Photography: 156 Moons After, by Sena Chang

 

Digital Art: Perfection (and others), by Celestia Jones (TW: GORE AND SEXUAL TRAUMA)

 

Photography: Summer of '15, by Sena Chang

 

Poetry: What Are You Really Afraid Of, by S.K. (TW: SEXUAL ASSAULT)

 

You sit on the edge of your bed

Staring into the mirror 

You get a chill then 

You feel his hands again 

The mirror says there's nothing there 

But since when are mirrors trustworthy

Then again everyone around you says 

“Trust the mirror, nothing's there” 

Followed by words of encouragement

That have unspoken undertones,

“You’re so strong” 

You victim 

“You’re making so much progress” 

You victim 

As time progresses it changes to 

“Maybe try doing this again” 

Alright it's been long enough 

“what are you afraid of” 

GET OVER IT 

That makes you ask yourself 

What are you really afraid of? 

No one's there 

But the feeling is all consuming 

So who's the problem? 

If nothing's there 

And no one is around 

And only you’re there 

What are you afraid of?

The only conclusion

It's me.

I am the problem 

I did this 

I am to blame for someone else’s actions

Credit is given where credit is due. 

       I’m sorry 

Photography: Steel Night, by Alice Jang

 

Fiction: Save Her, by Lucas Huang

When I was younger, my mother would always tell me to chew on my food slowly, so I can swallow it with ease. She would cut expensive steaks she ordered into bite size pieces and put them on my plate. I enjoyed eating, I enjoyed the food.

            I would laugh when the food I ordered amazed me. Sometimes I would even stop for a few seconds after I finish chewing, then close my eyes, lost in its wonder.

            Enchanted by its magic.  

           Content.

            True joy.

            I savored my food.

            Savor.

            By savoring my food, even plain old fried rice could send me to cloud nine. When I shut my eyes, I could hear sounds, voices. As if I traveled to a different environment.

Let’s use fried rice as an example again: When I put a spoonful of the food in my mouth, chewed thoroughly, then closed my eyes, I could hear the sound of wind rushing past my ears. I could hear the sound of plantations brushing against each other. Beyond that I could hear…

Nothing.

No chattering of customers.

No sounds of cars passing by.

No sounds of televisions playing commercials.

Nothing.

After I swallowed and I opened my eyes again, I was back in my seat, in the diner.

I loved savoring my food.

But I lost it all.

I lost it all.

Lost it all.

As time went by, I stopped savoring my food. Eating became a necessity, a hurdle placed before everyday tasks. Three meals a day turned into two, sometimes one.

Sometimes none at all.

Life became too busy for me to slow down and just… enjoy my food.

I started chewing fast, forcing every bite down my throat, thinking about what classes I have after lunch time, thinking about what homework is left and when to study my upcoming exams.

Business overwhelmed me, to a point I forgot I loved eating as a child.

Forgot that I enjoyed being lost in the wonders of simply savoring a dish, savoring a single bite in my mouth.

Once, I was sent far away from home during summer. I was sent to an engineering camp, since that was what my parents wanted me to study after high school.

I hated it, calculating things all day, classes after classes. Might as well not have summer at all.

I wasn’t particularly good at math, for that reason I was looked down upon.

I was a nobody.

Made no friends.

Made no progress.

I felt like a broken gear in a well oiled machine.

Detached.

And won’t be missed if it disappeared suddenly.

Lunch came. I entered the cafeteria, an ordinary diner with concrete floor and metal tables. I would have mistaken it as a prison diner at first glance.

Only one type of food was served that day.

Fish and chips.

I sat there alone, with a couple of deep fried fish in front of me on a tan colored tray.

There were other things on the tray. But the event that was about to happen made me forget what they were.

I sighed as I stared at my food. Golden nuggets. After I sliced one open with my fork I could see the white flesh of the fish.

Didn’t know prison food could make me salivate.

I placed a piece in my mouth.

Warm.

Warmth.

I shivered.

