HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS

Honorable Mention

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ILLUSION 

I heard the thunder when he said it 

I heard her tears fall as she cried 

Her eyes screamed at me, “please” 

But I just looked 

And with my eyes I apologized 

My desire to give her a better life cried louder than her eyes My hunger for money roared louder 

So I sacrificed her innocence for her life 

So I traded her past for her future 

I’ve never seen so much money in my time 

The sweet taste of greed 

The illusion of something grand 

The crispness of the bills and the scent of newness 

Lied to me and said ”I can bring my family out of here” 

But I didn't know that it would lead to this 

That this money would sell my daughters dignity and give her impurity 

And the dream that once touched my fingertips 

Crumbled and led to her destruction

Charmaine Cera 

High School of Fashion Industries 

LEMON GIRLS

i was told as a child i used to eat lemons.

and that’s hilariously ironic now because

i don’t like lemon meringue pies or lemon cheese cake bars,

i only really drink lemonade when it’s infused,

and i can’t stomach lemon juice on my entrees the way my parents do—

they squeeze every last drop onto their pho noodles in a vietnamese restaurant.

i was told i’d sit there, peel them open like clementines 

and nibble at the slices like a child with a cutie

and i wouldn’t flinch at the sourness—i enjoyed the bite and the acidic appeal

and maybe a part of me was sadistic before i even knew what that word meant.

but can you blame me?

sugar sweet girls will always crave the taste of something more interesting.

so maybe when my teeth began to rot and erode

and my cheeks hollowed from a lemon seed diet

and the juice stole the water straight out of my body

and i found myself decomposing like a lemon peel

and i still ate them anyway

i used the idea of interestingly sweet girls to comfort myself.

maybe sadism became intentional as long as i could still taste the bite—

maybe a craving to be as small warped my sense of taste—

maybe the acidic appeal finally bore away at my enamel and they hurt so badly i cried—

and when evaporating into thin air tasted more sweet than sour

i knew why lemon girls found themselves disintegrating in the end.

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Elicia Chau

Stuyvesant High School  

RULES OF GIFT-GIVING

You used to tell me I was a gift, meaning that

the things you gave me were gifts and

you gave me everything. The hair and skin and veins

we wear are identical. Down to the bone,

I am signed with your name,

stamped with your watermark.
 

Gifts are not always good. One can

lend a curse just as well. And gifts and curses alike can be

rejected, reversed, if one is persistent enough.

I imagine that I am persistent enough. I would

cut out everything you gifted me with surgical precision,

down to the last chromosome, down to the last cell,

down to the bone. I would repackage your contributions, bow on top,

and ship them to your front door. Here is your

gift. Hair. Skin. Veins. You used to tell me regifting was

impolite, offensive. I would not care given that

when I reached into my heart the blood was mine.

You used to tell me regifting used and damaged items is worse.

I would not care because I've never known whether our damage

is your doing or my own, our autopsy inconclusive,

cause of death undetermined.

It does not matter

whether or not I would care,

because in reality I would never have the courage

to cut you out. If I had a knife

all I could do is sharpen it.

E. Cheng  

Hunter College High School

THE DUMPLINGS FROM MY CHILDHOOD

I stood on the small wooden stool

and quietly watched

as my mother’s slender fingers

folded pleats onto the dumpling wrappers.

Though she had rolled up her sleeves, 

dashes of flour still clung onto her cashmere sweater.

The afternoon was quiet and still—

just my mother and I

in front our old kitchen counter 

making dumplings for dinner.

She began to tell me a story 

a story of how dumplings came to be.

A long time ago, she said

a man returned home 

and found his people with severely frostbitten ears.

He was a doctor,

so he quickly grounded pieces of 

lamb, herbs, and everything he could find

and wrapped them in scraps of dough.

And gradually,

his people’s ears thawed out.

