I would like to take this opportunity right here, right now, to show my immense appreciation and gratitude to teachers. You do what I cannot do. You have the patience that I will never have. You amaze me every day. Teachers, I love you. And I respect you. Will you marry me? I'll do anything, if you'll only promise to never leave me again. School is a point of contention in our household. I love it, my husband loves it, my daughter likes it occasionally, and my son hates it. I can't say that I blame him either. He has ADHD and is the square peg trying to fit into the round hole when it comes to getting along at school. In the couple months leading up to spring break 2020, he was completely unable to be in his classroom all day. I would get phone calls from the school telling me that he was hanging out in the hallway with the Education Assistant because the class was too distracting. We toyed with the idea of homeschooling him. But after a trial period of about 5 days where we brought him home at midday, we realised that we didn't have the stamina for it. He asks a lot of fucking questions. They come rapid-fire, like bullets out of a semi-automatic, and he doesn't wait for the answer to the first one before asking the next twelve. The vast majority of them are obscure, or require a PhD in something like mechanical, aeronautical, or medical engineering. Despite our best efforts, he wasn't interested in going on hikes or bike rides, or doing any at-home learning. He just wanted to watch tv and play Minecraft. In the end, we worked to get him back to school for full days and agreed that we would not be bringing up homeschooling again. Ever. Obviously we all know how that turned out when lockdown rolled around. Can we just agree that there are certain things that you need an actual human in front of you for? Yes, we have amazing technology at our disposal. Yes, it has opened up the world and made things possible that were previously impossible. But as a species, we have not yet evolved past the need for human connection. The in-person kind (I can't even believe I have to specify that.) We'll know when we've evolved past it because we won't ever feel lonely. In fact, we probably won't feel anything at all. We won't feel an urge to fall in love, or have sex, or make a real friend. Until that day, a day that I hope never comes for mankind, we still need each other: not virtually, but physically. Which is why this whole virtual schooling thing is not going to work. The platform our school is using for online learning is meant for adults, therefore it has a chat box as well as the video function. At any point, students with unlimited access to their technology and minimal parent supervision can contact their teachers day and night. And they have. At all hours of the night. The school has sent out numerous emails to the parents asking them to get a handle on their kids so they don't interrupt the private lives of their teachers. It's been a disaster. But that doesn't even begin to describe the online learning portion. Each day the class has a morning meeting from 09:30-09:50. It goes a little like this: “Good morning Tiana…good morning Tiana…can you unmute yourself please? Tiana? Please can you unmute yourself? Okay I think there's an issue there, good morning Rashid, can you mute your mic please, there's too much noise in the background. I need those students that are currently using the chat box to post memes and videos to please stop because it's distracting.” That carries on for a few minutes. Then the teacher says, “Okay so now that everyone is here, we're going to do our greeting chain.” The first time I heard that, I thought, surely there must be a mistake. She just greeted everyone, didn't she? But alas, they must now greet each other. The greeting chain has a theme based on the first letter of the day of the week, such as “Wine Guzzling Wednesday” or “Fuck This Pandemic Friday.” Its success was dependent entirely on the students' level of interest (somewhere in the negative numbers for my son) and willingness to participate. While I think the exercise was an unprecedented waste of time and resources, I found plenty to be amused by. My personal favourite was when the class was playing 20 questions. The teacher held up a paper bag and asked everyone to guess what was inside. After about 47 questions, the kids had it pinned down as a food item and proceeded to list off every variety of orange they could think of. Kid: Is it an orange? Teacher: It is not an orange. Kid: Is it a clementine? Teacher: It is not a clementine. It's not an orange. Kid:…Is it a mandarin? Teacher: O.K. you guys, it's not an orange. Kid: Is it a blood orange? Teacher: *exasperated* It is NOT an orange. Kid: Is it a tangerine? Teacher: IT'S A BAGEL. A BAGEL! IT'S A BAGEL! NOT AN ORANGE! A BAGEL! AND NOW IT'S COLD! *sigh* Lets work on multiplication now.

I always thought of myself as being an open-minded person. Don't we all like to believe we were blessed or simply brought up with good values, which therefore established ourselves as virtuous people? It's the way humans are. But following whose rules is my supposedly open mindedness considered to be open? Mine? As a child, my report cards' soaring numbers, which lit up my parents' eyes and, let's be honest, mine too, every end of semester, were never obtained with much effort. I guess it made me think easiness in academics was a commonly shared characteristic; this simpleminded assumption is unfortunately overshadowed by an even more shameful presumption: that bad grades necessarily meant an unwillingness to work. I believe almost anyone can remember how and when they found out about the existence of COVID-19. My moment was on my way to school: I was riding the subway and reading the newspaper I had picked up just before entering the train. It was quite a small article, with a title resembling something like “An unknown virus' apparition in China”. Looking back, I am still stunned at how the subject taking up less than a page's space in the newspaper quickly became the star of its front page, second page and so on, until keeping close to half of its contents to itself. It all happened so quickly! One-digit numbers of cases became two-digits numbers, followed by the beginning of international cases, leading to the first case in Canada, where I live. Events of this kind finally ushered the world to shut down, countries by countries. How does that relate to my story? Millions of students including me had to deal with the dramatic cutdown of genuine social interaction while navigating through the perturbed waters all adults had had to someday overcome. The real difficulty for many was online schooling: filling our heads with knowledge that was sometimes staggeringly tedious, passed on from a screen that often stayed too still at times to my taste, and normality's. I saw myself become, from a student who used to nail almost every test without studying much, one who found it hard to even understand the content teachers were diffusing. I was a witness to my own fall. After handing over the last exam of that school year, I still remember the odd feeling I had. I was of course happy that at last, summer vacation had come, but... I wasn't able to walk into it with the same sentiment of gratification I had had the precedent years. I now realize it was because I wasn't truly satisfied and proud of myself: knowing I wouldn't get great scores on the exams made me feel disappointed, like I wasted months of my life. This past year, my province has let students of my age physically attend school half of the time, and learn by distant education the other half. I was thus liberated from some of the pressure I was under the year before, but I was still affected by its consequences. Participation, concentration, motivation, even finding topics of conversations with my friends had not only become harder, but problems I daily faced. Although I don't look at these consequences as wounds, I still can say that for my case, time served as healer. It took me months to be able to get back on track, but I did it! It did come at a greater cost, though, but late nights of studying do always bear fruits at the end. Today, I can for sure say that this experience taught me to be more open-minded. I cannot say that I truly understand all matters and circumstances of everyone's lives, but I do know now that grades are not only defined by one's work ethic. Numerous factors can come into play. For instance, parents' fights are greatly able to disturb both one's ability to focus and one's mental health; a family's financial situation can also be an unfavorable influence. This past school year and a half challenged me in a way that, oddly, benefitted me. I doubt I would have changed my work attitude if these difficulties had not happened to me, at least not until the inevitable moment when I would have to hit a wall, just like everyone does someday. To me, it was a reminder to not loosen up too much; a warning that life wasn't like I pictured it.

