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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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ResignationBy Kiyomi T.1 2

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Ink TreeBy Naomi L.

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She Wept By Kyla T.

She wept. She wept tears of white. Her heart twisted with each agonizing pump, And with each one, she hoped it would be her last. It ricocheted inside of her, too large for her small frame to handle, And she shook with each pound of the drum. She knew she was making noises out of the corner of her mouth, But if a girl squeals in an unknown location and no one hears it, Does she make a sound? Shh, it'll be okay. Almost over now. The hiss of the snake, The devil that has taken away the one thing she could always hold dear to her, The one thing only she could control. A triumphant yell is heard, and she is released from the physical pain. She wept tears of dark red.

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Levels Above SleepBy Kiyomi. T

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The Dangers of Being a Model MinorityBy Eleanor W. I will be the first to tell you that math and sci-ence are not my strong points. Generally, I get a few laughs from whomever I'm telling this to, but it is not a joke. In fifth grade, I would have failed my math class if it were not almost impos-sible to fail an elementary school class. Some-how, my math teacher managed to ignore the fact that I was consistently failing nearly every assessment issued to the class. In a class of 20 students, how does this happen? It turns out there were two major factors. The first was that the same teacher had taught my older brother two years before I was in her class. He essentially taught himself algebra while she continued building on multiplication and division with the building on multiplication and division with the other students. The second factor, and the reason people have a hard time believing I could ever fail a math test, is that I am an Asian American. American culture is filled with endless racial stereotypes: blacks are athletic but they are unin-telligent and belligerent; Latinos are illegal immi-grants here to steal our jobs; Asians are quiet, hardworking, and studious. Of those stereo-types, which might you perceive as damaging? The average person would view the first two stereotypes as harmful, yet a stereotype such as "Asians are smart, quiet and demure" is still neg-ative, despite sounding like a positive stereotype. These stereotypes severely limit Asian Ameri-cans to social and economic positions, regardless of the individual's true ability. Just like any other racial stereotype, these "positive aributes" reinforce subtle racism; be-lieving all Asians are intelligent and meek is in fact racist, as these blanket statements cause one to ignore the skills of an individual instead of seeing their real merit. Even those who do excel in intellectual fields are expected to give credit to their ethnic background for their success.their ethnic background for their success. Asian students may stay silent in a class not because they are actually quiet and bored of the material, but rather because they do not understand the concepts and are too ashamed to ask for help due

to feeling inadequate under the pressure to suc-ceed. An Asian-American employee may not cel-ebrate a colleague’s promotion not out of being shy, but rather angered by being passed over for said promotion. The stereotypical Asian Ameri-can is not just smart and hardworking though -- we are quiet and unassuming. We are the Model Minority. Although Asian Americans rival Caucasian Americans in terms of education, Asian Ameri-cans hold very lile political or economic power. One must also remember that many Asian Amer-icans still live under the poverty line, despite the stereotype that Asian Americans hold high-paying jobs such as doctors and lawyers. In fact, there have only been five United States senators of Asian/Pacific Islander heritage and very few large American industries have Asian-American CEOs. Just like any other cultural group, Asian American students achieve SAT scores that are directly proportional to their parent's income level and poorer Asian Americans are just as at-risk as other minority students. However, Ameri-can schools and the American media will do very lile to combat the invisibility that plagues the Asian American community. For the Asian American students who do seek educational aid, it is rarely available. Certainly, the stereotypes of the "Asian F" and intense Tiger Mothers have merely hidden the struggles of Asian American students further into the woodwork. For many Asian American students, the mes-sage we receive is quite simple: you are not a real minority. When we discuss the racial achieve-ment gap, we are almost always denoting a dif-ference between black and white students, ignor-ing the number of first generation Asian-Ameri-can students who cannot necessarily depend on a parent to advocate for them in maers of edu-cation. Teachers are given sensitivity training, and is it not their job to see a struggling student and guide them to success? Educators are one of the best tools to prepare the American youth for the future and yet students who are not per-ceived as needing aid are often glossed over and eventually fall into the cracks of the nation's public education system. This is not the fault of one person, but of an entire system that is over-loaded with students, some who are disruptive

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The Dangers of Being a Model Minority (cont.)