Chills down my spine.

I dropped my fork on the table with a clank.

I paused before chewing. My lips quivered slightly.

As I bit into the crisp bread batter.

Then into the tender fish.

I closed my eyes gently.

I chewed.

And chewed.

Chewed.

Then I heard crashing waves, calling of seagulls, boats bumping against each other, and the gentle breeze.

Out of shock I opened my eyes.

I gasped, with the chewed food in my mouth.

I was still sitting on the metal chair and dining on the metal table, but I wasn’t in the cafeteria. I was…

I was in front of the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.

Her golden hair long enough it reached her waist, and her fair skin white and radiant. Sunlight glittered off of her hair. She wore a white dress, and its loose sleeves swayed ever so gently in the zephyr.

In front of a pretty girl, at a fishing dock.

The food remained in my mouth.

“My name is…” She parted her pink lips and attempted to speak, her voice was frail.

Her voice shook.

My body shook.

“M… My name…” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she smiled. “You never opened your eyes… I… I was so lonely.”

Lonely. I was too lonely.

I wanted to cry.

I too, wanted the world to recognise my existence.

“Forget about worldly tasks.” The maiden dried her tears, “And… stay with me… Savor… Don’t leave me again. Don’t…”

I grasped her hands with mine, unable to speak as the food remained in my mouth.

She laughed, her laugh was softer than the wind, softer than the clouds in the sky.

“You have… saved me…” I managed to squeeze out these words.

“No, you saved… me.”

I swallowed.

Gone.

Gone.

I have gone back to the cafeteria.

Cold concrete and boisterous crowds.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because I savored my food once more.

I will continue to savor my food and separate myself from worldly pain.

I have saved her.

I saved her.

I savored.

Savor.

Saviour.

Savor.

Photography: Snapshots From Quarantine, by Helena Steger

 

Photography: The City Is Alive Again, By Lee D

 

Context: This image was shot on November 7th, 2020, capturing the joy people felt as they danced on the streets of New York City after hearing the news that Joe Biden won the election.

Poetry: Pearl, by Andrew R

she bleeds saltwater

her body is a broken boat

the seaweed threatens to strangle her

as each gracing wave sends her

further from the safety of the beach

she grasps at hope but it slips through her fingers

like loose sand in the unforgiving wind

yet she does not fear the coming storm

for she is used to falling quickly 

and keeps her head above water every time

and finds her way across the ocean despite it all

Photography: Favorite Bike Ride, by Lee D

 

Poetry: Trapped, by Rune Meltzer

Trapped,

Resisting the earthly constraints that bind me.

All around me,

Suspicious glances,

Greedy grins,

Everywhere, a vacuum sucking my individuality.

Never ceasing,

Doomed to starve this skin suit.

Ecstatic dogs gnaw at being.

Roaming, I feel my way around dark corners. 

 

Watercolor Painting: Your Eyes Tell, by Audrey Ku

 

Musician Feature: Sam Hurwitz

    Today's interview features Sam Hurwitz, a senior in high school and an incredibly talented and passionate songwriter. He's a writer as well as a musician, and his poetic lyrics and distinct voice shine through in his newly released songs, "Anaranjado" and "Forests on Antarctica," both of which can be found on Spotify by clicking here. Without further ado, meet Sam Hurwitz.

    What do you like about being a musician?

    What I love about being a musician is the ability to make something that wasn't there before. As with all creative endeavors, one is using their thoughts and feelings to make something new, even if it's not a physical object. Music allows me to do this not just with writing but with sound - melody, rhythm, instrumentation, and more. I am an avid music listener and I love the feelings music can give. I take inspiration from the music I listen to to use the medium to emit feelings and use it as a form of expression.

    What are some things that are hard for you when it comes to being a musician?

 

    Something that is hard about being a musician is that it sometimes is hard to feel like I'm doing something new. I like to make alternative folk songs, and often it feels like I'm repeating myself with the same chord progressions or melodies. Often this can result in writer's block, or a feeling that I'm not using music to its fullest potential.