“Layla got admitted to a mental facility. She's been self-harming and she tried to kill herself.” Did I fail as a sister? Did society fail her? I thought I should feel upset or sad or worried for her, right? I'm supposed to be more concerned that she tried to take away her life and ask her how she's doing. But this wasn't how I felt. I was pissed. Your life isn't your own, you hurt people by making the choice to take your own life. I was so angry that she tried to go without some sort of goodbye or note. I was infuriated that she didn't try to fix the problem or get help. But I knew that if she was successful in her attempt, I would be having a different conversation. The successful cases always start out with people who were unhappy and struggled to reach out for help, and the only difference between them and Layla was that she failed. I thought I was heartless for my lack of empathy until I heard what my mom had to say about the next day: “Go to school tomorrow. Get the homework for your sister. If people ask where your sister is, just tell them that she got sick. You aren't lying to them. Don't tell your cousins, just keep this to yourself.” Our dirty little secret was swiftly swept under the rug and we were still the picture-perfect family that she imagined in her head. Do the work, get through the day, go home. It went like this for some weeks as Layla was in and out of that haunted building. That nightmare that put bars on an already trapped mind. She laughs about stories of "butt juice" and funny nurses, but I knew when she told me those stories that every night she cried herself to sleep on that firm mat, in a room of people she never knew before. Girls shared anecdotes that made Layla's story seem like a lullaby. I knew the cage that she had to suffer in for what must have felt like ages with only minutes of communication with friends and family on a daily basis. I walked around school pretending that everything was okay; all I had to do was say “my sister isn't feeling well” and smile. I know the frustration that my mother had to endure with Layla's situation, so I took care of myself. I was one less child to worry about. I didn't have time to be sad. Every day, after eight hours of pretending that everything was fine, I walked myself to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for dinner, and when I got home, I would begin the process of feeding five mouths- one less than “normal”. I would clean up everything and get to work or bed. I didn't have time to be sad. That one weekend was supposed to be like rain in the desert. I was finally going out for the first time since the storm struck. I was out with a friend when I got the call. Words that would echo in my mind forever as I answered the phone to a furious mother: “I'm done. If Layla wants to kill herself, then fine, let her do it. I don't care anymore. I just want her gone and out of the house. I don't ever want to see her after she graduates high school” In the span of one month, I became a mom, a therapist, and alone. Part of me was furious that she couldn't maintain her composure and have the patience to attend to her mentally ill child after all the hours I spent to make sure she had little housework to do. But I knew when I heard those words that my mother wasn't trying to be difficult, it was her cry for help. “Hey, mom, you don't mean that. I know that she's frustrating at times, but she is your daughter and you love her. She is trying her best to get better, but it's a long process.” Who did I have to bring peace to my chaos? I grew even madder at no one. I took on extra responsibilities, I did what I was told to protect the perfect dollhouse image of our family, but in the process, I lost myself. I did nothing for myself and I stopped talking to the people that were knights in protecting my mental health when hell went loose. I found a safe haven in the one place I have never enjoyed since the third grade: math class. Anyone that tells you that math teachers are terrible people either (1) failed math or (2) never took a single good math course in their entire life. My math teacher let me rant to him about completely irrelevant details like the perks of being a Disney princess or the lack of warm bagels in the cafeteria on a daily basis. He was the only person to point out tendencies in Layla that kids my age have never recognized. He knew about the responsibilities that I had going on at home and it felt nice to be seen. I felt like I was sacrificing my time for people that didn't even notice me, but someone was looking in from the outside and he knew the pain I was putting myself through. He knew the fake smile that I put on and the fire that I couldn't seem to put out no matter how hard I tried. I didn't blame people around me for not seeing me clearly, I was simply grateful for finding a space where I could relax my shoulders and stop holding my breath.

