sat there with their medals of ribbons with blue and white or blue and gold. The tassels were stacked on top, and then more recognition for honors society. They all sat in their nice heels and dresses and jewelry, and they all sat with their nice pants and dress shirts and shoes. They all sat, waiting for the next speaker to speak, the next name to be called. Who would be the recipient of the award? Who would be the recipient of the scholarship? Would it be me? 

I sat there in my jeans and simple black flats and a black blazer jacket with rolled up sleeves. My eyes were probably red and slightly puffy from crying, bursting out with a melancholy sadness of what was to come within the next few weeks. I sat there with only one award. 

I sat there with one small, clear, rectangular award that was given to me for “Academic Excellence” in “Spanish IV.” And that’s all I wanted. I didn’t care that I was left unadorned. I didn’t care that others’ grade point average was higher than mine. I didn’t care that some people won scholarships. 

I held in my hands with the satisfaction of knowing that my passion was translated to other people. I held in my hands the love of a subject. I held in my hands the hard work that I could clearly see transform within the past year. 

I held in my hands a clear award with my name engraved in it in white. When I hold it, when wrap my fingers around it, I can see my fingers on the other side, so clearly. Just as clearly as some saw my love for Spanish. Just as clearly as I can see my own love for Spanish.

And that’s all that really matters. 

aspects of our lives we tend to forget about. I am constantly reminded of my variety of ethnicity, whether asked or whether it had come up in simple conversation, I tend to forget about my Hispanic heritage. But I was suddenly, and immediately immersed into the fact that I am Mexican.

My mother told me that when I received the award for Spanish IV, she texted my dad and told him that my Grandma Alice would be proud. I remembered the moments that she tried to teach my sister and I Spanish when we were little girls. Then, I awoke with the shock of remembrance of the grandmother that I was never close with, and with that, I awoke with the shock that I am Mexican.

There has never truly been a time that when I spewed out the list of my ethnicities, that I really felt a part of those groups. I feel Japanese because I have visited, I feel Japanese because I grew up as a bilingual child, and I feel Japanese because the very essence of it lives in my home and with me through my mother and my grandmother. 

But I could never say and feel that I am also Chinese, Filipino, and Mexican. 

Today, carrying the clear award in my hands for the only high school subject that I am passionate about, being reminded of where a quarter of my blood comes from, the next time I tell you, “I’m Japanese…Chinese…Filipino…and Mexican..” you can trust that I will feel it. 

red cherries sat in the gleaming silver bowl with holes so they could breathe, and the white reflection of the dwindling day-sky in their top left corner. One plucked through fate by its green stem, hovered over the table and half of the bottom rested between my two rows of teeth. In bit like a wolf sinking its teeth, I pull the rabbit away with half left over and the seed still present. Cherry blood filled the grooves of the cracks from its missing half and the heart coated with tissue. And I plucked the stem off of it. 

hand into the cold red-brick colored bowl filled with chilled blueberries and pull out a mouthful worth’s of them in the cup of my hand. They roll into my mouth as I tilt my head up, and biting down is the unmistakable taste of the mix of blueberries sour and sweet, big and others bigger. And the juice, so mixed, trickles down and I take my other hand to grab the handle of a large brown tea cup with a green tea bag tag hanging over the edge. A warm summer river of the taste of green tea flows so carelessly, caressing the nerves of my throat so soothingly. 

hours being seventeen, in my last hours wading in ‘childhood,’ I was baking cookies to take to school for my friends. A lot of them didn’t know it was my birthday, and I’m okay with it—I’d much rather shy away from the attention and socialize in casual conversation than have a whole room sing “Happy Birthday” to me.

In my last hours being seventeen, while baking cookies, I was talking to my friend on Facebook. He asked me if my friends would bring me cookies too. I just said that the only reason I do it is because a birth is a celebration of life, and a birthday is a celebration of another year of life; I just wanted to celebrate the people who I’ve known, are in my life, and the people who I have the potential of getting to know better. I wouldn’t be the person I am today, at eighteen, if it wasn’t for a culmination of all the people I’ve met, and all the people I knew and know. It’s not only my birthday, but their celebration, too.  

made, fabric of sorts are sewn together, greeting each other for the first time; and they will forever be friends where literally the spinners spool and string of fate had placed them together…until the clothing becomes so tattered that the seams of their friendship begin to wear thin, strand by strand. 