and others who try their best to stay out of sight. and others who try their best to stay out of sight. However, when the initial system of education fails, minority groups such as Asian Americans should not go unnoticed to the point of invisibility. The responsibility of increasing visibility of Asian Americans falls upon all of us, as does the respon-sibility of eliminating the platitude of the model minority.minority. While under the label of the model minority, Asian Americans can never reach their full poten-tial. When we are taught about oppression, we learn of the plight of black Americans and Ameri-can women, even though much of the Western mines and railroads were built and worked by Chinese and Japanese immigrants. When we are taught about crime, we are told about the Bloods, the Latin Kings and the war on drugs, but never the Triad Societies or the Sarzana, despite the fact that the majority of victims in human trafficking cases within the United States are of Asian heri-tage. While most schools celebrate Black History month, Asian Pacific American Heritage Month is practically unknown by non-Asian Americans. Unlike Black Americans, Asian Americans did not have a Malcolm X or an NAACP to give a voice to our community. Instead we stayed silent for years, unknowingly becoming more and more of a model minority. It is time for us to break free of the chains of invisibility, to cast off the title of the model. model. Without the label of model minority, Asian Americans are free to pursue careers in any field, not just those involving mathematics or hard sci-ences. We will not be limited to the quiet unassum-ing role of the bystander; we accept our positives with our negatives. When we escape the model mi-nority, we will finally be judged not by the color of our skin, but by the content of our character.

Naomiby Katie C.15 16

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MetamorphosisBy Katie C.

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The PointBy Adrienne R.

if i cant be what i want to bethen let me be nothing

what is the point of being somethingthat is not methat is not mebeing me and becoming what i want to beis my only strong desire

if none of us becomes what we want to bethen where is the beauty of creativityand diversitywhat is the point of life if you hate who you areand what you'and what you've become

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Anxiety is Blueby Kiyomi T.

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RoutesBy Katie C.

UntitledBy Katherine B.

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Three Way MirrorBy Katie C.

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BooksBy Bree S.

You dance onMy nightstand andmotion Me toadoreYYou.

Your skin gives me paper-cut kissesthat dance along my finger-tipspromising My Eyes sleepand My Mind adventurous dreams.

Your wordsdance around onpuppet strings puppet strings in My Head and wishfor every person I meettobeReal.

I am not Mewhen I openwhen I openYou.

I am the Characters under your skin,the fictitiousplaces in Your marrow,I am In Love with those I never metand places I'and places I've never been because You told Me about them.

I am at Home in Your spine,safe under Your covers,and hidden between your pages;You are everythingI hahave neverBeen.

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MotherhoodBy Kiyomi T.

Spaceby Oliver M.29 30

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What was the name of this poem again?By Claressa L.

Do you know why I tell you I love you everyday?Because people forget.Write a memo forget where you put itEven when its embedded in your skinCoursing through youCoursing through youData feeds and electricity.Sometimes I forgetYou're not a machine.All the locks but no keys.Phones that don't ring.And should I leaveI'l just leaI'l just leave a message after the beepSo long as the line stays on.I can't let you loseBecause I'd be losing too.Love's not a race or competitionSee you at the finish lineEat my dust, coughing up bloodSuffocating, drowning in the fear.Suffocating, drowning in the fear.Love's not a race soWhy does the red hare get there faster?Perhaps if love was a sportIt'd be a two-legged race,But baby are we on the same team?Sometimes I forget you smile with broken lips.It hurts to be happy when it's just a theory,It hurts to be happy when it's just a theory,Equations on chalkboards, symbols and chemicalsThat even you couldn't decipher.Sometimes I forget,Sometimes I need to be remindedYou're strong but not invincible.

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RoutesBy Katie C.

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ReplaceableBy Eliana S.

You are not some prize to be won,to be shelved away like a set of clean dishes,a collection of the conquered (the bought).

You are more than a quickly forgoen present,its luster faded amid a plethora of new toys.its luster faded amid a plethora of new toys.

You are not replaceable, butanyone who treats you like you areIs.

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UntitledBy Katie C.

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Untitledby Bria W.

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The Girl That FlewBy Brianna A.