When there are so many problems in the world, let us not make things worse. And there are no preconditions for self-development here, to be honest, sometimes one wants to fall into a lethargic dream or constantly yawn (which is indecent in a civilized society) from these strange speeches, where people are trying to find motivation. What can be funnier and sadder at the same time, where a healthy person full of strength and energy, afraid of taking risks, making mistakes and winning, is trying to find non-existent instructions for his life? That's absurd. Do not search for what you already know in your heart. Slowing down and laziness are almost the most useless things in the world. At least, boring so precisely. Well, when we have figured out the nuances that will be discussed in this letter, or rather, these is not here — let's begins. P.S. You have to read out loud to put a point. How little time is given to us to think about it after all? Stop with your eyes covered, breathe fresh air and just think. Preferably about the past, because it's the only thing that defines you now. I think the connection between us was formed the first time we met. This woman, descended from the pages of her favorite Victorian novels, was exactly like the heroines at the English court. Intelligent enough, mysterious enough, known her own value. She wasn't a great beauty, but she didn't need it. She had much more — a bright, blinding light — the fire to life, which made me, young, reach out to him. “You have to reread what you've written out loud three times, and only then you have to put a dot.” “There must be a mystery in a woman that will give a man a field for imagination.” She was not just my teacher of literature, no, rather a spiritual mentor, brought up in me something that I thought I could not possess.I was always fascinated by her her dazzling love of language and literature. The way she could forget the time, telling a poem of her favorite poet in 3 languages or with rapture read an excerpt from “The Master and Margarita”. She wanted to bring her world to us and, unfortunately, not many of us were ready to accept it. It was the highest point of professionalism that everyone dreamed of achieving — to dissolve in what you do without fear of being misunderstood. If only you could attend one of her lessons, you would understand me. There is no better teacher in the whole world — that's my axiom. We didn't just read interesting stories about some characters, we lived a whole world woven from incredible crossroads, we immersed ourselves in the culture of that era and the country where the events took place, and we learned to think like those people, to understand their actions and to empathize with them. Everything that was going on in that office was like the entrance to Narnia: crazy magic.It was this woman who made me not just open up to something new and unknown, she made me believe that I could do it, she taught me to see things right and not be afraid to express my thoughts on paper, and I dare to think that what I was doing and writing, she liked it. The last time I saw her was at an event of some kind. She sat in the front rows, as always dressed up and beautiful. My best schoolteacher. How long has it been since... We didn't talk, but for 10 minutes I couldn't take my eyes off her, admitting and understanding that woman meant so much to me, so much that sometimes it got scary. The night I got my work, which was in her possession until she was fired from school, I was so terribly confused. I didn't know what to think. I was overcome by sadness at the thought that she didn't want to remember me or that I had unwittingly become a sad reminder of a job that was her whole life. I cried for an hour over those works, remembering in every detail the path I had taken. All those years trying to be her best student, imitating this woman, the greatest teacher, in a crazy race with time, I never understood what she had done for me. She saved me with these works for long-forgotten competitions. Even years later, reminding me who I am and what I really must do. Someone says that history should touch the reader, causing slight nausea and suffocation. It seems to be the same with people. At least that's what happened to me. Other people make us human. So look back and say “thank you” to that very person whenever you can. “How many words in the world and nonsense can't find the right 'thank you'. I am grateful for your faith and the crazy work you have done to show me the way to myself. Without knowing it, it was you who showed me what a determined look and an ever-burning heart means. I learned to fall in love with simple plots, reading the riddle between the lines, and to see the genius in a completely, at first glance, delusional phrases. As Heathcliff would say- “He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” With love, warm regards, forever your student”.

“Oh my God, why aren't you wearing your gloves! You know you have to be careful at this time!” my mother's voice boomed in my ears as I entered my car. I did a little eye roll. “Relax, the virus hasn't reached my school yet. We're all fine,” I replied. She sighed and focused on the road ahead, her gloved hands firmly gripped on the steering wheel, her medical mask pulled down to her chin. She was so scared, so careful, unlike me. Hand sanitizer, I thought, was enough to keep that virus at bay. Today would be the last day of school for a very long time. The Corona virus had reached my city, Toronto, Canada just a few weeks ago. The number of those infected had been going up steadily for the past few days, and last night it was announced that schools would be shut down for the next three weeks. Of course, anyone with a brain knew that ‘three weeks' would turn into three months, or maybe years, but the government needed to tell us what they could to keep us from rebelling or panicking. Everyone was so scared. It seemed funny to me. How hard could it be to stay at home, to practice basic hygiene? Spending months at home would basically be a vacation for me. That's all I ever wanted. That was four months ago. Four months ago, when I was just a lonely freshman in highschool, stressed about schoolwork and still struggling to make friends. Every day at school felt like a walk through a fish market, one where I'd be carrying 30 pounds in my bags with no sleep and no companion to guide me through. Every second was lonesome and painful, my ears sore from my headphones to tune out the sound of my peers having fun with each other, the constant jealousy and bitterness swelling inside of me. Do you see why quarantine sounded so pleasant to me? How I managed to look past the thousands of deaths around the world and deal with it like it was doing me a favour? All this time at home has made me happier than I could ever be at that hellhole of place, school. However, I had plenty of time to think. And a tragedy in my family is what opened my eyes during this pandemic. There was a little while when my entire family thought my dad had the virus. I specifically remember us not daring to be in the same room as him, to keep our distance. It was the first time I feared the virus. My dad was in his office room, working as he always did, managing his business while staying in quarantine. That business was what my family lived on, and without my dad, it wouldn't exist. I had woken up that morning, fresh from the anxiety and desperate prayers asking God to make sure my dad was okay. I would never let those emotions show, though. I put on a tough exterior and calmly went to my brother, lightheartedly telling him, “We should get dad checked up.” “Yes, we should. But don't tell him how they do the testing. He'd never agree to have a stick up his nose,” he said, laughing it off. It seemed like he tried not to let his emotions show, either. I noticed that people control their stress by pretending. Acting a certain way does so much for you, more than you could ever imagine. Of course, this is a temporary solution to dealing with stress but, staying calm projects onto the people around you, making the situation more clear and easy to analyze. I also realized that so many things don't seem to bother me until I experience it. I thought I was different, but it was time to change. This is the case for many, many people around the world and it has always been a problem leading to disaster. Take racism, for instance. There are people dealing with racism every single day, and sure, most people will speak out against it once in a while, but do they care enough to do something about it? Rarely. Most people wouldn't take the necessary action, like reporting the case or attending protests until they've experienced racism first hand. I wish there was a way for us all to have a global or human perspective of issues like this. We can take action and care by doing research and simply believing in what's right instead of waiting for us to experience it ourselves. A few days passed and my dad stopped coughing and feeling sick. Were we worried for nothing? Was it a simple cold or did my dad defeat the virus that quickly? I guess we'll never find out, since we never tested him… The reality of this pandemic is that people will die and things will be hard. And that is the plain truth. The world is going through this together. Without the support of one and other, everything would be falling apart. But open your eyes. It's okay. Everything is working out when we follow rules and support one and other. We are all living, and to our brave hearts that have passed due to this virus, we will remember them for what they have left behind; a lesson to the world. To not think like a citizen of your country, but as a citizen of the world.

