1, 2, 3...10.--Gabriel

 

Butterflies are such interesting creatures. Small bodies, big wings, but what makes them stand out are their beautiful and vibrant colors. Such beautiful little insects that you’ll see in such beautiful areas; on a pretty flower, in a large pasture, or even just the greenest of green bushes, they add so much natural color to the world, even if they’re rare to see around. In Filipino culture, butterflies signify loved ones who have passed away and spotting one means someone's trying to say “Hello!”. It may be a myth, but personally, I don’t think so.

It’s December, 2022 in California, cold but unpredictable due to global warming and changing weather. My grandparents just got back home to the Philippines after spending a while of their time here in the states. “Ang sarap jan sa America, babalik kami kasama ang mnga titas, titos at pinsan ninyo!” Said my Lolo (grandfather). Translated, he said, “It’s so nice there in America, we’ll come back with your aunts, uncles, and cousins!”. He spent around 3 months here in the states while my Lola (grandmother) spent a couple years here working. I’m so sure he had a great time; old, bald, filipino man who got to spend 3 months in the US cooking, gardening, drinking, gambling, and spending time with his family. He got to go to Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and on so many different adventures during his stay. It was bittersweet watching them go up the escalator at LAX to their flight; watching them leave after getting used to their presence at home and the slight changes in our previous daily routines, but knowing that they’d go back home to their home country and laugh and play even more in the Philippines. Things felt a little gloomy around the house without our personal Filipino Santa there anymore but knowing that he’d try to come back the following year was comforting enough to excuse the gloomy and sad emotions.

But fast-forward to December 17th, 2022, only about 6 days since their departure. It started off normal; wake up, shower, eat, then stay on my phone until something interesting happens or until it’s time to go out since it was a saturday. After about 6-7 hours of rotting in bed – eyes glued to a screen, doomscrolling instagram reels or watching random youtube videos – I finally got out of the house just to run some nightly errands. We got to the store at around 6-7 PM and planned on just walking around and looking at whatever we may want or need so I broke off from my family to just look around; I found your usual jeans, shoes, shirts, everything was just a repetitive maze of all the retail things you could think of. After some time I finally came back to my family and that's when everything hit. “Why is my mom on the floor crying?”, “What’s going on?”, “What happened?”. All these thoughts rushing to my head just to be cleared by the incoherent words that my mother spoke between the breaths that she managed to take so quickly, “Tito Mac is gone.” I was shocked of course, what could I say? I was so confused and couldn’t figure out what to say, what to feel, what to do. “Is this real?”, “Is this a joke?”. I found the source of all the distress to be an international phone call from neighbors in the Philippines. “Nasusunog na ang bahay ninyo!” (“Your house is on fire!”) said the person on call. Time stood still as I tried to process this joke of a sentence; while trying to figure out the words to say it finally resumed and I was somehow outside with my aunt, uncle, and cousin who came to pick us up. It was as if life just glitched like when a TV “hangs” or pauses then resumes at a whole different part of a show, as if I blanked out and just woke back up. With tears still soaking t-shirts and hands shaking in disbelief, we headed over to my aunt’s house in which the Filipino newscaster started counting, “1, 2, 3... 10.” Ten people. Ten living people. Ten living humans. Ten family members. I couldn’t do anything that night but sit and cry. Same with the next night, and the next night, and the next after that. Over and over and over until the strongest of emotions finally passed inorder to let us breathe and figure out the situation, to finally be a little more in control and reasonable.

It’s been about a year now and I was able to go to the Philippines in December, 2023. I think only then, only recently, I was finally able to accept or realize the truth. After seeing 5 flat stones in the grass, each of which for a pair of 2 butterflies. After dropping tears on each of the 5 stones. After visiting day, after day, after day. I was finally able to say goodbye. “Why?” you might ask? Because I saw 10 beautiful butterflies, playing through the leaves of the great tree that stood and gave the stones shade and peace. They visited, said hi and even left with goodbyes. But I hope that I’ll see those butterflies again, whether it’s a pair of 2 older butterflies, or the pair of a mother and father butterfly, or a pair of a mother and a son butterfly, or a group of 4 younger butterflies playing in the trees. I’m glad I saw them all together, just one last time, fly peacefully and gleefully. I miss you Lola, Lolo, Tita Cherry, Tito Mac, Tita Anna, Matty, Kuya Andrei, Kuya Jero, Manny, and Pipay. I hope you guys fly safe and peacefully in whatever garden you guys have found. We’ve planted flowers for you in the front yard. Don’t take things for granted, cherish all the moments you have, even the little things, like seeing butterflies. 