She was not perfectShe did not seeBut she knew who she was meant to beShe was abusedBy people who did it to be amused By people who did it to be amused She had hopes and dreamsBut not to be like every other girl and sew seams Although she had a rough life, she had a soul that was cleanPure and clean so she could never be meanShe had a soul that was hurtPushed,shoved, and treated like dirtShe had a soul that She had a soul that was oldA heart made of goldbut could never be soldOne day she had a dreamAnd as weird as it seemsShe had a dream that she flewwhich no one could doShe did not stop flyingShe did not stop flyingUntil she heard her sister cryingSo together they flewthere was nothing anyone could doSo they just flew, flew, flewUntil their hearts gave toOne day they returned to their abusive familyThe father asked, "Where The father asked, "Where were you?"The sisters replied with a rale in their voice, "Daddy we flew."The father got so infuriated that he slapped them to the groundSo hard that the girls and the floor were boundThat same day the older sister who could not seePacked her soul and the key, grabbed her sister's handAnd said, "We're going to be free."They took off into the sky and flew..flew..flew..They took off into the sky and flew..flew..flew.. The End.

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It’s All Burning Nowby Naomi L.

The LadyBy Lillie H. The Lady checked her watch. Not that her watch really mattered much in the long run. But it felt normal, and she liked normal even when normal was the hardest state to achieve. She'd, however, perfected the art of normal; tying shoe laces, dotting her eyes with little hearts whenever she wrote letters to the omniscient third person above (who had failed to answer four out of the six she'd sent, thank you very much) and, her favorite, checking the silver watch. very much) and, her favorite, checking the silver watch. The one that hung snugly against her skin. It flashed at her, winking, and she grinned back. It had been a bother to learn to tell time, really. First to learn, to her disappointment, that, no, the clock was not really her grandfather, no, the hands could not be used as weapons to slap her enemies and no, there was no chance that if she stared at it's face long enough she'd win the staring contest. Despite their rather de-ceiving names, watches did not actually come with attached ceiving names, watches did not actually come with attached human appendages. But she'd learned it quick enough, watching as time on her watch ticked by at an even, sluglike pace, a hilarious endeavor that often sent her into sidesplit-ting rants. It wouldn't have been so funny, she reasoned with her-self, if it weren't the fact that it moved so slowly. Watching the seconds tick by- tick... tick... one mississippi.... two mis-sissippi...- while outside the steel walls that cocooned her those seconds hurdled past like sprinters on a trampoline treadmill. Era's passed much like minutes, dynasties like seconds, eons even quicker. Through the tiny window she'd seen falling and living and stranger than fiction occur. She'd watched as hats grew bigger, clothes grew scarcer, ideas and inventions repeated themselves in new and fantastic ways. She'd walked, her worn heels now clomping more than clicking, through the same streets that always seemed to have different pavings and histories. The houses she past always different colors with new families and new dogs and new lights in the windows. Far too scattered were her visits for someone to look out one of those glass panels and recog-nize henize her, call out with fingers pointing in gleaming arrows, screaming "look! there goes the Lady! There goes the Lady I saw! The Star Lady!" No one ever recognizes her. And, she thinks, no one ever will. Maybe one day she'll make it so someone will see her and remember her. But for now she's content in silent existence, presence whispering through centuries like ghosts through a wall. The Lady is

happy to simply live as she does. Her jean jacket slung over her shoulder, red hair moving through the fingers of the air, smirk set firmly against ruby lips. Her words were often sarcastic. But that was simply how she'd conditioned herself to be. One does not simply venture through the vortexes and come out trailing a rainbow. Reality sets in deeper when one has had the chance to see reality de-velop. Her phrases are sharp, as is her tongue, and her mind expands farther than the stars she's seen, though she prefers to keep those in check, everything within her mind a jumbled mess that at some point she ought to omess that at some point she ought to organize, but isn't quite sure on the method of filing quite yet. And even if her knowledge does expand past those of the millions of light-years she's traveled through, she prefers witty to philosophi-cal any day. The stars didn't get far from Freudian theory after all. Her style is her own, and changes as constantly as she wants it to. Far too often she likes to wear red, even if a ca-shier from 1987 said it clashed with her hair. She wasn't even sure what that meant. Clashed. It sounded absolutely delight-ful, and after hearing it for the first time images of symbols and bumper cars skidded through her head. After that she'd made an effort to wear red more often. It wouldn't be until a visit to a bistro in 1993 that she'd learn clash did not in fact mean ‘as happy as a bumper car.’ Luckily for her, The Lady always did like to follow her own agenda. And to her, agenda simply meant her everything; schedule, calendar and diction-ary included. She wasn't one for the specifics. If asked what her favor-ite was, she'd say ‘everything'. If asked who her favorite was, she'd say everyone. And if you'd asked her right then and there when her favorite time was, she'd tell you time itself was something to marvel at, and she couldn't choose it if she had to. The Lady, though known for being truthful, was not against lying. She did in fact have a favorite time, one she never al-lowed herself to return to, and one, she was sure, she'd never see again. The Lady's favorite time had been the chair. Waiting for the humming of gears to cool from a rather hazardous trip, she'd stumbled upon the party of a 1920's mansion celebrating the birthday of a lord's son. The house was large, the lights were bright and the music oozed from cracks in the air, and soon she'd found herself donning the dress and headpiece, strolling in as if she'd been there all along. It was easy to do that. Hardly a practice thing, though she'd attest to having a great deal of it. It seemed to be just she'd attest to having a great deal of it. It seemed to be just