Who knew life would be like this one day. We are truly living the fantasy of textbook history. Being a high school student, much of my life has turned upside down. Not knowing when (or how) I will go to college, how I will complete the various passion projects I yearn to do, and how I will discover my true passions for the rest of my life. The amount of uncertainty has brought anxiety and nervousness in all aspects of my life. Being a teenager, the only thing I want is a normal life; a life where I can go to school, see my friends, and learn to grow into a responsible adult. Of course, I am not the only teenager whose feet have been swept off the ground because of this pandemic and the chaos that surrounds our world today. As long as everyone stands together during these rough times, we will be able to get through this pandemic not only quickly, but also as stronger, better people. What I do now is try to help my community. I try to help the community by participating in various events such as can drives and cleaning events. I try to participate in as many volunteering school events as I can while wearing a mask and maintaining social distancing. I see my friends but have to maintain the 6 feet distance, the small distance that seems to have separated families, relationships, and friends. Along with this, I try to maintain a discipline of advancing my studies, so I can go on to become a more intelligent and knowledgeable person when coming out of this pandemic. Every resource I can get my hands on, I try to use. I go rummage through the old books in the musty basement, scavenging for all of the knowledge I can gain. I continue to use the various online platforms I have available to me to try and express myself and learn more about the various career options available to me. This is one the aspects of this pandemic I am most thankful for - the ability to continue to learn and grow through various online platforms. I am thankful to all of the healthworkers and frontline workers putting their life at risk to save the world from this awful, deadly virus. If it were not for them, students like me would probably not have the hope of returning to school this coming fall. They are the reason the number of recovered patients keeps on rising everyday! Hearing about the various tragedies outside of the COVID pandemic continue to strike me. I try to raise my voice in these situations. It hurts to see families affected by the toll of this virus, but slowly (and surely) we will all get through this together!

So I sit, in my navy blue cap and gown, observing the torrent of cars flood the street. Our car is dull, black, and inconspicuous, just how my mom prefers it. She didn't come along, she despises crowds. My brother sits ruefully in the backseat, conned by my father's bait of ice cream afterwards. He is also graduating, and will attend my high school next year. I can't blame him for being somber; his trips and celebrations were hijacked as well. The parade feels like a sham, and so I sit, festering in a puddle of sweat, at the mercy of the sun and the driver in front of me. Many parents spared no expense - painting their windows, balloons tied to mirrors, proudly proclaiming their children's name, and future university, that is if they were ‘one of those parents'. Others proceeded with less pomp, perhaps some chalk on the windows, a flag to half-heartedly twirl. Then there were those like us. My dad breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a considerable proportion of cars barren and hollow. Passing grade. I wonder what kinds of families occupied those cars. We pulled onto the major road and the procession grinded to a halt as the leading cars pulled into the parking lot. Many families stood on the sidewalks, waving signs and hats and banners. Proud of every graduate, whether they knew them or not. Proud of their community, of their future, of who we had become… I wonder what kinds of families twirl those banners. Inching along the street, I glanced out the window in systematic intervals, deflecting eye contact with anyone I vaguely knew. A classic high school obstacle - eye contact. Catching eyes, calculating whether I knew someone enough to say hi, then waiting too long until we rudely rip our connections to shreds and walk past like strangers, even though a couple seconds ago, we hardly were. My dad waves more than me. How am I supposed to wave at someone I don't know? My brother, done sulking but still not ready to admit it, peeks his head out the window. All I can do is watch and smile listlessly. It seems like, with half the parade over, half of high school had been squandered as well. As we turned the corner onto the last stretch before the parking lot, someone caught my eye. I cried out to my English teacher, a warm, soothing, refreshing woman who I grew to love and respect over the year. She smiled a mother's smile, and I felt some baggage slip off my shoulders and sink into the car seats. In the home stretch, most of the families on the streets were taking photos of their graduates. I made the most of it, smiling, waving, doing things that came naturally to a chosen few at the beginning. Some cheerleaders performed on the side. I remember at basketball games being miffed by their chants everytime we scored. This time, I was glad they were here. At the stop before the parking lot, I noticed a rising senior, an officer of a volunteer club I was co-president of. She was our choice for president, an intelligent, charismatic, outgoing, unabashed figurehead. Everything I was not for the majority of the ‘parade'. I stuck my head out the window, inquiring across the street if she had picked a leadership team for next year. She looked away, smiled sheepishly, and congratulated me. Always an escape with her. I sat back down, mildly concerned. She would do a good job. I smiled softly, wondering if she would take the club where I could not. We zoomed into the parking lot, my dad excited by the space the car in front had finally conceded. The final turn. I held a piece of notebook paper with my name on it for my announcer. I almost already knew, but Mista Bale, my basketball coach, econ teacher - the man who had shaped me today was rocking the announcers booth. He boomed into the speakers, “My man, Pranav Mitsumurthiiii!”. My stats teacher snapped a quick photo of me, and shooed us along a line of crazy, rowdy, deafening teachers. I smiled genuinely, perhaps for the first time, as I saw them, living four years again in the 30 seconds the line lasted, until finally, suddenly, it was silent. Graduate. As we drive home, my hair, untrimmed and chaotic, finally dislodges my grad cap, shoving it to the floor between my feet as it springs upwards. I stare blankly out the window, thinking so many things and nothing at the same time. Given the circumstances, the school did a fantastic job. But the parade also represents cruelty, helplessness, regret, and for the life of me I cannot forget that. So as I see friends pile out of their cars onto the grassy fields to celebrate and commemorate, all I remember are the experiences I left behind, and the opportunities that were cruelly wrenched from my grasp. And when I finally get home and flop onto my chair, one final smile dances across my lips. I have many regrets. But we are the class of 2020, and we have become strong.

