in Ethiopia where I spent most of my

childhood. At that time, all my siblings

were old enough to go to school and roam

around on their own. I was too young to

do anything, a year old to be exact, so I

was always by my mother's side. I was by

her side, when it was just the two of us left

at home, while she cooked food for my

siblings. She was holding my hand

whenever she left the house to get water

from the only well in the village. I was on

her hip whenever she went to get our

rations of food from an ugly and crowded

warehouse and when she walked to my

siblings school to pick them up. It was

always just the two of us left at home and

doing stuff together. She did whatever she

had to do for the day while I accompanied

her.

After waiting for several years to

come to the United States, my family

finally got the opportunity. At that time, I

was only nine years old and I remember

on the first plane ride here that my mom

was crying. She was crying because my

seat was furthest from her and my siblings.

That was the first time I remember seeing

her cry in front of me or at least the first

time I remember. On the first plane ride, I

was sitting in the back by the bathrooms

while they all sat together in the middle of

the plane. There was nothing she could do,

so she cried and I remember telling her

that I was going to be fine just so she

could stop crying. I didn’t want to show

her how scared I was sitting next to a

stranger and away from my family. I

pretended I was all right with the situation

even though I wasn’t, but she didn’t listen.

She still checked up on me every once in a

while by walking through the narrow aisle

on the plane and pretending to go to the

bathroom when she just wanted to see me.

She repeatedly kept doing this until the

plane landed. I am sure that the flight

attendants were concerned with the

amount of times she got up to use the

bathroom, but they didn’t say anything.

This is one of the first memories I have

that is connected to the United States and

it didn’t start on such a great note, but my

mom made sure that she was by my side

whenever something unexpected

happened like the situation with the seats.

My mom tried her best to raise us

in the best way possible even after arriving

in such an unfamiliar country. She tried

her best to fill in the void of a missing

parent. I didn’t grow with a dad, so my

mom had to become both my parents. I

am sure that things got a lot harder for her

by being in America as a single mother of

6 children who were all underage except

for the oldest girl, but she never showed

her struggles to us. She made sure of that,

but I can read her like an open book. I

knew when she was having a hard time

and tried to hide it from us. For instance,

after coming to the United States, my

mom had to take on multiple jobs in order

to support us. As a result, most of these

jobs really took a toll on her body since

there wasn’t a variety of them she could

choose as she didn’t speak English. My

mom has constant back and shoulder pain.

I always see her trying to massage her

shoulders in a discreet way and whenever

I ask her if it hurts or not. She always

denies it and claims she’s doing it because

she’s bored, but I see her pained

expression whenever she pushes down on

her shoulders. I always try to massage her

shoulders with oils and creams in order to

ease the pain. There are other instances

where she’s clearly tired and still tries to

do housework. At those times, I always tell

her beforehand that I would be cleaning

the whole house later and that she should

just leave all the work for me to do later.

My mom is a really easy person to read

just from her expressions, so it makes it

easier for me to notice whenever she isn’t

feeling well. She has a specific pained

facial expression she wears whenever she’s

tired or having a difficult time. It isn’t hard

at all for me to spot the difference. Just

like how my mom secretly tries to hide

whenever she's having a hard time, I

discreetly try to help her overcome and

ease them.

As I started to get familiar with this

new country, I slowly started to make

friends and they always used to talk about

what their dad’s did for them or what they

did together. They would say, “my dad

dropped me off today” or “my dad and I

are hanging out this weekend, so I can’t

hang”. It was always my dad this and my

dad that, and of course I didn’t blame

them for it. Why shouldn’t they talk about

their dads? I was jealous, but I haven’t

truly once felt my father's absence in my

life because my mom made sure I didn’t. I

remember wanting to learn how to ride a

bike one summer and I thought about how

all my friends learned with their dads.

Instead I asked my mom if she could teach

me and within a week I was able to ride by

myself without someone, my mom,

holding the bike with me. There were a lot

of things when I was younger that my

mom filled in to do for me as a dad. I

didn’t feel the void of a father figure in my

life because of her. She always made sure

that I was taken care of before anything

else including herself. Every single day

before I left for school, my mom would

wake up and cook me breakfast while I got

ready for school because she knew how

much I hated the school's food. I always

left the house smelling like the canjeero

and oodkac she cooked for me. This smell

bothered most people, but not me. It

became my favorite smell because it

reminds me of her and her cooking. When

I returned home from school, she was

there waiting for me to get off the school

bus, so we could walk home together and I

wouldn’t be alone. I was always the one

talking during our short walk home

because I wanted to tell her everything

that happened at school. She always

listened to me without interrupting and it

reminded me of when we were in the

refugee camp and we walked together

hand in hand to pick my siblings up from

school, but with the roles reversed. At that

time, she used to talk or hum any melody

that was in her head and I just listened to

her. This continued on for every single day

until this past March before schools closed

and we could no longer walk home from

school together. Instead, since the

pandemic started, I went with my mom

every afternoon to walk around the park

near us.

My mom and I are really alike. I

feel like we’re one soul in two different

bodies, though a lot of people would think

otherwise if they looked at us side by side.

I haven’t really inherited any of my

features from her. My mom has small dark

brown eyes that turn golden whenever

she’s looking directly into light or the sun

while I have big boring black eyes with a

big birthmark on my right eye. She has a

small and oval shaped baby face that still

looks like she's younger than her age while

I have a big heart shaped face that looks

way too mature for my age. My mom is a

short and small woman while I tower over

her by a couple of inches. Additionally,

people always point out the differences in

our skin tones. My mom has a darker skin

complexion while I have a much lighter

complexion than her. Whenever we’re out

together nobody would make the

connection that she’s my mom because of

how different we look. They’re always

shocked when they find out. All my

siblings resemble my mom in some way or

another except for me. She always tells me

that I look more like my dad than anybody

else, but I wouldn’t know. I tell myself it's

really what matters on the inside rather

than the outside because me and her,

we’re more alike than people believe.

We’re always watching the same shows

together since we have the same taste. We

both like watching thriller, mystery, and

crime shows together like Criminal Minds

or Voice(a Korean show). She makes

popcorn for us in the kitchen while I find

us an interesting episode to watch in the

living room. I am always explaining what's

happening since she doesn’t understand

English, but she mostly understands it

herself by just watching the action on T.V.

Moreover, my mom and I are always

eating the same foods. Our favorite food is

pasta and whenever I cook, I make sure I

cook it even if my siblings get tired of

eating it. We both hate salty food and

instead like to squeeze lime juice into

everything we eat. Moreover, my mom and

I both like drinking tea together in the

morning while all my siblings drink coffee

instead. They always call us weird for

preferring tea instead of coffee, but coffee

is too strong for us. This might seem

weird, but I like taking buzzfeed quizzes a

lot and whenever I take one, I ask my

mom if she wants to try too. It’s strange,

but we’re always getting the same results

and I think that proves something.

My mom in many words is a strong

and resilient woman and I aspire to be like

her or even a fraction of what she is. If I

ever have children, I want to raise them

the way she raised me, full of love and

devotion. I want to tell them stories about

her and how well she raised me and my

siblings. She raised us strictly, but lenient

at the same time. She trusted us to do how

we pleased and in return, we were truthful

to her about everything we did without

having to worry about whether we’ll get in

trouble or not. I was always able to talk to

her about anything without worrying and

she was always willing to listen to me talk.

I hope that, in the future, I am able to

repay her for everything she has done for

me and my siblings. She has sacrificed a

lot for us by giving us the opportunity to

grow up in America, so that we will have a

better future and live better than she did.

She has left behind everything she has

ever known back in Somalia and built a

new life for us here. I don’t think there are

a lot of people in this world who would

willingly do that and for that, I am and

will always be grateful to her. I hope to

grow up to be a woman like my mother.

A Football Life

Nicholas Chloros

My football journey has been quite the ride. From the first time I ever

stepped on the field to the last. Some of my best memories are out on the field

surrounded by my best friends. I didn’t win any state championships or win the

MVP award for my team, but for me, that's not what football was about.

I joined football in 7th grade but that's not when my love for the game

started. I joined because all my friends were in the sport and I had nothing better to

do after school. My first time being on the field was for a kickoff. I remember being

super nervous and all of my teammates cheering for me. I didn't do anything and

actually ended up missing a tackle. But the rush that I got from being on the field

was what got me hooked on the game. For the remainder of the year, I pretty much

stuck with kickoffs. It wasn't until my 8th grade year that I saw some real playing

time for Junior High.

Eighth grade was my first real experience playing football. This is the year

that I fell in love with the sport. I had spent most of the months after my seventh

grade year trying to learn as much as I could about the sport. I played wide receiver

and linebacker. My favorite memory of this year is tackling a kid with my best friend

at the time, Luke. After we both got up he really hyped me up which really felt good.

It was things like this that really made the sport for me. Being recognized for

making plays was an adrenaline rush. I haven’t experienced anything like it since

football came to an end.

Ninth grade wasn’t anything special. This is when the transition from Junior

High to Senior High happens. I played some in Junior Varsity games. I think this was

my hardest year as a football player. I went from playing every snap in 8th grade to

having to rotate in JV. To make things worse, we were punching bags to the older

guys. The varsity guys would take advantage of us in practice and the coaches didn’t

care. In my senior year, we would use practices to get better. The older guys in my

ninth grade year used practice to show everyone how hard they could hit us little

guys.

There were so many times this year that the older guys would bully the

younger guys. In the halls they would shove us or call us names. Us younger guys

wanted to be team players so we just kept our mouth shut. I remember sitting on

the end of a bleacher watching a volleyball game. All the older kids wanted to be on

the front row because it was cool. Well I had been in the front row since the C -

squad match. Varsity rolls around and all of the older kids are telling the younger

kids to move. I didn;t think that was fair so I stood my ground. All of the older kids

pushed me off in front of everyone and that was probably one of the most

embarrassing moments in my life. This moment fueled a lot of anger into

motivation for me. I

Although the practices weren’t fun, I still had a good time when I was playing.

My favorite memory from this year was my first receiving touchdown. We were

playing an away game and we were losing pretty bad. We were down 48 - 0 and the

game was almost over. I remember the play that was called. I ran in a straight line

all the way into the endzone. I remember looking into the air for the ball and

eventually finding it. I caught the ball directly in the endzone and even though we

were losing, the whole team celebrated like we had just won the game. Another

example of how football gave me the best feeling in the world.

Tenth grade was my first year being a starter for varsity. I have been nervous

since I was a sophomore. Having my best friends start with me made starting a little

easier. Since I was a sophomore, I was physically smaller than most of the kids that

we were going against. This is what led me to start working out and trying to get

bigger. In the offseason prior to the beginning of the season, I gained almost 15

pounds of muscle. Although I was still smaller than the kids we were playing

against, I was big for my age. I started to become confident off the field. Lifting and

talking to more people and becoming friends with upperclassmen all came from

football. I have to give credit to football for helping me become the person I am

today. My favorite memory this year was running a 57 yard play on homecoming.

We ended up winning that game and that was a highlight of my highschool career.

Junior year was the best year for team wise. We were clicking on all cylinders

and were just having fun. I was bigger and faster this year and had confidence. I

wasn’t one of the smaller kids on the field anymore. The senior class this year were

some of our best friends that we had known for years. We had chemistry and had

some of the best players in the conference. This was the year that I had the most

fun. We didn't make it deep in the playoffs but we had a good overall year. My

favorite memory this year and throughout my career was catching a hail mary pass

in our first playoff game that ended up on the news. I remember refreshing the

news site the entire bus ride home waiting to see if my play had been caught. When

I saw that it had, I felt pure happiness and excitement. I don’t know if I will ever feel

that feeling again.

Senior year was my personal best year. The team didn’t do too well and we

have a good excuse for that.. We had the toughest 9-man schedule in the state.

Four of the eight teams we played ended up going deep into the playoffs with two

of them going to state and one of them winning state. My grind in the offseason

allowed me to be one of the best players for the team. I was scoring touchdowns

and causing fumbles almost every game. I was playing all over the field too.

Running Back, tight end, receiver, you name it. My best memory this year was in our

season opener at home. I caught a 50 yard touchdown and the stands went crazy. I

will never forget that moment either. We won

that game 20-22.

Because of football I was able to meet so

many people that I would not have otherwise. I

talked to older kids through sports and

obviously was able to talk to more girls. I only

say this because this boosted my confidence. I

felt like I had so many reasons to try on the

field. I ended up on the homecoming court

because of the popularity I had gained. I

opened myself up and made friends with older

and younger kids. Being a mentor on the field

for the younger kids was a big part of my football experience. I also have made

friends with some guys that I have played with. It’s nice to be known. When

homecoming would roll around, so many pictures would want pictures and to wear

my jersey. It sounds like bragging but it isn't. I am just happy that I made the

decision to join football all of those years ago.

The message that I am trying to get across about football is that without it I

wouldn't be who I am today. I may not have had fun sometimes or complained

about early practice but I loved every second of it. I know that I will never have as

much fun as I did with my friends on the field. I wish I would have put more time

and effort into it. I look back and think about moments that I could have made

plays or done something differently.

I have concluded that chapter in my life. I almost committed to St Olaf to play

there but decided to attend The U instead. I have no plans of playing again but if

Coach Fleck offered a spot on the team I would accept that offer immediately.

That’s just wishful thinking on my part.

I LOOK AT MY HIJAB AND REMAIN CALM

Nimo Aden

On Oct 29, 2010, my world

changed tremendously. It was the first

day that I became a Hijabi, the first time

I ever wore a Hijab on my head. I was

just eight years old at the time and didn't

have a clear understanding or

experience of the Hijab. I decided to

wear the Hijab on Oct 29, 2010,

because in Islam this month is a very

important month of the year. This month

is called Rabi Al-Awwal and the name of

this blessed month translates as the

First Season of Spring and Muslims

recognize this as the month in which

Prophet Muhammad(PBUH) was born. I

also decided to wear the Hijab because

deep down in my heart there was a part

of me that felt like I was matured

enough to start practicing at the age of

eight. At first, I was a little hesitant to put

it on in the morning because I was really

scared and nervous at the same time. I

remember calling my older cousins and

asking them how their first day of

wearing the Hijab and going to school

was and they told me that I was going to

be okay and get used to it. I didn’t have

any struggles putting it on because it

was the kids' Hijab style, which was

simpler since it only covers the head

and not the entire body. But I remember

my mom getting my school backpack

ready for me and when I first came out

of my room, I was really nervous about

what my mom’s reaction was going to

be because I was the only person in my

house who decided to wear the Hijab

from such a young age. However, when

I looked at my mom; she had tears of

happiness when she saw me with a

Hijab on, and that moment strengthened

my decision to wear the Hijab for as

long as I am alive.

I knew things were going to

change for me. I knew that wearing a

Hijab comes with a lot of responsibility.

In my family, wearing the Hijab meant

that I was ready to practice my religion.

However, going to school while wearing

the Hijab was very surprising and

challenging at the same time. For

example, I remember when I first walked

into my 3rd-grade math class, the kids in

my school were pretty much shocked

and asked me a lot of questions about

what a Hijab is and why female Muslims

wear it, even my math teacher was

surprised to see me wearing the Hijab.

The kids often asked me questions such

as “Why do you have to cover your

head, is it important? Is it hot to wear it?

Are Muslim women required to cover

their faces too? On the other hand,

being different from the other kids who

were in my class was challenging for

me. There was no way I could hide the

fact that I was not like the other kids at

school now because once I put on the

Hijab, all people can see was the fact

that I am a Muslim and honestly it was

scary at first since people had negative

views of Muslim woman being

oppressed. I always knew that people

have negative views of Muslim women

due to the stereotypical belief and

misconceptions that are influenced by

the media’s portrayal of Muslims and

Islam. This would often make me feel

embarrassed about wearing the Hijab as

a very young Muslimah (religious way of

saying a Muslim woman) and I would

often ask myself why I needed to be so

different in other people’s eyes. So, I

went about elementary school life

struggling with my identity, trying to

answer the question of who I was as a

Muslim woman.

Looking back, the reason why I

was so embarrassed about wearing the

Hijab is that I had not yet fully

understood the Hijab. I had not

understood what my mom meant when

she said “covering your body will

increase your dignity and the way men

look at you,” because in Islam the status

of a woman is that Paradise lies at her

feet. I thought the Hijab was purely

about modesty, I thought it was there

just to protect women from the gaze of

men. But unfortunately, that was a very

shallow and weak understanding of the

Hijab. It was not until I got to high school

that I started to learn more deeply about

my religion aside from what other

people told me about reasons why I

should cover-up.