    What's your favorite lyric from one of your songs?

 

    One of my favorite lyrics from one of my songs is "I know it's hard to remember to love these days" from the song "Peter" on my upcoming album. It's a simple lyric, but I think the power of lyrics is that they can take on a new meaning when paired with music. That lyric, when paired with the happy and victorious instrumentation of the song, conveys the theme of the song perfectly. The song is an ode to love, how sometimes everything is dark in the world and it's hard to remember to love someone else, especially within the context of LGBT relationships, when everything is so clouded by others' hatred and discriminations.

 

    Who are some other musicians that you look up to?

 

    My favorite artist is Jeff Tweedy of Wilco. My parents always played the band Wilco for me at a young age and it has always been my favorite band. I find inspiration in Tweedy both as a songwriter and as a person. I love his abstract lyrics, the way his music is different on each project, and above all, him as a person; he's authentic and real, with no nonsense. He stands up for what he believes in, and I feel that my values are very much aligned with his.

 

    How long have you been a musician? How strongly has music influenced your life overall?

 

    I've been a musician for as long as I can remember; even when I was a toddler I would strum a guitar, even if it sounded horrible! I began taking guitar lessons at age 6 and never stopped. I also began writing songs around then, and at age 10 I started learning piano at Lagond Music School. Lagond taught me a lot musically - I also took guitar, voice, and composition there, and I was part of a jazz band. Music is a huge part of my life. My parents aren't musicians but they love music and it has always been a huge part of our family. Going to music festivals is a family bonding experience for us. My family shares a lot of favorite artists, and listening to music as well as making it has always been among the areas where I am happiest.

    Are music and creative writing linked in some way for you? 

    Music and creative writing are very much linked for me. My love of music is due to my love of writing and creating. I love playing music, but I don't find satisfaction from just playing without writing. Creative writing and songwriting both feel like I am creating something new, expressing my feelings, and sharing with the world.

Musician Feature: Pluto Forest

Hi! Although Lit Space has primarily published visual art and writing so far, we’re always open to featuring original music written and/or performed by teenagers. And over the next few months, we’ll be interviewing young musicians about their experiences, their creative process, and their interpretation of the connection between music, visual art, and writing.

Today’s interview features Pluto Forest aka Foster, a seventeen-year-old singer/songwriter with a beautiful voice and a unique creative vision who’s recently released her very first single, “High Holy Days,” just in time for the Jewish high holidays! Shanah Tovah to all who celebrate, and without further ado, meet Pluto Forest.

 

What do you like about being a musician?

The cool thing about music, or, at least, songwriting, is that you have two different mediums to play with- lyrics and sound. So I get to write my lyrics, and then choose how I want to showcase them with sound. For example, one of the lines in High Holy Days is “Underwater, hands on hips” and that line is quieter than the rest of the song, which was intended to reflect the singer being underwater. Getting to utilize melodies, silence, and instrumentals in addition to words to tell my stories is super fun, and I’m excited to experiment with that more as I get more experienced as a producer. I also really love performing live. There’s a sense of connection that I feel with an audience (even if it’s just my parents) when I’m playing my music live that’s really unparalleled, at least by any of the other art forms I’ve tried. Music (in my opinion) exists to be danced to, heard, sung along with, and celebrated. When I play live, all of those things are within reach.

What are some things that are hard for you when it comes to being a musician?

Right now specifically, isolation has been really hard for me. My music existing to be heard is sort of a double edged sword, especially when it feels like there’s nobody to hear it. I did a Zoom concert at the beginning of quarantine and I’ve performed in a few virtual shows, but the experience virtually just isn’t the same. Recording and releasing High Holy Days has helped- the quality of the song is much better over streaming services than Zoom- but I’ll still be relieved when it’s safe to play live again. It’s also generally difficult for me to write instrumental lines. I was a singer before I was a guitarist, and I was a writer pretty much as soon as I learned how to write my name. As such, my lyrics and vocal melodies tend to be a lot more interesting than my guitar lines, and I’m often frustrated by my own lack of technical skill. I feel like it holds me back from writing more compelling music. Ordinarily, I’d ask someone else to play guitar for me, but collaboration is a lot harder during quarantine. 