When I think about dumplings,

I think about that quiet afternoon

just my mother and I 

making dumplings for dinner;

I think about the memories of my friends

chattering away in a small dumpling store in Chinatown,

and the family gatherings, 

and the years and years of folding dumplings pleats,

but still not being able to make them 

as pretty as my mother did.

Amy Guo 

NYC LAB School for Collaborative Studies 

UNTITLED

The things I want to say,

the things I have to say,

yet so little time in this world.

My ethnicity decided at birth—

half Malian, half Senegalese,

born in the city that never sleeps

in an environment where you either 

thrive, or crumble.

Growing up a Muslim,

doing what you are told,

no questions asked,

a simple "salamwalykum" will do.

But then you start to grow older

and those answers found in religion become questions

and life gets blurrier and blurrier.

"Is there a God?" I wonder

"And if so, what is it God wants me to do?"

Is there a real holy book?

Quran, Bible, Torah,

one of them has to have the truth, right?

But what if none of them have the truth—

they were made by flawed men like me and you.

What if there is no truth?

And life truly does come around only once?

If so, I will NOT live my life in vain.

I want to experience it all.

I want to travel the globe.

I want to meet new people,

listen to music,

play sports,

to make something happen,

to make a change,

to leave my impact on this world.

I need to make my impact known,

to leave a footprint on this world,

to know I won't be lost,

forgotten,

lost to time.

I want my name 

and my voice to be heard.

But what is life supposed to be about anyway?

Is it about my experiences?

Or is it about the brothers and sisters

uncles and cousins

mothers and fathers 

and the people of the world?

Is it about the legacy I leave behind

for my future kids and grandkids

and for the next generation 

and the next 

and for the people 500 years from now (if we are still around, that is).

What if life is indeed predetermined and dictated by a higher power

and you aren't making choices of your own free will,

and your choices, whether good or bad, were set by God?

Wouldn't that make life

pointless?

Maybe it's not my place to ask

but my curiosity has always caused me trouble anyway.

But at the end of the day, I am Omar Kanoute:

An African

A New Yorker

A Son

A Brother

A Human

with a whole closet full of flaws and demons,

and I desire two things:

acceptance for who I am, and the need to change the world for the better.

But I,

more than anything else,

ask questions. 

Omar Kanoute 

James Baldwin High School

WORDS 

My mother always tells me to salute the elders I know, 

She reminded me, “Don’t talk back,” actually quite recent ago… 

Use “您(nín)” instead of “你(ni)”; use “yes” instead of “uh-huh.” 

She expects me to worship all of them like a living Buddha. 

I get it; they’re older. Indeed, it’s common courtesy. 

But one cannot deny a willow is still technically a tree. 

Age shouldn’t matter; it’s morality and logic that ought-to… 

I can’t quietly accept a hurtful and outdated point of view. 

“Only if their tongues are audacious, will I boomerang fast.” 

By always putting them first, you will teach them that you’re last… 

Truthfully when I went to China, it wasn’t all too bad… 

The striking sight of ombre sunsets, the tangy taste of the myrica rubra, the frequent feelings of “Made in China”... 

The vivid voice of my grandma hollering salutations to her neighbors at the crack of dawn, pressing me into consciousness over the rooster’s tuck-tuck, tuck-tuck… 

The subtle smell of nature, of fresh farmland, of the humid heat waves. 

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But… 

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Simultaneously in China, they had way too much to say: 

“Too tall; Too loud; Why is her skin on display? 

Your mom clearly wanted a son. You three are just ‘attempts’ for this boy.” 

I replied, “How many times do your sons return home to bring the family joy?” 

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My mother pulls me aside and deems my comeback “disrespect,” 

But the only disrespect to me is keeping their criticisms unchecked. 

They all want me normal, to “obey,” “agree,” and “act” as they taught, 

“Normal” meaning ideal; “Ideal” meaning what’s not.

