Grief is powerful beyond belief. I have spent sixteen years thinking of my mother as a ghostless figure, nostalgic for a memory I can’t remember. She passed away when I was 3. She had me and what she was shaking hands with: cervical cancer. Levitating through the darkest of times, I figured that I have never really thought about her, or sitting in front of our display of her photos and take a moment of remembering. I think everything about her is the question of the ages.

You are not an Indonesian descendant if you haven’t heard of Malin Kundang. Malin is a young man raised by his single mother. He grows up being a successful skipper of a nobility class. However, he forget about where he comes from, and inevitably his mother. She thunderously curses him into a rock; a road-block to the boats working under his supervision, delivering golds. It is like a Phoenix’s death as it burns to ashes, and only a mother’s tear can tender the magic of love.

Now that I grow up without any slight view of a mother figure, I have a fear that lingers: What if a spot in my heart hardens like a rock as the time goes by?

My name is Syahna. It is a thoughtfully given name by my mother. If you travel through Arhamaic beginnings, it means The Deep Sea. It also means Freedom in Navajo, Beautiful in Yiddish, and The Celestial Red Rose in Mongolia. I have, or had, not spoken any conversation I remember with her. I couldn’t speak a single language when she was there. She was not my home. This name I obtain was the only inheritance at one point. Years pass, and I’ve only known her from stories. I own an unique relationship with my mother where things escalate from different perspectives and I always have had to ponder which is true and which is not.

​A cultural icon far before a name at a theater, the word Barbie has grown to embody far more than just a toy. A personification of societal expectation, the relationship between her and America’s youth has been endlessly scrutinized: a relationship not just explored but masterfully dissected in Margot Robbie’s film: The Barbie Movie. Despite its controversial subject, the movie manages to do what so many attempted feminist films could not: simultaneously entertain and persuade its audience. For all of its glitzy, glamorous visual appeal, this movie embellishes but never once takes its eyes of its purpose: to deliver a strong, almost satirical statement about gender roles and constraints.

This movie succeeds where others failed because of the fact that it achieved its effect so slyly, in a way that neither came off argumentative nor political. Yet somehow, it managed it to be both, prompting a far overdue discussion regarding the concept of the patriarchy. The uniqueness of the approach- perfectionism- could be noted, rightfully so. But more importantly, Barbie captivates its audience throughout its statement, perfectly utilizing the idealized appeal of the doll to hold your attention.. and when Gloria's well known speech begins, you might also hold your breath. While it can (and probably has been) argued that the movie does nothing more than glamorize an already idealized lifestyle, I would argue that the romanticized scenery: the beautiful beach and cheerful dolls, had the opposite effect.

Hear me out. Rather than burden the filmmakers with the baggage of such a controversial past, the writers employed the previous image of Barbie, turning it into a lens through which the myth of the American dream could be viewed. As Barbie ́s character develops, her initial grief at theloss of Barbieland shifts to consciousness about the place she once loved so much. She acknowledges that while the circumstances she enjoyed suited some, it did not dismiss the fact that her goals were unachievable in her  ̈perfect ̈ life. In fact, it could be argued that this was the main conflict of the film. Her impatience grows, with her finally admitting, "I want to be a part of the people that make meaning, not the thing that is made." As the conclusion unfolds, viewers will leave with visible relief, themselves feeling the solace Barbie is shown to find. Despite the rougher edges of the elements, Barbie should be viewed not as the dolls successor but a satirical method of commentary- the irony of which is neither overdone not understated.

Stuti Jain is a student at Forest Park Middle School. She enjoys writing and art.