Every day I used to go to the

Mosque after school to learn from a

female teacher who has a degree in

Islamic Studies. The class focused more

on perfecting one’s prayer and

connecting with the Quran and she

would always encourage us to dress in

the best way before we pray, which

means we have to cover ourselves up

from head to toe. She would also tell us

stories about the Hijab that is in the

Quran. Some verses that are in the

Quran that specifically talk about how

women dress up. Even after I take her

classes, I would still do my own

research and ask questions to Islamic

preachers or influencers on social media

and they would always respond to me

and explain to me in a way that was so

powerful that it would make me fall in

love with the Hijab even more. After

doing so much research about my

religion’s perspective of the Hijab, I fell

in love with the Hijab because I came to

understand that it was not simply a

piece of fabric draped over my body to

conceal beauty and preserve modesty,

but rather it was a physical

demonstration of my submission and

connection with my Lord, and visible

representation of my inward spirituality.

Being a Muslim in America is

challenging, especially for females who

dress in a certain way. Every day you

wake up and it feels like you are reliving

the same day, nothing ever really

changes when it comes to the amount of

racism and discrimination you face. For

example, I was born after the incident of

9/11 and I didn’t even live in America at

the time of the attack. However, I get

blamed for what happened just because

I dress a certain way and practice Islam.

I have experienced racism and

discrimination behavior first hand. For

example, one day my friends and I were

on the bus on our way back from school

and we were called terrorists based on

our physical appearance and the false

ideas people see in the media. I was in

freshman year of high school and my

friend and I were trying to get out of the

bus but this man who I think was in his

40s grabbed one of my friend’s Hijab

and pulled her back and said to us “Go

back to where you came from, you

terrorists.” Me and my friends, knowing

how important the Hijab was to us got

really mad and said to him “How dare

you touch my friends’ Hijab, you can go

to hell.” This was the time of the Trump

Presidential election and that

undocumented immigrants were being

deported. From his physical

appearance, he was a strong

bodybuilder white man who had strong

hatred for Muslims and was very racist.

The bus driver who was an African

American came up to him and told him

that what he did was very disrespectful

and he needs to apologize to us.

However, the man refused and we were

at our bus stop, so the driver said to us

"I am really sorry about what happened

and we just got out of the bus hurt and

feeling helpless. When I came home, I

couldn’t stop thinking about what

happened and I told my family. My mom

was really upset and that was the last

time that my friends and I ever took the

bus to school. They start to question my

identity when I don’t even know how

being a terrorist has anything to with my

religion because I grew up knowing that

Islam is the most peaceful religion and

seeing how it is viewed as the most

violent religion in today’s world has

made me realize that people can be so

cruel. This makes me feel infuriated

because I am not a terrorist and I do not

know anything about terrorism. It is

challenging being called a terrorist and it

impacts me negatively. However, there

is nothing I can do about a system that

was already built on “corruption”

because I don't have the power to

change people’s views of the Hijab and

my religion.

When I look at all the hate I

received as a Muslim, I look at my Hijab

and remain calm. I wonder how is it my

fault? How is it that I get stared at

whenever my history teacher mentions

September 11 simply because to them

the Hijab on my head represents a

tragic event? But most importantly, I

wonder who gave you the right to tell me

what my religion means by portraying

false information on the media and then

tell me that everything that I know about

my religion is wrong when I was raised

in a Muslim household. People being

racist and discriminating against me

based on my physical appearance and

wearing the Hijab is something that will

never leave my life and I feel like I will

have to keep on being resistant to feel

like I belong because that is the reality

we live in as Muslims. I guess what

most people don’t understand is the

importance of appreciating the

differences because I am a Muslim, you

are a Christian, he or she may be a

Jewish or any other religion but I still

treat them the same as a human being.

My appearance is very different from

other people. People look at me and all

they see is a piece of cloth on my head.

Not understanding my story and

struggles with it. However, to me it is

much more than that, that piece of cloth

gives me the courage to wake up every

day and brings me the confidence I

need to live my life to the fullest. It

brings me joy and reminds me of my

purpose in life.

A Best Friend is like a

Diamond

Bisharo Abdi

“Some people arrive and make

such a beautiful impact on your life,

you can barely remember what life

was like without them” (Anna Taylor).

Before I met my best friend Siham, I

felt lonely, meaning I had other

friends, but a puzzle was missing. I

didn’t have someone I could talk to

for hours, related to, and understood

me. Only when she arrived was that

puzzle complete. The moment she

came into my life, I felt something

words can’t describe. It was a level of

solace, and a strong sense of bond as

if we were meant to be something.

This is when I realized someone

special had come to in my life.

I met my best friend Siham at

the age of 10 in 4th grade, in Kenya

at a small school called Precious

Junior Academy. One day on a

Thursday morning, a new girl was

brought to my class. She was tall,

slender, presentable, and bashful.

She had green, almond-shaped eyes

which I couldn’t take my eyes off. She

also has a round face, fair, and soft

skin which made her look very

attractive. She introduced herself as

Siham. Before her transfer, my old

deskmate moved to a new city, so my

chair was vacant. That’s when the

teacher told Siham to sit next to me.

My nervous self started shaking

because I was very edgy. She slowly

sat next to me with a smile big, I

could see her molars. The moment I

laid eyes on her, I could tell we would

become more than a friend but who

knew we would become best friends?

Few days after knowing her, I

could tell she had a bright

personality. I learned she was also

quiet, loved reading novels, very

sweet, honest, and caring. The more I

got to know her the more I fell in love

with her characteristics and

personality which made me want to

learn who she was. Ever since she

came into my life, I felt complete in

every way possible because I found

someone who was as quiet like me,

affable, and someone who

understood me better than I could

understand myself. As days passed, I

got to know her more and more. We

started getting closer and our

friendship blossomed to something

more than friends, what I can call a

best friend. She became the reason

why I looked forward to school every

day. The short time I knew her, I felt a

sense of belonging.

Through her, I learned many

life lessons. An example was she

taught me to always go for

everything I wanted in life. For any

decision I made, she would let me

deeply think and follow my heart. She

always reminded me that she was

there for me whenever I needed help.

One time, when I was in fifth grade

someone stole money from my

teacher’s handbag. The teacher was

very suspicious because this was not

normal. She asked whoever that stole

it, to return it to her before it was too

late and faced consequences. The

same day, An older girl from 7th

grade by the name of Cynthia who I

barely ever spoke to, came to me

while I was laying on our school

playground waiting for Siham to

finish her teacher meeting. The older

girl started saying bad things about

me, and as a sensitive person, I

started crying because all the things

she was accusing me of like stealing

money from the teacher was a lie.

Tears rolled down my cheeks, My

heart was racing, and I felt betrayed.

That girl had ruined my whole day.

When Siham came and saw me

crying, she went and got a napkin,

wiped my tears, and assured me that

everything was going to be fine. She

then took my hand and went to

Cynthia’s classroom. She called out

the girl and confronted her. Cynthia

was shocked and scared because

now it was two of us, and could do

anything to her if she lied about

anything. She admitted that nothing

she said was true. I felt much relieved

because that teacher was my favorite

and there was no possibility I could

do that. Through this moment I

learned that I had a true friend who

always saw the best in me, believed in

me when no-one else did, and a

friend who was always there for me

as a shoulder to cry and lean on.

On the weekend, Siham and I

would always have sleepovers. On

these nights we read novels together,

played our favorite music, talked

about life, and how everything was

going on. We both enjoyed each

other's companionship. Siham and I

had a lot of things in common which

made us closer than siblings.

When I moved from Kenya, I

cried a lot because I was leaving

behind someone very important to

me. Someone I was very attached to

physically and emotionally. We

promised each other to never lose

contact with each other. It has been 4

years since I moved from Kenya. They

say, “true friends are never apart.

Maybe in distance but not in

heart”(Hellen Keller). Even though she

is physically not here with me, I

always feel her presence whenever I

do things we always did together like

reading novels and playing her

favorite song. Once in a while, I call

her to see if she is doing fine and we

talk for hours because we miss each

other so much. She sends me a letter

once a year, and I do the same. Siham

has occupied a very special place in

my heart no-one can get in. This year

Jan 23rd, Siham, and I celebrated our

8th year of friendship.

All and all, Siham was the best

thing that happened to me; and she

changed my life forever. She taught

me the meaning of friendship that

would last forever. She was not just

my best friend, but someone I

consider a family. My best friend

Siham has had a very big impact on

my life. She taught me many life

lessons. The memories we had

together are memories worth

remembering. Even though we are

miles apart, her remembrance is what

keeps me going on every day. I can

describe Siham as a joy that

brightened my life. She was truly one

of a kind, not only by character but by

spirit. I can say that Siham was

someone whom I can truly count on

all throughout my life.

The Chicken Soup That

Brought me closer to my

Parents

Tou Yang

An ordinary activity I take part in

is cooking and taking care of my

parents. I usually don’t cook when my

sisters still live with us, but now that

they are married I help with cooking

and cleaning. My dad has a stroke

recently so his right arm and his right

leg is paralyze. I normally wake up at

seven in the morning to change my

dad’s clothes, then tip toe my way

through the creaking wooden floors into

the kitchen. This activity is important to

me because I am the youngest son and it

is my responsibility to take care of my

parents when I grow up. I grew up

without much connection with them

because they spend more time with my

other siblings. When I started cooking

for them I spent more time hanging out

with them and then they would ask me

questions and start catching up with

me. This activity is pretty tiring but the

time I get to spend with my parents is

worth it.

When I was younger my mom

would always cook for us and my sisters

would help her in the kitchen. The

kitchen is the most occupied living

space at my house. I would wake up to

the voices of my mom's loud lecturing

every morning, then wash up and go to

the kitchen to feel the warm heat from

the steaming food. I was always the one

to eat, not one to cook so I never knew

what my sister was getting a lecture for.

The kitchen was a space where my mom

would get loud and bond with my

sisters. After my two sisters got married

the kitchen was the contrary of what it

used to be. Now I wake up because it is

too quiet and when I walk to the kitchen

I would only see my mom. I was sad to

see that my mom is quiet and alone in

the kitchen. I started to go around the

kitchen more and ask her if she needs

help. This gave her a smile and then

eventually she taught me how to make

chicken herb soup. I end up doing most

of the cooking now because I love being

around my mom and I was surprised at

how easy cooking can be, mostly

because I thought it takes talent to cook

well.

I never had a sit down moment

with either of my parents to talk about

anything. My job now as the chief was

to make it lively and make the kitchen a

place of joy like it used to be. My dad is

about seventy-six years old and

forgetful now, most of the time he

would call me “Chang” which is my

older brother's name, but he still

remembers to always ask my mom

where everyone is. My mom is fifty-six

years old, she sews during most of her

freetime which is almost everyday. I

worry that I won’t have much time to

spend with them because they are older

now and they are always checking in

and out of the hospital. I take cooking

as an excuse to hangout with them. I did

not mind the heat from the on burning

stove or the hot steam coming off the

boiling chicken soup because that was

cook they would come sit on the dining

table and ask me questions “ How is

school going for you?” This makes me

happy but sad at the same time. I was

sad that this was the first time they

asked me. I was motivated to cook so

my mom can ask me more about my

girlfriend or my friends. I was always

doing something because I see them

more by walking back and forth around

the living room where they spend most

of their time.

my mom's favorite. I notice that when I

My relationship with my parents

started getting stronger and I feel more

connected to them. I would do chores

everyday so I can spend time with my

parents who are constantly growing out

their gray hair. I spent my senior year

doing even more house chores because I

knew I was going to college soon. I love

the nights where my mom would tell me

because it makes the food taste just a

little bit better. I realize that you can

connect with others easily if you put

yourself in an approachable position. I

was in a position where my parents

could grab my attention and tell me

about themselves, I was very happy I got

to know them before I went off to

college.

stories of her life back in laos and my

dad would tell me stories about his

childhood. My parents tell me about

how they meet and how they got

married. My dad’s words were hard to

put together because he’s very forgetful

now but I was thrilled to learn about

how my dad was in the Vietnam war

along with the American soldiers.

The effort that I put into helping

more with house chores comes from me

wanting more connections with my

parents. When I need motivation to get

out of my cozy bed to cook, I just think

of how much my parents must be

starving. My mom tells me stories of

where the food recipe came from as I

cook. I loved every story she tells

Jump into the depths of water: Like a balloon in the vast sky

Suki Yang

Deep into the water I was bouncing off the floor like a basketball gasping for

air. I was swimming at Lake Elmo with my family until my dad told me to find my mom

and to let her know that he wanted to talk to her. I looked around the bean-shaped lake

trying to catch a glimpse of where she was. Finally, I was able to find my mom

surrounded by my aunties towards the middle of the lake.

I started walking towards her direction and as I got closer to her, I didnʼt realize

how high the water got since I was going deeper into the lake. I just kept telling myself

that I would be fine because if my mom was able to stand there so would I, but for

some reason I wasn't thinking logically that it was because she was taller than me so I

continued to walk towards her. Soon before I realized the water had reached my chin,

losing my grip on the ground as my toes sunk into the soft sand I started to panic and

shout for my mom. Trying to get closer to her there was a sudden dip and I slipped. At

this point my whole head had already dipped under water and I was unable to stand

upright. Finally, my father rushed in and picked me up or else who knows what

could've happened to me. When I was finally taken out of the pool I glared at the

lifeguard and at my mother who was so close to me yet unable to see me and didnʼt

rescue me. I felt angry and frustrated because I had never felt so scared of being

unnoticed while drowning. After this incident I never knew that I would join a swim

team years later.

During my last year in middle school one of my friends introduced me to the

swimming team at Harding Senior high school. I did not know that students in middle

school were able to join the high school sports team so when she told me about this I

decided to join the swimming team at Harding because I thought itʼd be cool and

especially since at my high school we didnʼt have a swim team or even a pool. I loved

the water but there were still so many things I had to learn since I didnʼt know the

basics to swimming and I was also still very afraid of the deep end after the drowning

incident that occured at Lake Elmo when I was a kid.

I was able to learn how to swim with the help of our swim managers and my

swim coach. My coach had me wear a life jacket for the first month of practice so I

wouldnʼt be afraid of the deep end. The first time I entered the deep end with my life

jacket on, the view of the floor was magnificent. It was my first time seeing the floor on

the deep end of the pool with my goggles on and it was beautiful but scary at the same

time because I felt like a balloon drifting in the vast sky since I was surrounded by

water and I was afraid of drifting off to the middle of the pool so I held onto the wall to

make sure I wasnʼt drifting away. At one point it felt like I was flying since the floor was

so far below me and there was nothing pulling me down since I was wearing a life

jacket. After I finally got down the basics of swimming I started to practice swimming

on the deep end without a life jacket and after multiple practices I finally overcame my

fear of the deep end and even learned how to embrace and fall in love with the deep

end.

After overcoming my fear of the deep end, I started staying after practice to

swim for fun with my friend and while we played in the pool it was usually during

diving practice for the divers on the swim team. My friend and I would always watch

them dive because they

seemed so graceful

jumping off the diving

board and it seemed so

fun to jump off the diving

board. This made me

really want to join the

diving team because I

wanted to try jumping of

the diving board and the

flips they did seemed so

cool but my swim coach

said no because she

wanted me to stay a

swimmer because if I had

decided to join the diving

team that would mean

that I would be doing only

3 swimming events

instead of 4.

After being on just the swim team for two years I finally joined the diving team

my junior year in high school. Remember how I said my coach didnʼt want me to join

the diving team? Well, she quit and so we had a new swimming coach during my junior

year and she was fine with me joining the diving team and thatʼs how I was able to start

diving.

The first time I walked onto the diving board I felt super nervous but at the same

time afraid and happy. Iʼve only watched the divers jump off the diving board but I was

now the one on it. Right after my first week of practice I immediately fell in love with

diving. The feeling of jumping off the diving board felt amazing. I loved jumping up

high and looking down at the water before I fell into it. It almost felt as if I was able to

fly for a split second with my hands open wide as my wings before I squeezed them

together to break the water as I entered the pool head first.

