"A Tentative Peace" by Alec P

 

Delirious and stumbling towards the first structure he laid eyes on, he made no notice of the figure crouched in the corner. Distantly, he registered the sounds of gunfire and crunching rubble- the soundtrack of his life for the past three months. The crumbling, destitute building in front of him seemed like Elysium, a blessed refuge from the oncoming snowstorm.

 

The man lowered himself down gingerly and rested his head against the concrete wall with a weighted sigh, receiving his first moment of reprieve in days. With his eyes starting to close and his entire body going limp from exhaustion, the soldier resolved to give up his fight for survival. He never was made for a life of violence, fear, and inhumanity after all.

 

A rustle of cloth several meters away jerked him out of his stupor, kicking his senses into high alert. His head whipped to the side and he caught sight of another man. A man with a green armband. An enemy. What a ludicrous but timely response to his vow. Two seconds of swearing off violence and he faces just that at the price of his own life. He gave a short bitter laugh.

 

“Do I intimidate you that much?” he scoffed sardonically, sitting up and facing his new company.

 

“Not particularly. I have no regard for my life; I can’t bother to be intimidated.”

 

The enemy soldier looked at him quizzically, eyebrows drawn together. “You want to die?”

 

“No,” he said hesitantly. “This is hardly living, though, is it?”

 

“Some would argue it is,” the man responded haughtily.

 

“What do you argue?”

 

As if reading from a script, he puffed up and recited, “That fighting gives me purpose. A cause to defend.”

 

He laughed exasperatedly in reply, his head once again falling back onto the firm wall. What a twisted fate that brought him into the company of the most patriotic and brusque person in this desolate town.

 

Within minutes of a tense quiet being established, the enemy piped up with the threat, “I could kill you, you know.”

 

His unwelcome guest grumbled something unintelligible with the audacity to sound bored. Although his dismissive nature aggravated the other, they said nothing more. Silence settled over them, the only sounds coming from the abused trees fighting to stay standing against the harsh winds. The wind’s whistling rose in pitch, shaking the fragile building as a chill crept toward the crouched bodies on the floor.

 

“Alright, I found this hovel first,” the enemy cut in. He rose from the corner with an audible effort and swept the dirt from his pants. His companion’s head swiveled, straining to look up at him from the new angle from the floor.

 

“I’m not chancing waking up to a barrel staring me down.” He grabbed his gun and strode over, boots thunking dully against the floor. Without much care, he jabbed him in the shoulder with the butt of the gun. The man stared down with a hard face, snapping “Out” repeatedly, each time with increasing aggression.

 

Not having moved and at this point quite annoyed, the man on the floor released an exasperated groan. “Can’t we just-” he broke off with a sigh. “Can’t we stay here and not threaten each other? I don’t know… be nice?” He pinched the bridge of his nose as if nursing an excruciating headache. “I just want one goddamn second of rest.”

 

At their proximity, the soldier’s heavy breathing became audible. His hands tightened on his rifle; nostrils flaring, he spat out, “Kindness doesn’t exactly suit this line of work.”

 

“Maybe. But it could suit you. Give me a break.” He rolled his eyes as the man in front of him continued to look dissatisfied. “At least until the storm passes, yeah?”

 

The man debated his options, trying to deduce if he was overthinking or if he was being tricked. A frown still weighed down his face.

 

“I’ve already told you, I’m not looking for a fight. Cheer up and sit your ass back down,” he drawled impatiently.

 

Hesitantly, and with his eyes never leaving the other man, the soldier sat down, nearly shoulder to shoulder with his companion.

 

Without the threat of violence hanging in the balance and a mutually unspoken promise to show the good in both of them for the night, the tension dissipated. With the wills of just two men, the war was put on hold. Their fragile trust held up an armistice.

 

For one moment, the inevitability of what lay ahead didn’t feel so crushing. They wished to stay here, the confines of the world limited to the shuddering glass windows, the long-dead garden turned graveyard, and the warmth of their partner’s presence.

 

As night fell and both men’s exhaustion reached its breaking point, the enemy soldier slid his armband off and whispered into the darkness.

 

“Alright. Until the storm passes"

 

For now, they trusted.

 

 For now, they lived.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Warm Aromas" by Samantha M

​​Warm aromas linger in my memories, and those tender thoughts of being raised by my abuelos(grandparents), allowed for the realization that being raised by them wasn’t a conventional upbringing; it was an experience and a lesson.

From birth, I was raised with my abuelos in a home filled with loud contagious laughter,  and air filled with potent smells from traditional Mexican dishes filling up the little air space in a tiny home already filled with too many Tias to count. It was this home that laid the foundation for how I would speak, behave, and perceive others. Needless to say, the time I spent with my grandparents shaped my perception of the world around me - every story they told me formed some sort of new idea, and each idea sparked curiosity, and most importantly taught told me to  cook, cook, and cook some more, because good food feeds and creates a healthy heart and soul.

Seeing my abuelitos more than my parents wasn’t because they abandoned me; it resulted from my first-generation parents working hard to provide the American dream for my brother and I.  For a brief second, I recall being embarrassed by my abuelos pulling up to pick me up from first school in Victorville. I recall feeling uncomfortable and lonely  as everyone else had their parents drive up in nice cars, and I would walk alone to my grandpa parked around the corner.  But that embarrassment never lasted for more than a minute as my abuelo taught me the freedom of “choice.” - so I could’ve chosen to be embarrassed by how I was raised, or I could choose to relish that I am a product of their tender love and care. Plus, at least my grandpa always had a kid's container for me, filled with either hot chocolate, or coffee to welcome me to the car everyday.