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one other perk to ripping through the fabric of time. You were there, and you'd always be there. A fixture as mundane as those of the hands of a clock, glanced over and under-stood, but never analyzed. Bubbly in hand, eyes on the floor, The Lady had stood for the longest time watching the colors and sequins and tassels as they swayed to the music. After a while her feet had grown tired, and she'd lounged in a chair oa chair off to the side, watching. A woman with dark hair curled tight near her head, swayed happily to her own tune while another woman, her brown bob held by a black band, spun with her fingers wrapped securely around a man's. Laughter echoed, bounc-ing off the walls with the enthusiasm of a rubber ball. It wasn't a sound she was used to. Not in groups. The warmth outdid any fire, and light that of any star, the gentle tug of ocean breeze far more potent than that of any dying planet. ocean breeze far more potent than that of any dying planet. A man asked her to dance and she said no, watching as he made his way back to the crowd to talk to others. And she continued to watch, hardly able to help as her cupid's bow lifted, the corners of her mouth turning up once more into that smirk she wore like clothing. It was silly, really. Watching people dance with such fascination. Twirl-ing, the tassels of their dresses grasping at dark matter like fins of fishes, the music surrounding it all, hunting its prey and tying the whole lot together with a bow. The way they danced, they looked like stars.danced, they looked like stars. The Lady had seen the creation and revival of planets. She'd seen the fall and renewal of cities, the birth and death of kings and queens, and the stars dance, attached to sky like it was the deepest of flypaper. She'd learned secrets of the universe, created her own and scratched them into for-ever with a quivering quill. Lounging in that chair, watching people, so unaware of the etchings above them, what they could and should and, if they ever wanted to, would be.could and should and, if they ever wanted to, would be. And yet they simply stayed with their feet planted firmly, danc-ing like the stars they'd never truly see. Her legs crossed and she leaned back, the flute raised high, shining under the dim lights like a chalice of amber. In that moment, The Lady had felt like a God amongst men. And she hadn't been quite sure if she liked it. The champagne tasted funny. That was the only reasons she could think of to justify her leaving; the champagne tasted funny. Placing it on the edge of the chair, where it teetered for a moment before grabbing hold of the velvet, The Lady let one sharp heel stab into the skin on the carpet, moving along with easy and meaningful steps. Dancers around her, with hands stitched together in sturdy links,

wept past, mouths open in gleeful smiles, their eyes all glowing under the lights. The Lady had turned her head, watching them. Her own hands stitched together behind her back and her own eyes sparkled with a malice that be-longed, her own mouth moving to smile sweetly as a ser-pent. The she spun on her heel and walked out, into the air thick with salt and champagne bubbles, eyes turned towards the heavens to try and spot the star she'd passed yes-terday. "Excuse me?" The Lady turned towards her attacker, a blonde man of unknown age, fine built, young face and far too much drink. He tried to hide a hiccup, doing so foolishly, and out-stretched one smooth hand. "...Dance?" His mind woke up as he muttered the word, so against his years of extensive training, etiquette quickly taking hold like a light switch flicking up with a loud, pragmatic snap. "I mean... may I have this dance?" She had been intrigued from the start by the enigmatic creature that stood before her. Not by his looks -average- or his apparel -expensive- but more from the fact that he was able to maintain stature and stand while absolutely intoxi-cated with moneys finest bubbly. So she had accepted, if not for the thrill then at least to pass the time and quench all curiosities. With a few words of thanks their hands met. No sparks, no electricitsparks, no electricity, not even a buzz of happiness. The two of them spun underneath the sky that seemed to watch in fascination, mimicking their movements as two comets met and swirled and burst into a shower of flames and dust. Once more, the Lady was struck by the mere normalcy of it all. From afar, the colors and dancers and conversation looked like a fantastical show. From up close, as she sus-pected, it was a lot of spinning and trying not to trod on each others most awkward of appendages. But the smile was still on her face, the one with the glare on one corner and the lust on the other, all seven sins falling onto her well-formed features; envy and pride, that night, taking a well-formed features; envy and pride, that night, taking a seat on her cheekbones while gluttony sat comfortably on one bony shoulder, resulting in a strange tingle that shot up the young mans arm. And it made him squirm and sweat and try to figure out what to do. She had that effect on men, leaving them unsure of whether they'd fallen in love or the other way around because, as most time-steppers know, love has a nasty habit of falling on people at the worst and love has a nasty habit of falling on people at the worst and most inconvenient of times. It hardly mattered. It never had. Like every time, she'd thank them, leave and move onto other things.