Although I joined the diving team I still trained very hard at swimming and

remained on the varsity team. During the same year I joined the diving team we made a

vote on the swim and diving captains for that year and I was one of the candidates but

sadly I didn't get it. But even though I didnʼt get the position I still worked very hard for

my team and also really helped the new swimmers. Because of that my coaches saw

more potential in me being a captain so they announced to the whole team that they

were going to make me the swim and diving captain and boy I was shocked but at the

same time really happy. Either way I was already really happy to be able to help and

teach the new swimmers about the rules and how everything worked during swim

meets and practice.

Towards the end of the swim season when the diving conference came around I

was super nervous because I had to learn 3 new dives the week before the conference.

During the diving conference when our names were called for us to go up to do our

dives, I remember feeling goosebumps on my skin from the cold air and water

dripping down from my hair as I had them braided on both sides of my head. I felt very

alone because I was the only diver from my school. I was also the shortest and smallest

diver so I definitely did feel intimidated by the rest of the other divers. But as soon as I

jumped off the diving board for my first dive, I felt so happy. I jumped as high as I

could and floated in the air for what felt like 5 seconds. I knew that I did a great dive

and came up to hear that the judges had all scored my dive a 5. That was the highest

score that Iʼd have ever received so I felt even happier.

Although I did feel a bit sad because my family didnʼt come to the event to watch

me dive. My parents were never really supportive of me being on the diving team

because they said that it was too dangerous. My sister and her boyfriend were able to

come at the very end to watch 2 of my dives which were my least favorite dives but I

was still very happy that they came. At the end of the event it was announced that I had

placed 6th out of 13 divers.

The next and final year of my diving and swimming career soon came to a halt. I

had an internship that I earned through summer training with Genesys Works at

Bremer Bank. This meant that I went to work every afternoon from Monday-Friday and

went to school in the mornings. I wanted to continue to swim and dive but the only way

for me to do that was through early morning swim and diving practices. To make it to

morning practices I had to wake up by 5am every morning to get to school by 5:30am to

practice at our school's pool since I had work and was able to practice after school. This

took a lot of commitment but i was eager to stay on the swim team no matter what it

took because it was my senior year and I didnʼt want to graduate with any regrets.

I started to struggle with balancing swimming & diving with school and work. I

felt like I had a lot on my schedule but I did not want to let any of them go no matter

how hard things got because I knew that if I pushed myself and communicated with my

coaches, teachers and work supervisor I would be able to do it and I wanted to do it so I

wouldnʼt have any regrets for not doing or completing one of these. But then during

one of the swim meet competitions while doing warm ups for my dives I hit my head

on the diving board.

I still vividly remember the pain I felt on the back of my head as it hit the diving

board. During that dive I jumped up as high as I could and squeezed my eyes shut since

I was doing a somersault but I had jumped a little too straight up and as I came down

the back of my head smacked onto the diving board and it flung me off. The moment

my head smacked on the diving board my head felt numb but I felt pain on my face

since it had smacked onto the surface of the water after the back of my head bounced

off the diving board. Everything happened too fast and I couldn't catch onto what had

happened until I got out of the pool and was sent home. After this incident it made me

have conflicts between my love for diving and the fear I had towards the pain it gave

me.

After being diagnosed with a concussion my diving coach came to talk to me and

told me that I wouldnʼt be able to dive or swim for the rest of the season. After our talk I

sat in silence in the girlʼs locker room and cried for hours before calling my mom to

pick me up. I cried because I felt like it was just so unfair how I had to stop doing what

I enjoyed the most and how it became something fearful for me. I was frustrated and I

couldnʼt sort out my emotions while at the same time feeling overwhelmed with

everything that was coming my way, like knowing that I had worked so hard but I had

to stop and the thought that this was my last and final year of swimming and diving in

high school. I was upset at myself and the whole world. All the thoughts that came into

my head was “Why me? Why now? Why?”. It felt like the world was literally falling onto

me. I had no choice but to stop swimming and diving for the rest of the year.

Even though I had to quit swimming and diving during that year after time went

on and as I started to look back on my senior year I felt very happy that I had done my

best and I had no regrets because I know that I did everything within my power to my

fullest and never gave up. I had sessions with my athletic trainer at school to help me

recover physically from my concussion and by the end of the swim season I was back

in great shape. I am now able to swim and dive again but because of COVID I havenʼt

been able to get back into the pool but one thing is for sure. I definitely canʼt wait to

start swimming and diving again!

How Football Impacted Me

Jordan Weets

Growing up I had the same dream that every other kid does when they step

out on the football field, I wanted to be a professional football player. I am not

sure if I can achieve that dream, I might try walking onto the football team at the

University of Minnesota. We will see how much I can accomplish. I started playing

football in fifth grade, it was through a program called FM Athletics. It is out of

the Fargo-Moorhead area, and it allows the youth to play and learn the game of

football. It was great to get exposed to the game that means so much to me at a

young age.

My family got me into

the game of football. We are

all huge football fans, we’ve all

been watching Vikings games

for as long as any of us can

remember. My family has

played a huge role in me

becoming the football fan I

am today. I can talk football all

day. I love getting up on

Sunday mornings and getting

ready to watch football all

day. I would wake up to a

good breakfast, I would

shower, get into Vikings gear,

and have my attention glued

to the TV. After the games we

would always have a big

family dinner, it means the

world to me to get that family

time.

Heading into high

school, I started to hit the

weight room more and got

faster and stronger. I had a

couple injuries throughout

high school, I had a wrist injury that limited my lifting for a little while. I also had

shoulder injuries which I still have to this day, there would be times on the field

where my arm would slump and I couldn’t move it. Senior year was for sure one of

my most memorable years of football I had experienced. One of my most favorite

memories from my senior year was the Paddle Game. The paddle game is a game

where we play our rivals Perham for the battle paddle. It is a traveling trophy every

year and we always go back and forth about it whenever we have sporting events

against Perham. Perham is a good team but we really came out and we were

ready to go. From the opening kickoff we dominated the entire game. The game

ended in us winning 40-12. The year prior, the game had been very close and we

almost lost it but we made a great fourth down stop. We are always pumped up to

play that game, and want to beat them bad. The conditions for the game were

perfect, a nice fall night and the sun just keeping you warm enough. We made it

back to the section championship game, the conditions were awful, and we had a

hard fought but sloppy game and ended up in defeat losing 14-6. I was faced with

adversity and I overcame it. I didn’t start one game my senior year. It was tough

but I just continued to work hard and I came out a better person because of it.

Football is a family and a brotherhood and I am so blessed to have played.

My ideal job is to be the general manager of the Minnesota Vikings. I am

currently studying sports management to try and make that a possibility. I want to

gain more knowledge about football, and I believe I have what it takes to run my

own team. Football is the ultimate team sport, it takes everyone on the team to

win a game. I am very excited to see where football takes me in my future. I plan

on getting an internship with the Gopher football team in the near future and

learning more about football. With all of the success last year and just all the hype

around this season I am very excited to see how the team performs this year.

Football has impacted my life in many ways, I am excited to see where it

takes me in my future. My FM Athletic experience introducing me to football, my

family getting me into watching it, and some memorable events in my senior year

of high school helped my football experience impact me. Walking onto the

University of Minnesota football team would help me achieve my goal. Becoming

the GM of the Minnesota Vikings would be my ultimate dream.

A hijab hike up the ladder

N.W.

At the age of four, I started to wear the Hijab

which is a headscarf to cover my hair. I was

first introduced to it by my mother. She told

me that the hijab symbolizes modesty, which

means being secluded from the presence of

others. The hijab for me was a form of dress

up at the time, it was a choice. She bought me

my first pack in kindergarten, when I first

wore it I fell in love with it. Every Saturday my

mother would wash my hair and put it into

braids with colorful elastic bands. When I put

my hijab on I would have steep hills going up

my head.

All the women in my family would cover their

hair every time they left the house, I never

really thought anything of it. I looked up to

them knowing that I wanted to wear it one

day. I found it inspiring, beautiful, and

empowering. I always thought that the hijab

was a part of everyone's lives but as I was

exposed to television, books, and my

surroundings outside of my home, my

younger self started to realize that everyone

did not cover their hair as I did. Being a

curious kid I had many questions I asked my

family and that was when I started to get a

grasp of my religion.

During this time I went to a predominantly

white elementary school, It was also a uniform

school. We were only allowed to wear the

colors white, navy blue, and red. In the first

grade, my classmates have never seen a hijab

before. I would get questions very often like

“Do you have hair under there”? I remember

this one day at school it was picture day I was

wearing a shimmering blue jersey hijab. It was

one of my favorites growing up, as I took my

picture waiting for the rest of the class to

finish in the gymnasium, a girl in my class

came up to me and pulled my hijab off my

head. I was very upset, quickly putting it back

on I went back in line not discussing it with

anyone there. After that day I remember

questioning whether to keep wearing it or not.

When I got home I told my grandmother and

she informed me that my hijab is my crown

“don’t let that discourage you from wearing it”.

It was then I realized that to some people what

I am wearing is just a cloth but, for me it was

more than that, it's a part of my values. Even

though growing up I didn’t see anyone who

looked like me portrayed in books or TV I

didn't let my environment change me.

A time where I was attacked and overcame

adversity in my life because I was wearing a

hijab was this past fall when a friend of mine

and I, were walking home from school and an

intoxicated woman we encountered at a bus

stop yelled at us in a derogatory tone of voice

“Go back to your country you terrorists”. We

were shocked and did not know how to react

at the moment. After that day I started to

realize how some people view me because of

my Hijab. Just because I wear a hijab does not

mean that I am a terrorist, people are

brainwashed into thinking like this because

the media portrays people who wear the hijab

negatively but what they fail to realize is the

meaning behind it. During the summer of my

eighth-grade year, my family and I were

traveling to go see family. As we were going

through the TSA checkpoint my mother and I

were pulled aside to get checked “some more”

when the metal detectors did not go off.

Everyone else in line got cleared in under a

minute. I learned that most people view me as

a threat because of my hijab. They are

ignorant and it is not my job to educate them.

I did not let those negative experiences affect

me.

The word Hijab means a barrier, the hijab is a

formal dress code for Muslim women. I wear

my hijab to embrace not only my beliefs but

also my culture. Through my eighteen years of

wearing my hijab, I discovered that it is a form

of expression for me, it's an embodiment of

art. It has shaped me into the person I am

today and It is something I take pride in.

Holy Hijab: I Want You to Protect Me

Aisha Warmhayye

What does the word Hijab mean to you? For

those that do not practice the religion of Islam

might see the hijab as a piece of cloth over a

Muslim women’s head. Others might also see it

as oppression held against Muslim women, but

for me, the hijab means so much more. When I

was young I never wore a hijab because I wanted

people at my school to see my beautiful hair and

how long it was. I know that people believe that

Muslim women are mostly forced by their

parents to put on the hijab, but it is actually the

opposite my parents waited until I was old

enough to understand the true meaning of

wearing a hijab and the ways it makes you feel.

At the age of seven, I had no idea what the true

meaning of the hijab was until one night when

my parents sit me down to tell me what wearing

the hijab meant. They told me the hijab was a

symbol that was part of the religion we follow,

Islam. That it was a covering that was made for

women that follow the religion, so they can feel a

sense of safety, and for them to feel more

comfortable in their body and more secure, and

in some way, I wanted to feel those feelings and

it was the biggest reason why I want with mother

to get my first hijab.

It was my 7th birthday when I went with my

mom to the Somali mall where I was going to get

my first hijab of my choosing. I was so excited that

I could just jump up and down, start yelling from

the top of my lungs, I was also so nervous that it felt

like the butterflies in my stomach just wanted to

come out as a form of puke. With all that going on

in my mind I still managed to keep a straight face

the whole time. When the store clerk asked me what

type of hijab I

wanted, I just

looked at him

with a confused

look on my face

and a question

repeated in the

back of my

head, there is

more than one

type? How? Just

so he can ease

my mind he

gave me a

magazine to see what style I would like. I was a

7-year-old girl who was picking her first hijab, and

he was asking me to also pick a style. I was amazed

by it all. As I was looking through the magazine I

saw this one little girl, I think she was the same age

as me or younger but she was wearing this beautiful

hijab with butterflies on them and for some reason, I

loved it. I asked my mother to buy me three of them

with different colors of course. I absolutely loved

my hijab that I started to wear everywhere I wanted,

I even slept with it on.

As I grew up many things about the hijab

became eye-opening. I honestly did not know that

something I loved so much can bring so much hate

with it. When I started to go to middle school, all

these eyes were on my friends and me, we did not

really know what they were actually about until one

student who was kinda like the popular kid. One

that everyone followed around. He looked like the

basic white boy, blonde hair, nice shoes, had all the

toys that were in at the moment. His name became a

distant memory that means nothing to me. Came up

to us during break time in our class, and told us to

take it off or go back to where we came from. For a

moment I was confused as to what he meant to take

it off, take what off? That is when we figured out,

but after that, we just decided to not give him the

time of day. The next day was different because

when I came to school one of my friends was not

wearing her hijab, and when I asked her about it she

told me that she did not want people to bully her for

wearing it. I could not believe my ears, the words

hit me so hard that it felt like a bulldozer came out

of nowhere and hit me right in the heart. People are

going to bully me for wearing something I love, I

was in shock. As months went by, that one white

boy from before found many ways to bug me about

my hijab and to be honest his words hurt a lot, but

every morning when I put on my hijab before

school his words would leave my head and I

would just think about beautiful thoughts and not

let him get to me. “Keep talking, it’s not she can

hear us with that rag on her head,” this phrase

played in my head the whole day. I was so

stunned by it that it made me do the unthinkable. I

took off my hijab. When I took my hijab off in the

school bathroom thinking that I’m going to walk

to class with my hair showing just to prove to this

white boy that his bullying had finally gotten to

me I felt naked I couldn’t move. I felt like I was

not wearing anything even though I fully clothed.

That’s when I realized that without my hijab I felt

incomplete I did not feel like myself. The feeling I

got from taking off my hijab for that moment stayed

with me throughout my school year.

Going from middle school to high school

was not an easy transition mostly because the

bullies just got bigger. Even though some people

were being bullied, others were being pressured to

take off their hijab and act more “free” from the

way they covered themselves. They were being told

that removing the headcover will set you free from

the prison that they were forced to follow. One of

my friends did remover her hijab to try and test out

the freedom that she will get from it, the influence

she got from all her other friends that in some way

believed that the hijab was a prison played a big

role in the reset of the Muslims girls. After that

everyone was asking the question why do you cover

your hair? I will always end up answering “because

I want to.” Those words were never enough for

some people, so then I would be asked why not take

it off to be more “free,” I was so confused as to

what they meant by that, that I asked my friends and

others Muslim girls to help me out. After hearing

that some people actually believe that not wearing a

hijab is free, my friends and I had a big discussion

about it, the only true and safe place we could have

this discussion was at the Muslim Student

Association also known as MSA because we knew

that our concern will be truly heard. I personally felt

mad that they thought we are being forced and or in

imprisonment while we were

the hijab. Since I never let

peer pressure get to me I was

one of the people that were

being bullied, but I had

wonderful friends that were

there to back me up and help

me when I needed it.

My hijab was not a “rag” it

was my protector, it was a

part of me, it made me feel

whole. I thought about what

my first bully said about my hijab and how I can not

hear anything with the “rag” on my head, he was

right. My hijab blocked every bad thing someone

could say about me and protected me by shielding

my ears, maybe the fabric was too thick to have me

listen to total B.S. My hijab was my mood, my

personality, my life. Every color of hijab I picked

goes so well with the mood I’m feeling like if I

picked black I might feel mad or down and I am

looking for a pick me up, but when I wear a bright

color it shows that I feel happy, joyful, excited to

see what the day has in store for me. The great

impact I could have ever gotten from my hijab is

that without going for my first hijab, developing the

greatest friendship with a fabric item, I do not know

what my life now would be like if I would be one of

those girls who let bullying get to them and now not

wearing it or feeling a little lost without it. I am

happy that I made the decision to get my first hijab

and going through bullying, all of these just made

me grow in many ways that I would have never

imagined. I now know that many people will make

a bad comment to my hijab and that is the way life

is, but from what I learned that two minutes without

my hijab, nothing can ever stop my hijab from

being my shield and protector, my own superhero.

What happens when we

grow closer?: My Grandpa

shares his story

Eli Vasquez-Shaughnessy

Everyone wants money when

they are a young kid in middle school.

