Written by: Alina Gao I’ve always known the value of being pretty. When I was young, no one told me outright but I felt it was implied when people frequently mentioned my appearance first. Then I got older, and people would say “appearance matters” to my face. Each time this felt like they were ripping off a Band-Aid. I have a sister and when I was five, she was already a teenager. As a teenage girl, a lot of pressure is put on appearances because people tell you they matter. My sister was constantly criticizing herself and it rubbed off on me. She unconsciously influenced me to be look-oriented, and that left a lasting effect on me. Being around someone who’s self conscious affects you, and even more so when you admire them. When you’re young, you follow what other people do, especially those you look up to. So I also cared about my clothes and skin and how shiny my hair was. It’s bad when you start noticing these things as a teenager, but it’s worse when you’ve noticed them all your life. Being pretty made me feel valid. It was connected to my worth. Being pretty meant being liked, especially by myself. When I was pretty, I was confident and happy. My happiness was influenced by the silkiness of my hair and how much I ate and the smoothness of my skin. I remember wanting nothing more than pale skin, because Snow White and Cinderella and even Mulan had skin like that. When it came to other people, if I was attractive, they were nicer to me. We judge other people based on their appearances. Appearances are the first thing we use to determine what someone is like. My friends’ parents always pointed out how I looked before anything else. “Your clothes are so cute! You’re so pretty now! You should smile more!” And that’s just some of what I’ve heard. They complimented my outfits, which I always put overwhelming thought into. And my parents would take pictures to show off how adorable I was. We look at old pictures and they say “You were so cute back then. Aww, I wish you were small again.” Adults like cute children, I realized as I watched a teacher simply laugh when one of my stock photo classmates interrupted a class as opposed to reprimanding them. So I tried my best to look small and innocent and cute. I wore dresses and sparkly hair clips and practiced smiling and stared in mirrors, trying to figure out what was wrong. I made my first face mask when I was six, because I had borrowed a book about “hacks for girls'' and it said bananas were good for your skin. I remember my sister asking me if I would rather be smart and ugly or pretty and dumb. And I said pretty. Because pretty gets you things. Smart can only take me so far before someone calls me an ugly b**ch and it hurts me more than I’m willing to admit. Pretty could get me a stupid sl*t but I would still be pretty, and other people will know that too. It won’t matter as much if I’m stupid because being being pretty is the ultimate goal. It's the one thing people are fixated on and the first thing they mention. Smart is too objective and pretty should be just as undefined, but it’s not. People comment on looks before what degree you have. Books focus on beauty. They describe characters based on their looks, whether they had “a delicate, elfin face” or “a face only a mother could love”. Films and art all display beautiful people. Ugly people simply don’t have a place in movies and literature, and once someone realizes that it feels like they don’t have a place anywhere. I’m so sick of hating the way I look. I hate looking in mirrors and feeling like my day is ruined. I hate constantly thinking about my appearance. I hate comparing myself to others. And it’s not easy to just stop because I’m so used to doing it. Beauty ruins people. They go to extreme lengths to look pretty, spending money and risking everything for surgeries and procedures. It’s dangerous but empowering. The difficult thing about beauty is that it’s so objective, it’s ridiculous that there’s a standard at all. I don’t think I’ve been satisfied with the way I look since I was nine. There was always that one zit on my face or a shirt that just didn’t flatter me. And something as small as that would undeniably drop me into a pit of sadness. I don’t want other people to ever feel this way. I’m trying to get rid of this toxic mentality myself. The first step to that is trying to get rid of my own prejudices, starting with myself. I try to not mention appearances when talking to other people, and instead focus on the person behind the face. We should all try that. But at the end of the day, no matter how hard I try, I can’t change how I look at myself in the mirror and I still wish my happiness wasn’t so heavily influenced by how I look.
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By: Vanessa C. Books are some of my favorite things in the world, they are truly exemplifications of the human imagination and creativity. If you look back at our human History, you will realize that since the dawn of humanity, one thing has remained clear, that language and communication has been vital for the rise and dominance of our species. But how much of it can we say is useful, really? You’ll see my verdict soon. In school, we’re taught to buy this book, read by this date, write a long-form review on it and return it. And that’s the end of the chapter. You’re done. You would be forgiven for thinking that reading is a chore, and you’re made to read for the sake of reading. I have seen that happen so many times with schools across the world, and I think it’s time we look at the bigger picture of literature, not