What's your favorite lyrics from High Holy Days?

I think my favorite lyric is “Your pool is only four feet deep, but hey, the water’s clean,” in the second verse. That was the first lyric I wrote, and the easiest one- probably because it comes directly from my life. The whole song is mostly written from the perspective of my younger self, but about experiences that I’ve had more recently, and the pool lyric is about one of those experiences. I like it because I think most people won’t necessarily understand it, and it sort of comes out of nowhere in the context of the song, but I get it, as does the subject of the song. 

What inspired you to choose the stage name Pluto Forest?

My girlfriend came up with it, actually. Forest is an anagram of Foster, and I was always going to use something involving Pluto because I just really like Pluto. The interesting thing about Pluto is that it’s really, really close to being considered a full sized planet. It meets two of the three criteria- it’s in orbit around the Sun, and it has sufficient mass to have been almost perfectly molded into a sphere by gravity. The only thing Pluto is missing is clearing its debris field. That means having absorbed all of the objects in its vicinity into its own gravitational influence. But Pluto’s orbit draws it too close to objects on the Kuiper belt (like the other plutinos, which are too big to be absorbed into Pluto’s orbit) to be considered a full sized planet, so it’s relegated to being a dwarf planet forever. Or until NASA changes its classification criteria, anyway. I think most people can probably relate to that- you’re really close to accomplishing something, but there’s an obstacle that’s just too big to move out of your way. Pluto gets it. Anyway, I’d like to live by a forest on Pluto. It sounds like prime real estate. The inhabitable temperatures might be a deterrent for some, but I’ll bring blankets. 

How long have you been a musician? How strongly has music influenced your life overall?

I’ve been singing since I was little- I started taking it seriously in fourth or fifth grade- but I only started playing guitar around three years ago, and I didn’t start taking lessons until last year. Music has influenced my life pretty heavily. I started actively choosing what music I listened to, rather than just listening to the radio, in seventh grade, and since then I’ve pretty much always had headphones on. The genre of music that I’m listening to at any given moment in time influences the way I dress, the way I speak, and sometimes even the way I act. And I listen to a lot of different genres, so you can imagine how hectic that gets. 

Are music and poetry linked in some way for you?

Oh, absolutely. I started writing poems before I started writing music, so I’ll always think of my music as poetry that rhymes, with melodies added. I go to school- LaGuardia High School- for vocal music, and I’ve taken some theory there, which has made my melodies more interesting and less like a background to my lyrics, but I’ll still always be a lyricist first and a songwriter and musician second. I’m always writing something, even if I’m not actively typing words, and usually I can tell before I finish it whether it’s meant to be a poem, a song, or something else entirely. But I have, on a few occasions, sat down to write a poem and ended up with a song, or vice versa.

 

    Thanks for reading! You can listen to Pluto Forest’s single “High Holy Days” on Spotify here! https://open.spotify.com/track/5cImfpxpfm5iJ9pge6REV4?si=PsR3jdbqT-Cnde6jvKnWDA

Photography: The Many Faces Of The Sky, by Andrew R

 