Back at my abuelos casa after school, my grandma resided. She no longer drove anymore because a police officer had scared her; he yelled at her for being Mexican, and took away her license for no specific reason - and with that went her confidence and created her to be fearful and protective of me because of the brutal world stereotyping people for their race. Fortunately, well not necessary in a good way,  you’ll see later why I wouldn’t ever face the same issue.

Even through all my abuelas hardships, my grandma still has a giving and nurturing soul, but is also a “Big Chillona” (crybaby or emotional person). Yet, at 4’8 in height, she is the most sassy woman you’ll meet. Which to me is funny, as my mom is not as empathetic or sassy,  but very stubborn and hardheaded, and weary of the world. I think it was her Army life that made her an adamant person. It was unquestionably my grandma's empathy and my mother’s patriotic persona that taught me at an early age the importance of serving others and how to love and care for people. Later, this lesson sparked me to start a grassroots movement to establish a nonprofit to help the veterans in my community - but that's a different story-a novel of its own.

On the other hand, my abuelo was a past hippie and a war hero in Mexico - with long, luscious red hair, a fierce attitude, and a determined wild spirit, I’m often compared to him. He taught me the meaning of freedom, which has remained in my soul, tying me back to my appreciation for those who have fought for our freedom. My Grandpa would often point at all the scars on my belly from all my surgeries, and point at his own and say, “twins,” and then continue….“the battles we have fought can either define us or make us stronger.”  

Although this experience seems humbling, it also caused a struggle of not fitting in- in being Mexican enough, or American enough. My abuelos struggled with English, and I with Spanish, so “Spanglish” was the native language in our home. As a result, I was judged by my closest peers for looking and speaking like a “gringa” (caucasian),  teased and shamed for my red hair, freckles, and light complexion, and assumed I was adopted.

As a young girl, I never understood why they saw me different, and outcasted me - maybe it was because I didn't “look”like them or speak more than one tongue like them. I moved schools 7 times because of my dad's work, and each school had the same story - I was a “white” Mexican. Looking back now, I would have never been able to be where I am now without these little hiccups. My freshman year at Etiwanda, I felt like I was finally in a culturally diverse high school/environment, and I was now able to, and talk to those who don't fit in a “category” of race because they are 2nd gen that don't get the funds/time/or efforts because now we are deemed “American enough” because our family somehow made it in the US then had us, or even relate to those who are mixed races and aren’t accepted by either side. We all related in that way that we don't always look like who we ethically are, but most of the time we still hold those values and are the same as our family non the less.

Even now, my closest friends will joke that I am “too white looking” to be Hispanic of any sort, and I just laugh - laughing not to be rude, but because I know that my family in Mexicali & Guadalajara, are blonde, blue eyed, and lighter than me, and that in reality race shouldn’t have a stereotypical “look”. I am affirmed in my identity and who I am based on the fact that I eat Abongias, Chile de Renos, Mole, spending my weekends trying to remember all 50 of my Tias name, and dancing my heart out in parties that have no reason to held, rather than to just a celebration of family.

Knowing now my roots, AND being engrossed in a massive Mexican family, affirms that I am Hispanic, and my “look” doesn’t dictate my culture. My abuelos shaped this identity in me by never leading me astray from my culture, even when the world tried to take it away from me.

"The Family Vacation" by Brianna D

I believe that there are plenty of times growing up that little by little your naivety to the real world diminishes. I mean after all, only through experiences do you grow and mature. Whether that growth happens through a harsh awakening doesn’t matter. For me, one of these moments happened when I was 10 years old…on a family trip to Puerto Rico.

It was during March of 2016 and I was traveling to Puerto Rico with my family which consisted of my grandparents from my dad’s side, my grandma from my mom’s side, my parents, my little sister, and my little brother Garrison. One important detail to note here is that my brother had ADHD and severe Autism- this will be important context for the rest of the story.

Continuing, the journey to get onto the plane was like a game of Candy Land. We were at the starting point and instead of reaching Candy Castle at the end, we were all racing to reach the plane to our vacation destination.

Traveling with three elders and my brother was difficult, to say the least. My grandparents all complained about the walking involved in our adventure, and they struggled to handle all of the bags they had brought for the week away. One of my grandmas has a hard time walking for prolonged distances and we would need to constantly find a safe haven for her feet…any bench or flat surface she could sit on. Along with the trek across the airport, she would say in Cambodian, “I’m tired. Let me rest.” As we all traveled as a group, we all would just wait until she was ready to continue the path to “Candy Castle” - our plane.

On the other hand, for my younger brother, getting on the plane was a difficult time because of the unfamiliarity of being at the airport. For Garrison, having a routine is very important. Since being at the airport was out of his daily schedule, he was noticeably struggling with the newness of it all.

The airport was very busy as we went to LAX on a Saturday. Thus, there were the loud beeping sounds of the metal detectors showing that they worked, the footsteps of thousands of people pitter-pattering on multiple floor levels, and the intercom speeches echoing to announce flights and say the names of people missing from a plane about to take off.

All of these sounds must have seemed like a cacophony of discord to my brother (who was six at the time). The hustle of the airport and all of the unknown people around must have been frightening to him as he expressed his overwhelming concern through crying throughout the airport.

There were momentary outbursts of wailings and tears. My mom, in an attempt to soothe him, carried him while humming a Cambodian lullaby as we walked through the airport terminal. Freeing up her arms by giving the carry-on luggage to me, Garrison became slowly acclimated to the airport environment and we arrived at our gate for boarding.