Janet Li  

High School of Fashion Industries 

UK KEI (MY HOME)

Years before I was born, my father reluctantly left his family in Hong Kong to come to America. “I’ll come back in a few years after I’ve made enough money,” he pledged to his family. 

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Home — 屋企 — uk kei: something that you leave behind. 

When asked where I’m from, 

I say “America,” even though 

my family’s history is stored in the roots of China. 

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My father did not want to return to Hong Kong after he was drafted to serve in the U.S. Army. He also despised how the chefs made Cantonese cuisine in America. “The ingredients aren’t authentic,” he said, ”I cannot cook like this anymore.” 

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Home — 屋企 — uk kei: something that can disappear. 

I remember walking through the streets of Chinatown when I was a child, with the lanterns decorating the streets, 

and the festival dragons dancing on repeat. 

My father never really came to watch, 

“Those are only traditions, I have no need for them anymore,” he would say. 

My father disobeyed my grandfather to continue his education in America. So, he lived on his own with no one by his side.

It was the first Lunar New Year after his service in the Army, but he had no one to enjoy a warm cup of tea with. Only the memories of his grandmother’s dishes accompanied him in the absences of red envelopes, the smells of incense, and his family. 

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Home — 屋企 — uk kei: something you find on a whim. 

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My father began playing Mahjong in the middle of Chinatown with strangers. 

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There is a tradition where Chinese parents would search for a suitor for their daughters. A silent old man sat behind my father as he played Mahjong, analyzing every move that he made. One day, after my father had won his third game, my mother’s father finally spoke to him: “I can introduce you to my daughter. She will be a good wife.” 

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It was spring and the flower buds were blooming. My father met my mother in the bakery she worked in and she had made him a warm cup of tea. He promised my mother a family. So, he proposed to her in a park, surrounded by cherry blossom trees. 

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Home — 屋企 — uk kei: something you earn. 

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Now it is summer and the sun lights up the sky as the bees dance in the wind. The children run and play on the lawn while my dad makes his signature dishes for his family. 

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When I was 12, my father called me into the kitchen. 

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“Do you want to learn how to make Siu Mai?” he asked. 

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It was 95° Fahrenheit and the last thing I wished to do was cook near a blazing hot stove. However, as I watched my father passionately dance around the kitchen, I caved. I caved even though I knew I would need a thousand years of practice to make a dish as great as my father could. 

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Home — 屋企 — uk kei: something you will keep in your heart and mind.

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Romona Ling  

Bronx High School for Science

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STONE FRUIT SEASON 

It was the hottest June since records began. I couldn’t remember how long we’d been living inside of an ending, how many times I’d been lost navigating an open wound. The years spoiled one after the other, soft flesh crushed underfoot. When I said my feelings were tender I meant more like a bruise. I’d pluck my heart like a wild cherry if you’d let me, swallow it whole and spit out the pit. 

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This is not a love story. It’s the only story I know. I find a pretty girl and I give her a knife.

Sometimes it’s you. Sometimes it’s my reflection, cannibalizing all the foolish things I used to be: a carnivorous flower, an object of desire, an orchard of extinct birds. The boy is handsome in the fading light of inevitability, sweet as rot. He takes my hand and summer goes stale in my mouth. I wanted perfection. I wanted oblivion. I wanted to be infinite, to consume everything: this aching void, this unforgivable longing, him. 

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I buried my mind in the backyard garden but the weeds sprouted faster than I could follow. Your words burrowed into my skin, took root in the darkness on the edge of slumber, before I startled awake knee-deep in someone else’s dream. Yesterday I almost kissed him because the way his hair spilled over his collarbones reminded me of your head on my shoulder. I’ve never had the courage for either one. 

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The world goes on despite itself, dog days bleeding into autumn. We’re standing at the corner, stubbornly indehiscent. I’ve outgrown hoping that you’ll stay but oh, maybe it is a love story after all.

Josephine Low 

Hunter College High School 

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