Love...--Makena

 

    For the past 10 years of my life at age 15, the Fourth of July did not mean fireworks or barbeques or parades. For me, it could be two things; a shiny medal or tears of defeat. But for a specific July 4th in 2019, it meant something completely different to me. If I could go back in time and stop five-year-old me from going into that studio, if I could tell her to run away, to choose something else, I would.
Taekwondo was a sport introduced to me after I ran into my mothers arms begging her to take me out of the “spinny” class (aka ballet). My parents decided to enroll me into a class that could keep me busy, but also teach me how to defend myself. For a month I did a half hour class for Knockout Martial Arts, and I absolutely loved it. And then my dream came true when the coach's daughter came up to my parents and I advertising the “Open House” tournament at the studio. I was ecstatic, I wanted to get into the ring and see what taekwondo was really like. My dad was all for the idea of me trying out the tournament, but my mom was reluctant at the fact that her five year old daughter was about to go into a violent fight match with little experience. But my dad and I convinced her. So on a hot sunny Saturday, I walked into a makeshift martial arts studio that was once a warehouse, and I couldn’t be more happy. I don’t recall how I did, but I do know that I wanted more.
    The next nine years were a mix of some of the best and worst days of my life. I had finally found my calling, I was with great teammates, an amazing coach, and I was in a sport that I loved, but most of all, I was good at it. In that span of nine years, I had spent every Fourth of July in some part of the country fighting for the title of “National Champion”. Winning that title three times definitely contributed to some of my “best” days, of course. And also maybe, becoming a third degree black belt. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was proud of myself. I was becoming the person I had worked so hard for.
    But all great things come to an end. And despite the amount of love I had for taekwondo, I knew that what I was doing was wrong. At age 8 taekwondo changed, I didn’t realize it yet, but it was a change that still affects me to this day. For those of you who don’t know, competitive fighting in taekwondo involves weight categories. You would fight other competitors around the same age within a 7-8 pound weight category. Now at first, this was not a problem for me. At 8 to 10 years old my metabolism was lightning fast and I didn’t have a care in the world for what I ate. Then one day I was told I couldn’t eat my PBJ because it was “too heavy” and this continued with all sorts of food that would involve me gaining weight. During the summer I would only eat tuna and 6 crackers for lunch, and my 5pm dinner would be only grilled chicken. In between and after these meals, I was practicing. This became an everyday agenda, this became my normal routine. Despite all of this, I still loved the thrill, the challenge, the fight. I grew up in that studio, surrounded by people my age, younger, and older than me all going through the same thing. We would compare our weight every single day. “How much more do you have to lose?” became our “Hey, how are you today?”
    The year that I remember most vividly is my last year when I realized my parents love the sport more than I loved it. My parents' obsession with the sport drove me to realize that I stopped fighting in the competitions because I wanted to, but because they wanted me to. I watched my teammates, my friends, finally get the courage to confront their parents and leave the sport. I couldn’t do that. It seemed like I was watching myself hurt my own body so that I could please my parents for a sport that they love. For my final tournament, I remember re-breaking a finger that I had previously broken due to not receiving the proper treatment because I “wouldn’t be able to fight”. Only then did I realize at that moment that I had fallen out of love. Taekwondo was my first love, and yet, years later I am still learning what love is. Love can be the most painful thing, but if you learn how to accept and how to grow, then it can be the most beautiful experience anyone can (and will) have. 

Home is Not a Place--Lani

Throughout the entirety of my life, I have always looked up to my dad. He kept us safe, he worked day and night to provide our family with food and a house, and most of all he is the strongest man I know. This made it a hundred times harder to see him suffer in the hospital for three months straight with sepsis. Who knew popping a small pimple could have led to my dad coming way too close to the end of his life.