However, after successfully getting on the plane with all eight of us accounted for, the journey after finally reaching “Candy Castle” became the hardest one yet. The plane ride to Puerto Rico was like another level of Candy Land, where all the progress you had made thus far was erased and you had to start again.

As we entered the Southwest plane, we moved towards the back as seats upon entry were taken. We broke into three groups for the flight. Group 1 was my three grandparents. Group 2 was my Dad and my younger sister, Savanna. Finally, Group 3 was my mom, Garrison, and me. In my seating arrangement, Garrison was at the window, my mom was in the middle, and I was at the end. As we sat and waited for the rest of the plane to board, for all of the luggage to be shoved into any space that could be found in the overhead bins, and the typical safety announcement, another challenge of our travels happened.

Garrison started to cry due to the new environment of the plane. The wailings would come in small sections, sometimes louder than the previous time. Other times, he would just silently cry and look out the window, seemingly searching for a way out. Additionally, the new medicine he was prescribed a few weeks ago made him have no desire to eat or to sleep. He did not even want his favorite drink, Sprite, because he was so anxious about the new experience.

Despite our efforts as his family, we couldn’t calm him for about an hour. While we didn’t want him to disturb any of the other passengers, there was nothing we could do. Of course we were aware that other people expressed unsaid annoyance at the flight situation Garrison caused, but the flight attendants were helpful and kind to Garrison and my mom who was trying her best to comfort him.

When we arrived at the airport terminal in Puerto Rico, I immediately felt the new climate of the place where we would be staying for a week. The humidity of the environment outside had turned the clear glass of the bridge foggy. However, the brightness of the sun was welcoming and my whole family had smiles on their faces as we had finally arrived at the place that had been no easy feat to reach. Once we reached the inside of the airport, my whole family, besides my father, waited at the gate (my dad had left something on the plane and went back to retrieve it).

We sat down on the black, faux leather chairs at the gate with all of our carry-on bags surrounding our feet. I was playing with toys with my younger sister, my grandparents were stretching (each helping one another), and my mom was sitting beside my younger brother playing a lullaby on her iPhone 6. In a matter of a few seconds, the peaceful atmosphere of my family was suddenly disrupted.

Soon, a tall, slender caucasian man in his mid-twenties walked out into the gate area. He was wearing cargo shorts of a tannish brown color, weaved sandals, and a long-sleeved hoodie with black and purple stripes running down the front and back. He had scruffy facial hair and his dirty blonde hair reached his shoulders. Little did I know that one of my rude awakenings into the “real world” came in the form of this man.

He approached my mom and asked, “Is this your son?”, pointing at Garrison.

In response, my mom replied, “Yes”.

What exited his mouth next is something that none of my family or I expected. He followed his question with “Well, your son’s an a**hole. You shouldn’t be traveling with him.”

Sitting in shock with my sister, we halted our playtime to see what our mom would do next. My grandparents were more so curious about the man’s presence because they didn’t understand the verbal exchange that had just happened.

I still remember the feeling of shock and anger that filled my body right at that moment. I could not understand why a stranger would say something so condescending about my brother.

“How could he say something so rude? Why did he feel that it was necessary to insult my brother and mom?”

I was so angry because he didn't know how hard it was to even get on the plane, nor did he know how big of an obstacle flying was for Garrison. Given, he did cry and cause a disturbance during the flight, but did that justify this man’s audacity?

I was hoping that my mom would cuss out the man and express the immense amount of anger that I was feeling inside. In my head, that’s what I would have done if I was old enough to be taken seriously.

However, she didn’t do this. Instead, she said some of the wisest words that have stuck with me ever since.

She replied, “Well he is my son and I hope that you have a child like him so you can understand why he is with us.”

In response, the man walked away and never looked back. A few minutes afterward, my dad had come out into the gate and my mom told him what had just happened a few moments earlier.

Though this moment was quite shocking, the interaction taught me two lessons: the importance of having empathy in life and sometimes, people can be cruel. I realized that the man felt the need to ridicule my brother only because he didn’t have the heart to understand Garrison’s situation or my family’s. If he had the empathy to understand the situation instead of turning to anger, he wouldn’t have felt the need to call out my brother. Due to his lack of empathy and his inability to have the basic decency to not disrespect a stranger’s family, he saw the confrontation as necessary.

I mean, there were multiple people on the flight besides ourselves and the stranger, so why didn’t they say something to us? Empathy and respect were the aspects separating the stranger from those who had continued on with their lives, without confronting my family.

Due to this interaction, I vouched to practice having empathy for others and to understand situations before acting rashly. Even if I could not possibly live through all of the experiences of another person, I can learn to find motivations behind certain actions and respect the differing backgrounds of other people.

My mom handled the confrontation so gracefully and maturely because she knew that the man’s ignorance wouldn't be changed by some harsh words from the swear dictionary. Unlike him, my mom understood what type of person he was and had enough respect for herself not to let him get the best of her or her family.

 I don’t know what happened to the man after he walked away from the interaction with my mom, but I hope he learned some tough lessons to lead him to empathy.

While I would like to say that he was the last person who ever treated Garrison as anything less than a person, there have been many instances since. However, the trip to Puerto Rico taught me not to express anger towards these people, but to pity them for how narrow their view of the world must be.

With the learned importance of empathy, I have made sure to always take time to understand people’s motivations, true emotions, and treat them with kindness. And while the family vacation to Puerto Rico may have not been the most pleasant way to learn empathy, I am grateful for it.

