2018
ISSUE
Book of the Year
January 2018
Educated
Tara Westover
Journalism Feature
Reach Out to the Experts
by Kavya Srikanth
February 2018
On World Mental Health Day, we stress the need for counsellors in high schools to address broader issues of depression and other woes.
In a world where cut-throat competition is the order of the day and marks play a vital role in shaping students’ future, it is no secret that Indian youth face mounting pressure to excel in academics and secure a notable position in a respectable field. “The common concept is that if you’re able to give a decent education to your children, then they will have a better life,” explains Dr. Lakshmi Vijayakumar, a Chennai-based psychiatrist and the founder of Sneha, a foundation dedicated to suicide prevention. However, this mentality, while proven to be constructive at times, can also have disastrous effects. India has some of the world’s highest instances of unhealthy stress, anxiety, depression, and suicide amongst youth. The issue of mental health among Indian students needs increasing awareness, especially in large southern cities like Chennai.
Tamasaa Ramanujam, a former high school student, explains that examination stress and the pressure to achieve is likely to be one of the leading causes of mental health issues amongst teens. She points out that though there is often a focus on accomplishment in examinations, the resulting anxiety and depression are brought up “quite rarely…maybe once a year.” Tamasaa isn’t alone. Other students, including fellow graduate Varshini, agree that “the educational system focuses entirely on marks,” adding that practical knowledge and improved counselling programmes should be offered by schools.
CBSE announced that all secondary schools under its umbrella must have at least one part-time counsellor available on campus. Commendably, other schools, mostly private institutions, have followed this lead. In fact, all students and schools interviewed stated that there was a school counsellor employed. Whether or not students feel comfortable approaching the counselor, however, is a different issue.
“Not many approached the counsellor if they needed help,” says Tamasaa. “I don’t think most of them ever knew there was a counsellor.” Unfortunately, the situation in Tamasaa’s school reflects those in most other institutions that were interviewed. Why students fail to establish contact with their school counsellor is a question that needs to be addressed not only in Chennai, but in schools worldwide.
There are multiple possible answers — a large student-counsellor ratio, fear of being ridiculed by peers, or maybe the presence of only one counsellor per school regardless of the school’s population. However, the key reason is most likely the relationship between students and faculty.
The principal of a small local institution states that the issue lies in students’ reluctance to speak openly about their problems. “They are not at all open unless we talk to them for a long period,” she says.
Tamasaa disagrees. She believes that the crux of the problem is that the counsellors are ill-equipped to deal with depression — they aid children with career choices but rarely address heavier issues regarding mental health. Moreover, the counsellors at Tamasaa’s school did not have a list of mental health experts to contact, in case children needed professional help. If a student does want professional assistance, it is extremely hard for them to receive that assistance independently.
“Normally, if the student meets outside experts, they won’t take them unless the school refers them…otherwise parents’ consent must be given,” says the principal of a K-12 institution.
Though private institutions have gained some ground in counselling programmes, the same cannot be said about government and government-aided schools. Unfortunately, speaking to students from this school was not permitted, so the only information about mental health programmes in these schools came from principals and faculty members.
“We don’t have a counsellor,” says an administrator of a government-aided establishment. “As an independent school, we don’t have any such [mental health] programmes, because we are under the government.”
A teacher at the same school adds that the government sends its own representatives to educate the school’s students about a myriad topics such as AIDS awareness, life skills, and stress management — but the teacher did not mention depression or suicide. Who do students turn to if they have a mental health or personal issue?
“All the teachers,” responds the administrator. The teachers are given training every six months on how to spot students who may be suffering from anxiety, depression, and similar issues. The scenario is better in other government-aided schools that have a counsellor, or at least an off-campus resource for students to cope with stress — but counselling programmes have not reached a level of consistency and universality.
A solution to this issue is holding seminars on mental health. For instance, Tamasaa states that her school has “a few workshops… psychologists from the city come and conduct workshops and how to handle stress."
She adds that these workshops are mandatory, which means that students will become more educated on mental health regardless of whether or not they consider those issues important. However, the seminars, according to Tamasaa, are “very basic” and don’t discuss topics such as suicide and depression head-on. Is this due to a taboo against suicide and depression? The answer to that question remains obscure.
“India is a great country, and we produce brilliant minds,” says a founding member of a mental health organisation in India. He/she is right—India has experienced overwhelming occupational success, becoming one of the leading technology centres of the globe and holding a reputation for producing top-class professionals.
Yes, this achievement stems largely from a rigorous schooling system. However, it is important that these accomplishments do not blanket the struggles of many students who are buckling under the pressure to succeed.