When I was little, I always dreamed of being a rock star ever since Hannah Montana came out from Disney. Every time the opening plays, I would always be on top of the bed and singing and dancing along while using the remote as a microphone. Sometimes my mother would even scold me for jumping on the bed. Though as I got older, I realized I cannot be a rock star since I was not that musically involved as Hannah was nor did I even have the voice to be one. Then when I was in sixth grade, my English teacher noticed that I was quite good in writing, so she encouraged me to join the school paper in which I did. There, I discovered my talent in journalism something that I did not know I possess. It also happens to be that I was chosen to be a part of a contest, the annual Division of Schools Press Conference, a contest that I had no idea was going to be huge and I was assigned to the Sports writing event. My coach for that event would be no other than our principal himself, a wise man that many people including students and teachers alike respect. To be trained under his wing was an honor because despite the small amount of time I had training under him, I learned a lot from him. When I arrived on the venue, I was surprised at the number of contestants. I felt like I was swimming in an ocean of sharks, but I was not going to let these ‘sharks' intimidate me. After witnessing the live sports event that we were going to cover, I had taken the necessary information needed for my article and proceeded to the room where we will have an hour to formulate an article. I applied everything my coach taught me and submitted my article written in the official paper. The results were to be announced later that day and I did not know what to expect, I did not whether I would win or not, but I thought to myself that someone like me would not stand a chance against those seasoned contestants. But the unbelievable happened, my name was called to come up on stage, a surge of joy and pride ran through my veins. The feeling was foreign to me, but I could not help but smile as I received my medal and certificate, who thought that someone like me who lacks experience would win 2nd place? I was so mind blown that it took a moment for me to register that I would be going to Camiguin for the Regionals. From then on, I became confident with my writing skills and continued to expound my vocabulary by reading articles, books, stories and any reading material I could find. Though as time went by, I realized that as much as I love writing, I did not enjoy it. So, as I continue to find my dream, to find what I really want to become in the future, I let my mind wander by watching films. That is when it hit me, filming and theater arts are the things that I am most passionate about which would explain why I would have the urge to re-enact the most intense scenes of my favorite actors in my own bedroom as a kid. Why I would spend hours back then impersonating people and experimenting on my facial expressions and imitate various accents. The reason why I would be in awe every time an actor has wonderfully delivered and embodied their character, as I pay close attention to detail and dialogue as well as search for any sort of symbolism in movies. It was something that I enjoy. It was something that I look forward in doing soon and as young as I am now, I want to practice it as early as possible. I already have experience in both video and photo editing, my photo capturing has also gotten better and I intend on joining as many workshops as I could that would enhance my potential and my passion in film making grow stronger. There is only one problem that might hinder me from pursuing my dream and that is my family. Mainly because film schools are pricey and as much as I want to pursue it, I do not want to financially burden my family. Also, the last time I opened up to them something similar like theater arts, they were not quite convinced. Even my grandfather was not into the idea of me starring in films because he does not find it practical compared to courses let's say nursing. I admit that broke my heart a little but just because they are not in favor of the idea does not mean I am going to stop myself from pursuing it. Which is why I find ways to enter in different academic institutions that offers courses of my interest by looking up and planning to apply for scholarships. I may still have one more year to worry about it since I am still in Grade 11, but I just want to tell that whoever is reading this, whoever you are, that do not stop dreaming. Pursue it if that is what you truly want. I once read a quote from my school's computer laboratory in which it said, “Allow your passion to become your purpose, and it will one day become your profession.” It was a statement that struck me so much that it has instilled itself in my own mind and has become my motivation in life. Because I know one day, we will all achieve it no matter what.

My first job was at a popular, upscale local restaurant that shall remain nameless. I had the distinct honor of greeting our guests at the door and finding suitable accommodations for their dining needs. I was a hostess. A menu and silverware slinger. The face of the business and the keeper of the wait list. While the place was classy as hell, the owners were unbearably pretentious. Designer clothes, artificial (or at the very least, enhanced) facial features, and a beyond extravagant lifestyle set these folks apart, and in their minds, high above, the majority of the business owners in our area. That mood permeated the entire place. Never mind the fact that we were in southern Oklahoma and not Beverly Hills. Never mind the fact that most of our patrons drove pick-up trucks and not BMWs. This was true of the owners, the managers, servers, cooks, host/hostesses, bussers, and perhaps most importantly, the customers. I was joined in my greeting duties by two alpha females from my school. At school, they were not extremely popular, but also not outcasts. They had an adequately sized group of friends, composed mostly of fellow athletes that they could successfully intimidate and boss around. They were abrasive, aggressive and grossly lacking in class. All of these details, however, did not prevent them from feeling superior to the common folk they were forced to walk amongst. It was as if simply being employed by this elitist establishment, simply receiving a W-2, was the only license needed to belittle and shame others. It was not attractive. Obviously, my kind heart did not last long. After parting ways with my first source of income, the rumors at school began to swirl. It was sophomore year, and I was on top of the world. I made excellent grades, participated in several extracurricular activities and was not too many rungs down on the social ladder. I was a well-behaved teenager who was terrified of the consequences of getting into any significant trouble. As such, I was surprised when I began to observe that the gossip-filled notes being passed fervently across the room from student to student managed to pass over me. I was not included in the latest buzz, and by my fellow student's reactions, I could tell it was juicy. Feeling left out, I complained to my current best friend after class. Her eyes immediately fell on her shoes, which began awkwardly shuffling weight from one to the other. She bit her lip, then cautiously raised her eyes to meet mine. “You know why they skipped you, right?” she said. “The notes are about you. Apparently, there's a rumor going around that you are pregnant and your parents made you quit your job.” I couldn't move. My stomach dropped, my heart rate increased and suddenly I was finding it difficult to find air to fill my lungs. How could anyone possibly believe this? I was sixteen years old, my own mother was currently 4 months along with my little sister! “AHA!” I thought to myself. That was it! Someone must have seen me buy a pregnancy test (for my mom) several weeks back and assumed the worst. I began to relax. Once people realized that my mom was having a baby, they would feel silly and the rumors would stop, I was sure of it. The relief was short lived, however. As I looked up, I saw a trio of fast-moving bodies coming toward me down the hallway. It was my boyfriend of 2 years, flanked by two familiar and angry alpha females. I'll save everyone here the drama of the back and forth, voices raised, he said/she said drama and just let you all know that everything turned out well in the end. I convinced my boyfriend that I was not going to be giving birth to his offspring in the coming months. My very pregnant mom came to school events frequently, showing everyone that my retorts to their claims were valid and true. There is one twist to this story, and it gives me profound joy to this very day. On the day of graduation, a little over two short years later, the sun rose and shined on my life with endless promise and possibility. Those two alpha females joined me in celebration as we walked across the stage and received our diplomas; both in their third trimester.