And the wearer might sometimes reinforce the parting pieces of fabric, but it is never the same. Maybe the strand is different, or the placement isn’t how it used to be. 

Other times, the wearer will simply pull the two apart because it’s a lost cause, and find himself being over with it and going out to buy a new replacement. 

And so it is. The thread wore too think, tired, and rubbed until snap, snap, snap…it’s gone. 

kiwi slice from the cutting board, lime-green like a peridot gem. 

I thought it was odd that two kiwis were sliced up and skinned, after I had only squeezed all of them in the box during the morning time to check if they were ready for eating. They were still, all too hard to consume. 

And now I come back in the afternoon, and laying side by side were slices of kiwis. One slice was half eaten. 

I picked one up, and sliced it again with my teeth, and a rush of sour sensation tickled my tongue. My mouth twisted. I still ate the other kiwis, but none were as sour as the first one. 

I guess, and I don’t even have to guess; they weren’t ripe enough yet. But they were still good. 

People can be like that too. Sour, if you don’t know them well enough. If you don’t know who they are or what they’re really like. But after having spent some time with them, they become sweeter and sweeter, perhaps.

Just wait. As much as I like sour fruits, sweeter ones are better. 

is a beautiful thing. There is a reason why the Greeks and the Romans have hundreds of statues depicting the aesthetic nature of the human body. There is a reason why a bird is a bird, and a human, a human.

We live, every day. Or do we cease to live and continue to exist? Think, or else we will cease to exist before we make the choice to continue to live. There is a reason why we are given a body. And there is a reason why there is a soul inside of it. The soul needs a body to interact, but to feel? 

We use our hands the most. We use them to write, to initiate greetings. We use them to eat, to drink. We use them for our survival. We use them to hit, to crush, to fight. We use them for our survival. We use them to physically love, to caress, and hug. How would we hold the hand of another, without hands? How would we hold what is dear to us, who is dear to us? How would we hold the heart of another, without hands? Unless your occupation requires holding one such organ, we don’t need hands to hold love. We don’t need hands to hold onto someone we love. If it was meant to be, if they returned the same, we wouldn’t need hands to hold onto their hand or their shirt to tell them to stay. 

We use our feet and legs the most too. We walk, we run, we leap into the air with excitement, we drag with solemn melancholy, we dance with passion, intensity, and grace. Even with cars, bicycles, trains, and airplanes, we get there somehow. We reach the car using our legs, we use our feet to push down the pedals on the bicycle. Our feet are the first things that touch the ground when we wake up in the morning, and our feet are the last ones to leave the ground when we get into bed for the night. They deserve more credit than we give them. Our feet and our legs carry us wherever our heart desires, to do whatever our heart desires. Say they can’t? Or is it only because you won’t let them? 

Our lungs breathe life into us. They expand and contract, expand and contract, expand and contract, over and over. We breathe in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide. We breathe out carbon dioxide because we don’t (directly) need it. We breathe in oxygen because we need it. How simple would life be? If humans could send off the things we didn’t need on a breath of a wind, and bring in the things we needed on a wind blowing in the opposite direction? Sometimes it isn’t that easy. Sometimes, it is. We just make it hard for ourselves. 

How would we survive without our mouths? We eat, we drink, we talk, we sing, we scream and laugh, and we smile. On our tongue we melt with taste, on our tongue we express, but with our mouth’s curve and a white wall is a channel from happiness. But only when you’re genuine about it. We smile. 

How much of an effect would music have on the world if we could not hear? None. Because of our ears, we create, and we listen. We listen to not only music, but ideas, people, laughter, voices. We listen to words and ideas, and some might make haste to object them. But perhaps we should listen, and not be so hasty. But perhaps, we must even listen for things that do not want to be heard, too. Our ears are always open. Don’t force them closed. 