simply literature in books, but literature in life. Here’s the truth: reading cannot be forced. The lucky ones (I count myself in) come to have a greater appreciation of literature in general, and I think it’s time for me to share what I think are the greatest lessons I’ve learned from a lifetime of reading thus far. Every book, I believe, holds promise and ideals. Human ideals. Be it kindness, love, justice, anger, hatred, imagination, dreaming, mortality, hope etc. What we do in school is never comparable to the incredible amount of things you can learn from each book. Each book, a perfectly (or partially flawed) woven tale or story each with its own life. The library contains many beating hearts, waiting for someone to absorb all its secrets, all the wisdom and turn it into actionable change. There is no secret to reading, there is only a reader and non-reader. You read the way you want to, you interpret it the way you want to. Sometimes, when lying in bed preparing to go to sleep, I think of how my favorite books look different in others’ minds and hearts, their imaginations of the characters and the interpretation of the plot line, each connection made is just one strand of spider-woven silk, it links to so much more. And that to me, is the beauty of a book. Beauty is even more evident and profound in our worlds. Countless books are inspired by real people, real places and real events, it’s just what the author, and we, as readers make of it. Each book we pick up is one more gem yet to be discovered, and more road yet travelled. Regardless of whether the book is terrible or lovely, I think every book has something within it that the reader needs to see, even if it takes ages. So here are just some of the many things I can think of that apply to our lives with literature and books.
Here’s to everyone struggling with a mental health issue right now, you are valid, your feelings are valid and your experience is valid. Find your release and feel your stress dissipate with it, whether that’s books or music or running, whatever it is, do what makes you feel good. That’s the most important thing about life. By: Danielle Dungca Everyone has their own phobias. A phobia can be defined as “an intense, persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, situation, or person”. My phobia? The fear of rejection. Growing up, I fit into most “Asian stereotypes.” The ones portraying a light-skinned, dark-haired, almond-eyed girl sitting in the AP and honors classes? The ones that showed the girl who was always early to each and every class (because early is on time and on time is late)? That was me. Each day, I woke up and got all my belongings together. I went to school and then back home. I immediately began my homework. After homework, I went to practice. After practice, I studied. It was a never ending cycle that became my daily routine. This system of events has gone on for years. It has created my lifestyle. Because of this, I have always gotten all As. Aside from my grades and scholastic achievements, I have applied for countless opportunities, and have been accepted into each one. Of course, this is a good thing. Right? In my 16 years of living, I have always gotten what I wanted, and what’s wrong with that? Unfortunately, my success has never been determined by my willingness to be at the top. My motivation was never, “I’m going to feel so good when this is all over.” Instead it was, “If I fail, I won’t be happy.” Big difference, I know. My life is so strict. Not because of the rules that have been imposed on me by my family, or the expectations from my teachers and mentors, but because of myself. The mindset that I have adapted has shaped me into the person I am today. I am the person that cries over every minor inconvenience, the person who evaluates her life based on her success, and overall, the person with a fear of rejection. Not many people know this about me. It’s not something I talk about. Hopefully you can see why. You, whoever is reading this, is one of the only people who knows about my fear. This is partly because I am embarrassed. I am embarrassed by the fact that I can’t do anything without striving for perfection and being afraid that the outcome will be anything but that. I crumble just thinking about it. This fear consumes my life. However, there is a bright side. After looking at it and analyzing it, it’s not such a bad thing. Fears in general are not always negative. Fears help us. They help us to identify our strengths and weaknesses. They also allow us to gain strengths. For example, having the fear of rejection has led me to create good studying habits, to become more organized, to become more self-sufficient, to build resilience, and so much more. My phobia may seem silly to others. It may seem like the least of their problems. However, the big takeaway of this is fears are normal. Fears are helpful, and should be talked about. Revealing them opens you up to a realm of other people who are able to help lift the weight off your shoulders. Though it sounds cheesy, you are not alone. Not at all. Everybody has their own fears, but in the end, the way you perceive it is the scariest thing, not the fear itself. By: Farishta Anjirbag I will spend this article making note of a few simple things I love. Warm, toasted bread with butter and jam. It doesn’t take much to enjoy. I like to let the bread lie in the toaster a little longer than it needs to—you've got to have a toaster, of course; the stove doesn't produce the same results. I like for the edges to be a darker brown, and perfectly