 

 

“Defining Nu Jazz” by Samad G

 

A question I ask myself constantly, as a musical contributor to the genre, is what is “Nu Jazz”. Nu Jazz has been defined by many including spotify which calls it “Jazztronica” and one definition that pretty much sums them all up comes from “Cherwell”, one of oxford's oldest student newspapers. It says that Nu Jazz is, “a musical genre that incorporates aspects of various genres to create an innovative and refreshing approach to jazz, thus blurring the staunch conceptual lines of musical genre.” For me this is a huge generalization or umbrella term to put what this music is under because it gives listeners such a wide variety of options. Two artists who I could consider Nu jazz are Anomalie and my personal favorite, Kiefer, and these two artists have two completely different styles of music. Anomalie is much more electronic with funky west coast synths and ideas (despite being from Canada) and Kiefer has a more chill and nostalgic, yet groovy sound that it is hard to describe in words and is uniquely his own. So from the consumer or listeners perspective it’s this huge genre that covers many things. But from my perspective of playing and making music I think it’s much deeper than this. I believe that the Nu Jazz genre is one that we can’t truly define yet not because it’s so broad but because it’s definition changes depending on who it is you’re listening to. A perfect way I can show an example of this is if we look at kendrick lamar’s past two albums “Damn” and “Mr Morale and The Big Steppers” and contrast them with Kiefer’s last two albums, “When there’s love around,” and “Between Days”. In Kenderick Lamar’s previous two albums we can easily tell they’re hip hop. Through the beats and the fact that there’s a rapper present in the music, but even if we take away the rapper’s voice the production quality and style still screams hip hop. If we compared the beats from those albums to the beats Dj Premier made in the 90’s we can confidently say both are hip hop. Now we look at kiefer’s previous albums. “Between days”, is a beat tape that utilizes live instruments and synthesizers to create unique grooves for every single song that seem to have a hip hop influence but then we look at the album prior to that “When There’s Love Around”. This album is completely different from “Between Days” It’s recorded with a live band and sounds almost like jazz however it isn’t any type of traditional jazz. These are songs with jazz influence and hip hop influence occasionally but with something that we can only hear kiefer do in his style of music that I say is uniquely him and defines his sound or version of “Nu Jazz”. If I tried comparing any of Kiefer’s albums to any other “Nu Jazz” artist’s albums such as Rob Arouja, Anomalie, Elijah Fox, Cisco Swank, and many many more, it becomes very hard for us to say that any of these people compared to one another are in the same genre. They all sound completely different but can be found in sometimes the same “Nu Jazz” or “Jazztonica” playlist. This truly shows that the Nu Jazz definition is a big generalization to something we can’t define due to the fact that its meaning changes with the artist.

Our December Writiers are Up!

 All Students:  Be sure to read the entries for this group --December writers).  Everyone is required to comment on at least THREE different pieces of writing.  You must submit comments on Canvas (for each one, include the name of the author and the title of their piece, and then your positive, specific comment ) by Friday, January 13 on Canvas.  (Assignment will appear on Canvas when the new class is published)

 

 

Remember, comments must be positive, supportive, constructive, and SPECIFIC.  No "Good Job!" comments, unless you follow that with specific things you thought were done well in the piece.  Show them you actually took the time to read and enjoy their work!

"Excerpt from Personal Obsession" by Robbin P

 

It was like he knew I was leaving that night. I could’ve sworn I heard him talking to himself about what to do now that I wasn’t sold. He couldn't just get rid of me, because his entire reputation was on the line. All of the merchants would know by morrow that this home would still be occupied by my god-forbidding presence. I am still stuck between being embarrassed by him and being afraid of him. Poor guy couldn’t even get two shillings for me. Katalina was taken from us just two months ago when the market opened for spring. “Competition Season” was held from March 2nd to May 2nd every year. If you weren’t chosen or bought in that time frame, consider yourself dead in the next three days. My sister was probably in a wealthy mansion, draped in expensive silk, and drowning in tears for being stuck with a 46 year old man for the rest of her life. I think I would rather be dead than living the life she was forced into. I got out of the window without making a single creak. The midnight market was home for us. Atlas and Milan met me approximately 48 steps down the street. We dare not to talk until we reach the entrance gate of the market. One whisper in the alley is forbidden unless you’re a merchant of women. We chose to separate tonight to cover as much ground as possible. I need as many jewels as I can possibly find. The boat for the Pacific Channel leaves tomorrow at 1400. About an hour and half rushes by when Milan comes to me with an embezzled knife. The muscles construed her face to make me believe that she didn’t purchase this possession; she stole it. Atlas is pacing near the gates, waiting for us. I take as long of strides as I need because running will get us hunted. With the knife in my bag and Milan behind me, we reach the entrance and get out without a single man suspecting us. These Saturday nights are filled with lads and ladies and children all alike. It is the best time to slip through the cracks without being seen. We walk home at a steady pace without speaking again. Atlas signs at me, “Be careful.” I signed back, “He won’t have a clue.” I watch them walk through the front door of their home. No parent occupies their company anymore. I climb up the brick wall beside my window and slide right through only to find him on my bed with his glass bottle perched against his leg. “Where were you?” he said with no expression of anger. I refuse to answer and walk through my bedroom door. I hear him throw the bottle at the wall, obviously drunk and irritated now.  The liquid seeps down the stairs I am descending and my back gets struck with a faux-leather belt that feels too familiar to me. The scar on my back throbs as I lose my balance and speed up my steps to get out of the front door before he gets the chance to hit me again. I hear his heavy steps rushing behind me and a pull at my left wrist as if the joint itself is yanked off. I am pulled against him and try my best to make no effort in talking or making eye contact. I kick his legs and his grip loosens allowing me to reach for my bag and pull out my stolen weapon. I use my right hand to slice the knife as hard as physically possible without committing a murder I cannot afford right now. His chest gets cut and blood seeps the tip of the knife. I use the split second he takes to react to run out of the door and sprint to Milan and Atlas' house. I push open the door for help and protection only to see Atlas over Milan, her foaming at the mouth. His hands are red and her neck is shaking while her eyes are spilling tears. I look at Altas. He forms his hands to sign, “I didn’t do it.”