At 12 years old I certainly did so I

could buy my pokemon card packs,

nerf guns, and lots of xbox 360 video

games. The feeling of tearing off the

clear seal around the case of the video

game was the best. I didn’t have a job

so when all of us were together for a

birthday party my grandpa asked me

“What are you doing these days for

work kid?” With his loud tone of voice

I'm sure the whole house could hear

him. I told him nothing but I wanted

money. “How about you come help me

out for twenty dollars an hour”. Back

then twenty dollars an hour seemed

like winning the lottery for me. My

mouth was just hanging wide open

after he offered me the job.

I rode my bike to his house

pretty much the next day. The grass

was about as tall as a wheat field and

he had a jungle of vines on his fence.

Walking In the house all you could

smell was cigarettes and the once

were white walls were yellow. My

Grandpa Is about 5’10” with a slight

arch in his back. He has a slight tan

from being part Mexican. He Is bald

on the top of his head with thin grey

hairs on the sides. When he reads the

newspaper he’s about as close as you

can get even with glasses. And all he

wears are polos and khakis like he Is

going to go golfing. My Grandpa

taught me how to start the

lawnmower and put gas in it. He

showed me how he wanted It done

and how he loves his bright green

grass stripes. After I finished he said I

did a good job and one thing that

stuck with me was “when you're doing

your job you want to take pride in it

not just to get it done but getting it

done right”. Ever since then I know I

have been one of the hardest working

kids. I like getting things done and

getting them done the right way. That

mindset reflects on my work at UPS,

schoolwork, and even just helping

people out with anything.

Not only did I mow the lawn but

I started to clean his house and help

him with his garden. He grew bright

red tomatoes and green cucumbers.

The worst part was cleaning his

bedroom and feeling the spider webs

on my neck. Usually after I finished

working for the day we would talk for

hours. From politics, sports, school,

family and even his past. Talking with

each other every time grew us closer

together, we built trust and we could

rely on each other whenever we

needed. My grandpa Is from a family

of thirteen siblings, most of them have

passed away so I think he really

appreciated me keeping him company.

I learned that his father would make

all of them read encyclopedias which

Is why my grandpa Is always trying to

teach me new things. For as smart as

he Is he actually never finished high

school because he had to work to help

support the family. When we would

talk politics he would always bash

Trump and it was the funniest thing.

“How could you trust a guy to be our

president with a ugly orange piece of

crap wig”. My grandpa's hair wasn’t

any better either. Telling stories about

his past was really interesting to me.

He’s told me a few stories about his

time In the Vietnam war. He was a

tank mechanic so he never saw the

battlefield but he was still a brave

hero. After he came back he started a

career at Toro and that's where he

retired after 40 years.

My grandpa liked to gamble so

he bet on all of the vikings games and

shared his winnings with me. Which

was really nice of him. He Is definitely

one of the most generous people out

there that I know. On Christmas he

would pull out a big stack of money

and just hand everyone a fifty dollar

bill. It's definitely worn off on me too. I

like to help people a lot whenever I

can. From helping homeless people,

giving rides for my friends and to just

helping my parents out a little extra

whenever I can. He’s very proud of me

and because of that he recently gave

me two thousand dollars to help with

school. I have to finish school for him

and not let It go to waste.

I saw him last week but before

that It had been months since I last

saw him because of corona and I was

just really busy with work and school. I

felt bad and I missed sitting In the old

wooden chair with the striped cloth

seat having those talks with him while

he sips his hot black coffee. While he

smokes a whole pack of cigarettes.

While he complains about the TV

being too quiet. While I listen and

laugh to him. While I sip a cold orange

crush after a long hot day of mowing

outside. It’s the little things that

matter and stay with me.

The last time I stopped at my

Grandpas was because he needed

some help. His old house phone had

broken and he had gotten a new one.

He said he couldn't hear the phone

ringing and So I called It and It was

about as loud as a police siren. It was

just funny to me because I have to yell

at him sometimes so he can hear me

but he's so stubborn he won't ever get

a hearing aid. I did get him another

phone that he could actually hear and

I was happy I got that figured out for

him. It just made me reflect on the

start of our relationship when he was

teaching and helping me out and now

I have moved on to another chapter

but I know I will always be there for

him whenever he needs It.

They’re Like the Line Between Friends and Sisters, Some of the

Most Important People In My Life

M.T

It was a sunny and semi cloudy day in June. I got ready in front of my sister’s vanity

carefully, making sure my makeup was flawless and airbrushed to the touch. I put on my sister’s

black dress that was knitted and had long sleeves and a ruffled crewneck. I wore silver hoops and

tied the front pieces of my hair back so that they wouldn’t be in my face. I had plans with three

of my other cousins. Our moms are all sisters, meaning that we are first cousins. Isabella’s the

oldest out of the four of us. She’s a total fangirl with kpop and Chinese dramas, probably the

second tallest in our group and a total wise and educated woman. Gaocheng’s the second oldest.

She’s the third tallest and the one who brings humor and life in our group. I feel like nothing

starts until she’s there. Hillary’s the third oldest and the shortest out of us all. She’s so talented in

many ways and she’s always hard working. Then there's me. I’m the youngest but also the

tallest. I’m actually younger than all of them by a year which is sometimes very unfortunate and

inconvenient but we don’t let that stop us.

Isabella had just turned 18 so this outing was for her specifically. I was so excited to

spend the night at Isabella’s for her 18th birthday along with my two other cousins, Hillary and

Gaocheng. Days prior to her birthday dinner and sleepover, Hillary, Gaocheng and I actually met

up and made Isabella’s birthday present. It was a photo album with all of our memories

embedded in it. When I finished getting ready, my brother dropped me off at Isabella’s house

and we waited for her sister to take us to Applebees for her birthday dinner. I remember I got

chicken alfredo and it was delicious. There’s truly nothing better than enjoying food surrounded

by some of the best people in your life because food tastes better when you’re not eating it alone.

It was great and when we returned to her house, she had decorated her downstairs for the

sleepover. She had a backdrop that had pink tulle hanging down from it. Pictures of the four of

us were hung vertically, attached to a string and each string was placed in front of the backdrop.

It was so beautiful. We played tons of games while sitting on the couch, watched kpop music

videos, laughed until our stomachs hurt and until we couldn’t breathe anymore. It’s moments like

those that I wish to relive the most. When it was finally time, we gave Isabella her present. Her

face when she opened it was filled with awe and amazement, she was definitely so touched by

the handmade gift from the three of us. The tan wood like album was decorated with a small

picture of us in the front. It was covered in her initials that were spelled out with hot glue, added

with pink and white glitter dusted on top. We all actually sat together and looked through the

pictures together. Each page was filled with different memories.

One of the pictures that I remembered being in there was during Christmas when we were

around 5 or 6. Our parents or somebody must’ve taken it but there we were, the four of us. Posed

together in a line, facing one direction, our backs to each other’s chest. Gaocheng and I dressed

in red but I wore a long sleeve while hers was short sleeved. Isabella in pink with a black belt as

a statement piece and Hillary in a yellow tank. My bangs were swept to one side and I had my

hair in a side braid. Gaocheng never had much hair when she was a baby so her hair was short in

the picture and she had it down. Hillary was always very playful and messy so her hair was a bit

all over the place and Isabella's hair was nicely slicked back and tied into a ponytail. Although I

don’t remember much from this particular Christmas, I’ve always loved the holidays because for

as long as I can remember, our families have always celebrated it together. The holidays are

always a happy time for me because our families spent it together. To see each other on cold and

snowy Christmas Eves, dressed in red and green, drinking coca and eating cookies as we waited

for 12 a.m. to distribute presents and open them together. As we flipped through the book, it felt

as if we went on a time machine, re-living every single moment we’ve spent together and to see

how far we’ve come and how much we’ve grown. From when we were just babies, eating candy

together, sliding down the stairs on our stomachs and getting carpet burns, stealing each other’s

toys and hating one another just to come back and reconcile the next minute.

From our pre-teen years of dealing with puberty like, first periods and how to use a pad

or a tampon, ugly hair from dying it because we felt adventurous, braces, pimples and all.

Feeling lost in our own insecurities and talking about boys and crying over the heartbreaks

because it felt so unfamiliar at the time but we were there for one another through it all. Thick

and thin. From our teenage years, attending high school and dealing with exams, grades and the

feeling of friends and cliques. Friends came and went, but we didn’t. We stuck in there for

eachother, with each other. Looking back at these memories made us emotional with tears in

each of our eyes because we are so proud to have a bond so strong and we just felt so lucky to

have each other. I remember when I was in sixth grade and I had gotten into a fight with some

friends. They called me names and would say really hurtful things towards me on social media

but the three of them had my back. Tears would just fill my eyes when I read those texts off of

Facebook, clutching my phone as tightly in my hand with a lump in my throat unable to speak

because it hurt so bad but they wouldn’t let anybody hurt me like that. They stood up for me

when I couldn’t stand up for myself. Friends may turn on me but I know that they will never.

People always think that with families, you only see them at family gatherings or during

special events but I see my cousins whenever I want to plus the gatherings and holidays as well

because we’re just that close. Every chance I get I want to praise and brag about them so much

because they’re the types of people that I want to hold onto for a very long time and I have so

much love for them. Having cousins is sort of different from a sister. Having a sister, it’s sort of

like unconditional love and a sister is strictly a sister. Maybe sometimes more of a motherly

sister as well, but as for cousins, it’s different. You build that love together and it’s not really

unconditional love, it’s a different type of love but in a good way. They’re like the line between

friends and sisters. I think that them being my cousins makes me appreciate them more and

probably because they’re around my age as well, considering my sister is 14 years older than me.

As of today, we’re all broke college students but our bond is still as tight as ever. Isabella

actually attends the U with me and well, Hillary and Gaocheng are attending Concordia. I can’t

wait to see what the future holds for each of us and I can’t wait to see us achieve our goals.

We’re not going anywhere for a long time and I couldn’t be more thankful to have been blessed

with such amazing cousins.

The Nostalgic Memories of the Park

Sirrmula Taw

From age seven to twelve, I lived in Utica, New York. In front of my uncle's house was a

small park that belongs to a small elementary school property where my cousins and I

played there almost every afternoon in the summer. But from where I lived, it was a

block away. Starting from my house, you are to walk down the road passing four houses

you are only familiar with the outside appearances, you then make a left turn, and now

you’re walking alongside with a small Asian store, a couple of really old houses that look

barely stable, and later an unused, torn down house no only will ever use. Once you

pass the torn down houses, you are now in the corner street with the traffic light and a

clearer view of the park that has attached itself with an old elementary school which was

in clear sight. The park always makes me feel welcomed.

As a child, I never really used the traffic light to get across. I would make another left

turn once I reached the corner and instead make my way to my uncle’s home which

was a house away from the corner. I never make my way straight to the park, I always

had to make a stop at my uncle’s house. There, I would stay inside his home, hang with

his two younger daughters, Eh Ler, who is four years older than me, and Martha, who is

two year younger. We usually waited for the rest of our cousins, Htoo, he is the same

age as EhLer, Gedeon was a year older than me, True, who is a year younger, and

Benjamin, the youngest, about six year younger than me. While Eh Ler, Martha, and I

waited for the boys to arrive, we’d make ourselves comfortable on the sofa, chilling with

Netflix. When the boys arrived, we’d make our way outside of the house and sat on his

flat, hard, concrete front porch, chatting about unimportant stuff. When the heat was

tolerable or we were in the mood to play, we made our way to the park.

The park was a small, square-shaped land, with

a super small, almost flat hill. On top of the hill

was the dark status of a man with a stern face.

He wore a suit and was sitting on a concrete

chair with his hand in his knees, facing down

the hill. I think he was a president. If my

memories serve me correctly, the elementary

school was named after the U.S president but I

don’t remember the name of the school since I

didn’t attend. Down a few feet, almost the

center of the park were five pine trees, two

being extremely large and tall, and the other

three were small and climbable. The school was in the farther left corner and opposite

from it was the parking lot. My cousins and I hardly go near the school. The playground

was located beside the school, it was tiny and hardly had anything. It didn’t even have a

slide or swings. I would say it was more for kids who are five years old and younger.

Despite that, children or maybe students from the school who lived near would come to

play or just ride their bike around. The park has a safe community so kids usually go

there without an adult to look after them.

My cousins and I usually play soccer in the vast field. Sometimes, strangers would

come and join us and this would lead to us playing soccer like the real game. While

everyone was getting competitive, I would take on the position of a useless defender who

doesn't know what to do when the ball comes my way. This would make my cousins that

are in my team angry with me and when we change teams, I would be the last one to get

chosen by them. I didn’t feel bad or anything since I know I didn’t do much to attribute to

the team. Usually, Martha, who was equally useless like me, and I are almost alway the

first one to get out of the game and just chat or watch the rest play.

When we were not playing soccer, my cousins and I used to attempt climbing. I was bad

at it so if the tree was a little bit taller than me, I wouldn't even try to climb it and just

watch as the rest of my cousin attempted it. When we get tired or just plain lazy to do

anything, we would just sit on the flat, cool, green grass, feeling the heat of the warm sun

above us. Since my older cousins like to tell horror stories, they would take turns scaring

us with their stories.

During the story's time, Eh Ler, who is the best at telling horror stories, has a way of

making us feel spooky even in the daytime. She describes the setting of her story with

similarities to the park we are in which always gets our childish mind and scares us. It’s

funny how my little cousin, Martha, would freak out and scream out of nowhere, startling

everyone along with her, even when the story hasn’t reached the climax. Sometimes, we’d

make fun of how easily she gets scared and she gets mad in return and storms off. When

she returns, we laugh it off and continue with the stories. I recalled one of Eh Ler’s horror

stories was about a lonesome woman with long hair, wearing white clothes. The woman is

seen standing under a big tree, the same as the big tree from the park, facing the

opposite way from people, her victims. When one sees her, a sobbing is usually heard

coming from her. The person who decided to approach her would ask if she was okay but

they would get no response from the lonesome woman. This is when Eh Ler’s tone

dramatically changes and the atmosphere around us turns dark, making our surroundings

feel extra eerie. She continued on only to frighten the rest of us with a loud scream or act

like there was something behind us to make our blood run cold. Sometimes, when we’re

not looking, she’d let her hair down, covering her face which was enough to make me and

my younger cousins run back to my uncle’s home.

Before I moved to Minnesota, the school decided to build fences around the park so

outsiders couldn’t access it anymore. I didn’t get to spend much time playing in the park,

only able to watch from my uncle’s front porch along with the rest of my cousins. The

once lively park was becoming isolated. The friends I made no longer come by anymore

and I see them less and less. There were no longer carefree voices coming from the park,

just the silence, and void.

In the summer of 2018 in mid-July, my family and I went back to visit our relatives. I went

to my cousins who were still living in front of that park. They told me the school decided

to remove the fences and people can now access the park. Sadly, the people who I was

familiar with had also moved and the park wasn’t as lively as before when small kids were

playing. It didn’t give off the same feeling. It made me realize everyone had grown up,

they moved on with their life and the park is but a fun memory of the past.

The park itself holds many fond memories of my childhood. It allowed me to bond with

my cousins and create connections with new people. Without this park, I would be that

person who shut herself inside staring at the computer screen without bothering what the

outside world felt like. I would not get to experience the joy of playing and running freely

as a child or meeting new people. That park will always be a part of my enjoyable

childhood.

The Sweet Smell of Home

G. Sterling

Throughout our lives, we are always

trying to find places where we fit in.

Personally, I didn’t fully find these spaces

until halfway through high school.

However, now that I know where these

spaces are, I find myself trying to find

similar ones here on campus. These places

are where I feel I can completely be myself

without any judgment, and I am deeply

connected to them.

Going into my first year of high

school will forever be engraved into my

memory. Walking through the front doors

and hearing the bustle of students trying

to get to their first class. I was terrified.

Everything was so new. It was hard for me

to stay relaxed until I walked into my choir

class for the first time. I was instantly

greeted by the happiest smile I have ever

seen. It was my new choir teacher, Mrs.

Baker. She had mid-length brown hair and

always wore a different pair of converse

every day. Her name was a great fit for her

because the whole choir room as well as

her office had the most delicious smell of

sweets lingering everywhere. I knew I was

going to enjoy that class more than any

other one on my schedule.