In August of 2018, I had just started the seventh grade and I was terrified because it was the first time I was alone at school with neither my mom working on campus or my sister just across the hall. When I thought the stress couldn’t get worse, my mom sat my siblings and I down one Tuesday night and told us that our dad was in the hospital. Internally freaking out, my mind went to the worst and I assumed he had cancer, considering it ran in our family. But my mom put on her strongest face for us and tried to explain to us what sepsis was, despite her being terrified for her husband’s safety as well. She told us that we could visit him after school that week and reassured us that dad would be okay, even though there was no way to know for certain. The next day, we visited him in the hospital, and despite looking weaker and practically bedridden, our dad tried his best to reassure us that he would be fine with his usual jokes to make us smile. However, I could tell that he was still much weaker than he was normally, which took a larger toll on me than I would have thought. I hurried off to the bathroom in my dad’s hospital room and quickly locked the door. I remember not even being able to make it to the toilet before I broke down into tears: what would I ever do without my dad? Twelve-year old me couldn’t fathom the thought of someone as strong as her dad being in such a vulnerable position, and she didn’t even want to begin imagining what would happen if the worst occurred. As tears flooded down my cheeks, I heard my mom say, “Lani, come out we’re going to take a family picture!” and I wiped my face with my sleeve as I rushed out of the bathroom.

Over the next few weeks, when my family couldn’t have been even more stressed, the landlord of our previously rented house contacted my parents and informed them that our rent was being increased by $2,000. At the time, my mom had been doing a small baking business from home and my dad was our main income, but due to his condition, he was put on leave for around six months. We were nearly at a loss for what to do. My mom spent the rest of the month searching on Zillow for homes that were renting, still in our school district, and that were in our budget. She came across a variety of houses that fit our criteria, but all of them rejected us. They claimed that they did not want to rent out their house to a family with “a lot of kids,” and granted my siblings and I were still very young at the time, but after very rejection, it was just like a punch in the gut. After weeks of looking and frantic packing, we finally found a promising house that did fit all of our criteria, and thankfully they accepted us! A weight was lifted off my parents’ shoulders and my siblings and I were so excited to move into a new house! Fantasizing about our large living room and the community pool down the street, we couldn’t help but look on the bright side. However, with putting a down payment on the house and the cost of U-Hauls, my family was greatly struggling financially. Such a large blow to the money that supported my family of 8, including my grandfather who lived with us for nearly my entire life, forced my family to adapt. From only 1-2 meals a day to very limited house supplies, my family was struggling. I felt helpless and at a loss for how to relieve the stress on my parents. However, my aunts and uncles supported us. They offered to come and treat us to dinner every once in a while at our new house and they even offered to provide us with minor house supplies like paper towels and toilet paper. 

As our family supported us with unconditional love, it truly made me realize that a house is not the same thing as a home. A house is simply shelter that has walls and a roof. But a home is not a place or a wooden box with a door, and rather it is an environment that makes you feel as if you are worth the love that you are given. Without the support or reassurance from my entire family, we would not have survived. Twelve-year old me truly learned the importance of family and though this situation was extremely distressing, it taught me the importance of trust. Not just trusting that my family has my back, but also trusting that things will always work out in the long run.

Dad?--Param

“Dad? DAD! Dad, are you okay? Dad, what happened? Dad, I’m here, it's okay!”

What just happened? How could this have happened? Did he just fall or pass out? Did he hit his head? Did he eat something wrong? How much pain could he be in? Did someone poison him? So many questions were going through my mind all at once and I felt like I couldn’t breathe or think or talk or anything. He was fine just a few hours ago. What could have gone wrong?

“SOHRAB GET THE PHONE NOW!”

...

People have always told me that my dad and I look pretty similar and that I’m the female version of him. We both have very busy schedules and are always working. We never took many breaks to make sure that we always finished everything in a timely manner.

On Wednesday, December 28th, 2022, my family and I left to get our blood drawn at 6:00am. You may think it's strange that we went to get our blood drawn very early in the morning but we all had to fast and none of us can eat very early in the morning so this was perfect for us. We’ve gone this early multiple times in the past so this was pretty normal for us.

When we arrived at the lab, my mom and brother were able to get their blood drawn but the phlebotomist struggled with my dad and I. We were told to drink as much water as we could and move around in order to get our blood flowing as much as we could. We followed the orders but still couldn’t get our blood drawn and decided to just come back in a few hours or so since we had other work to finish. Once we got home, I decided to catch up on sleep and my dad decided to run some errands before we both went back to the lab. I remember just sleeping in my bed and hearing someone calling my brother. It was a very faint call and I thought I was just dreaming until I realized it wasn’t a dream but someone right outside of my door. I sat up in my bed to try and figure out what was happening because I’d never heard someone call my brother in a tone full of pain and agony. That’s when I saw him.