"The Negativity Bias" by Carolina G

Memories have the power to bring glimpses of the past into the present. Studies show that many of the negative memories that we have are naturally more impactful to our psyche than positive memories. While positivity in aspects of life is typically the goal, many would agree about how negativity is often more prominent in their minds than positivity. Time and time again, one small negative incident has enough influence to overpower an entirely positive experience when being thought back on. This frequent, subliminal, inclination towards seeking out negativity in every aspect of life is called the negativity effect or more commonly, the negativity bias.

There are different theories about this subject, some putting the blame for the instinctive bias on evolution, some on our human need to adapt, and others even mention age as a contributing factor. An article from the American Psychological Association suggested that negative memories could be remembered easier, and with more precision due to evolution. Since negative emotions may be linked to a potentially threatening situation, these particular events are associated with increased activity in the part of the brain that is responsible for memories. The bad situations stimulate activity in brain centers corresponding to emotion, and the more these centers are active, the more specific the resulting memories become. Positive events do not create the same level of vividness in memories because our brains do not react as strongly to positive experiences as they do to negative ones.

Similar to the previous article, psychologist, Laura Carstensen, states that humans are much more likely to remember negatives over positives because bad memories protect against possible similar events in the future. She proposes we need these memories in such detail to be able to adapt to our environment. Carstensen’s study also makes the interesting note that this subconscious focus on negative rather than positive is less frequent in older generations than it is in younger ones. Carstensen states that people younger than 30 are typically very focused on their future, and therefore intuitively save the negative memories that will help their future selves. The older generations are generally able to focus more on the present, and in turn see more of the positives in life first rather than second.

The Decision Lab, a behavioral science informant website, defines the negativity bias to be “a cognitive bias that explains why negative events or feelings typically have a more significant impact on our psychological state than positive events or feelings, even when they are of equal proportion.” Research justifies how society as a whole tends to automatically give attention to the negative first, over the positive, a process that starts all the way at infancy. The human brain is proven to remember the negative as more influential and spend more time focusing on a truly insignificant negative event. The bias is the cause for why we often seem to learn better from the bad than the good, how one small thing can ruin our entire day, and why first impressions are so important. For example, if your first impression of a new person is not a positive one, it will affect the way you perceive them throughout the relationship. However, it is shown that keeping mindfulness can decrease this bias. Making an active effort to focus on everything good that is going on around you as opposed to the bad is beneficial to your state of mind and perspective on life. There is always something positive to look at and appreciate. We may just have to look a little harder to find it.

"Unwilled Maturity" by Evangeline A

 

Confusion. Pain. Anger. Disbelief. Overwhelming.

It all hit suddenly and unwillingly, I had to mourn the loss of my mom.

Only eleven years into my life and she was gone. Cancer did it. It won.

Many years prior to this I had no worries, just elementary school and fun family days. I would say my upbringing was pretty good and I was undeniably happy. However, those feelings don't seem to last long in this world regardless of age.

One day at seven years old, my mom sat in her bathroom in pain… We thought nothing of it but still went to the doctor just in case. Immediately they caught it, stage 4 cervical cancer. How long she had it was unobtainable but still we took action to fight it head-on. For the next four years, we had endless doctor visits and emergency 911 calls.

“I’ll be home soon” she would text me and my sisters, all holding faith knowing it was probably a lie.

I will never forget early on of her diagnosis when I first saw her seizing one time, I was all alone in the hospital room with her because my grandma had stepped out not knowing what to do. 

Seeing these types of things alters your brain forever on.

While all of this was happening me and my sisters still had our own lives going on, having school and such. It was hard. My dad was not present in my life until the end and my grandma was always working or in the hospital with my mom.

So how did we do it?

With the help of our school staff. I wish I could thank them all personally today, the teachers took their time to bring us dinners, give us gift cards, baskets of snacks, and even Christmas presents when we were all alone. With those gift cards, we would all walk, my oldest sister being around 14 at the time, my second oldest being 10, and me being 8 years old, around our community to get some groceries or food.

But of course, everything must come to an end.

For it all to not feel like it was even worth it in the end. All because on April 20, 2016, at 10:28 A.M. she was declared dead. Especially hard because our grandma gave us false hope every day coming back from the hospital saying she was getting better when in reality she had been in a coma for a week and cancer had spread everywhere.

This now leads to why this is called “Unwilled maturity”. With the loss of my mom when she passed as well as even before because she was always in the hospital me and my sisters were forced to grow up in a sense. We had to fend for ourselves and make ends meet with no prior knowledge of how the world works.

Having no strong mother figure in our lives anymore caused us to make mistakes and learn from them very quickly. It seems nice because no parents to tell you what to do but it really hurts not being able to have some warning. With these mistakes though I and my sisters know now a lot more about the world and life than most people do only because we had no other choice.

