2020
ISSUE
Book of the Year
January 2020
A Thousand Splendid Suns
by Khaled Hosseini
Journalism Feature
The Insidious Consequences of Inequality
by Iris Peng
February 2020
Upon looking into a typical high school located in the eastside suburbia outside of Seattle, one witnesses a myriad of advanced courses taken by the majority, guidance counselors that hold individual meetings to evaluate the wellbeing of students, and thousands of dollars’ worth of textbooks piled in the back of each classroom, pristine and unused. As one of these students roaming around said suburban high school, I find that both myself and those around me often forget that we live in a bubble shielded from the realities of the education system.
The key issue that our public education system encounters currently is the drawing of district lines, which contributes to a subtle but significant form of de-facto segregation. The origins of this problem arose from the 1974 Milliken v. Bradley Supreme Court case, which ruled on a 5-4 decision that school districts were not obligated to desegregate unless proven that the district lines were purposefully drawn with racist intent. Therefore, although there could be integration actions such as forced busing within district lines, the separation of districts could still contribute to socio-economic segregation—exactly what is happening in the status quo.
A century ago the drawing of district lines would have had less of an impact on educational opportunities. However, the 1950s-60s period of white flight altered this outcome. Due to the imbalance in demographics between urban centers and the suburbs, the way district lines were drawn allowed middle-class Caucasian students to attend school together, leaving behind lower-class minorities in urban districts. Consequently, the lowest-ranked high school in a neighboring suburbia could have a higher educational quality than the city’s best.
You may ask, what are the factors that contribute to these educational differences? The first issue is the quality of the teachers. Because suburban residents tend to pay higher property tax, their districts can direct more funding to pay for highly qualified faculty with more experience or higher professional degrees. Additionally, this contributes to the number of advanced (honors, AP, and IB) courses and programs available, because teachers must be able to handle teaching rigorous classes, while districts must pay for the curriculum material. Similarly, suburban school districts often have talented and gifted programs that further the achievement gap between socio-economic classes. Perhaps the most significant contributor to resource disparity is access to modern technology. While several wealthy districts provide free laptops or tablets, students from poorer districts are forced to use outdated physical textbooks to complete homework, which is time-consuming and not specific to current standardized curricula. These factors make it nearly impossible for students in impoverished communities to compare academically to districts that are flooded with overabundance in funding.
When zooming out to the larger scale and magnitude, the achievement gap locks the lower-class, which is largely made up of minorities and marginalized communities, into a cycle of poverty. The capitalist mindset of our country favors individuals who are productive and contribute to the economy. For students, value is measured through test scores and grades that supposedly provide a “preview” to their future success. Those who cannot show educational achievement are abandoned by teachers and by society, instead trapped in the school to prison pipeline, which blocks them from achieving the social mobility required to break racial inequality in the long run. Even though there are several current solutions working towards diminishing de-facto segregation such as affirmative action and the Fair Housing Act, none of these are fully effective regarding the terminal goal. Instead, we must attack the root cause, starting from inequity at youth.
Although the final verdict for dismantling current district lines depends on legislators and the justice system, there are several methods for everyone to contribute to making the process more effective. Because most citizens are unaware of the issue’s implications, the first step I will take is spreading awareness. As someone who participates in competitive policy debate, one immediate action I can take in the debate space is popularizing the argument that the road to combat poverty starts at the institutional segregation of districts. Additionally, I run a blog that garners hundreds of views per month specifically dedicated to discussing social issues, which acts as a platform to bring more light to this specific civil rights topic.
Finally, on the political scale, I may not be able to vote yet, however in the meantime I can endorse certain legislators, movements, and acts. This includes supporting state congressmen who are determined to fight urban poverty and want to pour education funds to disadvantaged city schools. One specific movement that serves as a solution is the Sheff Movement, which promotes integration efforts across districts in Hartford, Connecticut through Open Choice. By supporting the movement in my community and on other platforms, I can bring attention to potential models that more districts can adopt. Furthermore, I will spread my dissent toward the ESSA and other accountability measures that punish students with low test scores instead of attacking the root cause to the achievement gap, as well as publicize disagreement voucher programs that take away resources from traditional systems and perpetuate white flight from public schools. Promotion or opposition can be spread through publishing pamphlets and educational material that outline the benefits or consequences of these programs and acts.