Fiction: Undercity, by Bird Gjaja

    I walk along the narrow aisle, crystals sparkling on all sides of me. Each step I take is measured, precise; I pull in my shoulders, careful not to interrupt the neat rows around me. I walk slowly to an intersection and pause. The sheer scale of the crystalline library sinks in. I look at a shelf, watching the thousands of clear marbles. Not a sound, but a small flame in every one. Each one contains a fire, burning more or less brilliantly. Some of the fires seem to consume their marble from the inside while others flicker feebly. Some have only blackened candle wicks and sit on their shelves, silently dead. All those with fires seem to emit silent chants of “I am alive, I am alive”, that those marbles who are truly silent are jarring to my expectant ear. I look to my left at yet more rows of chanting orange and yellow flames. Among them is a marble who’s clear sheen reveals a small blue fire. It isn’t quite flickering, but it does not reflect the same energy and exuberance as the orange clear marbles. It doesn’t chant. It isn’t silent. Instead, it emits a slow, sorrowful tune. It sings like it is alone in the night, singing for no ear. I watch it a while as it sits on it’s place on a tray placed on a row on a tower of these marbles. This one, this small one with a light blue flame, I want to hold. I reach for it, across hundreds of other marbles, momentarily forgoing the fear of crushing all of these flames. As my fingers near their goal and my sense of curiosity heightens, I suddenly remember the risk, the pointlessness and moreover, that the sorrowful tune is nothing more than silence. The marble does not sing. I pull back my arm and watch as my fingers back by my sides again, idle, waiting. I look down at the floor I am standing on and see down for miles. The glass separating me from millions of other marble towers has no supports in view. It just reveals what is beneath me. Me. I consider me for a second, my curious fingers, my teardrops beginning to litter the glass floor, my New Balance sneakers for running. Running? Among these aisles? I slowly sit down, cross-legged, looking up now at the immensity of billions of small flames above me. The rash idea to pick up the marble with the blue flame now seems ludicrous to me. Why should I pick up a marble who’s only request is the ability to flicker and undulate naturally. As I sit there, I wish silently. For that marble’s eternal movement and for it never to burn out. I laugh out loud a little. Eternity. The dream of everyone, every marble on these millions of shelves, every wishing soul.

    As I look back down again, I see words under me. Among towers and towers of marbles are little strips of text glowing yellow. I can’t see all of them very clearly but a couple drift close enough to catch a glimpse. January. October, May. At random, months float past my eyes. A little hopeful, I latch onto this idea, looking for August. An idea comes to me that among these billions of flaming marbles is my own. As August drifts by, I latch onto the idea and press my hand to the damp glass. Marbles and I drift into the air, the towers static as the glass opens. I find myself breathless on the other side of the glass, my hand still pressed, all the marbles on this side intact. Through the glass, I see some marbles on the other side still drifting in search of their towers. I push back from the glass and float downwards, headfirst. Towards August. Towards August. In this place, on this side, among these spheres, I almost forget my original intention. I push through the air, towards the word I saw previously. August floats past me and I reach out to grab it. My hand meets soft cloth and the word disappears. I let go for a moment, surprised. And then it reappears, a little further, lingering around a tower I had not seen previously. I rush towards the tower. Scanning numbers now, 1 through 31. I arrive at my number and pause momentarily. A little nervousness still lingering, a feeling that I shouldn’t look. I shake off the feeling and pull out the shelf with my number. I see tiny words next to each marble and look for my name. I look. And look. And look. At the back of the third row is one that looks familiar. I’ve never seen it before, but a strong feeling of déjà-vu comes over me.

Instead of reaching, I stare at it, unsure whether or not it is my own. The light inside is reddish orange, flickering, struggling to truly explode within. I quickly reach for it, overcome with anger. Checking the name, checking it, double-checking it, then I fling it to the ground. The dull sound it emits is sickening. I reach to pick it up, slightly dizzy and fall to the ground. The marble has a small scratch but hasn’t shattered. I pick it up and place it on my palm. I stare at it, until it starts to rain on me. I look up, only to find my tears from earlier, from the other side, have someone started to drip onto me and the marble. I sigh and let the tears from this reality, the one I’m in, fall onto the marble. It glows for a second then dulls again and the flame inside is still struggling to flower. 

    From the floor, I see the billions of marbles around me and realize that every one, once shattered, spreads like a wildfire. It dulls thousands of marble, torches shelves and covers the floor. I hold my marble a little more tightly, frustrated and regretful, and place it back on the shelf. As I get up and start to walk away, I glance at it and watch it flicker for a little while, the scratch scarring it but not shattering it.