We had to immediately live with our dad, stepmom, and stepsisters but that didn't do anything. We all had become very independent at such a young age now only depending on each other for advice or just a shoulder to cry on.

We all carry these traits to this day, my oldest sister acting like a mother figure, now being 23, as well as the second oldest being 19, and me being 17 having to step up for sisters that weren't even ours.

For some reason, we were made the model children in the house and everything they did was a reflection of how we acted. The pressure from my dad and stepmom got and still is extremely overwhelming especially because I am now the person they look up to. Not only the pressure to just be responsible and nice with and to my sisters but also just as a human. I cannot make mistakes because my older sisters already did that so they’re tired of it. Wake up late, grounded. Attitude, silent treatment. Standing up for myself, disrespectful. Cameras, life360, it feels like a prison.

Let's not forget the fact that my dad has spoken disrespectfully of my mom on numerous occasions with no shame to us. What he gained from that I could not tell you to be honest.

I would do anything to go back to what it was before, I wish we didn’t have to worry about how we were gonna eat, I wish we didn't have to lose our childhood.

So, almost seven years later and I can't express the amount of pain it is not to have a mom present. From spontaneous Friday movie nights and beach trips to being forced to live with someone rarely present in my life and call him “Dad”. The transition never made quite a sense to my sisters or me but life goes on, right?

 

Remember to tell your parents or guardian you love them and don't take anything for granted no matter how angry or emotional they can make you. You never know when they won't be there the next day.

"How to Prepare a Latte" by Mark L

 

Did you know that 2 billion cups of Coffee are consumed every day? It’s the most popular caffeinated beverage in the world. Almost 400 million people ordering coffee everyday.  As an experienced barista, I’ll guide you through step-by-step on how to prepare the most common and popular drink, the “Latte”, A combination of Espresso and milk which originated in Italy. You don’t have to be a Professional barista to prepare the perfect latte, all it takes is time and practice.

 

            Preferably amongst most people, Latte is prepared using espresso machines, but you can use other methods to make coffee for the latte such as a Moka pot, French press, and pour-over method which is way more convenient and easy. As of for this tutorial I will be showing you by using a Homebrew Espresso machine. Any brand will do. The ingredients and equipment you’ll need are below! ↓

 

 

Equipment:

 

●      Espresso machine(Portafilter, steamer, etc.)

●      Latte/Shot glasses

●      Latte Mug

●      Milk Frothing Pitcher

●      Grinder

Ingredients:

 

●      ½ cup of Milk

●      Coffee beans

●      Sugar or Vanilla syrup (Optional)

 

 

Step 1: Pre-heat Espresso Machine

The key to a perfect espresso is to make sure that the water is hot enough in order to get an even extraction. The hotter the water, the faster it is able to extract the caffeine, acids, and oils from the coffee. Be sure to keep your portafilter in the machine to help heat up your basket (your coffee extraction basket), or run hot shots of water through.

 

*Using cold water to extract the Coffee will slow down the process of brewing and will result in a bitter taste in your coffee. Ensuring your porfilter basket is hot as well helps better with the extraction.

 

Step 2: Grinding your beans

Using freshly roasted coffee beans is the key to good coffee. When grinded it provides the water with a easier and more even extraction. You can use a built-in grinder that comes with your machine or a separate potable grinder like mine.

 

 

I highly discourage using pre-grinded coffee because the longer you wait, the faster the CO₂  will escape from the beans resulting in a poor cup. It’s also less fresh from bag then it is to grind your own beans.  So I recommend, whether it is pregrinded or not, is to use you coffee grinds as soon as possible. Be also to check the roast date on the bottom of your bag!

 

After grinding, your coffee grounds should be at a fine texture, which is the best for Espresso brewing.

 

*You don’t want it to be too coarse or too fine which will result in an uncomplete extraction.

 

*Credits to “Coffee affection”

 

 

 

Step 3: Your Portafilter

When done grinding, put two tablespoons of the coffee grinds in your portafilter

 

Step 4: Tamping

After filling your basket,  use your included tamper that comes with your espresso machine to help put pressure on the coffee grinds to help empty the air from your portafiler basket. Angle you arm at a “90 degree angle” and press firmly until it’s flat

 

 

*Credits to Clive Coffee

 

 

Step 5: Extracting the Espresso

 

Insert your portafilter in your espresso machine and press the button, switch, or turn the knob to extract your espresso. Your espresso should take at least 15-20 seconds to finish brewing. You run based on how many tablespoon you’ve inserted into your portfilter basket. Also be also to check for the crema, which is the light brown thin layer of foam that forms after brewing.

 

1 tablespoons -  10-15 seconds

2 tablespoons - 15-20 seconds

3 tablespoons- 20-25 seconds

 

*Depending on the size of your portafilter basket

 

Step 6: Steaming your milk

Your espresso is done! Switch your extraction setting to “steam” on your espresso machine. (1) Fill you pitcher to half way full. (2) Purge your steam wand and wait for a few seconds for it to remove any condensation. (3) Place you steam wand under the surface of your milk, and turn it on at full power. This allows to air to enter the milk. Since we’re making a latte your only going to hold your milk under the surface for at least 5-10 seconds. (4) Begin directing your milk around the circumference of your pitcher, creating a whirlpool. Hold the pitcher at a slight 45 degree angle to help with the direction of the milk. (5) You should feel you Pitcher gettin warm, now place you steam wand deeper into the milk to stop air from entering you milk. (6) When you feel your pitcher is getting too hot for you to hold, turn off your steam wand. Your milk should look like wet paint.