Children yelling and racing through the yard. The smell of fresh cut grass. Teenagers singing happy birthday and cutting the cake. A girl approaches my perch on one of the picnic tables. “Hey Joslin, do you want me to pop that big fat zit on your nose? After all, you wouldn't want to be seen in public with that now would you?” The party that seemed fun and playful dissolves from my eyes, and all I can see is the people watching me be humiliated and staying silent. The brand of the sun turns into a brilliant red dye of embarrassment covering my face. I stand up and walk inside. The stunned silence fades and the party returns to full volume. I was nine years old when it first appeared. I greeted the day and shuffled into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Bright red splotches littered my face, like the trash beside the road before community clean up. I run to my mother, my predicament obvious. She tells me acne is normal, everyone gets it. The next several months though, it becomes more than a common cold, but rather a fever, and then a cancerous tumor spreading across my body. My face begins to swell up and turn red and puffy on a daily basis. I look in the mirror and all I see is blow fish cheeks, and they never deflate. I'm twelve years old. My parents finally have to accept that this isn't just acne, but puberty on steroids. We go to the doctor. Twelve bottles of topical creams, pill bottles, and a dairy free diet later, they tell me I'll get better. But the pockets of pus won't leave when the radiation of medication hits them. The first day of high school comes, and I'm embarrassed to leave the car. My face is just as puffy as before, only now, scars litter the battlefield where my clear face cells once fought and sacrificed their lives over the years. I slathered cover up all over my face hoping no one could tell the truth. Inevitably though, someone would see through the camouflage and blurt out, “What's wrong with your face?” As the stresses of trying to make new friends, selling my horse, my siblings leaving for college, and my parents' separation built up, my face released it through acne, not yoga. In a culture where value is calculated based on appearance, my stocks were at the level of the Great Depression. On the plus side, figuring out who my true friends were was easy. Compared to other kids who struggled with frenemies; I had only to find people who were willing to sit by me. My Sophomore year, however, the grin-and-bear-it method began to dissolve. I walked by a flyer advertising for Cheerleading tryouts. As a Freshman I had seen the same exact flyer Mrs. Dvorak recycled year after year. I'd let my mind take a brief flight of fancy of what it would be like to be a Cheerleader. Yet the poster said applicants were partially judged on appearance, and with a face that had only marginally improved since I was 12 years old, that placed me firmly out of the running in my mind. As a fifteen year old girl though, I was ready to challenge what society dictated was appropriate for someone who looked like me. I tried out. And that Friday, teeth chattering and knees knocking, I scurried out into the parking lot. I expected the opening words to be “I'm sorry, however…”, but instead they were “Congratulations!” I worked as hard as I could to be the best cheerleader because I felt I had to prove I was worthy of the honor. I continued to hide my face when I washed my hands in front of the mirror, but I also chose to put a hold on the cover up. After all, it was my face. If I didn't care, who had the right to? Slowly I became friends with the other cheerleaders. Girls whose faces were as smooth as models. For them an acne problem was one zit in a whole month. I felt sure that they secretly found me ugly. Finally I asked one of the girls why they were friends with me. They told me that after years of people seeking their friendship solely for their physical attraction, friendship felt tainted. No one appreciated them as a friend, but rather only as a status symbol to be seen with in school. My friendship though, was more about personality than appearance. Acne forced me to find intrinsic value within myself. I wasn't traditionally beautiful, so I cultivated my humor and intelligence. Without experiencing this dermatological condition I might never have gone beyond my surface stock market value to polish my personality. Acne helped me build a self esteem that would last longer than a smooth complexion because it was based on my intrinsic worth and uniqueness, not what I looked like as a person. Some days I still struggle to look eye to eye with my reflection, and whenever someone mentions my acne, even as a compliment, I feel hurt. I never want people to see me as an object to admire or be disgusted with. I am a person with character who may suffer from acne, but I do not let it define me. I am a person with dreams and goals who twice a day washes my face with special medications.