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Yogiby Kiyomi T.

The Lady (cont.) And she would do that again now. Their hands leaving each other, the mans square lips opened as if to plead in some cliched fashion that they'd been meant for eachother the whole time and that if she'd only stay, the world would be hers. She simply mimicked him, speaking when he could not, and telling him that she had to go because there wasn't much for her here anyway, and if he'd like to follow her he could, but he wouldn't find her because she was rather good at leaving and hiding and her because she was rather good at leaving and hiding and never being found. It was a skill, she'd explained (in that manner in which you'd think it was a simple chat over tea and snickerdoodles), that not many had but many wished they could possess. And then she did leave. He didn't follow. But, then again, they never did Her walk towards the shuttle had been a lonely one, with hardly a parallel puff of breath to remind her of life on earth or friends with entwined fingers. The loneliness was not for-eign or alien or even unwanted, but it was not relished. She was comfortable with her life and often decided that com-fort was the best way to live. She did wish, on many of the first stars she drank in through starving grey eyes, that comfort allowed adventure more than what her own life al-lowed. Adventure, she had decided long ago, was only an adventure when you had a story to tell to someone else. She never did. Her ascent towards the stars was once more alone, no followers or friends. She peered out a window, tracing the lines made between slow debris and finally allowed the smallest of smiles to spread, like a Orions belt, across her face. The Lady still travels alone, and the Lady is still discon-tent, and the Lady is still smiling through it, hopping through nurseries of stars, spattered as randomly as paint flicked from the artists bristles. It may have not been a life filled with others. But it was her own, and she loved it. And for as long as she could allow she'd try and continue to love it until the very moment when the galaxy would break.She checked her watch once more and set off to find another time she could write herself into.

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Miles Behind EyebrowsBy Kiyomi T.45 46

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Tipping Pointby Katie C.

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Pain Is Not Just a Memoryby Katherine B.

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The Belly-CrawlersBy Xavier L.

Look out into that wild brush, those wicked brambles hide,the belly-crawlers, their faces tucked down to the shit and muck,their minds lost to the sickening lust. Don’t look, don’t look,young Dante! Your soul they’ll take, your mind they’ll rape.

Don’t go near them, young Dante! They hold no pride,Don’t go near them, young Dante! They hold no pride,they care only for small things, for gold filings,for green tuckets, metal buckets — they care not for creed,or love or pride — only things, objects and greed.Pray, sweet Dante, pray that they don’t succeed.

Those damn belly-crawlers, damned in life as they are in death,to live purposeless, to live in regret. To worship things,to worship themselto worship themselves, to know not of Gods,to play with dark odds — to gamble, to cry, to slander, to pain.Young Dante, pray — pray you are not the same.

For to be a belly-crawler, dweller of all rings,blood-boiled, muck-covered, frozen shut —is to be the most essential of men!

Lost ChildBy Monica R.

We were together in my dreams, walking down the ocean with water to our feet.For a minute we were infinite, our hands close and intimate.As we continued to walk the extra mile, I wondered in my mind,"Do I make you smile?""Do I make you smile?"You looked in my eyes, I looked in yours, and you said,"You're all I adore."We were together in my dreams, walking down the ocean with water to our feet.For a minute we were infinite, our hands lose and intimate.As we continued to walk the extra mile, I woke up,looking like a lost child. looking like a lost child.

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