 

 

*Credits to “Crema Coffee Roasters” for this image demonstration

 

 

 

Step 7: Pouring your latte art

Pour your coffee in your warm coffee mug. Feel free to add turbinado sugar or vanilla syrup for sweetness in your cup prior to pouring. Be sure that your espresso is freshly pulled

 

. (1) Level your milk slowly on the lip of your jug with your cup tilted at a 45 degree angle. Steady pour is the key to the white layer of milk to form. (2) Circle your pitcher around the cup to ensure the crema is formed all along the surface of your coffee. (3) Stop pouring and lower your pitcher closer to the surface of your latte, and pour until you see a white color along the surface of your crema. (4) The easiest latte art to make is the tulip. Wiggle your pitcher as you move down the cup, and lastly pour up through the center.

Step 8: Enjoy

Congratulations! you made you very own homemade latte. If you made a mistake on of the steps, don’t worry! Try again! Practice makes perfect. Sit down and grab some turbinado sugar to add to your delicious beverage ( If you didn’t already add sugar) and relax. You can continue practicing until you perfected the latte art, or you can just head down to Starbucks. :(

 

Thanks for reading!

-Mark

 

 

"The Reality of Money Truly Buying Happiness?" by Leilani C

 

 

Happiness is an emotional feeling expressed through the physical state for momentarily satisication within a person. Everyone always talks about how the saying “Money can’t buy happiness” is bogus.  Our generation believes money can buy happiness , due to the fact that money can literally buy specifc things in life that we admire or envy. As humans were are so eager towards “money”, as it’s a want and necessity in our world. People think that the more income the consume, the more things I can buy, which will make me happier,  more money doesn’t really lead to more happiness because people often overestimate, how much pleasure they’re gonna gain, from having wealthy items. Various of people are blinded really about the phrase “Money can buy happiness,” as we phase to see that both those components “money” and “happiness” are actually temporary. There are many reasons to emphasize why money can’t buy you happiness in our world. Although, various benefits of having money in general, as people we can literally get anything we desire and it can used to help pay for essential livelihood things. Moreover, money changes how person live life, in which them become greedy, selfish within their money values. As, a society we need to learn more how to use money more “sensibly” so the things purchased with the money, can actually have a  value of happiness to it. Since,  money is earned as an exchange for  your time, to work for a business or company. As working for an hour, you essentially get paid for just working that hour. From a child’s perspective, when you get money from your parents for Christmas, kidss always know what they want to spend it on. As for me, I would probably spend my money on vinyl records for my collection, since I am a really big music person. Since, I like vinyl records, the purchase of it will bring me happiness in that current state as I get the best vinyls of my favorite artists.  As I get older, I might not be “ as”interest in vinyl’s as much as I am now, therefore, the money I used to buy what I “admire”, doesn’t bring me happiness  anymore in the sense that it isn’t something I’m into. Essentially, as humans since we are evolving creatures, over a current amount of time, that specific item becomes a part of our daily routine, in the use of it’s presence daily, therefore it slowly begins to lose its appeal of attraction to you. Another way to look of this point of view of “Money not being able to provide happiness” can dictate on how people actually live their lives, in situations where money is a problem but they don’t have a problem with the consumption of wanting lots of money, whereas, a rich person wouldnt’ really have to worry about money. After this argument of what the worldtruly believes if money can buy happiness,  It’s safe to say that money intetionally doesn’t buy happiness as we are evolutionary creatures, who lose interest in things over time and have different situations in which how people really view money and how they choose to spend it.

"The Hunter’s Nightmare" by Lucas P

THE NIGHT was long and dreadful, and the skies were dark and dull. I was rummaging through the forest, just as any night for me, when my prey had stalked its way into my sight once again. I quickly pulled out my arbalest and began to focus on my target. Seeing it rampage towards the village, frothing at the mouth, fur blasted back from its high velocities, it was enough to make any sane man’s skin crawl. I hesitated no longer, and the trigger was pulled. A blood curdling screech was let out. Muttering to myself, I whispered, “Vile beast”. I began to track down the carcass, following the scent of the wildest animal and the spilt blood. It was certain, the town was rid of another werewolf. Its body shifted back in front of my eyes. “Damn it, Henry. ‘Tis a shame, he was a good, righteous man.”

            I began my trek home, through the marsh and under the bridge, surrounded by only the night sky and the beasts that lay dormant through the night. At last, I had reached my humble cottage, home to my one and only, Catherine. She promised to always await my arrival upon the night, always restless to see if I would make it home. When she heard my faint footsteps creeping along the pathway, she reflexively greeted me at the door.

            “Oh, thank goodness, my love!” she exclaimed as she tightly wound myself within her arms, “It’s a late night for you, I had grown worried for the worst,” She cried.

            I calmed her, “Worry not, my Catherine, for I prevail once again,” Having a moment to share with my love, I added, “Have you mustered up some supper for myself?”

            “Why, of course I have!” She attested, “It may have grown cold by now, I fear. A loaf and a bowl of pottage, just for you.” She went to the oven to grab the meal. I thought to myself, ‘Pottage? She never makes pottage’. Alas, I thought nothing of it, and I set all of my gear by the door, preparing to venture out again tomorrow. As she began to reapproach me, supper in hand, I noticed a small marking on her neck.

            “What’s that there, upon your neck? How has that appeared? When did this happen? Why haven’t you told me of this?” I questioned incessantly.

            “Sorry, what marking?” She started innocently, “I haven’t received any lashes of sorts, at least to the best of my knowledge.” She jokingly finished.