I saw my father lying down right outside of my bedroom weakly calling for my brother’s name. I jump out of bed and immediately trip on my quilt. I twisted my ankle a bit and hurt my wrist but didn’t care. I run over to my dad to see eyes once full of light staring at me coldly while he calls for my brother’s name. I’m still trying to figure out what’s happening and call my mom upstairs who panicked when seeing the condition my dad was in. I ran around the house to find the blood pressure machine to check his blood pressure and immediately called 911 right after checking. I was barely able to hold my phone while talking to the operator but explained the entire situation to her and she immediately sent the paramedics. The wait for the paramedics to arrive was agonizing. When were they coming? How bad could traffic be? HURRY UP! 

What must have been 10 minutes felt like 10 years when the paramedics arrived along with the police. My dad could barely get up and talk. I answered all the questions asked, feeling numb, confused, anxious, impatient, and horrified. Watching him trying to talk and stay strong for us broke my heart. Despite being panicked, I still tried my best to look strong for my mom and brother.

As my dad was being taken away to the hospital, our neighbors came running, asking how they could help us. Somehow, I still didn’t cry after my dad was being wheeled away but I could barely talk. I called my cousins and they immediately rushed over to help out. My mom and brother went to my cousin’s home and I went with my uncle while gathering my dad’s belongings to go see him. The ride to the hospital was silent. The fear of losing my dad at that very moment was overwhelming and I didn’t know what to expect. I could only think about if I had prepared enough for this moment and if I knew all the important information my dad wanted me to know. When we made it to the hospital, we were told that he was in stable condition but that we couldn’t visit. I didn’t have any energy left to plead with the doctors to go see him so we left but as we left, my dad called and told us with all his strength that he was okay. We waited and waited and finally, after a day, we were notified that my dad could come home.

We were all so excited and so thankful that he made it home and he seemed to be in better condition. However, this excitement didn’t last too long. On the day that people all over the world were celebrating the new year, drinking, throwing parties, and spending time with their families, I barely saved my dad from severely hitting his head from passing out again. Yet again, I was on the phone with a 911 operator and yet again, I felt numb.

Eventually, he came home again and we learned that stress had been one of the leading causes of what happened to my dad. Stress. Something that society warns you about. Something that everyone must take on in their lives. Something that some (including me) didn’t see how much it could affect someone until it could be too late.

For the next two months, I took care of my dad, sat with him, and was always by his side. I stayed up for hours at night but still slept a few hours before school started to make sure that my dad was well. I slept during the day after school when I knew someone was with my dad. I always did my homework and one of my best memories with my dad was just me sitting with him and just having a conversation with him. Thankfully, his health slowly became better, and he became way stronger than he was before and is back on his feet.

This incident was when I truly understood what it meant if I didn’t control the amount of work and stress I took on. I lost sight of what was actually harming me when I thought it was helping me and seeing the consequences of these actions taught me how important it is to take care of yourself. Before this, I was scared to take breaks since I didn’t feel “productive” but now I see how productive breaks can be. I now do my best to make sure that my family and friends take the breaks they need and assist them with anything they may be stressed with. In the end, we have to be proud of ourselves for the amount of work we have gotten done and we must understand our limits. At the end of the day, our health always comes before our work and school and we always must make sure to keep an eye out for it. Only we can truly change our habits for the better and it’s time we start to learn that now and avoid any more pain in the future. 