Ultimately, the fight towards true equality will not be an easy one. American society was founded on centuries of institutional barriers and ingrained racism, which will likewise take decades to deconstruct. But now is not the time to give up. We are only halfway to our goal; we have only partially broken down the walls of oppression. As Martin Luther King said, and as former President Barack Obama echoed, “unity is the great need of the hour.” Only unity can tumble the invisible walls that divide our education system.
Lyric of the Year
March 2020
"Magic Shop"
BTS
Love Yourself
Film Feature
Female Genital Mutilation
Chen Jin
April 2020
The documentary is based on Female Genital Mutilation, a cultural norm in Maasai, Kenya. It is a kind of surgery that signifies the growth of Maasai women but at the same time, significantly affect women's health. I went there during the spring break and was accommodated by a local guide. He introduced me to the villagers of Maasai and I interviewed about 30 of them. I learned about Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) when I was conducting my field research in Nairobi, Kenya. When a local activist told me about this ritual, I was lost for words. Over that summer, I threw myself into all kinds of books and documentaries about FGM. The FGM-affected women kept reminding me of women I met in Nairobi who were reduced to political, social, and economic powerlessness. I decided to revisit Kenya to shoot a documentary about FGM. I wanted to hear and record the stories from women who were circumcised, indignant girls who refused to be circumcised, and villagers who still upheld this tradition.
Fiction Feature
The Comedian
by Caleb Lee
May 2020
When he was a child, he enjoyed watching late night comedy shows with his father. Although he was much too young to understand the jokes, he liked hearing his father’s hearty laugh—a light that momentarily filled the void of their empty house. They would sit side-by-side on the worn, brown couch his father had hauled home from 62nd Street and watch The Tonight Show from the small television his father had picked up from 134th Avenue. His mother thought the couch had bedbugs—which it did—and the television was dysfunctional—which it was—and demanded that his father take the junk back to where he found them.
“No,” said his father. “I can fix it.”
He and his father spent long nights picking out the bedbugs and patching the cushions where cotton stuck out. They eventually did fix the television, although the screen was dim and the sound crackled with static. But to them, it did not matter. He put his head on his father’s shoulders and his father put his arms around his son’s. Together they watched The Tonight Show long into the night, until his father eventually fell asleep, and the house reverted to its hollow void.
-
When he was a teenager, his father died. They told him it was a heart attack—but they did not know for sure. They only knew that it happened suddenly, and at work. A week after his father died, his family held a funeral, although only three other people showed up. It was his first funeral, and he did not know what to do. When he looked to God for help, rain mixed with tears and flowed down his face, onto the ground where his father was buried. He thanked God for the rain; he did not want his mother to see him cry, although he cried just the same.
At school, the kids laughed at him because he did not have a father and he was stupid and he never talked. He did not say anything back. He laughed with them.
“What’s so funny?” they said. When he didn’t respond, they punched him across the jaw, and blood erupted from his mouth forming rivers on the sidewalk. He collapsed onto the rough cement, leaving deep scratches on his arms and legs. When he got up from the ground, he smiled. He did not want them to see that he was hurt, although it hurt him just the same. They laughed at him. “Fucking dumbass.”
After school, he went to work, and after work he went back home. It was night already, and when he entered the front door, he found his mother at the dining table, crying. He sat next to his mother and embraced her. She buried her head in his arms and cried—broken gasps of pain and sorrow. He wanted to make his mother laugh, but he could no longer sit on their worn, brown couch and turn on their small television as he used to. They had sold the couch, and the television had stopped working.
-
When he was in his twenties, he met his wife. He sat at a small café downtown, quietly sipping on a cup of black coffee. He gazed outside at the dark, city street, watching people stroll in and out of sight, then refocused his eyes on the reflection of his face cast by the warm, yellow light onto the glass window. He fixed his hair and flashed a confident smile, yet his reflection smiled back nervously. When she walked into the café, he stood up immediately. She walked over to him.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” she said.
“You look different from your picture.”
She laughed. “So do you.”
They sat down.
“You look very pretty,” he said.
She laughed. “And so do you.”
Although they met for the first time, it was not awkward between the two. They talked for hours about likes and dislikes, pet peeves and interests, pastimes and occupations, friends and families, dreams and aspirations. Between sips of coffee and bites of scones, they shared their deepest and darkest secrets, and their strongest and brightest motivations.
“What do you live for?” she asked him.
He thought about this for a long time. “I want to make people laugh,” he said.