It is always a personal argument whether ears or eyes are more ‘important.’ Would I rather be deaf, or would I rather be blind? First, I’m thankful to be neither and second, I’m glad that even if I was, I wouldn’t have to make that decision. They are equal, where ears are the eyes of things we cannot see and eyes are the spectators and those in awe of all things physical. Eyes allow us color. They allow us all the world has to offer, why people travel and why they visit museums, why we believe in something called ‘love at first sight’ and why we prefer one shirt over another. Eyes allow us to see pretty things. But perhaps without eyes, eyes would allow us to see beautiful things. 

As a quiet girl, I embrace silence when I can. I have a soft voice and it’s been confirmed by others. We all have a voice. It is melodious, it is yours, and it is powerful. Even without it, you can stand up for what you believe in. Voice your opinions, or you’ll be one among the dust. 

We use it everyday; we use it every second, and we use it when we’re sleeping. Our head is most active, thoughts thoughts thoughts thoughts thoughts, always running, jogging, walking. It is our ego, what gets in the way of our most difficult times, because it controls us, it dictates us. Well, most of us. 

My, and perhaps many people’s, main contender against their head is their heart. I follow my heart because I know with what my heart chooses, I will be happy. From the heart comes love, in all of its forms. For years now, without me being able to take it off, I have worn the Japanese symbol for love around my neck as a reminder to what I hold closest to me. I do what I love, I wish to one day have a job that I’ll love, people to love. My life is ruled by love, a vigor for life, a love for life. Try it. Life might be a lot better than you think. 

Last but not least, we all have a soul. What I find a bit strange about the world is that they want to change some of their features. They smoke, or they get plastic surgery. What I find most inspiring are those that live without some of their features. Still breathing, still living. Because even without some of these features, they still have a soul.

I seem to be more pensive when I’m placed in the presence of a window. Sometimes I think to myself, if there wasn’t a window, would I be thinking about the same thing? Or is it because of that window, that I have thought of it? 

Today at dinner, I was seated by a giant window with a normal not-too-impressive view of the parking lot and a bright street lamp, with the overcast cloudy skies. There was a blue tinge to the night. 

As I looked outside, as I normally do no matter what the scenery looks like, I noticed suddenly in the reflection of the window, that I saw the lights from inside the restaurant. And I remembered that I was in a restaurant, sitting there with my family, next to my sister and across from my parents, waiting for our food. In a restaurant. 

My mind had drifted off elsewhere…everywhere. Except there. 

But the reflection was a cold wash cloth across my face while sleeping. It woke me up. To reality. 

Perhaps that’s what windows were for, for people like me. Always dreaming, but with the reflections there, we’re assured to be brought back to reality. 

Maybe I just can’t wait until there’s no windows. Then I’ll be living my dream. 

my room, wondering how she had kept it suppressed for all these years. The filtered yellow sun through the blinds comforted her as she held a pair of my pointe shoes in her hands.

Tears erupted from her eyes. The tears were large enough to cradle passion, desire, regret, unfulfilled wishes, and the knowing, awful feeling of being unable to do anything about it. They tugged, and the heavy water droplets created wet footprints on her freckled cheeks. 

I didn’t know how much of that was inside of her until today. She talked about her love for it as a girl, and how she could have become a professional, before, over and over again to the point where I could finish the story for her. But it was just a story. Today, the story became life.  

I sat awkwardly on my bed, silent, and I saw myself in her. I was looking at a mirror. All her buried thoughts and emotions thrown up from her heart and through her glossy, watery eyes into tears about a lost dream. A dream and passion found again in an old box in the back of a dusty attic, but a dream and passion so pure and defining it was as good as new, and more powerful than ever. 

A dream and passion that was, sadly, too late to pursue. I am reminded of the saying that it is never too late to do anything, but being so immersed in the world that she and I are both passionate about, the saying, sadly, does not apply. Watching her, perhaps I have, or had, the same exact dream. Maybe it is even too late for me too, but it in its slightest, most minute chance, I could still make it. 

But watching her, wading in the melancholy setting…do something.