Numb--Maddox

The Date is Feb 10th 2023, the time is around Midnight when I woke up to sounds of distraught and yelling between two Individuals. I think to myself it’s just another argument just another argument between the two of the house then something grabs me to go solve the altercation once again as I have done before. I bring myself upwards to the sounds, grabbing the wooden staircase slowly up the two sets of stairs hoping by the time I reach the last wooden step the sounds will stop by itself so I can retreat to the emotional safety of my bed. Unfortunately I was wrong, the sounds didn’t stop. Once I reached the staircase something out of the usual procedure occurred, I saw a ring on the floor, a marriage diamond ring so shiny in the dark the glare of itself caught my eye. I dared myself to pick it up, but I got one of those feelings of cramps in my body you get when you usually don’t stretch before a game or don’t drink enough water that knott up inside you. I got it in my hand before I could reach for it. So I left the beautiful shiny ring there, but when I bent to reach it before my body told me no I noticed it was a small size ring. A ring that’s meant for a woman. The instant drop in my body overcame me. I already knew what was gonna happen when I opened the door that led to the yelling. But before then I was yet invited with another feeling, coupled with knowing of an experience without having even seen it. I started muttering to myself “it’s different this time, it’s different this time.” Yet the door opened for me and as I saw her walk out the door and the worst of it happened, I wasn’t acknowledged by her. She swiftly passed me down the treading noise of the white wooden stairs. As I looked inside the door she came out of. Glaring dark room seeing a man standing over pictures that seemed to be thrown at him. The man looks up at me, but as the man looks up at me you hear a car start. Once I heard it start I ran swiftly following the woman’s path down the stairs, ran to the front door, slammed it open and when I thought I could make it I was too late. I saw the car drive off the driveway In her brown and black kia, I just didn’t see only a car drive off I saw 8 years of feelings tear apart between two people. All the experiences, all the struggles, all the love that was

exchanged physically and emotionally. The trust and faithfulness torn apart. The eeriness and discomfort in my body turned into rage, anger and hate. I ran upstairs expecting a fight of my own with my rage. The door that was once opened was closed. I open the door being ready to yell at the man myself but once I open the door I see something I’ve only seen one other time. I saw fear and regret, when I looked at the man’s eyes I only saw fear, but not only fear of the woman but fear of being rejected not by the woman but by me. Thousands of words were exchanged through our eyes. I understood that I needed to go. I walked out the room realizing what had happened, as before. When I saw the ring on the floor again I picked it up this time and went to my room. I sat on my bed and reflected on what happened. Only other time I’ve seen fear and regret in that man was when it was with my mother. I was mad at myself arguing with myself and almost disappointed in myself. Not because what had left wasn’t just a woman, wasn’t just another one, wasn’t just another person coming into my life and leaving again. It was my home, my emotional gateaway, my rock, she was my mom. I was mad at myself because it happened so much that I didn’t feel anything, I was numb. I went numb about it, it felt like it was just a regular occurrence. I was so mad at myself because I wanted to feel something but I couldn’t and till this day I still don’t know why I struggle. But I learned to be grateful for all the experiences that happen to you even if sometimes it’s your fault, good and bad. It taught me to be numb with a lot of behaviors and keep moving as there is always light at the end of the tunnel. 

Lolo's Message--Kristian

 

Absquatulating is a word that feels distant like a whisper from another lifetime, yet its definition resonates deeply with the passing of my grandfather (Lolo). During my reminiscent childhood with the nostalgic laughs and giggles and unbreakable bonds of family, Lolo stood as the storyteller. He gathered the family with his narratives, painting clear images of his experiences in the Vietnam War. Absquatulating, much like my Lolo’s passing, personifies the sudden departure which he slipped away from the family, leaving behind emotions of joy and sorrow. His stories of his courageous actions despite the chaos, which highlights his resilience of his spirit amongst his peers and subordinates. On the contrary, while I was contemplating what to write my blog about I began to search for words that resonate deeply with me and my experiences. Until I stumbled onto this word on a random search when I wasn’t even trying to find it, the word absquatulating made me think of my late grandfather. These memories and stories he told were not just recollections but breathes of courage, sacrifice, and his resilience. Which sentence he taught lessons of courage and perseverance onto our souls and his persevering spirit became an inspiration for whoever listened. Yet, among the warmth of the full family together and the passion of storytelling, there lingered the bittersweet trust and inevitability of his pass, like a shadow that passes in the night, leaving behind laughter and tears. His actions not only on the battlefield but off the battlefield, shows his unwavering resolve for all that knew him. In the spur of the moment, Lolo’s presence still lingers, his stories of wisdom which are woven into the fabric of my life. Though he has absquatulated from this world, his spirit will forever live on in the hearts of all who knew and loved him. And as I enclose these words, I find comfort in the knowledge that his legacy has left behind, like a beacon of light that has been guiding me through life’s ups and downs. As I soon will navigate onto an important chapter of college life, balancing my studies, going out with friends, and maintaining strong bonds with my family. I will carry the wisdom he has bestowed upon me, reminding me to stay strong no matter how hard the challenge is and to never give up on my dreams. In the end, absquatulating is not just a word that has a definition, it has a strong reminder of the momentary nature of life, a reminder to cherish all the memories and seize every moment. To hold fast to the memories that bind people together and though my Lolo may have departed from this world, his soul and spirit remains forever entwined with mine and my families, a source of comfort and inspiration as I navigate through my journey ahead especially after college going onto my journey as a true adult. Finally paying taxes and starting to get the job I want. Eventually these teaching that my Lolo has given to me will continue with me and will be passed down for generations to come.