My choir teacher and I formed a

special bond rather quickly. She was so

welcoming, it drew me to her. I think a big

reason for that was because she was also

new to the school. It was her first time

teaching a high school choir, so we both

were nervous but buzzing with excitement

about the next four years. She was also a

lot younger than all of my other teachers,

which in my opinion, made her easier to

talk to. Once my freshman year ended, I

was sad to leave the place that already felt

like a second home. I would find myself

counting down the days until I was able to

sing in that room again. I was so ready for

what was to come.

Once you begin your sophomore

year, you are able to audition for the

concert choir, which sings higher-level

songs as well as go to the Big 9

“competition”. I didn’t see it as competition

though, but rather a celebration of music. I

had auditioned the spring prior to the start

of the school year and practically exploded

with excitement to see the concert choir

was on my schedule, hour three. I didn’t

realize how much love and

encouragement that the third hour of my

school day would provide me. When I

walked in that first day, I was once again

surrounded by the scents of candy and

baked goods. Over the summer, Mrs.

Baker had also decided to paint the walls

with inviting and bright colors. One wall

was

completely

painted a

bright yellow,

which

perfectly

reflected the

sunshine that

the room had

provided me

while the

opposite wall

was covered

in a

multicolored

abstract

mural. That

year Mrs. Baker and I became extremely

close. Shortly after the year started, I

began eating lunch with her in her office. I

wasn’t feeling like I fit in with the people I

ate lunch with. I talked to Baker about this

and she instantly invited me to eat with

her because she had lunch at the same

time. It was even more inviting than the

choir room itself, with pictures of

doughnuts covering almost every surface,

as well as calm lighting and fun colored

furniture and pillows. There was always

some kind of music that you could hear,

whether that be the radio or someone is

the music commons working on their

piano skills. That office became my safe

space not just for me, but also for other

people in the choir. Over the years we

created our own lunch group who would

eat in Baker’s office together every day. If I

got to school early, I would head straight

there. It would give me a boost of

happiness that I would carry throughout

the day. Her office also doubled as a sort of

therapy. I felt as though I could trust her

with anything. I could talk to her about

how school was going as well as personal

things going on in my life. She never

passed any judgment and always gave the

best hugs when you needed them most.

She was there for some of the hardest

times of my life, from family issues to

heartbreaks. Baker always wanted to make

sure her “kids” as she called us, were all

doing okay.

Looking back, Big 9 was my favorite

performance that the choir would do,

because you worked extremely hard all

year on incredible pieces of music. Baker

did an amazing job of selecting pieces that

fit well together in order to have a general

theme. My favorite set would be the one

we sang during my sophomore year. We

started the set off strong with the

fast-paced Daemon Irrepit Callidus which

then went straight into the calm smooth

tempo of Set Me As a Seal. The dramatic

contrast between the two pieces

captivated the audience, and in order to

center ourselves after the ending of

Daemon, our whole choir joined hands.

We all became on and I will always

remember that feeling of being

completely connected to the people

around me.

Not only was the choir room space

inviting, but so were the people who

inhabited it. I have made some of my

closest friends in that room. Baker’s class

activities made it so that you personally

knew everyone in the class, which was not

the case in any of my other classes. Two

people that really stick out in my mind

when thinking of my choir friends are

Freya and Seth. I spent more time with

them because we all were in a smaller

acapella group as well as theater.

Whenever I walked into the choir room,

they were the first people I would head

over to. We would also see each other

outside of school with our acapella group’s

events, my favorite being when we would

go around Mankato and carol during the

Christmas season.

As a way to allow us to tell each

other how much we appreciate one

another, Baker started our tradition of

“Songs of Praise”. Throughout the week,

you were able to write kind and

encouraging messages to people in the

choir. Every Friday, Baker would start the

class period off being reading the

messages out loud. During my senior year,

Seth, Freya, and I were in charge of putting

them up on the wall. Being surrounded by

these words of affirmation made Fridays

the highlight of my week. By the end of

the year, the bright yellow wall would be

covered in small colorful pieces of paper.

As the year came to a close, Baker would

have everyone in the choir write a song of

praise specifically for each senior, which

she would then put into a jar so when the

seniors left, they would have a piece of the

choir to take with them wherever they

decided to go.

Seeing these people every day for

four years helped to create incredibly

strong bonds and memories. I made

friends in the choir that I will have for the

rest of my life, and I will forever be grateful.

I still keep in touch with Baker too, she’ll

text me every once in a while to make sure

I’m doing okay, and I do the same for her. I

wish the world was a lot more normal so I

could go back and visit. I will always hold

the sounds and smells of the choir room in

my heart forever. But if I’m ever feeling

extra sad, I can just open up my songs of

praise jar that I keep on my desk here at

college, and know that choir will always be

a part of me.

Folk Art: Weaving

When you think of the word Karen, what comes in your mind? I’m assuming the meme,

the stereotype of a middle-aged, middle class white woman who acts like she "can get whatever

she wants." However, what if I told you that there is an ethnic group indigenous to the Thailand

and Burma border region in Southeast Asia called Karen (Kah-ren). You probably never heard

about them. We are an ethnic minority living in the Karen State and have been fighting for

independence for more than 70 years — a political battle that uprooted hundreds of thousands of

Karen from their homes, and many of us ended up in the Burmese jungle and in Thai refugee

camps. Many of us have fled Burma due to religious and ethnic persecution by the government.

Human rights abuses against the Karen people continue till today. There are Karen people living

in Australia, America and some European countries where “Karen” is used in a derogatory

manner. The pronunciation may be different, but it’s not different on paper. So please stop using

Karen in a derogatory way.

I was born in Thailand and lived in Thailand refugee camp. I was 10 or 11 when my

parents came to the U.S. in 2013 with hope of a better education and better lives. Making the

decision to come to the United States was probably not easy because it means we have to start

from the bottom all over again to learn how everything works - learning a new culture, language,

etc. It was hard to leave their families behind. It wasn’t easy, from the paperwork to starting a

new life here. They had an interpreter who helped us with the paperwork so it was really helpful.

However, once we left Thailand there was no interpretation for us so my dad had to use body

language to communicate with people.

On our way to the United States, It was really difficult because of the language barrier.

On the day that I left Thailand to come to the U.S. I was really nervous but also excited. It was

also my first time on a plane. So I was so amazed by everything. I didn’t know any English then.

I don’t like orange juice or coke but I didn’t know how to ask for water. So I just ate whatever

they gave me. The food was terrible because we are so used to eating rice and our cultural food. I

didn’t know where the toilet was so I asked my sister and she said “I saw people went in there.”

pointing to where it looked like a small room. I still remember this moment when we stayed the

night at a hotel. I remember the bed was so comfy. The bed was covered with white bedsheet and

layers of sheets that were tucked under the mattress. Next to the beds was the night stands on

both sides. There was also a tv in the room. They put a plant in the corner to decorate the room.

The window was covered with cordless blinds. In the bathroom, there was a cute and fluffy rug

in white. I have never been to a hotel so I was curious about everything but my dad told us,

“don’t touch anything, you might break it. And if you do, you will get in trouble.” Of course, I

was sad but I was more scared of getting into trouble so I didn’t touch anything or look out the

window. It wasn’t easy either once we arrived in Minnesota, but thanks to my grandfather and

RS

his family, it was so much easier and bearable. They helped us settle down and it gets better and

easier as the time goes on. I really appreciate my parents for making such a big sacrifice for their

kids by leaving their families and everything that they had in Thailand just so that their kids can

have a better life and achieve the American dream.

We are an ethnic group who have a lot of traditions just like other ethnic groups. One of

them is weaving. However, after we left Thailand, our tools that we use to weave are left behind.

Centuries old weaving traditions are being lost as few now bother to learn these incredible skills.

Because of the oppression and the attack, Karen people had to run and hide in many different

places. Because of this, we are not able to work properly. We lost the tools and equipment that

we usually make our Karen clothes.

Weaving is an important folk art in Karen culture.

Weaving is an art the Karen value and teach to their

children and the generations after. Back then, the

people didn’t have the chance to get education. They

were illiterate and didn't have other skills. So weaving

was the only skill that they had so they wanted to pass

the culture down to the next generation. It’s also a way

to honor and remember our ancestors. To remember

who we are and where we came from. The women are

the ones who make the clothes while the husband goes

to work.

My object is a Karen traditional dress. I did not weave

it, my mom weaved it. My mom made it for me when I

was around 8 or 9. Traditional dresses are really simple.

We use cotton to make it into thread. Then we use

thread to weave our clothes. Since it is traditional, it is

really simple with simple patterns. White thread

weaved dress, with one horizontal red colored pattern

around the dress on the chest and another one below the

knee. The dress is short sleeve. The dress is like a

rectangle shape so it is not tight. The edges of the

sleeves and neck are sewn on with small red braided

yarn. But the braided stop once it covers the edges so

the rest of the yarn is just hanging on the sides, front

and back. The sides’ yarn is pretty long, it hits the

knee. But the front and back are shorter than the sides.

At the end of the dress, about 3 inches, the yarn is not

weaved. You can braid it or just leave it like that.

We are identified by our clothing. As we are one of the

ethnic groups, I believe that we have to maintain our

culture and make it better. If we lose our traditional clothing, even though we call ourselves

Karen, it won’t be meaningful. If we don’t wear our traditional clothes, people will just see us as

Asian. They won’t know who we are or where we came from. We have to continue to pass on

the tradition.

Painting

Natalie Newell

“Clink, clink, clink” is the sound the brush makes as it hits the clear stained glass bowl

where all the dirty water rests, I dipped it back into the bowl again so I could get all the excess

paint out of my cheap made brush, it makes the water turn even darker than it already was.

I treasure painting so much, I paint when I am angry, sad or even just happy. The

painting for when I am angry and sad do not have one look to them but the colors are more

dim and dark to display my mood. When I am in

a happy mood my paintings are way more

vibrant and colorful. This is a therapy for me that

is never going to go away. I sometimes have

contests with my four friends even though I

know I am not going to win, it is the memories I

do it for. When we would have the contests it

would always occur at my house or at a park

which was nearby my friends house. We would

choose a topic from this tiny green bowl, the

topic was on paper that was crushed so no one

would cheat. Whatever we got as our topic we

would paint, how the winner was determined

was through a social media poll.

“Swoosh, swoosh” is the sound the yellow

paint makes as it hits the grainy paper that is designed for water coloring however paper is

paper to me so I don't really care. The yellow is so bright and loud that it screams at me which

makes me paint the whole paper yellow. I wanted a clear loud background for what I was

planning. I usually like to wing it when I am painting but this time the painting was going to

have a picture, it was going to have a saying that I always say, “I hate it here”. This phrase is an

inside joke I have with my friends. It does not mean anything really crazy. We always say it to

each other when we're always out and about.

Painting for me has always been in my life. The day I started painting was when my

grandma bought my sister and I watercolor paints, I do not remember the year exactly but I

know it was in the summer because my sister and I would go to Illinois every summer. I would

always see my mother and uncle paint inside and outside my grandma's big green house, when

they painted inside it was always in the dining room. When I would watch them paint I always

remember saying to myself “that is what I am going to do when I grow up !’ However I am not

doing exactly as good as they are. My mother likes to tell me how when she was in college the

professor would comment on her art skills and how good she was for someone who was just

starting out. I would like to see my mom's art so I can try to recreate some of the pieces but

they all got ruined somehow in the trunk of a car. My mom never did anything with her art, she

likes to do her art for therapeutic reasons as I do. My uncle who is also very good at art never

got to really live up to his dreams as he would have liked to because of problems that occurred

throughout his life. When I paint I always think of him and his talents.

I do not know what I would do without painting, painting is what I go to when I am in

need of releasing any stress that is within me. I usually paint a lot around school, there has

always been a time where I dedicate a day to painting because this type of therapy is needed. I

have gathered so many brushes and paints over the years to the point where there is a

humongous pile of paints in my clear rectangle bin I bought at Target.

I remember a bunch of times where painting was helping me go through some hard

times. I tend to deal with stress not in the best way. I vividly remember in 10th grade being

super stressed out all the time because of my Pre-Calc class. I hated this class so much because

it was very hard and everyday was a new struggle for this class. This class was the last of the day

for me so right when I would get home I would immediately paint something random because

it calms me down because my mind is now focusing on the art.

All of my paintings are random; they just depend on the mood I am. My favorite one by

far has to be this one I did for fun, it has a black background with an eye in the top middle, the

color of the eye is neon pink and neon blue, I picked those colors specifically because of the

way it yells out loud because they are so bright. Below the eye is a cat walk like design that is

multicolored. It sounds like chaos but the artself is very beautiful.

Painting means so much to me because of what it brings me. It brings peace and joy. It

helps me through tough times when I am stressed and do not know what to do with myself. I

paint when I am sad and happy. Painting brings me memories of when I was a child staring at

my mom and uncle when they would paint. I love that when I paint I always think of what I was

seeing when I would watch them paint. I do not plan on pursuing painting as a career because I

have other interests I plan on pursuing. When I am older I am not going to give it up

completely. I plan on continuing this in my freetime. I celebrate painting because of the therapy

it is for me, it not only relieves my stress, it brings back memories from my childhood of when I

would watch my mom and uncle paint.

The Last Note

Esmeralda Ocampo

The touch of a string, the swing of a

bow, the sound of a note. As I played,

the rush of emotions would take over

my body and would make me feel the

intensity of the music piece. The flow of

the energy within me drove me to my

victory. The way I took care of you and

the way you took care of me is a bond

that will never break. I have my older

brother to thank for inspiring me to

choose you out of all the other

instruments. His playing made me feel

like we were destined for one another.

He played Ave Maria by Franz Schubert

so lively and fondly, I could feel the

connection between him and his violin

and I wanted to have that for myself. I

was with you since the start of my

musical career and had to let you go at

the end of our journey. But I can for

sure say that you kept me going.

When I first held you I was 11, the first

day of school. As my music conductor

handed me this beautiful wooden,

cinnamon-colored instrument, with a

very light orange hue to it, I knew the

true feeling of being a real musician. As

I tried to play twinkle twinkle litter star

for the first time, the notes would

scramble, and my fingers couldn’t keep

up with the rhythms. You and your

previous owner had such chemistry on

stage that we both couldn’t come to

terms. Our counting was off almost all

the time. Was it 1,2,3,4 or was it 1 e and

a 2 e and a..? I couldn’t handle these

rhythms and they just kept getting

harder because we couldn’t connect. I

kept trying to learn them and studied

them for hours a day.

Our orchestra had 3 months to prepare

for our very first concert. I improved on

my counting but it wasn’t perfect, I

needed it to be perfect for you. I

practiced each piece for our concert

every day after school and didn’t stop

until I could find that connection with

you. I started to panic on the day of the

concert. I couldn’t read you and I

couldn’t play you with such grace. As

the orchestra marched up to the stage,

the butterflies in my stomach went

insane and I felt my heart in my throat.

We took our seats as the conductor

introduced the first piece. I placed you

on my shoulder and put my bow on the

string. As my conductor took a heavy

breath and swung her baton in the air,

we began to play. My fingers were

shaking but no notes were out of place.

My bow was going in the correct

direction as everyone else’s. Were we

finally connecting? I kept playing and

playing and giving it all I had. This was

what I wanted, I wanted to connect with

you, I wanted to speak your language.

As the last measure was played, and I

lifted my bow from the string, I knew we

were meant to be a team.

The next few years were unforgettable

times. We played in a basketball gym, a

field house, in an auditorium, Bethel

University, and so many other places! I

never really made friends in our

sections but I always had you to count

on. Those bad days in high school would

make me feel like life was meaningless

but when it came time to see you, my

worries would go away. My sophomore

year of high school was the toughest

year of my life. I was failing honors

chemistry and fell into a deep hole I

couldn’t dig myself out of. I tried every

day to help myself and keep on going,

but on my own, it wasn’t enough. I

wanted to make my parents proud that I

could take honors courses and exceed

them. Chemistry class would completely

drain me and made me hate all my

hobbies but it never took away my

passion for music. When I would get to

music class and I got to see and play

with you, it was the highlight of my day.

I had no idea how much you would

mean to me, how many memories we

would share together, and how many

concerts we would attend.

My senior year of high school I knew

would be the most heartbreaking point

in my life. I didn’t want to say goodbye,

I wanted you to stay with me and we

could keep on playing like old times.

The first two concerts passed like a

breeze. Our winter concert was magical.