Lyric of the Year
March 2018
"This Is Me"
Keala Settle
The Greatest Showman
Photography Feature
March For Our Lives
Sterling Yun
April 2018
Fiction Feature
Together
by Cheyenne Zhang
May 2018
He drew in his sketchbook. He drew in his sketchbook, the brand new glossy black one that his dad had gotten him for Christmas even though he’d asked for the newest speediest set of toy cars that made vroom vroom noises as they sped around the track. He drew in his sketchbook even though he’d told his dad ten million times that no, he did not want to draw, and he didn’t want to be an artist even though art was Dad’s favorite thing in the entire world it wasn’t his thing and sorry Dad he just didn’t really like art. He drew in his sketchbook with a cracked, dirty number two pencil that he had picked up off the ground in his classroom when he’d discovered when he opened it for snack time that Dad had stuffed the sketchbook into his backpack and that okay fine he had nothing else to do right then so why not? He drew in his sketchbook, little doodles and lines and circles at first, but as time went on, his lines became straighter and straighter, his circles rounder and rounder, his strokes surer and surer. He drew in his sketchbook, cats and dogs and monsters and aliens and tyrannosaurus rexes. He drew in his sketchbook, the characters from his favorite books and movies and shows and video games, sometimes recreating them exactly as they appeared and sometimes taking the creative liberties to give them new accessories or physical features or putting them in places they didn’t belong. He drew in his sketchbook, Harry Potter at the beach, Indiana Jones walking a dog, Luke Skywalker with extra lightsabers. He drew in his sketchbook everything that passed through his mind, but he made sure that he never showed it to anyone.
He drew in his sketchbook, waiting in the faded red chairs in the lobby for his mom and dad to come out of counseling which they had started going to recently because the yells and screams in the house had become so loud that the rest of the neighborhood could hear and the next-door-neighbor had called and complained and when he found out why there was such a racket he had sympathized and sighed and suggested this man, this man who was “fantastic, just fantastic, did wonders for my daughter and her husband.” He drew in his sketchbook, fat raindrops and thunderstorms and sad faces and dark clouds, burning fires and angry monsters. He drew in his sketchbook while his mom ignored him and his dad yelled at him, burying himself in the world of his pages and shutting everything else out. He drew in his sketchbook sitting on the school bus on the way to school, caricatures of the mean boys who always sat in the back and kicked his seat and hit him on the head and screamed in his ear and pinched his cheeks. He drew in his sketchbook, miniature versions of his teachers with fire coming out of their mouths, with mustaches and unibrows and curly pig tails. He drew in his sketchbook at home, too, but whenever his dad asked to see he would slam it closed and say that he hadn’t been drawing that art was stupid and run to the other room. He drew in his sketchbook, hiding under his blanket with a flashlight as the yells and screams in his parents’ bedroom escalated through the night, scrawling ghosts and demons and monsters in broad strokes and angry slashes across the paper. He drew in his sketchbook, little figures of his classmates, hearts and sparkles around the pretty girl with the pigtails who sat in front of him in class. He drew in his sketchbook, a broken heart and sad faces after he pulled on her pigtails and she’d turned around and glared and snapped at him and told him to get his hands off of her and mind his own business when all he’d meant to do was to touch them and see what they felt like. He’d never touched a girl’s hair before. He drew in his sketchbook rough versions of his dad’s works, copied his beautiful landscapes and sunsets and oceans, but couldn’t get the colors quite right with his set of Crayola colored pencils. He drew in his sketchbook, using the brand new 64-set of Prismacolor pencils that he’d borrowed (stole) from his dad’s studio, finally able to get the same bright lights and dark shadows, the same deep, luscious greens and soft blues. He drew in his sketchbook, no longer able to convince his dad that he didn’t draw and when he asked to see, he showed his dad the pirates and superheroes and aliens but never what really mattered, never the ghosts that haunted his dreams, the demons that chased him in and out of sleep. He drew in his sketchbook while his parents were talking with their lawyer, a big man with big hands and a big head and a big mouth and who always wore a suit and showed papers to his parents talking about “assets” and “splitting” and “custody.” He drew in his sketchbook when his mom told him that she would be moving out and that she wouldn’t be going far, just down the street, but that she and dad didn’t love each other anymore and that everything would be okay he would split his time between them she would still be his mom and he would still be his dad they just would have to live in different houses and see each other at different times. He drew in his sketchbook, a quaint depiction of his mom’s new house with the tulips in the front and the swing on the porch and the small rooms and the smell of “new” everywhere inside and out. He drew in his sketchbook, his imaginary friends who would make the loneliness go away, the loneliness even though he had two parents, two houses, two rooms, two lives.