Works Cited 

Benjamin, R. (2016, September 20). The art of absquatulating: Is it OK to leave a party without saying goodbye?. Better After 50. https://betterafter50.com/the-art-of-absquatulating-is-it-ok-to-leave-a-party-without-sayin g-goodbye/#:~:text=3-,The%20Art%20Of%20Absquatulating%3A%20Is%20It%20Ok% 20To,A%20Party%20Without%20Saying%20Goodbye%3F&text=Absquatulate.,to%20le ave%20like%20a%20ghost).

Ramadan Reminders of Resilience--Sarah

 

As the final weeks of my senior year in high school unfold, there has been a sense of uneasiness in the air. Not only does this anticipation come from the impending event of graduation and what the future brings, but also for the arrival of Ramadan, a month that has always touched my heart. 

Ramadan is a holy month where Muslims fast from dusk to sunset for the duration of thirty days of the lunar calendar. Fasting is not only abstaining from food and drink (yes including water), but also as a start for many Muslims to cleanse their souls of previous wrongdoings. It is a month to improve ourselves and our connection to our faith, disciplining our minds and bodies in a way that reaps innumerable benefits. 

Growing up in a Muslim household, I never really understood the importance of this religious obligation. I used to dread the long days of hearing my stomach fight itself and my throat scratch as I eagerly waited for the sun to set. As I have matured, I have realized not only the importance of participating in this holy month but also the effect it has had on me overall. I now see it as a time to cherish my family, my religion, and the blessings around me. Ramadan has been a profound journey during which I’ve gained invaluable lessons in patience, gratitude, self-control, the nurturing of personal character, and the essence of sacrifice for the collective good. 

On March 11th, the first day of fasting, I eagerly awaited the start of Ramadan. Despite the foggy haze clouding my mind and the persistent urge to go back to sleep, I remembered that millions of Muslims worldwide were joining me in this journey. Yet, amidst my anticipation, I couldn’t ignore the struggles faced by our brothers and sisters in Palestine. Their hardships reminded me of our collective responsibility as a global Muslim community, prompting a heartfelt prayer for their relief and freedom. 

Truthfully, I wouldn’t have understood the importance of this month without recognizing the suffering of my own people back in Palestine. For the past few months, they have been trying to survive through inhumane conditions, which has taught me what it really means to be grateful. I wake up every morning with a roof over my head, with food on my table, and without a fear that my life will come to an end at any second. I couldn’t imagine having to fight for my life while also trying to fulfill a religious obligation. For most of my life, I would wake up and complain about how thirsty or hungry I am without recognizing how fortunate I am to know where my next meal is coming from. The same can not be said about my family in Palestine who risks their life to pray inside Masjid Al-Aqsa surrounded by constant threats of being tear gassed and bombed. I have especially been humbled as I watch Palestinians in Gaza struggle to retrieve aid to even break their fast or watch childrens’ bodies shrivel up as they die of starvation. One story that truly resonated with me was that of Yazan Kafarneh, a 10 year old Palestinian who passed away from malnutrition. Seeing a picture of him in his last moments left me with a lump in my stomach as I was left to process how we could sit idly by and watch as children are forcibly starved by the very nations that claim to champion democracy and human rights. As a result, this Ramadan will forever hold a special place in my heart as I remember to reflect my blessings and my privileges. As a visibly Muslim woman that grew up in the shadow of 9/11, I knew that my religion was a grounding force in my life, especially when it came to proving who I was to my non-Muslim peers and preserving after Islamophobic incidents. However, in this political climate, I now understand that my religion plays a larger role in how I understand who I am in relation to other Muslims who live in worse conditions, but still somehow have the patience and strength from Islam to persevere in ways I thought was unimaginable. Now every bite I take, every sip of water I drink, and every prayer I make will be in remembrance of Palestinians and Muslims everywhere who truly embody the virtues of Islam this Ramadan. 