          ​“Pause. Take a deep breath. What are you trying to say?”
          Great. Now I have to start again.
I’ve had a stutter all my life. Initially, my parents thought I could grow it out, as it was a common speech developmental issue, but the problem began to rise when I would stumble upon simple vowels and consonants like “a”, “w”, and “r” and outpassed the growth stage where stuttering was considered normal in society. It only went downhill from that point. Some days, I would stutter on my name. All the heat would rush to my face and I acted like I was in a battle of not maintaining eye contact with that person. Sometimes, people would copy my stutters and say “Just don’t stutter” as if it was something I could control. Presenting in front of a class was pure mortification. I would always speak fast. My brain ran faster than my mouth and when I tried to catch up, I would be stopped. The two hemispheres in my brain were imbalanced. Anytime anyone heard me stuttering, they would somehow immediately become an expert in speech impediment and provide unwanted advice.
          But all that didn’t faze me even a bit as much as my parents. I was a disgrace to them. A stain of steel in their white linen clothes. I was ruining the seemingly perfect image of my parents. I had been overweight since birth. I had yellow teeth. I had broad shoulders and I laughed loud obnoxiously. I spread my legs when I sat down. I raised my hand in Biology before the questions were even asked. I struggled with spelling simple Bengali words, my mother tongue. My English skills were barely intermediate. Whereas my father spoke Arabic, Hindi, Urdu, and Bengali fluently. His shirts were ironed the night before. He only wore white and black socks. My mother made sure to raise her pinky finger when sipping a cup of chai. She put her hand to her mouth when she laughed. Creases were nonexistent in my mother’s wardrobe.
          We were a first-generation immigrant Muslim family from Bangladesh. We moved to America in 2020 on March 9th on the last flight from Bangladesh to the United States before the lockdown. My father was a well-known businessman in Bangladesh. He wanted me and my older brother to continue his legacy. Unlike my brother who found himself reading economic books and shadowing my father, I gravitated towards those Youtube videos like “Day in the Life of a Dermatologist” or shows like Grey's Anatomy. Medical professionals were considered low social workers in Bangladesh who were likely infected with various diseases. My father had OCD and having a daughter who was already more of a nuisance engage in such tasks and bringing viral infections home was probably what hell looked like for him. Nonetheless, we were living well, we were happy. However, my mother longed for a better life, she wanted quality education for her children and reunite with my grandma, who was fighting breast cancer here in Virginia. And so when the VISA letter came, we swiftly embarked on this journey, clueless of the gloominess it would bring us.

1. You are a poetry editor for HaluHalo Journal and a graduate of literature from the University of Santo Tomas. How has writing played a role in your life? What initially drew you to poetry? 
When I was an undergrad in literature, I came from a background primarily founded on fiction. Going into the academe, I had initially thought I would formulate my bachelor’s dissertation on fiction, too. It wasn’t until I met my friend Eli, who at the time empathized with my reservations with poetry and its many forms, introduced me to poetry written by Filipinos. They sent me a list of readings containing, mostly, a poem or two per writer. Because I loved Eli, I read all of them, and I encountered and experienced the poems the way one might peel open and eat fruit. It turns out I really loved poetry, and to echo something John Green said in the debut video of Ours Poetica, many of us have loved poetry for a long time, we just didn’t know it yet.

Poetry, fiction, and the literary essay all share the same literary tools, and the deeper you are in reading the more you realize the boundaries between them are thin. It was poetry that moved me the most because of the bizarre and sometimes obscure forms you find them in. My first encounter with poetry is through the form of exam sheets and prayers, poems with lines that reappear and disappear. I’m always excited about poetry because of how deeply it can be contained within itself: the pronouns shift metaphysically, you can put yourself in the footprint of the persona and the apostrophe, often the addressee or the “you”, can be anyone you want it to be.

2. How has your relationship with writing evolved over the years?
It was mostly a journey of scribbling prose on the back of notebooks and word files until I made a decision to take poetry seriously in university. I used to not make such a big deal of writing, and in most cases I think this relationship of neutrality with writing is echoed with everyone else. When I was in undergrad I realized how deeply underread I was, and in an attempt to remedy this I read insatiably. I wasn’t thinking about writing at all, but I kept bouncing between books and, later on, would start repeating phrases or sentences I made in my head. In a way I think this is also writing. So I was writing while washing dishes or cleaning or running. In front of the screen, that’s when I started laying out the words in my head. I think writing is a response to the different literatures you’ve encountered, and I think it’s healthy to read more than to write.

If you asked my twelve year old self what I was, I would respond: a writer. A self-proclaimed poet, I wrote elaborate letters in Homemade Apple pt. 14 to my parents, and I created a home-produced newspaper that was “cleverly” titled after my own name. My poems ranged widely, focusing on teachers and carrots, love and broken families, and even a twisted interpretation of what I believed would happen in a zombie apocalypse. But I was a writer first and foremost; a voracious reader, I believed firmly in the power of written word because of the very impact it had on me.

Of course, if you didn’t accept that answer, or looked at me puzzlingly, I would admit that yes, I was also Filipino. At twelve, all of my closest friends were Filipino, and I danced to line dances with my Filipino titas and ate sticky sweet bibingka with my Lola Taling. To me, my writing and my culture were two separate, sacred spaces. Filipino culture could never intrude upon my writing; it was too familiar, and like Helmholtz in “Brave New World,” I wanted to research, to explore, to be intrigued. I wanted to write as if the world was undefined and limitless.