    I walk away slowly, a weight lifted from my shoulders, a little exhausted and reach my hand up towards the glass ceiling. As I slowly float towards it, towards the marbles and towers on this side, I look back once more. It looks almost like a city, like New York City from an airplane. My hand reaches the ceiling, shoots me to the other side, past the second layer of light cities, towards streets and cars and honks and masks. The sidewalk is grimy, trodden with millions of footsteps, the sky is gray and bright. The air is humid and sticks to my skin. Yet I would never trade it for the glittering undercity, for the truth about each of us. I look at the passerby and wish each of them, each of their marbles and their flames and their souls good luck.

    To you, too. 

 

Memoir: Stars Don't Always Belong Up In The Sky, by Micki Zhang

    The glowing bright sun reflected over the thin blue water creating a wide orange path towards the sands. The sound of birds chirping, and the silent movement of the fluffy white clouds started to cover the large source of light and darkness began to take over. I closed both of my eyes and listened to the sound of the waves hitting the shore as I felt wetness on my feet. The breeze flipped my hair everywhere as I tried to remove strands from my face. Suddenly, I heard a shout from a distance indicating that it's time to eat. I slowly opened my eyes. I saw that it was night time and that the stars were coming out as the waves were getting calmer. The sky became a bluish-black transformed by the reflection of the stars and the water. I got up and dusted off all the tiny grains of sand attached to my t-shirt and shorts as I began running back to the village. I passed the night lights that were now on, and different families setting their tables outside of their houses where adults yelled at their kids to stop running and start helping. It was the same routine every day but I don’t seem to get bored. Four years have passed since the day we arrived here and I wish we can stay this way forever, but soon everything will begin to change when I agree to a decision that I will live to regret.

    On August 10, 2010, I was informed that we were going to America for a five-day trip. I was really excited, but agreeing to this trip was the decision I regret the most. Before we left everyone looked so upset, and I was confused as to why they were acting this way because we were only going to America for five days right? During the car ride, on the way to the airport, we had to pass through the market to get to the other part of the road, and I could smell all the amazing street foods and I began to sniff trying to taste the spicy flavor in the air. The sizzling and the popping from the oil caused the food to smoke and the smell filled the streets. Everyone was pushing, trying to pass through the large crowds as they cheered for the people in the market to perform their talents. When we passed the market I told myself that once I got back I would definitely go there, but that wouldn’t be soon because everything that I wanted for myself five days from now won’t happen until much later.

    As we were sitting on the plane I had a feeling of discomfort, and I had the urge to hit something, but I didn’t know what it was exactly. I decided to open the window and immediately the light shined through my eyes as I closed them trying to get used to it. I looked at the wings of the plane as they sliced through the lonely fluffy clouds outside, and they slowly moved together forming into the shape of the village. I rubbed my eyes until they were red to check if I was seeing things and I looked around, everyone on the plane was enjoying themself with the movie in front of them, and no sign of discomfort. We landed around midnight, and after we got out I began to realize what I had been so worried about because nothing was the same. I felt as if I was in the middle of a dark hole and the voice inside my head kept repeating, “See what you have done!” The view was completely different, and the people were smoking and arguing, and the scent was so unpleasant that it felt like someone choking me from behind. In that instance, I thought, “It’s fine it’s only 5 days right? Nothing will happen and I will return home 5 days later, right?” In my heart, I am already starting a countdown, and things won’t get worse, or will they?

    A week has passed since we arrived here and I'm already begging my mom to return back home because every day in this new environment causes me to feel pressure as if a needle poking deep in my heart. The moment she said, "this is our new home," my heart shattered into millions of pieces. It was like the needle had popped the protective layer of my heart. That day I didn’t dare to leave my room because every step outside made me scared about my future.