crisp, to have the taste of slightly burnt bread linger in my mouth long after I've eaten. You’ve got to have nice bread—that matters, certainly. We buy ours maybe three or four times a week. And I like for my butter to be soft—we buy a lot of that, too—so I can spread it quickly, all over the warm bread before it cools. I have a little box for the butter that’s easy to open, for maximum efficiency. I would recommend having such a box, or you’d waste a lot of effort on such a small thing as butter. Then I like to watch it melt, seep into the toast, infusing warmth with more warmth. For such a simple food, it seems almost luxurious. Finally, I get a hold of the jam jar—homemade and strawberry, most often—scoop out a sizable portion, and spread that out onto my toast, too. The key, then, is to eat it immediately, especially if you’re sitting right under a fan or in an air-conditioned area, which is the optimal experience. I like to take my plate of toasts to my room—make myself comfortable on my bed before starting to eat—or out onto the balcony if the weather is nice. Up here it usually is. If it’s hot out, I’d advise having a fan on the balcony to enjoy your toast. Now, isn’t that the simplest joy? The rain, especially in the middle of a thunderstorm—the more chaotic, the better. It’s the sky’s theatre. How can anyone not like it? It’s best enjoyed with a book in a big, cozy armchair. Often, a few drops land on my pages through the open window, to add to the romance of it all. Of course, when a whole barrage starts to pour in, I have to close my window. But regardless, there’s a wonderful view to enjoy. From my seat on the seventh floor, I often feel like I could watch the storm’s performance unfold above the city for hours. Living higher up helps you appreciate it more. It keeps you away from the floods, which I’ve heard happen often. Some days, I like to go downstairs and get drenched. It feels like a release, washing over me. Of course, this is very different from unexpectedly getting caught in the rain—the feeling is considerably worse when you don’t have a choice in the matter. At least if you have a cute umbrella, it’s not so bad. And it must be kept in mind that one of the best parts of getting wet in the rain is returning to your house. Your warm house, your house full of towels, and maybe a hot drink; preferably high up, with a cozy chair, a window. All it takes is a few drops of water from the sky and suddenly your soul is full; such uncomplicated happiness. A walk around the neighbourhood. There are few things more peaceful than stepping out for a walk in good weather. Of course, that means setting out early in the morning, or later in the evening, to avoid the heat. It would be far less enjoyable if I were compelled to go outside only in the hours of the strongest sunlight. All through my walk, I like to watch people go about their day—good, honest people, I can presume; at least, they look at me kindly. They’re getting to work, talking on the phone, buying groceries, walking their dogs, laughing. The best part is getting to blend in, and becoming part of a large group of people. Not getting to blend in like that would be distressing. I would be very uncomfortable standing out, having people point their fingers at me, or look me up and down as if I was something other than human. I like to take these walks alone; there’s no reason not to. And I like to walk slowly, to savour the day. I’m not in a hurry to get away from anyone, after all. I could never enjoy my walks if I was! Often, I make an activity of stip-stepping into the patches of sunlight filtering through the trees, onto the smooth footpath. It would be a shame to roam around in a place without these old, wide trees. Once I have taken in everything there is to take in on that day, I walk back home—usually with an appetite, anticipating the meal that awaits me. Of course, I barely ever venture out of the neighbourhood—the roads are the cleanest here, and all the manholes are securely covered. A walk down the road--it doesn’t ask for much. -Farishta Anjirbag By: Vibhuti Nagar Image retrieved from Sarah Morris/Getty Images Feminism is defined as the belief in social, economic, and political equality of the sexes that include men, women, and the LGBTQ+ community. The feminism movement is manifested worldwide by various institutions committed to activity on behalf of women's rights and interests. The women's rights movement touched on every area of the women's experience on various topics like politics, work, family, reproductive health, and sexuality. Many misconceptions are afloat about the feminist movement, which has misled and diverted many people into not believing in the movement. Feminists have a goal to attain equal rights for all, but many laws and lawmakers do not let women make their own decisions about themselves. Consequently, women are considered weak due to cultural pasts and we aren’t able to fix it. Women are often scared to call out men who catcall them because they might follow us home. Questions rush in our heads before taking the next step: Should I yell at him? Should I run? Or should I look down, ignore, and walk? We are scared about how our family would perceive us if we wore short skirts and crop tops and if we go out to drink and party with our male friends. We’re scared of walking down the streets alone after 6 pm, not because something could happen to us, but because if something does, the reason would be, “Why were you out so late? If you would’ve been home earlier, it wouldn’t have occurred.” Students and daughters