            If she wasn’t my love, I would’ve taken the shot right there. But I couldn’t. I knew that mark from miles away. I, better than anyone alive, can tell a lycan from a human. I recognized something was off, but thought nothing of it. Perhaps it truly was nothing. My love deserves my grace, as she has been only gracious to me as long as I’ve lived. I finally muttered, “Maybe I have been seeing things, it’s been a long day after all. Sincerest apologies, my pure one.” I affectionately said to her.
            That night, as I tossed and turned upon my mattress, I couldn’t shake the feeling I glimpsed earlier. I tightly shut my eyes, in an attempt to forget the moment, but nothing could alleviate the fear from my soul. I opened my eyes, and glanced to my right, looking for my beloved Catherine, sleeping peacefully. However, she was gone. I looked out of the small window from my chambers, and I began to tremble. “Full moon,” I whispered to myself. The doors were left swung wide open, and her clothes were left upon the floor, in rags. My worst fear had become a reality. My beloved, my pure Catherine had been desecrated. I immediately started up, assembling myself for the journey that lay ahead of me. My heart plunged further and further into my stomach, as I began to come to grips with exactly what was about to happen. I mantled my arbalest across my back, and began to head into the deep, horrifying forest, yet the enchanting night it lay in.

            I could faintly hear a beast across the land, and the footsteps matched the direction. I was certain. This is where my beloved had marched. I had only one hope, to stop her before she devours me or anyone else, for I could not handle the guilt of brutally assassinating my pure one. The calls became closer, and I grew more fearful as the night grew longer. It flashed in front of my eyes for a sliver of time. A beast. I knew what must be done. I readied the arbalest, and I eased my nerves. The moment it moved again, it was mine. ‘Three…two…’ and that was it. I took the shot. The lands echoed with a screech to rival a lightning strike and the clap of the thunder. I could barely take the idea. I managed to pull myself towards the scene. My eyes hadn’t deceived me, but I wish they had. No, it was as clear as the sun in the sky, and as pure as the day I had met her. My beautiful Catherine, slaughtered by mine own hands. I took my last breath, readied the arbalest, and pointed it into my own heart.

            “For you, my beloved,” I sang into the night.

"Meeting the End" by Trinity H

“Do you know where you are?”

Now that I’ve been asked, I realize that I don’t know where I am. There’s a long road, leading to an ever growing distance on both sides. I look up, and it’s blue but the sky isn’t really there. I wiggle my fingers and look at my hands. I’m moving them but I can’t really feel it.

“Hello? Do you know where you are?”

The man across the road asking me this slowly comes into my vision. He’s so far away but I can still hear him even with the low level he’s speaking at. Suddenly, I realize just how quiet it is. There must not be any cars for miles. Or any people. I start to wonder if there is anything at all.

“I don’t know where I am.” I answer to the man with the volume he used.

“Do you want to know?”

As the man says this he walks toward me. Logic is telling me to run or to tell him to stay where he is. But my gut is alerting me. I need this man. So I respond.

“Yes, please.”

He’s face to face with me now, and he's grinning. I try to define him. Try to see if maybe I know him. But nothing except nothing comes to mind. This whole place feels a lot like nothing.

“Well, I guess I could tell you, but it might be a bit of a shock.”

I nod silently, he seems to take this as a queue.

“You’ve been lost by life and found by death. So I guess you could say you’re somewhere in between.”

I’m not sure what comes over me but I laugh. Not the giggling type of laugh but the bellowing type of laugh. He doesn’t join, however, he keeps along with his upturned lips.

“I don’t think you understand, sir. I’m not lost.” I grow impatient.

“Well you just told me you were.” he says patiently.

“No, I told you I don’t know where I am.”

“Is that not the same thing? Well I guess you could consider perspective-”

I interrupt him.

“No. I’m not lost, I just don’t know where I am. If you would just tell me where I am, I’ll know and then I can find my way home.”

He looks disappointed and says,

“You can’t have a home. At least not here, it’s not really possible.”

I’m confused, and this confusion is beginning to frustrate me.

“Well obviously I can’t have a home here, how can anyone have a home in a place they don’t know?”

“Okay, well where is your home then?” he challenges.

“It’s… it’s um. I… I don’t know.”

He nods and reaches out his hand. I hesitantly take it.

Something comes over me, I don’t know what. But now I miss it. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss the sun. I miss the moon and stars. I miss music. I miss water. I miss warmth. I miss dreaming. I miss being a child. I miss being a teenager. I miss really specific things like the day in the mountains when I saw snow for the first time. I start to think about opening one present on Christmas Eve. The excitement that came with that, I miss it. I miss late night drives with someone I know but can’t quite place. Those were my favorite nights. I miss hugs. I miss someone’s smile. I miss love. I miss it so much that I start to miss less and soon enough I can’t remember what I was even missing. I want to cry but I find myself not able to shed a tear. In fact, if I’m correct, I’m smiling. He takes my chin in his hand and lifts it, as I’m gazing into his soulful eyes they start to tell me something. They tell me that maybe he misses it too.

“Where am I?” I beg to know.

“I’ll tell you where you are. You’re right where you need to be.”

And I believe him.

“I have to go. But I’ll miss you. Take care.”

Before I can say anything he turns around and starts walking down the road. I’m missing something again but it isn’t what he showed me.

“Wait, sir!”

“Yes?”

I search for my words and ask,

“Who are you?”

He considers this question carefully and opens his mouth,

“End.”