This essay is written from the point of view of the fictional character Malia Blu. Tell me a story that doesn’t end and I will tell you one that does. Sing me a song in all the languages in the world and I will reply with a word. A conclusion, a happily-ever-after, a period. Aren’t those what we desire? My name is Malia Blu. Concrete, simple, true. My adoptive mothers named me after a friend who died before I was born. My surname, my mothers chose when they married. I was born in China and I live in the United States. I am twenty-years-old. This is who I am. I am a person who is depressed, anorexic, extroverted. I am a sister, an adoptee, a writer. I love visiting the beach down the road. I appreciate the rain dripping down my roof. I take pleasure in laughing with my friends on Zoom. I know who I am. Except when I don’t. Ask me to tell a story about myself and I will tell you one that doesn’t end. Beg me to speak English and I will shout in Bulgarian or Cantonese. A continuation, a hodgepodge, a question mark. Those are what we hate. I don’t know my birth name. Do I even have one? I don’t know where I was born or how my biological parents met. I don’t even know what region of Zhejiang Province I’m truly from. Maybe I’m not even from Zhejiang. Is this who I am? Please. Just give me all the answers. Shove confidence down my soul. I crave to breath in and out with hope. I’m tired of day-after-day not knowing who I am. I am exhausted by the pain that has always existed and still thrives in this world. I want to smile at a friend without feeling like a fraud. Make me brave. Make me kind. Make me, me. Except, that is not how the world works. Share your story with the world and it will give you both answers that end and answers that don’t. Let words drip from your fingertips and mouth and only some will comprehend. A conundrum, a head-scratcher, an ellipsis. Maybe those are all that we are. Thank you for reading! If you like my story, please don’t be afraid to give it a share. Comments are always welcome and I love hearing your thoughts. Question: Do you think Malia is right in seeing identity as fluid?
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It’s hard to believe things will get better. There is so much pain drifting around us. The anti-Blackness, the hunger, the warfare. Protests demanding justice for lives cruelly lost are met with swarming hate. Our short attention spans translate to some treating advocacy work like a trend. I feel hopeless. When I think about the history of the world, my immediate thoughts are of pain. The threads of wounds made long ago wind themselves around me. America prospered thanks to the greediness of colonists and the exertion of slaves. Famines in Europe and Asia in the 1900s caused my Irish and Chinese adoptive grandparents to emigrate. I reside in the US most likely because my biological parents were poor in China and could not afford a girl. If I really let my brain analyze, almost every good thing that has happened to me is the result of others’ struggles. The food I eat? The clothes I like? The chromebook I use to write? All the work of underpaid laborers. I have taken numerous mindfulness and wellbeing courses and the guidance I am provided over and over is to be grateful. Gratitude is what will make me happy. I hunger for gratefulness. It’s a simple solution to a complex world. Yet, something snags me. How can gratitude make me happy when, inherently, suffering is the reason for my pleasure? At times, I have trouble comprehending the good in the world, in other people, and especially in myself when there has always been and still exists pain. I know I can’t solve Earth’s problems on my own and I admire all the people who are stronger than me who encourage me to continue. I crave the hope that carries these remarkable people like Angela Davis, Malala Yousafzai, Ceyenne Dorsohow, Crystal Echo Hawk, and so many more. Compared to them, I feel like I am a child lost in a forest with a dark canopy bearing down on me. Ghosts flit around me crying for love and affection and the stars glimmering above me are hidden. Yet, when I take the moment to breathe, I can feel the chilled, but soothing air. I can smell the crisp flowers and hear the little crickets. The ghosts are still there, but my senses empower me to listen to them. As I keep walking, I may not be able to see the stars-- maybe they are unattainable-- but I can see the beauty drifting around me that inspires me to continue moving. The ghosts simply needed someone to listen, to care, to act. Their stories are sad and painful as well as full of love and strength. I wish they lived in a world where they did not have to be so strong. I can only control myself and what I do and by allowing the little sparks of hope to invigorate me, I can keep listening and I can keep moving. Getting eternally lost in my desperation helps no one. I am grateful for the air, the flowers, the crickets. I am grateful for this moment of spirit. Even when I fall back into despair, I can remember that hope, like pain, drifts and it will come back. Thank you for reading! If you like my essay, please don't be afraid to give it a share. Comments are always welcome and I love hearing your thoughts. Question: When was a time hope drifted for you?
Author's Note: This essay is inspired by Camille T. Dungy's poem "Characteristics of Life." I speak for the clouds, glowing purple and orange outside my rain-splattered window. They drift across the sky inch-by-inch, unaware of the darkness that encroaches. Dipping into a pool of milky deep blue, they sigh and pause for a moment. I have only a minute to smile at these beauties before they flutter away. The clouds are ever-present. Even on a blue-sky day, I can see little white weeds poking through, defying others' wishes. Some might consider them invasive, but they are present and they are beautiful. They rise up in song despite their small size. I speak for the clouds even when they are gray with worry. Their bellies darken with rage and rain collapses from underneath them. They have so many thoughts they just need to get out. I speak for the clouds that exist in darkness, in emptiness, and, of course, in the sky. Thank you for reading! If you like my essay, please don't be afraid to give it a share. Comments are always welcome and I love hearing your thoughts. Question: Do you find beauty in clouds?