are scared to be alone with a male teacher or a male relative as the phrase “will anyone believe me?” runs through our heads. I’m scared that I see five-year-old girls learning how to protect themselves from an adult man. I’m scared to accept a drink from my male friends—you never know if he drugged it. I’m scared for every womxn around me because we have to be cautious about every move, step, and word. But with feminism, the movement will make sure I don’t have to protect myself. I don’t have to curtail my words and actions. I don’t have to do something I don’t want to just to get a promotion. For me, feminism isn't just a trend in which I can exploit to get more followers on Instagram or to get more retweets on Twitter. It isn't some silly movement to help teenagers get clout, unlike how many are treating it. Feminism is more than that; it's the movement that will help make sure I don't grow up in a world where one step up a man takes is equal to 100 steps a woman has to take to reach the same position. It ensures that in the future I get paid fairly in comparison to my future male counterparts for doing the same job. It promises that I will get the same opportunities or some even better than the ones a man gets which he most likely doesn’t even deserve. It makes sure no one questions my ability to do a certain skill or a job just because of my gender or my identity. By: Michelle Hashem I was expecting it, but I still froze when he said it. His face was bleak and tired, gripping the armrest of his couch like he would have crumbled into pieces if he let go. “He passed two weeks ago,” my Dad said, looking down. I didn’t know what to say, so I nodded. He got up, legs shaking, and walked away. I didn’t know what grief was. I didn’t know what it felt like, or what to do with myself when it was 3 AM and the concept of death bounced around my brain, never losing speed until I took a melatonin pill and passed out until 4 PM the next day. I didn’t conceptualize this as grief. I thought grief was randomly breaking down in tears. For me, it was an introduction to reality. The last time I saw him, it was a month after he fell down the stairs of the Northern-most Maronite Catholic church in Beirut, the border of the Christian neighborhood diffusing into what looked like a different country of the hijabi women and dark-bearded men of Lebanon. Under Allah’s watch, he was paralyzed for the rest of his short life. When I saw him, defeated in his wheelchair, his wife spooning babaganoush on crispy white pita bread into his mouth, I couldn’t look at him. It was impossible to me that this was even real. The guilt plagued me. And this time, I couldn’t fix it. No one blamed me but myself, and I didn’t know what to do. So, I faced it in a different way. I am still facing it every day. Half my family is under sanction and the other half had their beloved city explode into ash. I face the fact that everyone is on the brink of death by coming to terms with it maturely rather than burying my anxiety in unhealthy coping mechanisms. And I hope one day, facing it will get a little easier. Every time I visit my grandmother, she gives me a long hug as her face lights up with pleasure. She cooks me a big meal, urges me to eat more, and asks me how my family has been doing. When I finish eating, my grandmother starts telling me stories. Much of them are stories of the past, what she had to go through when she was in her 20s, 30s, and 40s. Her stories are not new to me. In fact, I grew up hearing about the sacrifices she had to make for her family. My experience of listening to these stories formed an important part of my identity and allowed me to question the relationship between fate and free will in one’s life.
My grandmother never attended middle school or high school because she had to work when she became old enough to help feed her family. She was twenty years old when she got married. As soon as she married my grandfather, she had to work her fingers to the bone doing chores and working the land at the same time. When she made any trivial mistake, her spiteful mother-in-law would openly criticize and mock my grandmother: “You don’t even know this? Your parents didn’t teach you anything!” She faced such unfair treatments every single day but couldn’t complain at all. When my grandparents finally decided to move from the countryside to the city of Incheon, He didn’t have a job. Since he was not really a responsible or capable husband, my grandmother had to do something in order to feed the family. By selling some garlic she cultivated, she managed to buy a train ticket. On a cold winter day, she transferred trains multiple times and walked endlessly to visit her distant relative who lived far away. She recounts to this day that the whole village was covered with snow and it was freezing. There, she earnestly asked her relative to offer my grandfather a job. By visiting her relative twice this way, my grandmother earned her husband a job in the city. But hardships did not end even after my grandfather became the primary breadwinner. My grandmother had to take care of four children and two young sisters-in-law who were students at the time. She also had to cook and clean for several college students who used to board at her house. Since my grandfather was a traditional Korean man with patriarchal notions, he never helped her with chores. After returning from work, he would just read newspapers silently, waiting for his wife to cook for him. My grandmother worked all day long while carrying a baby on her back with a blanket, which gave