Now, at seventeen, I am more confined–or at least, that is what my twelve year old self would say. Frustrated by the lack of representation in writing, I choose to suffuse my culture into my writing, to use my words as a vehicle to express the beauty of the Philippines. I have found so much joy in writing about my Filipino identity, in brushing tender memories and even sweeter traditions, but I have also encountered a profound hesitation, and a questioning, of my Filipino roots. 

Writing competitions like Scholastic prompt–or even exacerbate–this hesitation. Is it right to use your culture as currency? Is it right to write about your heritage–to speak on it, as if expertly–if you are Filipino-American? When the hyphen, more often than not, defines you? These are questions I ponder as I write. On one hand, I believe in the power of representation, in providing inspiration to others through thoughtful representation. On the other hand, I do not feel comfortable labeling myself an expert, but that is exactly what writing does: written works inherently establish a sense of ethos and authority for the writer, an assumed authenticity. 

Writing competitions often foster a stifling, over-competitive environment, where works are judged as superior or inferior, and in cases where many written works focus on race, it becomes difficult to separate ethnicity from the writing competition itself. In this case, I begin to assign a value to my work–is this work better because it is more Filipino? Am I using my ethnicity to win? Is ethnicity, then, the focal point, not the language?

It is in times like these that I wish to revert to the black-and-white of childhood writing, without contemplating or addressing the issues of racial writing. But writing is used as a medium to express ideas, and for me, a medium to spotlight undervoiced issues and transform society on a structural level. Storytelling will always be about relaying a compelling story, which in turn relies on compelling language and a compelling story is often found in stories of race, because those are experiences that truly, actively, authentically shape who we are. Because those stories, even if fantastical, are all the more real.

I am a writer. But I am also Filipino–Filipino with a hyphen, attached to American. This identity translates
into a scrawling mass on paper, but I am, simply, me.  My identity is one that cannot be confined by standard grammatical or writing conventions, and I treasure every aspect of it–from the crunchy lechon to the long, gaping nights as I stare at a blinking cursor on my screen. That is why I choose, in spite of everything, to share it. ​

Writing under a pseudonym, Anica Beth​ loves to read, paint, and bake. She is a high school student living in New York City. 

The blazing sun began its descent, casting a golden hue across the bustling city of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, painting the skies with a multitudeof reds and oranges. It was in this vibrant metropolis that my story unfolded—a tale of resilience, faith, and personal growth. At the tender age of fourteen, I found myself navigating the labyrinthine corridors of life, battling the shadows of racial remarks, judgment on my appearance, and the weight of academic stress. As a born-again Christian, my heart was steadfast in my faith, finding solace and strength in my relationship with Christ. However, the world around me seemed determined to challenge my resolve. The echoing hallways of my high school became breeding grounds for toxic friendships and unkind words, whispered and shouted in ignorance.

The day began like any other, with the cacophony of voices and the scent of freshly brewed tea filling our cosy home. My parents, hardworking individuals, had always instilled in me the importance of education and excellence. Their dreams for my future were etched deeply in their eyes, and I carried their aspirations upon my shoulders. But they soon morphed into burdens that plagued my heart. I slowly crumbled from academic stress that loomed over me like a relentless shadow. The expectations of my parents, who longed for me to excel in my studies, became an unbearable weight on my shoulders. Every grade I earned, and every test I took, was scrutinised with unwavering intensity. The fear of disappointing them, of falling short of their dreams, suffocated my spirit.

But amidst the pressure to excel academically, I found myself struggling with the weight of my own insecurities. Racial remarks whispered in my ear like venomous serpents, seeping into the crevices of my self-esteem. But the attacks didn't stop at my ethnicity. My weight became a target for cruel jabs, words that seeped into my thoughts like venom. I battled against the relentless pressures to conform to society's warped ideals of beauty, as whispers of "fat" and "ugly" echoed through my mind. I felt the harsh sting of judgment on my weight and the presence of arm and leg hair that defied societal beauty standards. My self-esteem withered like a fragile flower in a scorching desert, wilting under the weight of those hurtful words.