The sparkling lights looked beautiful

shining on the stage and the smell of

gingerbread and cinnamon filled the

auditorium. It has always been my

favorite concert to attend, the

Christmas and winter spirit would bring

joy to everyone, and the enchanting

music pieces we would play would warm

everyone’s heart and soul.

The very last concert happened right

before spring break, right before we

switched to online school. The day of

the concert was the day I had to let you

go. I sat in the audience with my section

just holding you in my arms and

plucking Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

one more time. As the conductor called

our section up to the stage, I felt

anxious. It felt like we were playing our

first concert again. The butterflies in my

stomach went mad as I took my seat. As

I raised you to my shoulder for the last

time, the baton waved into the air, but

right before I struck my bow on the first

note, all I felt was the music in my

veins. I could feel the vibrations of the

orchestra...I could feel it! The stroke of

my bow would crash against the D string

causing the sound to bounce off the

walls. The melody we would play, the

language we would speak.

I wanted nothing more but to spend

the rest of my life with you but I knew

that after this concert, I would have to

say the hardest goodbye. I gave it my all

this time. I wanted the world to see how

much you meant to me. Droplets of

water would run down my cheeks. I held

my bow tightly. My right hand got

blisters as the rhythms got faster. As we

approached the end of the piece, I knew

the finale would mark the end of our

journey, I wanted to keep playing as

long as I could but all good things had

to come to an end. As the orchestra

played the last measure, our memories

played over and over in my head, and as

the last note came about, I felt the

butterflies one last time. I lifted my bow

in the air and took a deep breath. The

audience clapped and yelled,

congratulating the senior class of 2020.

I bowed and smiled holding you tightly

and proudly in my arm.

When I walked off stage and went into

the music room to put you back in your

case, I was happy that we could make

music together, even though we

bumped heads along the way, we would

always find a solution. The past six

years with you were unforgettable and I

hope that your next journey is filled

with nothing but love and passion for

music. I packed you away and handed

you over. I know I won’t see you

anymore and our goodbye is forever but

I hope to find this connection with

someone else and go even further in my

music career. It’ll take me a while and

my playing days are over...for now.

Chasing Home

Maritza Leiva

Homelessness. By definition I am homeless, but am I really? Maybe after reading this

you’ll question what “home” even means and if you think I’m considered homeless. Or

maybe you’ll question if the people you surround yourself with feel like home. Something

I’m really looking forward to is my own place to live. A place to call home. I'm tired of living

with other people and not getting to decorate my entire living space. I’m tired of moving all

of the time. I’m tired of feeling like a burden. I will have this one day, but I definitely don't

have the resources yet.

I’ve been homeless since the ninth grade. After my mom couldn't afford to renew the

lease on our apartment, my brother and I had to move in with our friends. Yes, this may

sound like a dream to some, but the reality is far from that. At some point you become kind

of a burden and you start to feel resented by the people you live with. Whether it’s a

difference in their behavior or their attitude from your presence. It can alter your

relationships with those people. I’ve lived in three different places over the last four years.

The first place was my friend Cassie’s. I only stayed there for the summer before moving in

with my older sister and her husband. My sister’s place was one of my favorite places to live

because it felt the closest to home. She was an amazing cook and always made sure I ate. I

can still remember coming back to my sister’s after a long day of school. I’d come through

the door smelling the fresh linen air freshener above the entryway. It smelled so clean, so

familiar. Buried under the smell of cleanliness was the smell of my sister’s cooking. Her

cooking always smelled so good. Like fresh ingredients cooked just right. Some days it was

baked bell peppers, fried chicken, taquitos, soup, enchiladas, or some days it was pasta. I can

still see the steam from her cooking, filling the kitchen air. Yes, I gained a couple pounds

there, but it was worth it. This house was a small, offwhite, three story, one bedroom, one

bathroom house in Columbia Heights, Minnesota. I stayed in the unfinished basement. It

was eerie, cold, and dark and because of my fear of spiders, this wasn’t ideal, but nonetheless,

I was grateful. After staying there for one year, I started feeling too much resentment from

my sister’s husband, so I decided it was time for me to find a new place. So, the next place I

moved to was my friend Ruby’s (my current place of residency).

Ruby’s house is a little bit of an upgrade. It’s a big skyblue with white trim, three

story, four bedroom, three and a half bathroom house in Fridley, Minnesota. I’ve lived here

for two years now. This is the first house I’ve had to share a bedroom with someone, but it’s

my good friend Ruby, so we make it work. Due to the fact that I wasn't the only non-family

member they were housing, this house was a lot more fun. I got really close to my other

homeless friend Morgan. We often talk about the resentment we started to feel after about a

year of living there. We’ve made the executive decision that it may be time to leave here too.

Today I moved into the U’s on-campus housing. I just finished decorating my room

with my best friend Caitlyn. Since this will be my new place for a while, I decided to go crazy

with the decorating. Our door has some of our favorite pictures taped on the outside to let us

know where our room is and also to reflect our interests. Our door brings a lot of attention

from people. It’s a good way to get to know people with similar interests. When I walk I can

smell the seasonal pumpkin apple wax melts and feel the cool, 65 degree set temperature. I

love it here already. I still don’t completely have my own space since I’m sharing a double

room, but it’s still nice. The closest thing I can compare dorm life to is camp. I compare it to

camp because you share a space with a lot of other people, there’s a community here, and

we’re all here for the same reason (school). The only thing that sucks is I have to actually pay

to live here, but I guess that’s just a part of growing up.

I used to be embarrassed to call myself homeless, but I've finally realized that being

homeless is just a part of who I am. It doesn't define me, but it’s a part of me that has been

substantial to my growth. It's taken, but given me so much. You may or may not have

noticed, but home isn’t a word I throw around. To me, it means something different. I don't

consider all of the places I’ve stayed “homes,” I consider the people I surround myself with

home. Because when I get together with my friends and family, I truly feel at home, no

matter where we are. Do you feel that way when you’re with your loved ones? I now realize

that for me, “home” isn’t a place, it’s a people. By my definition, I’m not homeless, I’m just

placeless. One day, when the time is right, I will have my own place to call “home.”

Survived to Strive

M. Lee

My grandparents play a big role in my life. They are the reason as to why I’m still

striving and trying my best to do better everyday in life. They’re the reason why I wake up every

morning to a fresh start. Without them, I would not be able to be where I am and who I am today.

My grandparents have gone through a very difficult and disheartening time of period.

They started off in the land of the jungles somewhere

in Laos. They knew nothing besides working hard everyday

just to feed their families. They spend multiple hours

walking to their farms to tend their crops, feed their cows,

chickens, and pigs, and spend many hours out in the lost

jungle to hunt for wild animals. They also spent numerous

hours out in the hot, scorching heat just so that they could

bring enough food back home to the table. The beautiful rice

fields, the healthy crops waiting to be harvested, and the

sound of a nearby stream; those were the peaceful aspects of

their farm. Again, the only thing they knew was that they

must work hard so that their hungry, growing children could

have a nutritious meal. Unfortunately, the Vietnam War had

erupted, and my grandparents had to leave everything behind and run off to Thailand for safety.

They abandoned their homes, farms, livestocks, and many of their precious belongings. Fleeing

from the danger, they had to share the deep jungle with ferocious tigers, bad omens, and the rest

of the Hmong people who were running away from the war. Many lives were lost and many

values were gone, but thankfully my grandparents still had their lives clinging onto them. After

rummaging through the wilderness and crossing the terrifying Mekong River, they had made it to

Thailand and received the help they needed. Soon enough, they had made the decision to move

to a whole new country, which they had no clue about, called America. They wanted us and their

children to have a brighter future. They wanted to give us the opportunity to be educated and

have a nice life like other people.

It’s amazing to see how much my grandparents have learned and how much they have

grown. Migrating to a new country isn’t easy. They came here to America with the expectation

of living that American dream; no more working hard, instantly becoming wealthy, and always

having more than enough. Little do they know, they have to work just as hard over here as they

did back in Laos. Learning English wasn’t the best for them. Learning how to drive wasn’t the

best for them, but trying their hardest was something they were great at. Working a full time job

and also trying to find a part-time job, my grandparents were always busy and obsessed with

working. Even on the weekends, they would be busy working overtime.They worked so hard just

so that they can provide for their children. But eventually with help, they were able to learn how

to drive, find a decent job, purchase land for their garden, and bought their first home that they

are still currently living in.

Grandma’s home holds lots of memories. It’s my second home. Everyday after school, I

would always walk to my grandma’s home, because it was only two blocks away. The smell of

the fresh rice when you enter the home; the sweet watermelons, corn, and cucumbers freshly

picked from her garden; and the sour strawberries growing in her garden in her backyard; they

are all something that reminds me of my sweet childhood there. Although I hate seeing them

work hard, I find it wonderful that they still try to preserve the culture by gardening. Gardening

is a way for them to remember about their home in Laos. It’s also amazing to see how much they

have learned about the American culture and their holidays. When they first came here, they had

no clue what Christmas, Halloween, and Thanksgiving were. Now, every celebration is always at

grandma’s home. Every Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Easter, and other get-togethers

would always be at grandma’s home. It is a place where everyone comes together and enjoys the

celebrations whether it’s a birthday party, a graduation, a wedding, or even just a simple

cookout. It’s amazing to see how quick the home can be warmed up with everyone’s laughter.

All the aunties are in the kitchen gossiping and making that delicious smell of food, the uncles

are sitting in the living room holding a cold can of beer while talking about hunting and fishing,

and the children are running all over the place playing with each other. Although everyone may

be busy doing their own thing, it still brought us all together as a family. Many memories were

made within such a short amount of time in that home.

Now that I’m older and have moved away from them, I don’t get to attend the family

events as much. Whenever I go back down to visit them, they would always ask me about

schooling and constantly tell me to focus on school. My grandparents have very high

expectations for me, because I am the oldest grandchild. I don’t want to disappoint them, so

that’s why I always try my best to keep myself together and on track.

Without my grandparents, I would not be given this great opportunity to be where I am

now. I want to exceed their expectations so that their hard work can pay off. They came to a new

country so that their children will not have to work so hard like them. They don’t want their

children to experience the dangers and hardships that they went through. I have been taught

many new lessons just by watching how they live their life. I have seen how hard they’ve worked

just so their children could get what they want. And for that, I am very thankful that they’ve

survived a tough journey and are able to be here today.

Living among Toxic Love

Kowsar Dakane

During my freshman year, I

attended a Somali school. It was a very

toxic place for me. I would always get

into trouble and fell into a rough patch.

Since the school was pretty far away

from where I lived, if I missed the bus I

would have no one to take me. During

the bus ride to school, the older kids

would pick on me and always say mean

things to me. I would find an excuse to

not ride the bus. My grades were not

meeting my expectations that I knew I

could do. The teachers there did not

support me and saw no potential in me.

I was known as a troublemaker and

everyone knew everything about me. I

had one teacher tell me to drop out right

now, and that at this rate I would not

graduate. I was a loner freshman year,

could not trust anyone. I had so-called

friends try to set me up and would

always start drama. I remember one day

at school, I was planning on going home

since I did not feel well. This girl I knew

came up to me and was like “get up

before you get jumped”. The next thing

you know I’m fighting an old friend of

mine and her two other friends jumped

in. As a first-generation student, doing

homework and having no one to help me

was difficult. As my mother did not go to

school nor did my older siblings care

about their education, I had to help

myself.

physics teacher, Mr. Sands from the day

I met him saw something special in me.

Mr. Sands is a tall thin man with sandy

blonde hair. I remember on the first day

of school, he told me my smile lights up

the room. I was surprised at that since

no one had said that to me before, from

that day on he became my favorite

teacher. He introduced me to a group of

girls who are now my sisters for life.

Ruwaida and Nasteho are both

supportive and loving friends who

encourage me to do better. They helped

me along the way and made me into the

person I am today. He pushed me to do

better in school and at home. He gave

me advice and told me to not listen to

My mom finally took me out of

there and transferred me to Columbia

Heights High School. As a new student

attending that high school, I was shy

and nervous about making friends. My

what others say about me and to stay

strong. I excelled in school and joined

clubs that changed my life and inspired

me to follow my dreams. He told me to

take advanced classes and to volunteer

at hospitals. He told me that a college is

a place where you grow as a person to

find yourself. That I would find people

who will love me for who I am. He also

mentioned that I should do to study

abroad and travel around the world.

I remember one time in class, my

friends were teasing me about my old

Snapchat username, and since that day

he calls me “kokopuffs.” He would

randomly shout it in class or in the

hallways getting everyone’s attention.

I’m grateful that he saved my life. He

does not know it, but I appreciate it. He

inspires me to become a teacher and to

be there for students just like he was for

me. For the next three years, I was on

the A honor roll. I became the Muslim

Student Association (MSA) president

and hosted a successful cultural night.

Mr. Sands came to the show and was

surprised by the outcome and how

wonderful it was. The show had three

parts, first was poems and singers, next

was dances, and last were students

showing their cultural clothing. My

grades increased significantly, and I was

a much better happier student. I joined

the Knowledge Bowl, Link Crew, and

was in a program called College

Possible.

If it wasn’t for me leaving that

toxic school and transferred to Heights,

I don’t know if I would be in college

right now. I thank Mr. Sands for being

my first friend and helping me get out of

a difficult situation. I thank him for

treating me as a student who can

accomplish whatever she wants. I thank

him for telling me how important

education is and what programs help

first-generation students. I want to

thank him for making me fall in love

with physics and perhaps become a

physics teacher. I am forever grateful for

what he taught me and maybe one day I

can pass it on to my future students.

My Hijab - more like my Crown

Umayma Dahir

“Is being different something to be

scared of? Do you have to live alone in a

castle when you are different?” (Itʼs

okay to not be okay, E6). Few months

ago, I started watching this Korean

drama called “Itʼs okay to not be okay”

and I just fell in love with it praying that

it will never end. Sadly, like everything

in life has an ending, that show ended

as well. However, there were a lot of

moments where I had to pause and just

appreciate how connected I fell to the

show while watching it. This drama

reflected pretty well on something that I

have been dealing with all of my life

which is how my hijab makes me stand

out from the rest as “different”,

especially in the United States.

Just like how the length of our

five fingers are different, humans differ

from one another. We were made to be

different whether we are different in

terms of our religion, culture, race,

ethnicity, personality, etc. But the

important part is whether or not we

embrace that. Unfortunately, part of us

being different is not thinking the same

way. Then that is when I wish if I could

have a superpower that would let me

take control of peopleʼs minds only to

make sure that there was no

negativity/racism/discrimination in this

world. But would the world be

interesting then?

I have made the decision to wear

a hijab when I was 6 years old. Although

before that I used to wear it, I was not

consistent. I spent most of my

childhood with my grandmother who

was a part-time teacher at our local

mosque. From the age of 4, kids are

pretty much expected to start attending

classes at the mosque back in Somalia.

And that is when I was first introduced

to the idea of wearing the hijab and the

importance of it. I started attending the

classes that were taught under my

grandmother. The first thing that I was

taught was how muslims did not use to

wear the hijab until a verse in the Quran

came down to prophet Muhammad

(Peace be upon him) from God. When

Islam was first being established,

nothing was “Haram” or forbidden for

the muslims. Rules started coming

down slowly as verses from the Quran

began to be revealed on the prophet

(Peace be upon him).

After that, I was taught how once

you declare to be a “hijabi”, you need to

have your hijab on in public. I was also

taught the fact that wearing the hijab

meant that my entire body was covered,

although some Muslims might say

otherwise. Day by day, I started learnig

new rules and how, when, where, and

why a muslim woman should wear it.

However, not even once I was forced to

wear it although this sadly happens in

some households. In fact, my family

asked me if I want to wait longer and

take my time before I made this

decision. But I guess I was already

in-love with it and I just felt like it was

the right thing to do.

I remember being the happiest

little girl ever when I went hijab

shopping with my grandma for the first

time. I was still in Somalia at that time,

especially in a city called Bosaso. It was

4 in the morning, right after when the

Athan - the Islamic call to prayer, went

off. I made sure that I woke up before

everyone else that morning. I recall

running straight to my grandmotherʼs

room and waking her up so that she

might take me. Just like how anyone

would not like to be woken up like that,

she got mad and started telling me to go

back to sleep. Obviously, I did not listen

to her and instead, I started making a

list of all of the colors of hijabs that I

wanted to buy. I added more and more

colors until the sun was out and my

grandma was finally fully awake to take

me to the market.

At that time, Bosaso - the city that

I lived in, did not have any big malls

and all they had were small markets.