her a heat rash in summers. Of course, there was no such thing as a gas stove or a washing machine that was cheap enough for her to buy at the time. So she had to do everything with her own hands. In the winter, her hands turned red and swollen since she had to wash clothes with her bare hands dipped in cold water. When my grandmother had to visit somewhere, she would walk hours and hours instead of taking buses to save money. After years of hard work, my grandparents finally earned some money, and things seemed to improve. But then my grandmother’s mother-in-law was diagnosed with dementia. She had to take care of the sick, old woman for over three years because that was regarded as an obligation as a traditional Korean daughter-in-law at the time. “It’s my palja to serve and take care of others.” When I asked her how she could live through such a hard life, my grandmother told me that it was just written in the stars for her. Over 30 years, my grandmother had to take care of other people not necessarily by her own will. She was born in a poor family with siblings that needed her care, she married a man who was indifferent to her sacrifice, her four children were born one after another, her sisters-in-law came to the city looking for a home, and her mother-in-law became severely ill. So many people had depended on my grandmother’s food, labor, and care. After listening to her story, I had to believe what she said; it was her fate to live a life of sacrifice and pain. Yet, there was no sign of rage or regret in her voice. In fact, I’ve never seen my grandmother pitying or complaining about her own depressing past. Instead, she has always found pleasure in taking care of others and offered help as long as her circumstance allows. Fate forced her to suffer, but it was her own strength, optimism, and persistence that allowed her to always stay positive and bubbly, even to this day. To some, her acceptance of fate and compliance with the obligations imposed on her may seem like proof that she is a passive female figure. But I think otherwise. My grandmother is someone who wisely reconciled fate and free will. She controlled her life in her own way: “shaking off” even when things went from bad to worse. Smiling at everything and finding hope everywhere. Believing that the sacrifices she made will someday return to her in the form of good luck. Since I was very young, my grandmother taught me to do the same. Thanks to her, I learned to accept my fate but at the same time, find beauty in it. So even when one of my relatives passed away a few months ago, I wasn’t overwhelmed by grief. Although her death was something I couldn’t prevent happening, I accepted it as an event that bound our family more tightly. Moreover, attending her funeral allowed me to realize that I have many people around me who are more than willing to support me emotionally. Knowing that we cannot control some aspects of our lives and still being able to relish the beauty of every day—this idea is the biggest gift I ever received from my grandmother. By: Joy Dong When you hear the word “hero”, the first things you may think of are men or women with superhuman powers, wearing capes and flying over cities. However, amid the coronavirus pandemic, instead of Superman and Superwoman, we think of brave and courageous workers who risk their lives every day just by doing their job. Along with medical professionals, there are other “superheroes” who have not been recognized yet. This essay will address two essential workers and their unique contributions to the fight against COVID-19. Andre Anglin is a retired soldier turned bus driver who works in Columbus, Ohio. His job helps keep his community running. He transports people to visit family members, going to the grocery store, and others attending essential jobs. Sometimes, Andre even transports people with Coronavirus symptoms to the hospital. Without Andre, workers who do not have personal modes of transportation wouldn’t be able to go to work. One passenger stated, “Without you guys, the city would be shut down.” The role of a bus driver is so important but is prone to being under-recognized within the community. Andre, a former veteran relates fighting coronavirus to fighting a war. Both situations are high-stress, and in both battles, there isn’t a clear understanding of the enemy. He has a sense of honor from being in the military and is humbled in doing his part in the pandemic. Andre’s compassion, dedication, and consideration are very admirable, especially for the people around him. The next hero’s name is Ben Davis, who is a social worker. He helps adults with mental health issues by providing psychotherapy, medical care, and assisting them with any services they may need. During this pandemic, Ben continues to help his clients despite the circumstances. If he didn’t do his work, many in his community would be suffering from their mental illnesses, with no medication or support. He helps the less fortunate, and those who are strongly impacted by the virus. Some of his clients experience more anxiety and paranoia because of coronavirus, and patients with OCD are isolating themselves even further. Ben states, “We are there no matter what to help them.” Ben is committed to helping his patients regardless of the situation, and will always do his job, even if there is a risk. These workers keep our country running, and we should constantly show our appreciation, and say “thank you” since these “superheroes” are putting themselves at risk for us. Andre and Ben’s stories are a testament that not all