He drew in his sketchbook, but when he noticed the pigtailed girl peering over his shoulder to try to see what he was doing he closed it quickly, scrambled out of his seat and scurried towards the bathroom. He drew in his sketchbook, a quick drawing of the girl and the tilt of her head and how her eyes had sparkled in the light before tucking the sketchbook away in his backpack, flushing the toilet even though he hadn’t used it, and hurrying back to class. He drew in his sketchbook, making sure the pigtailed girl wasn’t in the room when he did so that she wouldn’t have any chance to be nosy and see what he was doing. He drew in his sketchbook, the tigers and giant pandas and whales and elephants, the endangered species that they had learned about in science class that day. He drew in his sketchbook, and when he took the second to look up and take a stretching break, he noticed the pigtailed girl in front of him drawing pandas and whales too. He drew in his sketchbook, but all the meanwhile peeking at her paper. He drew in his sketchbook, trying out her soft, flowing style. He drew in his sketchbook and she caught him looking at her paper, turned around to see his, and shook her head and began smoothing out his lines and rough edges. He drew in his sketchbook, combining his strokes with hers, but made sure it was still his style, was still what he liked and wanted.
He drew in his sketchbook with her. He drew in his sketchbook with her, trading his pencil back and forth as they, together, created fire-breathing dragons with flowers sprouting out of their backs, castles with long-haired princesses in flowy pink dresses and muscular knights in shining armor to rescue the damsels in distress. He drew in his sketchbook with her the next day, too, continuing their combined story and the characters they created and that came to life on their page. It was nice to draw with someone else, to share with someone else. He drew in his sketchbook with her every day at school after that, sitting on the steps out front or outside the principal’s office or at the swings at recess. He drew in his sketchbook with her during summer break too, sprawled on the field outside the neighborhood pool, him licking a bright red popsicle and her licking a rocket-shaped one, ones that he’d bought with spare change he’d found in his pocket. He drew in his sketchbook with her, lying on the porch swing in front of his mom’s house, watching the sunset, orange and red and pink and yellow streaks across the fading night sky. He drew in his sketchbook with her, finally knowing how it felt to always have someone there for you, to have a best friend through thick and thin. He drew in his sketchbook with her, drew things that he couldn’t say but wanted her to know, and she drew for him too, drew the flower at her mother’s grave, the wine glass in her father’s hand. He drew in his sketchbook with her because even though they went to different middle schools now they still lived in the same neighborhood and she would bike to his house or he would bike to her house and they’d spend the better part of their late afternoons drawing and talking and laughing. He drew in his sketchbook with her, drew himself in a dark cave, drew her stretching her hand out to him and leading him out of the darkness, the loneliness. He drew in his sketchbook with her, his darkest monsters and inner demons, and she drew him rainbows and sunshine and flowers and unicorns and he smiled.
They drew together at his mom’s house, they drew together at his dad’s house, they drew together at the lawyer’s office. They drew together on the sidewalk outside the bar, waiting for her father to come out like he said he would hours ago. They drew together at the police station, at the hospital, at the cemetery. They drew together, sharing more than a drawing, more than a story, but their entire lives, their entire existences. Together, they faced what one could not face alone. Together, they helped each other up when they fell down, pushed each other forward when they stepped back, lent a shoulder to cry on, a friend to rely on. Together, they drew.
Word of the Year
Vellichor
July 2018
Poetry Feature
A Paradoxical Dictionary of Peculiar Phobias
by Rachel Chen
August 2018
Chionophobia
n. fear of snow
The cheap felt hat and asymmetrically dead
twigs, masquerading as arms
hang evocative of the sinking sensation
of drafty boots enveloped in acerbic cold and
of the cavern gorging on his stomach as
squelching tires glide effortlessly on salt-dusted roads,
ambulance lights glaring
too bright
Chirophobia
n. fear of hands
Her fingers remind him of the slimy slickness of kelp
on sea-sprayed salt-crusted rocks
colored, blemished by translucent throbbing veins,
purple-blue rivers blossoming over
gouged wrinkles and protruding synovial joints, a web
of existentially splintering fissures
dancing, mesmerized, across two-toned
listless piano keys
Eisoptrophobia
n. fear of one's own reflection
Her room has no mirrors
but it is harder to avoid
the smudged glass of musty gas station bathrooms
a self-portrait, her teacher says
she cannot bear the paleness of
her complexion and the grotesque appearance of
her cheekbones long enough to put
brush to canvas, charcoal to paper.