“Then you should do that,” she said.
“Maybe I will.”
When cups of coffee ran low and only crumbs were left on the plates, they decided that it was getting late. He walked her back home, for she lived in the city, and they promised to see each other again. They parted ways. As he sauntered to the bus stop, he smiled to himself. He realized that it had been a long time since he felt this happy.
-
When he was in his thirties, he became a successful comedian. Propelled by the boundless support of his wife, he wrote jokes during the day and performed at night. His name spread through different clubs and bars like wildfire, and he eventually became the most highly sought-after comedian in the entire city. When a talent representative scouted him during an act, his popularity rose to incredible levels. He went on to perform across the country in its largest metropoles: New York, Las Vegas, Seattle, Chicago. His stand-up acts were broadcasted into every home in the country, and millions of people laughed upon watching him perform. And he loved every moment of it.
-
When he was in his forties, he grew bitter. Every act felt the same; his jokes became lifeless, and his performances turned monotonous. The audience still laughed. No matter what he did, or what he said, the audience clapped their hands and held their stomach and threw their heads back and opened their mouths and laughed. To him, their hysterical giggles and fits of laughter sounded robotic. They were puppets—their laughter was not real. The moments before going up on stage that used to make him shake with adrenaline now filled him with dreadful hostility. The sounds of laughter that had once made his heart race now penetrated his ears and pricked at his brain like needles.
He became depressed. He drank too much. He had an affair with a much younger woman, whom he had met at a show in Miami. His wife found out. She accused him of being selfish, and egotistical. He ignored her. She screamed at him, asking if he cared for her at all. He said nothing. She begged him to say something—anything. He remained silent. She cried tears of desperation. He did not comfort her.
“Maybe we should get a divorce,” she said.
After some deliberation, he said, “Yes.”
Although she still loved him, and he loved her, he packed his belongings and disappeared into the black vacuum of the night.
-
When he was in his fifties, he slowly faded to oblivion. Shining billboards that had once advertised his act like stars in space crumbled with age, and colorful paint that displayed his name in glorious writing washed away with years of harsh weather and rain. He continued to perform stand-up at small bars, although nearly no one came. After every act, he went back home, and fell asleep. Every night by himself, regrets haunted his dreams like ghosts.
On a particularly stormy night after a show, he passed a narrow alley, at which he felt a light nudge to his head.
“Give me everything you’ve got,” the robber said, cocking his gun.
He complied. He put his hands to his head and turned towards the robber.
“Take anything you want.” He took his wallet out of his pocket and threw it on the ground. Then, the robber pulled the trigger.
He felt the shock of the gunshot through his abdomen, feeling at once overheated and frighteningly cold as blood tie-dyed his white shirt. Gasping for breath and holding the gunshot wound with a shaking hand, he turned the corner into a narrow alleyway. He took refuge behind the cushions carelessly thrown beside the garbage dumpsters—blood dripped from the back of his hands and tainted the already heavily soiled pillows. As his vision was blurring he desperately looked around for help, but the only consolidation was the street sign for 62nd Street, slowly moving out of focus. With his last breath, he let out a hearty laugh—a light that momentarily filled the void of the empty alleyway.
Word of the Year
July 2020
Elysian
Poetry Feature
with admiration
by Hannah Schoettmer
August 2020
Imagine: you are also a girl, young
and left to rot. There are neighbors
down the street with keen noses
who will find you, far in the future—
twisted but uncorrupted, still firm.
I found a body part once,
a single vertebra washed up on
a rural sand beach, unseen—
I do not know who owned it.
On that beach I also found:
fields of crab carcasses, disrespected,
torn by gulls. I also found:
a moment where I remembered
skinning my knee as a child—
vulnerable, wailing.
I spent time with my feet in the water
when I was on vacation
relearning how seeds work:
you plant many in a field
hoping one or two survive the drought
and continue on.
Humor Feature
September 2020
Macbeth
William Shakespeare
Visual Arts Feature
Hellions
Melissa Wang
October 2020
Throughout the years, art has been a constant. I can see myself moving forward every day with every pencil I set to paper, and that’s why I love art so much. It’s so fluid and individual that I don’t need to have a destination; I can have ten role models or none at all; or I can try several different media and still not have to choose one; improvement in one area sees growth in another. Art is inspiring to me, whether it is someone else’s art or my own, and it is another form of expression with infinite possibility.