superheroes wear capes. After all, essential workers are our soldiers in the war against COVID-19. Written by: A'shiyah Dobbs “Vienna” by Billy Joel has been a source of comfort for me this year, especially with how chaotic things have been while stressing for the future, particularly concerning college. I discovered the song while watching the final episode of The Politician on Netflix, where Ben Platt sang a cover. The scene occurred in a New York City bar with captivating, warm-colored lighting to further enhance the piano and band accompanying the singer. Although I listened to the soundtrack from the show for months on end, the true meaning of the song did not occur to me until a month ago. A friend told me how much she adored the song as it made her nostalgic about the present, making me build a burning question in my mind. What exactly does this song mean to me? Billy Joel said he finds the meaning “Vienna” to highlight self-worth. Society revolves around productivity, meaning as we get older, we lose our self-worth. For these exact reasons, Joel appreciates European culture for showing him that no matter the age, everyone helps in some way. With a universal message, Billy Joel displays a profound understanding of the romanticization surrounding teens and young adults. As seen in mainstream media, movies and TV shows, high school and college are shown to be one of the best years in life. These romanticized versions of ‘coming of age’ stories neglect to show the other side of the spectrum, where pressure and isolation is often faced among young adults, affecting our perception of our self worth as we don’t conform to what we view on the media. This results in failure to take care of our mental health, leading to immense cases of burn out. Addressed in the lines “You can't be everything you want to be / Before your time / Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight”, "Vienna" serves as a reminder to the world that these romanticized versions of life are fabricated. There is nothing wrong with taking a break when approaching crossroads. I believe this song can serve as mine and many others comfort songs as it is a personal reminder that although things are currently busy, there is still a city of music and dreams waiting for you. Life does not simply end after this time in our lives; the media has dedicated so much time to show and is just starting and full of potential things that should not be limited to what we see on TV. By: Lauren Snowden A floorboard creaks under the weight of many feet crossing over it even though no one stands on it now. Sweet songs of the birds as the natural world awakens drifts through the open windows of the house. My phone disrupts the peaceful morning as it blares to life on my nightstand. The screen is cold as I hit the snooze button once more. I can afford the extra few minutes of sleep-it won’t take me long to get to school. I finally work up the nerve to roll out of bed. The house is so still I can hear my feet crunch the strands of carpet below them. Instead of my mom’s bright smile, a “happy first day of school” note awaits for me on the kitchen counter with a muffin besides it. My dog’s paws scatter across the floor as he runs up to me. He stares at my muffin with wide, hopeful eyes. He almost bites my fingers as I give him a piece. The normal first day butterflies start to hum around my stomach as I pick out a shirt. Every first day of school, I always get the feeling my stomach might fall right out of me, butterflies and all. It is the same feeling as if I’m on a rollercoaster that only goes down, and my stomach keeps dropping and dropping in apprehension. I try to imagine what my teachers will be like, hopefully a mix of friendly and stern, to calm my nerves. What if I won’t have any friends in my classes this year? What if I get stuck in class with all the people I definitely don’t like, and it’s a project based class, and I can’t ignore them like I would want to? What if my computer crashes, or I can’t figure out a way to get into class? What if, what if, what if… I finally decide on a shirt I had bought online. As I step in front of the mirror, I realize I never picked out a pair of pants to match. I shrug; it’s a sweatpants day. I make the short trip to school. Hastily, I close my blinds and curtains so they don’t create a mixed matched pattern of white light across my face. I am back in my seat and fixing my hair before my teacher comes in. My eyes quickly scan across the screen. I finally see one of my friends and smile, but I frown as I realize she can’t see me. I text her good morning and tell her to look for me as we get settled into class. Everyone is quiet and stares back at our teacher with blank expressions. Instead of the expected first day excited jitters, I feel the awkwardness creep across the room as the silence stretches on. As my teacher introduces herself, I go through the names of all other students in the class. This is my-our-new normal. Texts to friends instead of actual conversations. Strained necks and stinging eyes from hunching over a computer all day. Prolonged periods of awkward silence as teachers and students realize there is no opening for a deeper connection. Motionless black boxes with a boldly printed name as classmates. Teachers are so exhausted we can see them wilting and drooping further and further towards the ground each class session. A loss of life, unity, and perseverance as more and more students don’t show up to class or turn their cameras off. A new virtual world to pioneer or to fade into another black box. |