I am twelve and hiking the White Mountains. Sweat slips down my forehead and my polyester shirt is heavy against my skin. My backpack straps burn my waist and my shoes thud against the stone ground. Yet, I am alright. Although I am last in line among the ten campers in our group, two of my counselors have stayed beside me. With their belief in me, positive spirits, and knowledge, I know I will be okay. That hiking trip, although physically and emotionally exhausting, was one of the best summer camp activities I was privileged to experience. The week before the trip, the counselors had taken us on numerous day hikes and facilitated multiple team-building exercises. We visited Wachusett and the Fells. We played games that forced us to work together to solve mysteries. By the time we left for the White Mountains, we were all prepared. Using my counselors as examples, I understood that the best leaders are those who trust and inspire their followers and guide them with knowledge. Trust is a huge part of leadership. If during the hike, my counselors told me I was not going to make it to the next resting point or that because of my small height, they were already predicting I would slow them down, they would have lost my respect for them and hindered the group dynamics. Fortunately, my leaders learned to trust and believe in me and, throughout our trip, they assured me that I would complete the expedition. The fact we had a week before our journey to bond emphasizes the importance of leaders putting aside time to build trust with their followers. During that week, my counselors discovered my love of reading, so when we arrived at the White Mountains, they told stories about red balls, William Tell, and Zorro in order to comfort me during our trek. I felt cared for by them and in turn, I trusted my counselors. When I became an art camp counselor at fifteen-years-old, I used the lessons I attained on that hiking trip about trust to guide me. At my first lunch recess, I gazed at the kids running around everywhere. My heartbeat quickened and I fiddled with my red lanyard. The campers were moving too fast. Fearful, I did not even allow some of the kids to skip. This, naturally, upset them. Eventually, as I connected with the children and recognized their intelligence, I realized that I could find a balance between trusting the campers to jog safely and maintaining they are not running. That way, the children felt trusted and more willing to bond and talk with me, but I still could watch out for their security. Leaders must also motivate their followers if any tasks are to be completed. In my senior year, as a co-founder of my high school’s Asian American Club, I was constantly testing what activities inspired participation. I learned very early on that most people in the club found group discussions to be disengaging, but events like potlucks and card game tournaments to be entertaining. By taking the time to discover what aroused motivation, planning activities became much easier and members became more likely to participate. Additionally, through my experience as a club leader, I observed how confidence is necessary to inspire followers. During the first Asian American Club meeting, I remember standing off to the side of the room filled with students with my hands shaking and my voice trembling. It was a Friday afternoon following a long week of school and I was worried that everything I had planned would crumble. Sure enough, with my very visible nerves, I had a difficult time motivating members to participate in the group discussion. Yet, a few weeks later, after I had time to feel more comfortable in my role, I was able to stand in the front of the classroom and with a clear voice, lead a successful trivia game. The club’s member engagement only blossomed from that moment. We went from no one wanting to participate to everyone laughing and babbling each meeting. In reaction to my confidence and my time figuring out my members’ interests, the club’s motivation became strong. If not for my counselors’ knowledge, I would never have gotten off the White Mountains. I watched them lead the way for us gaggle of preadolescents. As we slipped down wet rocks, they provided us with tips to safely descend. When rain lashed against our jackets and filled streams to the brim, the counselors knew the best ways to jump across the water unscathed. While the counselors, of course, carried and consulted a map, they also had years of personal experience on the trail to advance their knowledge. Their knowledge was the foundation for their other leadership qualities. Their wisdom spurred my willingness to trust them and my motivation to keep going even when the path seemed difficult. Without being informed, they would not have had the confidence to inspire us to continue. Even simple facts they knew like the scientific names of trees and salamanders gave me faith in their abilities. It is no surprise then that I think of my counselors when I need examples of strong leaders. In my own leadership positions, whether as a camp counselor or a club leader, I try to exert that same aura of trust, inspiration, and knowledge. Before entering a club meeting, I make sure I have a plan and a backup plan. To prepare for being a camp counselor, I confirm that I am well-versed in the camp’s protocols. After all, whose faith could I gain and who could I motivate if I know nothing? Thanks to my hiking counselors, I now understand that what all the best leaders need is a sprinkle of trust to bond with their followers, inspiration to encourage their supporters, and, finally, knowledge to guide everyone. Thank you for reading! If you like my essay, please don't be afraid to give it a share. Comments are always welcome and I love hearing your thoughts. Question: What does leadership mean to you?