We were probably one of the first few

people who came into the market that

morning as it was 7am. I walked in

there making sure that I grabbed the

brightest of colors and until I was

reminded by my sister, who decided to

come with us last minute that I would

need ones to wear every day. Then I

went back and took a bunch of simpler

ones. I was so excited to go to school

wearing my new pink hijab as in

Somalia, it was a normal thing. I was

not worried about getting judged by my

peers as they most likely would be

wearing it as well. Still, I had a little fear

inside of me regarding if I would look

good.

I wish if my only fear was not

looking good enough anymore when I

came to America. I was afraid of a lot of

things including my poor English, the

way I dressed, and most importantly,

my hijab and how people would

perceive me as a hijabi. My parents

decided to bring me to America so that I

could stay with them and my siblings.

When we made this transition, I was 12

years old, turning 13 during that same

year. I started going to school here and

had to get used to a lot of things. Not

only did I have to learn a new language

and make new friends, but I also had to

make sure that my hijab was being

respected. Although there were a

couple of other girls wearing the hijab, I

still got stared at, got questioned if I was

wearing it by force, etc.

When I first started high school, I

kept on getting lost as the school

seemed huge to me. There was this one

time where I asked this girl who looked

older than me where the prayer room

was as it was time for me to pray. She

gave me the dirtiest look that I have

probably gotten my entire life and

started staring at me from top to

bottom. I asked her again, still trying to

be nice and hoping to get an answer this

time. She had the audacity to tell me to

take off “that thing” on my head as then

she would tell me where the room was.

Knowing how important it was for me

to do well in school and stay out of

trouble, I walked away quietly.

Thankfully, I was taught very well every

reason that a girl should wear the hijab,

so I was able to answer all of their

questions. Even though I never showed

my tears or confusion in front of my

classmates, I would still cry my eyes out

whenever I got home. Why do I get to

be questioned by a “piece of cloth” (how

some of them called it) that was on my

head? Why did they not question the

girl that would come to school while

violating the schoolʼs dress code? Why

me? Although I am over those questions

now, it still bothers me to a certain

extent.

Nevertheless, there were times

where my peers actually embraced my

hijab. Once I was reading a book and

drinking my Caramel Frappuccino at

Starbucks, when one of the waitresses

came up to me and said that my Hijab

was really pretty, and its color matched

my outfit. Even though I never wore my

hijab to see what people think of it, that

little comment changed my entire

mood. I recall looking back at the

waitress and smiling widely at her and

thanking her as if she gave me the best

news ever. The impact that a nice little

comment like that would have on

someone is just amazingly ridiculous.

However, something deep down

in me started questioning these

“compliments”. I started questioning

them because it could be taken in the

wrong way as well. Sometimes, just to

make you feel good, people lie and tell

you what “you” want to hear. And then

that is when I no longer want any

compliments. I no longer want to hear

anything good nor bad about my hijab.

Canʼt I just wear it and look normal?

How does it grab people's attention?

How long will it take them to get used to

this piece of clothing that is on my

head?

Not all of our wishes come true in

life and the sooner we understand that,

the easier life would be for us. I had to

learn how to deal and find answers to

all of these questions and there were a

lot of factors that influenced me to

finally appreciate being different from

most of my peers. One of those factors

was the fact that no matter how much

you try to satisfy this world, not

everybody would end up accepting you.

I know for example, many people that I

met throughout my high school years

who took off their hijabs trying to “fit

in”. Although I completely respect their

decisions, one of them who was my

friend came to me and confessed to me

how the more she tried to be like the

majority, the more she was getting

depressed and sad. Although I knew

that before, that started to increase my

self-esteem and confidence. It was

finally about time for me to start

embracing my hijab and looking at it as

my crown. Everyone was born to be

different and although the hijab was not

something that I was born with, I was

meant to wear it. It actually taught me

to appreciate every little thing that

makes other people stand out. In a way,

it kind of prepared me for the other

judgmental comments that I would have

to deal with in life. I am no longer

scared of being different and I believe

no one should be as well.

“O Prophet! Tell thy wives and daughters,

and the believing women, that they should

cast their outer garments over their persons

(when abroad): that is most convenient,

that they should be known (as such) and

not molested. And Allah is Oft- Forgiving,

Most Merciful” - A Quranic verse that

explains why muslim women wear the hijab!

Y.C.

A Mother’s Love is Indestructible

Imagine your memories consisted of taking care of playful goats and seeing

strange appearances of spirits while walking to school. My mother’s life revolved

around most of those things in her childhood. She always loves talking about her past

and misses her life as a child. I remember her telling me when I was younger, “Being a

child is easier than an adult”, and it has become a reality ever since I turned eighteen

last year.

She was born in the gleaming city of Guanajuato, Mexico, in a small, close-knit

ranch. She didn’t grow up in a large community, and she spent most of her time

hanging with her cousins playing with worn-out dolls on the dirt, and going to

elementary school. Her family left her at a young age, with her younger brother to be

taken care of by her grandmother. Her grandma holds a special place in her heart and

always reminisces about the moments of learning how to cook traditional Mexican

food, such as tamales, enchiladas, rice, and beans. She would always make mistakes,

like not being able to cut something correctly, but her grandmother was a great teacher

and tried not to judge. Her grandmother would occasionally take her to school and be

the mother that she never really bonded with as a child. Being left by her family was a

painful experience for her, but that’s what made her more independent at a younger

age. Once she turned seventeen, she decided to follow the same plans many Mexicans

had - immigrating to the United States.

Her immigrating to the United States was a huge step in her life. Being

introduced to a new culture and society was hard to adapt. She struggled like any other

immigrant and faced many difficulties. Eventually, she met my father and had me two

years later. Being the first child she has had, it created a deeper connection between us.

Before I was born, she kept a slim white journal that tracked her journey to become a

mother. This journal was given to her as a gift from her Obstetrician. She liked the

softcover and how convenient it would be to use one. This journal is significant to me

because it contains the kindest words and love she has for me. The journal has now

aged just like her. You can tell by looking at the edges and the cover fading away. This

journal is now in a scrambled pile of old papers, but its significance is still something I

keep in mind once in a while.

As a child, I was very open with her. I remember, at times, I would love to sleep

with her all the time at a very young age, and she smelled like Lavender. The fragrance

of the Lavender smelled so heavenly. Also, it smelled so peaceful and easy to breathe

around. To this day, Lavender has been one of my favorite scents because it has a

relaxing smell and reminds me of the memorable things I had with her as a child.

Sleeping in her bedroom was my favorite thing to do as a child. I was horrifyingly

scared of lightning and thunderstorms, and laying by her made me feel comfortable and

safe. I would run out of my Dora, decorated room, and run to her room in five seconds

every time I heard lighting. She would start laughing and tell me “Get on the bed

scaredy-cat.” This showed me how approachable of a person she is and accepts my

foolish imperfections.

Her cooking is the best. It shows the strong Mexican representation that she

carries every day. My mom and I are in love with tripe tacos. We love the oily savory

taste of the tripe meat. We like to cook the tripe meat until it gets golden and eating it

with her makes the food taste better. Her strong Mexican pride is a good part of her.

Walking with my mom through the busy streets of University Ave is a special

memory I have with her as well. We rode the city bus more because she was too terrified

to learn how to drive. People using city buses during that time was common too, and it

felt more authentic than it did when I rode it during early high school. Overhearing the

gossip my mom had with people she knew in the city bus was always a fun adventure.

They’d gossip about life, relationships, friendships, etc. My favorite one was hearing

about their childhood stories. Most of the stories were daunting because they were

based on the strange myths of Mexico. One story that is embedded in my memory is

about a cult of witches located by the mountains of their ranch. The witches were

apparently living in a small house and anyone that trespassed disappeared, and never

seen again. I’ve always had this fascination with old memories, and I enjoy hearing my

mother and her mutual friends talk about their adolescence and more specifically, the

scary stories.

As I kept growing up, she has distanced herself a bit from me, but that’s because

she wants me to explore my little world. I believe her distancing from me was caused

because she does not want to intervene in my life. After I transitioned from middle

school to high school, I have noticed her being less talkative with me. I’ve matured a lot

after getting my first job in my freshman year and made a lot of new friends. She then

began to tell me, “You can have fun, but make wise choices." I am a bit intense and

make decisions out of spite, so her comment made me realize that her distancing was a

way of showing her way of caring and not being a worried and crazy mother. Her letting

me be more independent has helped me push myself to try harder tasks.

It’s clear my mom is not like any other normal mother. “Your life is yours, not

mine” is my favorite saying from her. Her emphasizing that phrase every so often puts

an incredibly large responsibility on me to make sure I’m successful and safe from any

bad decisions I make. She’s super supportive of every decision I make and is proud of all

my achievements so far. All her hard work has reflected all the goals that I have in my

life. She has purposes too, and those are having her children live a better life than she

did. My mother is a substantial part of my life and will continue to be my rock.

R.B

Philippines

Being Filipino has always been good

to me. I accepted it and embraced my

culture and identity. Living in Minnesota

most of my life vs. growing up and being

born in Saipan which is a U.S territory near

the Philipinnes. Honestly, I don’t remember

much growing up but my parents always tell

me stories about living on the island. Saipan

has had a military base since 1944 during

WWII, so one of the most common

languages there was English. Living in an

English-based place I never thought or was

taught about learning my native tongue

which was always a disadvantage living

with parents whose main language was

Tagalog. But growing up my parents

watched Filipino dramas and talked with one

another where I learned slowly what most

words meant, but having english as my first

language it was hard to pick up the accent

and pronunciation.

The last time I visited the Philippines

was back in 2016 with my family. We

stayed for almost a month and while it was a

once in a lifetime experience, I couldn’t stay

there any longer. During one of the tours we

had, we traveled to Palawan where we spent

the whole day island hopping. The view was

so beautiful, the sun was shining down

through the clouds on your skin and the

cool, clear blue waves splashing in your face

as we rode the banca boats. My family and I

swam throughout the beaches, we snorkeled

and saw the sea life in the coral reefs. It was

the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The

most exotic fish were there, including nemo

fish and dory fish, full spectrum of colors

were visible. You could see star-fish on the

ground, sea urchins, the waving strands of

sea-weed, how could anyone not want to

visit this place? But soon enough we found

that there is a darkness wherever there is

light. Nearing the end of our tour, the sky

had gone almost blackish and the smell of

something bad was approaching. A storm

was brewing and it was heading our way.

Tropical storms are unlike anything I have

ever seen, compared to good ole Minnesota.

It came fast, the winds spewing over 35

miles per hour, the rain coming down

feeling like hail, and the waves crashing into

our banca. The water falling down stung like

bees and the rocking of the boat was making

me nauseous. The only thing keeping us

afloat was the outriggers on both sides of the

boat, which was specifically designed for

situations like this. If it wasn’t for the

outriggers, all of our belongings including

the people aboard the boat would be over

board right now. We tried going back to the

main island before the storm got worse but

little did we know that we were right in the

middle of this hell-hole. We were grabbing

each other and holding onto our belongings,

while the captain of the boat and his crew

were trying to stabilize the boat and get us

home. What seemed to be hours in this

terrible storm was only about half an hour.

We paid the crew and said our thanks as the

storm had lessened but did not forgive us as

it came down with everything it had as we

were running back to our hotel. My family

and I let out a sigh of relief as we finished

cleaning up and got ready for bed.

Tomorrow is a new day and we still had two

more weeks here.

The following trip was one of my

favorites, it was almost a 4 hour drive from

another city we went to. This time, we were

going to go see whale sharks. For me, this

was the most anticipated thing of the whole

trip, and our last. We got up bright and early

in the morning, just early enough to catch

the cool breeze before the hot and humid

weather came out. I didn’t know what to

expect, seeing whale sharks, in person. I

knew this is something I would remember

for lifetimes. I slept on the car ride there,

waking up to a hot summer sun, and lots of

voices around me. I noticed that there were

hundreds of people in line ready to see the

whale sharks. We had gotten in line

preparing ourselves for the wait as I saw

people at the front of the line getting ready

to pay. After awhile it was our turn, and I

had lost my patience; I couldn’t wait any

longer to see these elegant creatures. We had

to sign specific waivers and ensure that if

anything went wrong the company wouldn’t

be responsible for it. We paid, and put on

our scuba gear and got ready. As we walked

past the hard pavement into the hot sandy

beach, I could see the real deal, as there

were more lines we had to wait. Out in the

ocean I could see almost 10 boats in a circle

with people in the water, and under them

were the whale sharks. Massive creatures,

able to fit multiple humans in their

enormous mouths. But luckily for us they

mostly ate krill and plankton.

The boats came back to shore and

picked us up and I almost jumped out of my

seat in excitement, but also tense knowing

what we were about to do. After going to the

feeding spot they allowed us to get in the

water, but to stay afloat with our snorkels

sticking out, we weren’t allowed to touch

them unless they came close to us. The

second I hopped in the chilly water, it was

like I entered a completely different world.

The depth of the water was so deep I

couldn’t see the bottom, and in the middle

were 30 foot long beasts that weighed about

20 tons. The boats above us were feeding

them so they’d come near the surface. I

couldn’t believe it, I was really seeing this. I

pulled out my go-pro and started recording,

there's no way I could not record this. I sat

there for a while admiring the whale sharks

doing their thing and one came so close to

the point where I could almost touch it. As it

came close I flipped the go-pro around to

catch my excited yet kind of nervous

reaction. This was the most exciting thing I

had ever experienced in my life.

One of the downsides to coming back to my

home country as a tourist was that it was

difficult for me to relate to Filipino culture

simply because I was basically raised in

America. My dad used to tell me about his

childhood, how they could barely afford to

eat every day. My mother sold street food

and my dad was a taxi driver and they had to

support six, trouble making sons. My dad

described the place they lived, a very run

down neighborhood, a lot of gang and crime

activity, and just not a good place overall.

They basically lived in a metal hut and my

dad said it was very common to see this if I

ever visited there, but for some reason I

never believed him. I did however start to

believe these stories when we were going

through this one part of the Philipinnes and

my mom told me to not say anything if

anyone asked me something because if they

knew I was an American-Filipino by me not

speaking Tagalog, my chances of getting

robbed became much higher. So throughout

most of that trip I let my parents do the

talking. When we left our hotel, most of the

time when we were driving around, we

would go through the rundown

neighborhoods my dad would talk about and

I would see the people he described. The

rusted and busted up concrete box homes

with metal roofs, the dirty clothes with holes

in it, and the unbelievable smell that was in

the air. I felt guilty for not even knowing

how to speak the language of my people. It

was rough for me emotionally because I

never realized that this is how it is here aside

from the beautiful views and exotic places

and islands.

Although this trip was for the most

part beautiful and amazing, it really opened

my eyes about the Philipinnes and how

different it was there, than it was in

Minnesota. I concluded with myself that I

was taking everything back in Minnesota for

granted. My family and I had it good

compared to the Philipinnes and it took me a

whole month to realize it. While I got to see

the most amazing, beautiful things I also

saw the reality of living in poverty. As I live

my life now I don’t forget about the way life

is over there and it inspires me to one day

make a change and educate myself more and

my kids about my culture so I never forget

where I’m from.

Ms. Busher

By: Allyson Basanez

It was a cold morning. The grass was

dewy and tinted white. There was no

sun. She was hiding behind the clouds.

She, too, was scared of what was to

come. The fog met the ground and the

street was empty. No signs of cars or

another human, no life was present. I

was alone waiting for my bus. The park

on the other side of the road seemed

abandoned, quiet and empty. No child

in sight playing with the sand. I look

ahead and I see a bright yellow bus turn

around the corner. It’s my bus.

Walking into school, the ground

was dusty, teachers were yawning and

sad about their boring routines. Others

seemed upset. The children were happy

to see eachother again. They were

fighting over their orange juices.

Stealing each other's chicken nuggets

during lunch. Girls turn red when a boy

pokes her. It was time for math class.

She stood tall, her pose was

strong and undefiant. Her kangaroo

stance could fight anyone that tries her.

Her eyes are sharp and witty. Green and

intimidating. She was condescending

with only one look at you. Her arms

were always crossed. Her tongue

penetrated her cheek from the inside.

Maintaining the same face, she looked

down to the floor before speaking. Right

away, the class knew she was already

mad. She was about 5’9, her glasses

were in a bold font. The glasses were

always on her head and never on her

face. The class felt overwhelmed by her

presence. Mrs. Busher. The teacher that

influenced my education.