“Shy kids never shine” Naturally, as a 17 year old girl living as Gen Z, this quote struck my eye as I was about to swipe through the never-ending Snapchat stories. I replayed this particular story about five times, just to make sure that I had read it right. There it was, written on the whiteboard at the top in blue marker surrounded by a bubble. My initial reaction was to make a pun, also natural but in a more personal way. Ahaha yeah, shy kids never shine, they shy-ne I snickered in my head, too embarrassing to say out loud. An hour later though, it floated right back into my head, because of a stupid comment by a stupid teacher. I'm aware of how much I sound like a 21st century teenage cliche, and that's okay. Once you learn how to accept yourself, it's much easier to go through life without having to meet people's expectations. Before the quote really hit me, I had gone to the careers office in my school, as my friend had requested my presence while she went to pick up a form from the careers teacher. As I stood idly, waiting for the teacher to fish out the paper from one of the desk drawers, she turned to me and said “Have I seen you before?” Hmm. I had a feeling where this was going, but I replied nonetheless. “Not personally. I mean, I've come to this office a few times when my friends had career committee meetings, but not like, personally to get advice from you.” A pause. “I have never seen you. Or is it because you're wearing your hair open today?” I shook my head no. “And the fact that you're a prefect too? That's sad.” She scrutinized my red tie and the badge that read “prefect” in bold, gold letters that the school insist all of us authoritative figures wear. I felt myself get defensive immediately, intimidated by her tone and the words that accompanied it. “Um, I mean you have seen me though, I've gone up in assembly for being a prefect and my clubs and…” She cut me off and said “Yeah but that was in a group. You've never been up to speak individually have you? Mmm. So you kind of just…fade into the background. No one ever remembers the shy students.” And just like that, my good mood had turned sour, and it was as if someone had poked a hole in my body as it slowly deflated. What irked me the most was the fact that I had been doing so much in the past year as it was my last year before university, and that was clear as I indulged in activities such as community service and made a name for myself such as holding a prefect position. And not even because I needed them to look good on my c.v, but because I had finally started to come out of my shell and genuinely enjoyed them. So why did I care so much that this teacher, who wasn't even involved in other aspects of the school apart from careers, didn't recognize me, and so essentially, recognize me as a student of this school? It was because I knew the type of person that I used to be, and how far I'd come, and her blunt words bought me right back to the past. Introvert. Shy. Awkward. Behind the scenes. Under the radar. Closed-off. Quiet. Mostly synonyms of each other, and none of them new to me. In my previous school, I had been the dictionary version of a wallflower, never really participating in any events, though I knew it would benefit me later on. Always sticking in my comfort zone, with the same group of equally as shy friends. Always cowering away from the limelight. Neutral. Unknown. Faded. Even though I knew that I had become a completely different person in a good way, improving myself and getting to this point where I participated in a bunch of clubs and socializing with people, it made me angry that a teacher could be so blunt and crush someone so easily. Even if I was still that shy girl that I used to be, it didn't make me any less worthy than people who had the confidence to speak in assembly all the time and make themselves known. Some of the most famous people were the most shy kids, and most of the processes that work today are due to people behind the scenes, sometimes never getting credit for the effort they put in. The world isn't fair like that, but for a teacher to put someone down without even knowing them, it's a different story. I know I'm just 17, but I truly have made so many experiences in the last two years of my A levels that have provoked me to reflect on myself everyday, and want to share them with people who can relate. Like I said in the beginning, it may be cliche, and sometimes I may act like it too, but as long as you know your abilities, it really doesn't matter what anyone else thinks of you. For any teachers, or even parents out there; please encourage your kids in the right way. Let them know that they're never too quiet or too loud, and that they can achieve regardless. For those of you who're still trying to figure this whole life thing out like me; you'll never be too shy to shine, and a quote I used to relate with that still makes me smile, “never let them dull your sparkle.”

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Memory: Light up the night photo advert. When I was in grade 11, far from my ass childhood, I was on the way home from light up the night. That would be my town welcoming of December. When I was just living I saw a pacticluar advert for a an art exhibition in a local gallery. It was about photos of Everest by A guy who died on the mountain. The next day I went to the exhibit and the kept returning because there was also a documentary about teaching the children in Nepal how to read which the guy was trying to do other then mountain. I would go there Every day after school and on weekends to see the exhibit, documentary and give all my weeks allowance which was $15 a weekend and when I did use my pocket change from lunch. These continued until the new year when the exhibit was over. Soon the gallery closedown but that exhibit as someone how is part Tibetan, and who wants to climb the same mountain too this memory has haunted me like a compassionate ghost.