          I hate the sound “nga.” The most basic of principles within Tagalog, and I have never learned how to say it. Out of all of the twenty-six letters, the language rearranged them to this, creating my veritable hatred for it. The frustration of never connecting with your culture over a single sound. One of the first words you learn to pronounce as a child growing up in the Philippines. I did not get that. I never got it. Am I separated from my culture if I cannot even begin to say my real middle name? This spiraling of unknowing leaves me miles away. My identity is unfinished. I have been made unfinished. If I were a book and you were to open mine, you would see a myriad of blank pages. My alienation from my own culture leaves me with streaks of red. If an alien were ever to look upon the earth, they would want to participate with the other beings but feel left out. This situation was left to me, to wonder and dream about, but never complete.
          ​The constant reminders from family and friends of “Do you speak Tagalog? Can you understand it?” If someone were to ask me if I was bilingual, again, my answer would be unfinished. Sometimes I answer with “one and a half,” as understanding and being able to read a little bit is not equivalent to speaking and writing. Never complete. Daily reminders of me falling short of the expectation. I question if the people to blame are my parents for never fully teaching me, or myself. Why should I apologize for not understanding my cultural language? Nobody apologized for never teaching me. Instead of blaming the situation on the rain, it brings me comfort in tricking the brain that there is someone else at fault. I’ve been drowning in these foreign words, feeling lonely.
          As I got older I unconsciously distanced myself away from teleserye shows and cultural events, like debuts. Growing up I found these shows and movies brought me comfort and I wanted so badly to celebrate my eighteenth birthday with a debut and to visit the Philippines for the first time. I was done spending lost time wondering and focused more on distractions. I filled my schedule up with activities, where my days were filled to the brim with Taekwondo, Kumon, drums, guitar, and swimming, alongside schoolwork. I learned that piling on work was not healthy, but I still put a barrier up to wall the difficulties away. A reversed emotional education made me forget how to smile. No longer did I remember how other things can pull at the tendrils of my heartstrings. These distractions were perfect for someone who preferred having no free time, but although it seemed like it was a match made in heaven, I was chained down to earth.

          On my desk, there are two things: my report card still lodged inside of its envelope, its unwelcoming nature making me nervous, and my phone open to a group chat with my friends, all of them panicking about that one science teacher’s grades. I pick up the letter and each slight tear into that deep, yellow-colored paper I do sends me forward to a moment in time in which I am hovering over a patient, their stomach cut open and a scalpel in my right hand. I place the letter down, I turn off my phone, and I reach for my laptop. My fingers click on the keyboard in rapid succession as my vision begins to blur with both fear and anger fighting for their own prominence in my mind. “How do I not disappoint my parents?” I worriedly press the enter key as I tremble.
          I am a doctor. I have been one since my birth. An obtrusive ‘P.H.D.’ acronym is etched into my birth certificate. I will pursue pulmonology, as it has been the field that has interested me for years. But I will help society not through my prescriptions or my surgeries. My words, my ability to piece words together as a doctor clumps a patient’s symptoms together, is the ability of mine that will help others. I value a pen more than a stethoscope. I am a writer for both the benefit of myself and the ability to connect people with each other and start discussions.
          I am so adamant of becoming a doctor; nay, the fact that I am a doctor, because I know that I must become one to become something in this world. To be cared about. Because people refuse to care for artists. We live in a world that discounts artists and refuses to understand their inherent cultural value. Artists are all around us, yet when do we take time to appreciate what they do for us: expand our ability to think and understand critically and help us truly see the beauty of life? I would spend my nights as a middle schooler researching what medical professions would get me the most money because that is what my worth is as a person under a society that values both capitalism and nuclear families: money. A world that values how much money you make, where the common response to being told someone is an artist is not ‘What does their art look like?’ but ‘How much money do they make?’ Where my ability to be a surviving parent is more important than my ability to be a survivor. I am a doctor because the fight against my worth being quantified instead of qualified is a slippery slope downwards, and I am a short-haired Filipino warrior not strong enough to fight it.
          I will sit in my science classes, research at night for jobs that would make my family believe I am not a failure, that I was worth betting on, and I will be a writer after the day ends. I must be a doctor. That is not a discussion anyone who has put in the time to fight for me to live in this world has, or will, ever want to have with me. But I know that my writing, my words, and my emotions are all so much more important than that job. I will know deep down in the pumping parts of the arteries in my circulatory system that words flow through my body, not radiation from a CT scan and not sleepless nights from treating patients, but words. I know that I will have the moniker ‘Doctor’ to the left of my name whenever I am referred to, but to the right of my name will be the word ‘poet.’

​Aldrin Badiola is a poet and prosaist in the Eastern United States who loves to write about his attachment to the Philippines, identity, and the social issues that come from both topics. When he's not writing, he's listening to 80's Filipino disco or playing the piano. His Twitter can be found @cyvilizations.