Mrs.Busher waited for me to

enter her classroom. I sat down on the

cold abandoned blue chair. Took out my

math book and I started my work. This

time I won’t get distracted, I said. I’m

the one who always does their work. It’s

until I can’t, or I struggle. My friends

seem like they were having fun. Why

break my head over a math question? I

head over to them and I start playing

with them. After 10 minutes or so, I

remember I should finish my classwork.

I head back to my seat and I stare at the

words for five minutes until I can’t seem

to comprehend the foreign lines on my

paper work. I raise my weak hand in

defeat. Mrs. Busher walks over to me.

“Yes?” she asks me. “I can’t seem to

understand this question. I’ve been

trying-” She cut me off and with a face

of disgust she said, “I can not believe

you’re really asking me for help when

I’ve done nothing but that.” “I’m just

really struggling…” I dared to make eye

contact. Her eyes abused mine. She

shook her head and in disbelief she said

“You have to figure it out on your own.

You can’t ask me for help everytime you

don’t know how to do it. You’re friends

too. They're bad for you. They don’t do

their work and you’re struggling. Maybe

it’s time to stop.” The pressure went

into my head. It went dark, and I went

into a haze. My forehead felt hot and my

eyes started sweating. She walked away.

What did I do wrong?

After math class, and a good

crying session in my chair. I had recess.

Every kid in fourth grade admired lunch

time along with recess. Saldy, that day,

it was ruined. I didn’t find enjoyment, I

couldn't find happiness and I couldn’t

see myself play tag knowing that I let

myself down in math class. Ms. Busher

was right, I do waste time. Why am I out

here playing with my friends when I can

go inside and study for my math test? I

can do better than this. An old soccer

ball rolled towards me slowly. The white

skin, torn and worn. Dirty and wet from

being played in brown mud. “Hey Ally,

pass the ball?” My friend asked. I stared

at the dirty ball, my legs couldn’t

respond. Why should I give the ball

back? I should make him put in effort to

get it like Ms. Busher said. If I have to

put in effort, why can’t he? I shook my

head, and frowned. No. I was wrong.

“Yeah,” I found the force in me to

adjust my body to the side and kick the

ball back. I felt terrible when Ms. Busher

made me feel so little. Why would I

want to do that to someone else? Due to

Ms. Busher's lack of support, I learned

how to give my support to those around

me. I know how it feels to be left in the

mud like the soccer ball I kicked back. I

have to be here for myself, but if I can

help those around me, I wouldn’t mind

doing so at all. So thank you Mrs.

Busher. Wherever you are now, I hope

you’re doing okay. I know I am.

Three years have passed by since

then, I was in 7th grade and I met my

first male teacher. He had a good

posture, always stood with an assertive

stance. Kind of like Ms.Bushers. “Oh

no,” I thought to myself. I was scared,

afraid that he would be like her. The

way he stood and his glasses shaped his

face I had one thought in my head,

“He’s like her...but with a mustache.” I

was nervous all day. I couldn’t wrap my

head around the idea of going through

another year with a teacher that could

potentially hurt me as much as

Ms.Busher.

A bell rang in my ear and awoke

my friend next to me. “I’m so tired.”

She complained. Class started. It was

8:30am. My heart dropped at the sound

of his deep, raspy voice. “If he yells at

me like Ms. Bushser did, I’ll break down

crying for sure.” I thought. I would be in

the position of a toddler while my

mother scolds at me if he ever came to

yell at me. The thought irritated me. “I

will be taking attendance before I

introduce myself…” he said. Oh, how I

hated the fact that my name starts with

an A. Let alone having a last name that

starts with a B. Put me higher up on the

list to be called first. I never hated my

name so much. “Jose-,” he blurts out.

His first victim I thought. “Here.” Jose

responses. I’m next, I have to be next-

“Al-” I knew it, “ex.” nevermind. I got

to breathe for a second before..

“Allyson?” My heart dropped and my

hands were drenched in sweat. Why did

he say my name that way? What did I

do? “Allyson… that’s my daughters

name. Very beautiful.” I looked up,

“thank you.” he nodded and kept going

through the list. I assumed so quickly

yet, he was kind. Sooner or later he

came up to me and made very bad corny

jokes. He noticed I had anxiety when it

came to asking teachers questions, he

noticed that I was struggling with

confidence. He reached out to my mom.

My mom at the time really didn’t bother

wondering what I was doing in school.

She was always busy working. I don’t

blame her. Being an only parent is hard.

She signed me up for after school

classes with him. I got closer to him. I

felt like a burden. My teacher, his name,

Mr. Hasti helped me develop my

confidence again. I started raising my

hand, developing my own personality,

my own character. I started identifying

myself. Mr. Hasti, though he stood and

behaved exactly like Ms. Busher, helped

me become a better person. I haven't

spoken to him since 7th grade. I lost

contact.

I realized that not all teachers

were so bad. If anything, they all try to

help you. I was so scared of a human

being that taught at a public school over

one incident with a teacher 3 years ago

from 7th grade. When I sit down and

think about it, I laugh. I wonder why or

how it all went down. Why I felt so

oppressed, so sad. Why did I let myself

stay in that position for so long without

fighting it? At this point, I ask myself

that all the time. I don’t know why I put

so much on myself when it comes to

school. I question why school is so

toxic, why it became a chore instead of

something beautiful. At one point,

everyone wanted to have school, an

education. Everyone was excited to go

to school to meet friends and play tag.

Now it’s so toxic to the point that we’re

stuck wanting to find an easy way out.

Why did it get to that point I wonder.

I can list all the teachers I have

had since kindergarten. (I kinda forgot

my preschool teachers- I remember

their faces though-) every single teacher

has impacted me in some shape or form.

I don’t only take their class to learn, I

observe actions and the way teachers

teach, their energy, the way that they

take pride in what they believe, how

they treat their students. I learned that

all these teachers that I had, they all

have different personalities, they all

have different thoughts, different

opinions. I forgot that they were all

humans. They all have a home, they all

have a family, a kitchen table, pj’s and a

tv they sit in front of on a friday night.

They have friends and political views.

They’re people. I can’t believe I forgot

that my teachers are humans. They all

just want the best for us, well most I

believe. We’re all humans. I think we

forget that sometimes. We expect

different things from our teachers.

That’s okay. I had to find ways to

remind myself that I'm not the problem.

I never was. I learned to be independent

and to be able to do my work on my own

and find out ways to help myself.

I want to thank Ms. Busher for

showing me what I shouldn’t do. I never

find myself in a position where I can’t

get myself out of because I learned how

to teach myself, how to study for myself

and how to put my mind to something I

want. Thank you Ms. Busher. I learned

that only because I get distracted or I

have friends and I center my world

around anything that isn't homework,

doesn’t make me into a terrible person.

I’m just doing what I want to do and I

think that it’s self is pretty great.

I also want to thank Mr. Hasti for

showing me the good. He taught me

that I can have support, that there is

support around me. He taught me not to

be scared to reach out when I am stuck.

He reminded me that teachers are there

for support and to teach me.

Both influenced my education in

a way that impacted my life in general. I

learned lessons, I learned how to do

better. Both teachers were so different

yet so alike in some ways. They both

taught me different things. I wouldn’t

be who I am today without both

experiences.

The Language I Bleed

Aisha Mohamud Abdulahi

Living between 2 different social and cultural norms

was never easy and nor should we have to follow the norms

to fit in because all that matters should be your norms and

your beliefs. Growing up, the words “Luuqada Baaro” were

always what we were told. Not knowing your native language

was always looked at as a down grader or a failure. You could

never go around another Somali without being somewhat of

disgrace. But yet being in America you couldn’t be where

you’re from because you were different. Never

understanding how difficult it was too tame to 2 wild languages at once. Don’t get me wrong. I

love my native tongue, but the bullets it’s put into me are crazy. As the shells fly the things

flying are my words. Being hit with unfamiliar tones and dialogues as the bullets go flying

through my mouth. The bullets of both languages bouncing off a bulletproof vase as I try to be in

both, but I know I can’t. Oh, how I hate it.

Speaking my language in this world has “never been appropriate” or acceptable at

school. “Speak English or don’t speak at all” “English is the language we speak in school” or

the worst of all “Go back to your country and speak it there because it’s not welcomed here”

These were the words that made me hate learning and speaking my language. Hiding who I was

behind a huge bush. Feeling like maybe being “American wasn’t for me” so I looked to my

ethnicity. But I guess I was wrong about that, too. “Luuqada Baaro.” learn your language “Kuu

maayo Hadli illa aad ila hadasho af Somali.” I will not speak to you until you speak to me in

Somali or “Hadaadan luuqadaada kuhadlin qofka ku jeclaan doona.” If you don’t speak your

language nobody will like you. Living between 2 worlds, trying to learn both but still getting hurt

for speaking one more than the other. Feel empty because I was a disgrace to both. Surrounded

around darkness and hate. Feeling like I was in an empty well. Cold and bitter.

At 7 I could finally get my first hijab so happy, so thrilled that I could finally wear it. As

we walked into the Karmel Mall in Minneapolis on a bright sunny day as

we walked into a shop I saw the beautiful burgundy with white sparks

hijab that caught my eye. I knew that this was the one. “Hooya I want

this one” I said “Are you sure Aisha we just got here are you sure you

don’t want to look around” said my mom. “NO, I want this one.” I said.

As we stood there, the next things that came out of the shop owner’s

mouth were horrific. “ Sideed caruurtaada u bari weyday afkooda.

waxaad noqotay mid iyaga ka mid ah.” How could you not teach your

kids their language? You’ve become one of them. As the tears ran down

my mom’s caramel cheeks as they hit and bounce on the grey concrete

floor.. I could only understand that whatever this woman said hurt my

mom. Only being 7 and barely knowing the language and never seeing

my mom cry, I did what any other child would do. But yet not knowing

what was coming my way was much bigger. Bigger, As I stood there

with an angry face with the words “Why are you so mean and why did you make my mom cry?”

The next words haunted my life. “You are a disgrace and what your mom is becoming”.

You see, in this world hate is just normalized nowadays. Never understanding why the

world is so cruel, but I guess it’s what every new generation wakes up to when they are brought

into this world. I remember growing up and learning English and Somali at the same time, but

more of English to prepare for school. Having parents that came here in their teens struggling

with the English language taught them a lot. Parents of 10 kids my mom and dad just wanted a

better life for us as they experienced racism and hardship all they wanted for us was being able to

fit in. So they taught us English as much as they could to prepare us for school. “Read more

books” “Start listening to more podcasts” “Don’t use your phone read more” were the words of

my father explaining that our English would keep breaking unless we strengthened it. As if that

was true, but I guess it was. My parents would wake up every morning driving us 30 minutes to

a “predominately white school” just so we could “get the best education” because where we

lived the education for black students was limited. Never understanding why they did that and

why one language was more important than the other until I reached middle school.

Middle school was a life experience for me. The experience of how tough it was going to

be to learn my wild native tongue yet alone the hardest experience in my life so far.

Remembering the time I sat in Ms Sarah’s Rose class and the class clown Jamal called me out in

my language “Naya waad fool xuntahyay” girl, you are ugly. As the words came out of his

mouth, it was like my whole body was electrocuted to a point I was in deep shock. Thinking

about how someone nothing like me could be just like me. As I sat there in confusion and anger.

With the question, How does a non-Somali know my language? Confused, why would someone

teach him our sacred tongue? Buy yet alone the bad parts of it. As I went home that day

confused on this experience but also the experience where my mom was called out, I had many

questions. As I walked up to my mom and asked, “can you teach me?” “Teach you what and

why” said my mom. “Because I feel like I don’t fit in”. As the tears ran down my glossy skin,

you could only imagine what my mom was thinking. Having Those words come out of my

mouth shook my mother’s ears. As I stood there crying out as if I just saw the notebook.

My mom did what any mother would do. As she stood in front of me in her black silky

scarf and dress, she hugged me tight and said, “You don’t need to fit in with others.” You should

fit in with yourself first. ‘’ Those words were the words that helped me become who I am today,

learning the fact that if you don’t love yourself first, no one will. This was the experience that

helped me gain strength and hope to learn my language. It helped me understand that my parents

were right that no matter who you are being proud of yourself first is the key to success.

Learning Somali was easy at first, It was like learning the ABC. In

my head I thought wow why didn’t mom and dad just teach us this a long

time ago. Starting off with the small phrases and small words, but it got

harder. The feeling of learning my native language was like sweet honey as

it’s poured out. Dripping constantly as I’m trying to taste it, but the words

just couldn’t seem to come out. I hated the experience where Hooya told me

to say hi to my grandma back home and as she was speaking to me and asked

how I was. I said, “waa finanda.” You're good instead of “waan fiicanahay.”

I’m good. Oh, how much I hated messing up. It’s crazy how I’ve been

learning it my entire life, and what my first words were, but yet still mess up so much. Learning

it was also like pouring a smoothie. The language is so rich and so thick, but yet so quick. So

quick for me to fumble and mess up on my words combining it with english.

It was like a game of twisters instead of my legs and hands being everywhere, it’s my

words and my twisted tongue. Playing so many games on my tongue, I fumble my words and say

it in an accent. I hated our love and hate relationship. I hate how I know you like my best friend

but don’t know you like a stranger. I hate how you mean the world to me, yet I can’t fully

understand you. I hate how I look up to you, but yet when I talk like you, I get hated. Why?

Why? Do people not understand how difficult you are to learn? Always pushing me to be you,

but why can’t you be me? Why can’t we understand each other? These were the phrases that run

back and forth in my head like a train on train tracks. Not only was it hard learning it, it was

learning it and still being disappointed with myself.

The Somali language has so much dialogue, and I’ve learned that no matter how hard I

try, that we are all different. I remember crying to my mom because the girl in my class told

everyone I was white washed because our dialogue was different. I would say “Canjero” in the

most “American Accent” and she would say “laxxox” with a strong Somali accent. You see, the

difference was she was born in Somalia and I was born in America, but yet I’m wrong. I was

wrong for being American, but I guess it’s just how it’s looked at. I learned that no matter how

much I tried. I felt I couldn’t fit in, no matter what person I was. Either “I was white washed”

and a disgrace to the Somali community “or the stupid towel head” I realized that my

experiences reflected that it didn’t matter who I was and where I was from, It mattered who’s

side I took. Fighting both sides, being pulled back and forth like a game of tug a war. But the war

was me fighting and understanding both sides of my identity.

I always knew that it would never be easy to define who I was because I couldn’t fit into

anywhere. But my experiences taught me a lot. Going through all the jumps and barriers had

taught me to say I lived it the best I could, and that I did it. I could stand and say that I own who

I am, and that no matter how much you break me, I will keep jumping. Learning my language

taught me to love myself, loving every aspect of where I come from. From the barris and pasto.

To the dhaanto and the hidya dagane. It taught me to never let my head down and hold it up with

pride. To never give up even with broken bones because the cast was who I am. The protector

and my barrier. The cast is my identity, and it didn’t matter who or what I identified as because I

was me. Hoping that one day we will look at everyone as a blessing because they are diverse and

that everyone is one. But until that day I will take my pain and suffering because at least I lived

to say I did it. I did the unthinkable of being able to fight between 2 different cultural and social

norms to make my own. It taught me that my native language is the crown I wear on my tongue.

It’s the tongue that celebrated independence for 60 years. It’s my “lugad” my language and

“Odkaga” my voice.

You are my mother’s tongue that values life and

skills. The tongue that will be in generation to come,

hopefully if my generation values how much you mean. I

say this because I’m the generation. We are losing our

native tongue because we’re scared to experience

hardship and not be able to fit it. My experience taught

me why my parents did what they did because facing

hardship teaches that every experience comes with

hardship and that no matter what you do in life, you just

need to face them to succeed. It taught me to fight for my

language because it’s my “lagda hooyo” native tongue and it values so much and that the only

reason my people are hard on us is because they fled from what was once such a beautiful place

and all they want us to do is make sure that once we are educated that one day we will rebuild it

and call it home and not forget where we came from. So to all the uncles, aunts, etc that pushed

me I thank you because this experience taught me, I bleed and represent Somali and that’s who I

am. I bleed and represent myself and who I’ve become. So to my language “luqada waa waxa

aan Dhiggo” I bleed my language.

Narratives of Celebration Fall 2020

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