Porphyrophobia
n. fear of the color purple
Black and white tiles and
ensconced wall lights illuminate
the grime coating faucet cracks and gilded
mirror frames, blur as his nostrils are accosted
by sharp, sickly fragrance,
a daze of rows of verticillastrate lavender
crucified on overcast leaves
in bloom
Somniphobia
n. fear of falling asleep
Light ghosts through the window blinds,
comforting in their regular orange hue
she forces her ossicles to concentrate on the faint
trickle of water dripping from the leaking pipe
not allowing herself to fall
dreading the numbing weightlessness, sensation
akin to drowning
unknowingly, unknowingly
asleep
Venustruphobia
n. fear of beautiful women
She was all stiletto heels and plum lipstick
jewelry roped, choking white skin
his jaw clenches, imagining the pulverizing sting of
those blood red manicured claws
her laugh, a heady mix of
sophistication and appetite rendered
him groveling, reverent, repulsed
intoxicated
Humor Feature
September 2018
Harry Potter
J.K. Rowling
Visual Arts Feature
The Dreamer
Catherine Yeh
October 2018
ON DISPLAY AT
Seattle Art Museum (2017)
Kenmore City Hall (2017 - 2018)
The Newcastle Library (2018)
“The Dreamer” aims to speak to the power of dreaming, especially as a child. As we grow older, we often lose the ability to see beauty and magic in our dreams. We lose faith in the mystical worlds we once fabricated where anything and everything was possible. We replace imagination with practicality and reality. But dreamers are the ones who hold the key to the future. Especially in bleak times, dreams have the power to pull us through. Dreaming allows us to retain hope, discover our purpose in life, pursue our passions, and above all, change the world.
Teen Activist of the Year
Shirley Chen
November & December
Shirley Chen is a first-generation Chinese-American. Growing up, she loved beauty, fashion, and magazines, but rarely saw girls who looked like her reflected in American media. She soon developed a passion for fashion, photography, and art-journaling. Inspired by conversations with close friends and empowering schoolmates, she established "Ai-Ya" for strong women of color to share their experiences, and hopefully provide support and inspiration to other young girls like her.
Nonfiction Feature
Not Your China Doll
Written by Shirley Chen
Photography by Ty Chen
From ages four to eight, I loved all things "girly." Everything had to be pink: my toy unicorn, my backpack, and my favorite Disney princess. I had never even seen "Sleeping Beauty," but her pink dress, blue eyes, blonde hair, and, of course, her name seemed to define what it meant to be beautiful. Thus, my definition of beauty became limited to any object that was blonde and blue-eyed.
I vividly remember sitting in my family's old "computer room," staring at our dingy Dell desktop screen, as I spent hours playing games on Barbie.com. I stared at Barbie's long blonde hair, not longing for my straight black hair to transform into her golden locks, but rather, knowing this to be a fact. I thought to myself, "Of course I will be beautiful someday," the meaning of which had morphed into "Of course I will be blonde someday."
But the universe seemed bent on setting this little Chinese girl back in her place.
On Christmas, I was gifted an "Oriental Barbie." While I didn't know what "oriental" meant, I knew that it felt strange. I mean, she was obviously different. She wore a long and red silk dress. Or was it orange? Pink? I looked at her so sparingly that I still cannot recall what she wore. But her face, that I remember clearly. Her black hied was tied to the nape of her neck in a low bun. Her brown eyes slanted upward slightly, accentuated by the faintest flick of black paint.
I resented her.
She sat on the shelf of my childhood bedroom, never once opened, collecting dust year after year.
Everything about her was wrong: she wasn't beautiful, she wasn't trendy, she wasn't pink, and most importantly, she wasn't blonde. She was meant to look like me, and it was for that reason alone that I could not stand to look at her. I felt as if that was the only way that other people in the world saw me: that one Asian girl. I was condemned to a life of eating dogs and bad driving, of "ching-chong-ling-long-ting-tong" and "tiger moms." To them, I was not even Chinese, just ambiguously Asian. To me, to be labeled "Chinese-American," with its culture-noun structure, was just as humiliating as to be sold as "Oriental Barbie." While Barbie girl got to travel around in her Barbie world, my world was confined to a 12-inch box of Asia, alone with my bridge-less nose, stick-straight hair, and almond-shaped eyes.
Miraculously, I still have my bridge-less nose and my stick-straight hair, and my almond-shaped eyes. Even though my younger self may have preferred blonde Barbie to this one, I would never abandon my culture. The red and gold on my qi-pao bring color to my life, the monolids on my eyes bring dimension. I have realized that while I can never be Barbie, I can also never be "Oriental Barbie." I am Chinese-American, I am myself, and I am beautiful. I am not some artifact from the "Orient": the fictitious land of exotica and racial profiling, of "Dragon Ladies" and "China Dolls." No matter what big brand marketers might say, girls are not dolls, not skewed perceptions of what beauty has to be, but rather, we are people, and our lives are not preset to factory settings.