The sky paints itself gold and notes reverberate from the dark wooden belly of my piano. I am nine again. Life trickles simply around me and the metronome ticks steadily along beside me. Yet, discord still seeps into this haven. I have lost the tempo. My heart thumps and my fingers tingle as I try to regain the beat. Little do I realize that this imbalance is a beauty of its own. I often think back to that brief period of time I played piano. As my world widens beyond that instrument and I struggle to find tranquility in a world rife with conflict, I have come to recognize the importance of the discord that I had abhorred. In order to have true civil discourse, a time of bonding that results in learning for all involved parties, acceptance of disagreement is essential. In my family, stubbornness and oversensitivity made civil discourse a rare occurrence. As a Chinese adoptee, I struggled to admit the loss I felt about not knowing my birth parents. Believing voicing my concerns with my adoptive parents would be fruitless, I resorted to Twitter. So at sixteen-years-old, I published a strand of tweets condemning the system named adoption. Minutes after I pressed “post,” my mother, furious about what she just read, stomped over to my father’s study. The rest of the night consisted of one-sided arguments and tears. The next evening, my mother and I watched a pro-adoption movie. Neither my mother nor I had made space for civil discourse those two nights. My mother had been locked in her belief that she was right. How could adoption ever be bad? After all, she had opened her life to two strangers. By showing me that pro-adoption video, she created little room for disagreement. Meanwhile, I had never spoken up. I hid behind my computer and Twitter and did not argue against watching that movie. Just as I stressed over not keeping the beat while playing the piano, I had been intimidated by discord. Life ticked on after those nights and I learned that the stubbornness and oversensitivity that plagued my family afflicted others, too. Always finding safety in books, I became involved in the extreme progressive Twitter-sphere that surrounds young adult fiction. In December 2019, J. K. Rowling tweeted support for a woman who made the transphobic claim that “people cannot change their biological sex” (Coleman, Clive). In the next couple of days, I watched on Twitter as many showered transgender creators with love while others tweeted things along the lines of “J. K. Rowling should die in a hole.” The latter response conveys just as little empathy as J. K. Rowling’s tweet did and provides no opening for conversation and growth. Although bigotry is difficult to have civil discourse about due to its deeply personal nature and marginalized people should not feel beholden to educate others, if all parties, especially the prejudiced and privileged, are willing to listen and learn even if they do not agree, then acceptance can flourish. The inability to listen to those who are different can have drastic impacts on a global scale. Japan’s conflict between Korean Japanese and ethnic Japanese highlights this fact. In Tokyo and Osaka, small communities of Koreans regularly face discrimination. Korean children who were born in Japan cannot wear their traditional clothes outside of school in fear of ridicule. Not finding a home in Japan, the Koreans look for aid and sympathy in North Korea. It’s a “cycle,” Vox Borders explains. Japanese discriminate against Koreans in Japan. The Koreans in Japan support North Korea. As a result of this alliance, Japanese further discriminate against Koreans (Harris, Johnny). Similar to the J. K. Rowling situation, in this case, with no one, particularly the Japanese with privilege, exhibiting a willingness to pause and listen in spite of cultural differences, civil discourse cannot take place and the cycle cannot end. When the existence of discord is accepted and disagreeing parties are able to speak and listen, true bonding and education transpire. In January 2020, I discovered unsettling truths about my adoption. My orphanage had engaged in “baby trafficking” and many adoption papers, possibly mine, were falsified. Sitting in the car with my fingers trembling, I was not sure if I could voice what I unearthed to my mom. I took the chance. As the sun set outside the window, my mother and I were truthful to one another. I admitted how disturbed I was and my mother did not invalidate me. While we disagreed on the probability of my own abandonment being a result of unethical means, we still were able to listen and accept our differences. My mother learned more about my personal feelings and I recognized how discord, when welcomed, can be beautiful. Works Cited Coleman, Clive. “Maya Forstater: Woman Loses Tribunal over Transgender Tweets.” BBC News, BBC, 19 Dec. 2019, www.bbc.com/news/uk-50858919. Harris, Johnny, director. Inside North Korea's Bubble in Japan. YouTube, Vox, 31 Oct. 2017, youtu.be/qBfyIQbxXPs Thank you for reading! If you like my essay, please don't be afraid to give it a share. Comments are always welcome and I love hearing your thoughts. Question: Do you think discord and beauty can co-exist?
Sometimes danger is like a bumble bee, something small that you barely notice trembling in front of you. Around you are metallic walls that protect you from the battering wind. Yet, the bumble bee, light and swift, slips into your haven. You can see its stinger angled toward you and you tremble. Are you its next victim? You wish you hadn't locked out the wind. The wind could have saved you and whisked the threat away. But now, all you can see is the hairy yellow and black form of your enemy. But there is something that I want you to imagine. You are back outside. Can you feel that wind tangling around your body? It's forcing you into directions you refuse to go. It's yanking you apart. Then you look up and see a sanctuary on a hill. Solid silver walls. Enough room for at least ten people, so you slink up the slope to the shelter. Maybe the bumble bee isn't the threat. Maybe it's just like you, a being in need of a haven. Thank you for reading! If you like my essay, please don't be afraid to give it a share. Comments are always welcome and I love hearing your thoughts. Question: What would you do about the bumble bee?
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AuthorI'm Darcy Ridge, creating stories that all revolve around family and identity in a myriad of ways. In the past, I have shared multiple stories and published a novella online. You can find me on Wattpad and many other social media websites. They/them [Image Description: black background with the words "Social Justice and Mental Health Resources" in white in the center /end ID]
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