    I hated this place because it was cold as an ice cube; everyone minded their own business without caring about others. The streets looked so dead and gloomy. The streets were filled with dirty puddles of water, trash, and the scent of the people smoking, which disgusted me to the core. One day we went to Times Square where people’s unsmiling faces were filled with stress and pressure. People yelled at one another, people cursed through their phones, people screamed for absolutely no reason, and most importantly people pushed one another trying to skip the line for a dinner spot.

    At night here they don’t sit outside and talk with their neighbors like we do. All they do is sit outside and smoke into the air and diss other people behind their backs. Most importantly America doesn’t have bright stars that watch over us. The skies are an empty pitch black. The sky that was once sky covered with stars in the village is now covered only by the dark clouds that fuel all your anger and depressions. I knew from these observations that this place was the opposite of our village and that it was much worse because stars symbolize hope and happiness, and this place didn’t have them. After another two or three weeks, I was officially enrolled at P.S.176 where I began to understand the real meaning being the sentiment that change is necessary for your identity.

    Due to all these changes that resulted from moving, I was no longer the outgoing kid. Instead, I was always in the corner hiding from this evil place that changed me. I was afraid to express any emotion because I was scared that others would judge who I am as a person based on how I acted. However, when I met my 2nd-grade teacher, I began to view this place through another perspective. When I arrived in the classroom on the first day I saw many things that you never saw in our villages, like the huge pink word wall that had words behind the teacher’s desk, and the huge blue and red American flag that had a poster attached to it with the lyrics to the morning exercise. I finally decide to sit next to the heater and she had many posters hung in a line across the room almost like a word roller coaster. Overall, her classroom looked so colorful, and not dull like the world. Her desk was filled with blue and white paper with many smiley face stickers, and our desks were in groups of four. Each chair had a blue bag on the back, and our names were printed on our desks.

    After five minutes had passed, the sound of shoes bouncing off the tiles filled the hallways as students my age rushed in and sat on the fluffy and comfortable animal rug. First, the teacher introduced herself as Ms. Chan. She had blond curly hair with a rectangular smile. She told us to introduce ourselves and to say where we were from. All the students started talking, and I was staring at the jar of DumDum lollipops she had over on the counter. I just kept staring at it, and I didn't even know it was my turn until she called me using her soft voice.

    I was really awkward at the beginning. but later I decided to speak out about my anger towards America. I thought she would yell at me, but she told me that she also came from a village just like me, and she told me that she was unable to adapt to her job until, eventually, she realized that the difference between two cultures helps you evolve into a better person. She told me that it's not like America doesn't have stars, it's just that the stars live in our heart rather than up in the sky. America also has things we don’t have in a village, like a school full of resources. It may seem as if America is a bad place because we are still not used to it yet, but only the one who really wants to change and grow is able to see both the good and evil in an environment.

    After that conversation, I asked my mother if we could go to Times Square again because it was the place I called disgusting & sickening. I wanted to go back and see that place through another perspective. That Saturday morning I woke up early as I stared at my white ceiling covered with stars. I opened the curtain and saw the pigeons sitting on the wire as they searched for food. The bright sun reflected over my face as a smile began to appear on my face. When we arrived in Times Square, all I could smell were the hot dogs sold on the streets, and all I could hear was the chatting between people. There wasn’t any cursing, and no one was pushing each other. All I could see was a straight line, and people taking pictures of this wonderful environment. The stairs were covered with people laughing rather than with faces full of pressure and pain. That day I didn’t want to leave because I found another me, and there was so much that I didn't finish exploring. Maybe I did change, and maybe I’m still a bit confused, but I know that eventually, everything will be clear. For the first time, I wasn’t angry about coming to America because I realized that America also has its beautiful side. I always looked at America as if it was Hell, and that is why I wasn’t able to see the beauty in this world. My identity is no longer that of a girl who plays with the toys because I’ve become a girl who needs to learn and change according to this new society. Identity doesn't always stay the same and these struggles make you grow. Although I don't live in that village anymore it has shaped me to understand that people are different, and while America is different from the village those differences are what make me grow and become who I am now.