I remember a boy breaking my heart once. He tossed it across the apartment courtyard like a Frisbee. It hit the hardness of the concrete, shattering it into several pieces. "Whoops, sorry," He laughed to himself. I was not happy. This was the only heart I had, the only piece of jewelry I ever owned. I was four-years-old and didn't care that it was a plastic heart-shaped piece of junk. I stood feeling belittled by his behavior as he bolted the other direction revealing that it was his time to leave. "Don't tell my mom, ok?" He said with a mischievous smile peeling across his face. He acted as if I really didn't care about the piece of plastic. He stood smiling to himself for a moment before taking off. It was weird and made me think that boys will always be childish in their ways no matter what age they were. I slowly turned around and walked back to my aunt's apartment building. Her husband was standing outside the door, waiting. "What happened to your necklace?" He asked. "It broke," I said burying my head into my chest. "Who broke it?" His face was full of concern. "The boy broke it, he broke my heart," I said pointing over to the neighbor boy's apartment building. We walked over to the broken bits and pieces confirming that indeed someone broke my heart. "Next time when someone asks for something that belongs to you, don't give it to them just because they want it." I let this sink into my four-year-old brain. Never give someone something that is yours just because they want it. Since then, I never really liked boys. They all seemed to teasingly want to break my heart. But then I found out that girls do the same. I was always fond of female characters from my favorite stories and T.V. shows but I never thought that would leak over into puberty and into my young adult years. When I finally got fed up with the feeling I wasn't just fond other girls I decided to tell my mother that I didn't just like girls, I loved them. I also told her my teacher happened to have the same sexual preference. My mom responded with a smile and bought my teacher a bottle of wine which I wished was for me. I didn't care if I was only in the 6th grade, having a taste of wine seemed to match the moment of growing up. Besides, I just confessed a deep feeling I had for other females. This feeling spun in my heart like a spider's web trying to catch the next meal, except this time love was the prey. As soon as I got into High School I spotted her during the first week of my sophomore year. There was something about her that lit up my heart and I hoped it wasn't just because she happened to be attractive. I hoped that whatever I was feeling wasn't about her looks but was something beneath the surface that resonated with my spiritual being. I had a difficult time trying to place my finger on what this feeling about this girl was. All that seemed to surface when searching for the answer from within was the desire to be loved without the sameness of our physiques getting in the way that a human could love one another. In my mind I wasn't in love but rather I wanted to love another woman without the mixed perceptions of society's protocol on how love should be. I understood by this time in my life when you choose to put your feelings out in the open to someone, it is possible that they might not accept those feelings you have for them. This was how society was and despite that knowledge, I did it anyway, I put my feelings out there for someone to see. We had the same art class together. The art table she sat at was just her and this other guy, and that was all. It was just her and this one dude that wanted to be the president one day. I sat at another table with people from my school year. The following year I told her my feelings through a letter. The paper had a background that made up the colors of the rainbow, which was ironic to the symbolism of the LGBT gay rights flag. I was nervous and could feel my heart palpitate in the concave of my chest as I handed her the letter. She thanked me with the soft tone of her voice, but right after I handed her that letter, it was as though I saw doubt twinkle in her eyes. It was the day of a pep assembly. Her cheerleading peers performed and that's when it happened. She did an awesome acrobatic spin and landed perfectly on her feet. She then glanced up at me and then smiled gently. It was like she really did like me but she also liked guys. That's when I broke down. She played me like a game and it broke my heart. I felt ashamed for liking someone else that was the same sex as me. I felt apart from everyone else too. I had a nomadic life as a high school girl and spent my time trying to figure out who I really was on the inside. It was tough and I wish I could go back through at time portal just to tell myself, "It's okay, you can be gay. No really, it's okay. Don't be ashamed of who you are."

Growing up, I never understood having a crush. There was that one kindergarten romance, but honestly, he was my friend that just so happened to be a boy. Therefore, “boyfriend”. We haven't seen each other since the first grade and now I'm off to college. After thinking back about his more feminine habits: Playing with barbies, makeup, being envious of my longer hair, and paying more attention to the other boys in a much more “friendly” manner. Well, I'm sure you get the picture now, but he was not going to be into me. I worried more about it in middle school because all my friends had crushes of some sort and even a boyfriend in some cases, not that middle school boyfriends really count anyway. I just felt as if I was missing out on something. So whenever anybody would ask, “Who do you like?” in their squeaky and insistent voices; That was my cue to say, “No one”. Which I had constantly repeated for years and years until my second year of high school. After realizing two things: High school is not like the movies and I might end up forever alone, I was not hype for that first day. I was exhausted because I was in denial about needing to sleep the night before. So when my art teacher was calling the class names for attendance and I scanned the room to match names to a face, something really threw me off. A particular accent. It sounded beautiful. Just the way the voice flowed coming out of this stranger's mouth was so soothing and refreshing. I found his face and I remember seeing him walk into the classroom before roll call and I recall misjudging him as a basic, all-American, white, male student, that I was bound to forget. Yet somehow, I was enthralled by just his voice. A tall young man with black hair, an attractive stubble, fair skin, a basic hoodie, and warm brown eyes. All of that and this hunk was sitting alone. This crazy feeling came and it was completely foreign to me. Butterflies in my stomach, rising temperature, uncontrollable smiling, and constant tensing of the body. I didn't want it, so I ignored it and I tried to ignore him too. A couple days had passed and considering the person I was, I lacked interests in talking to anyone in my art class and the rest of my classes. Though ignoring this one guy proved to be challenging, not because I was trying to talk to him, but because no one was. It bothered me for some reason and even more when I would glance at him during lunch and saw him alone. Right before the bell rang to release us from lunch, he made his way in front of me, just towering above me with his back turned. I had to talk to him and I urged myself to say “I like your backpack.” I stuttered out a bit loudly to reach him over the crowd of loud teens. If you didn't guess already, flirting wasn't my forte. Phenomenally though, he actually looked at me and smiled too, a charming flash of teeth. He thanked me for the compliment and I do believe he did say more, but I could barely hear him and understand his accent at the time. Frankly, his smile just consumed me and that was the only thing on my mind. So I just nodded and smiled like a doofus. That next day in art was different, I was allowed to enter his bubble now and sit next to him in class and then during lunch. It was euphoric. It turns out he was a charming nerd with a knack for 90s card games, specific video games, anime, and mathematics. We got along relatively quickly, but everything changed when the fire nation attacked. Just kidding, it changed when more people wanted to talk to him and he realized he did have more in common with other people besides me. Likely more in common with others than me. Naturally, I got jealous, so I chose to isolate myself and he did come looking, but it didn't last long. Probably because it was annoying and tiring to find me. I do remember he opened up to me more and I listened and I loved knowing things about him because I found him to be so interesting. He was the book that fed my mind and my brain was always hungry for his stories. While learning about him, I learned about his sexuality. Interestingly, when your first crush says he turned out to be bisexual, it makes you get a little tenser. Yet I still rooted for him and his love life. In hopes that if he would date someone that wasn't me, I could move on. Eventually, we both moved on. His types for partners ended up actually being strictly men because he's gay. After I confessed that I liked him in a romantic way, he came out. You would think I was heartbroken, but I was celebrating. Actually, I did cry a little, only a little though. It was liberating to confess and even though I got rejected, it wasn't because I'm not the prettiest, smartest, or best girl. It's because I'm a girl and my person of interest was incapable of seeing a woman in a romantic way. Or at least that's what I told myself so I could get over him. I can say that everything has turned out fine since then because now we both have boyfriends.