As I continue on this Ramadan journey, my heart is heavy with the struggles of my brothers and sisters in Palestine, yet moved by the lessons of gratitude and resilience they pass on. This Ramadan, I hope to honor their sacrifice by cherishing my blessings and embodying the virtues of patience, gratitude, and compassion in every moment of this sacred month.

Life goes on--Mikaila

 

As someone who grew up in a sports orientated family, sports was absolutely everything. From

my father who played college football at Cal State Fullerton to my older sister who played

college tennis, the expectations to be an exceeding athlete were high. As a child I knew I carried

athletic capabilities, but I had never been able to figure out exactly what sport I fit into and what

sport I enjoyed the most. I had bounced around from swim to basketball to tennis and finally

found love in a sport known as volleyball.

I was placed in my first volleyball club in around 7th grade in the summer to build up my skills. I

would practice day and night perfecting a powerful swing and perfect stance to pass a perfect

ball. I continued to practice these skills until it was almost second nature.My first game was both

the most encouraging and discouraging of them all. The feeling of your heart beating out of your

chest waiting for the whistle to be blown and the sweat that your palms accumulate as the ball

flies over the net is unforgettable. However, the car ride home after a lost match tops it all off.

The dreadful feeling of losing on top of your parents critiquing every wrong move you made is a

special recipe for self discouragement. However with the high expectations that I knew were

held over my head I pushed myself even further to get better at the game. Building my own

court in the garage and practicing everyday after school became routine.My club would have

numerous tournaments in vegas and the experience of hanging out with your teammates was

the absolute best. Having both a sense of comfortability and enjoyment with these people was

what built such a good foundation for our team and was the main reason we excelled in almost

every match. As I started to build my skill and agility, I started to receive numerous patches and

tags the more games that were won. Coaches started to talk to me about potential scholarships

during club tournaments and parents from community teams would ask if I could give their kids

lessons. It almost seemed like my life was falling into place and I had finally found something

that made me, me.

My club team was my glue at one point. In sports,especially volleyball,it is extremely important

to have team chemistry on the court If you want to win a game. However as time moved along

so did my passion for the sport. My teammates began to talk poorly about one another and it

was clearly reflected on the court, which also reflected on the team's advancement. I loved the

sport still, but the feeling once you stepped on the court wasn’t what it used to be. I was no

longer thrilled to pepper with my partner before a game, I was no longer bothered whether or

not I got playing time during a set, and I was no longer happy to drive to practice every Tuesday

and Thursday. Almost every practice and every game I remember thinking,” I can’t wait until this

is finally over.” I continued to force myself to play because I was stuck in a tunnel vision

mindset. I could not pinpoint what exactly was making me lose the love I once had for my sport,

and I also could not let my parents down.

As time moved on I finally made the decision to quit the sport, which was one of the most

difficult decisions I had to make. It almost felt as if I was losing a part of myself by leaving

volleyball and as life went on I began to miss it. I started to regret letting go and I started to sulk

in the possibility that maybe I could have pushed through and found a way to that dedication

that I once had. I soon realized that this isn’t reality and that it is okay for things not to be meant

for you. We as humans tend to gravitate towards validation and getting into a habit of stressing

things to work out for us even though they might not be. As many people say to not water a

dead plant, why continue to do something that serves no positive purpose in your life anymore?

It is okay to move on and leave things you once loved behind, it is all a part of growing into who

you are meant to be. As with volleyball I cherished the experiences I got from it, and although it

hurt to leave,it made me into the growing person I am today. Life is full of many opportunities

and one possibility should not determine your future. Not everything in life is going to work out

and it’s just as Mac Miller said, “People change and things go wrong but just remember, life

goes on.”

A new chapter--Vincent

 

Fitting Everywhere & Nowhere All At Once--Anne

 

Growing up, I discovered that fitting in everywhere often meant never truly belonging anywhere.

Acting as both the participant and the bystander, the feeling of being caught between acceptance

and estrangement tore my self-identity. As periods of my childhood found these dim moments, I

constantly found myself finding disconnection within social relationships. However, my story

did not begin here in the US, but in my homeland.

Davao, Philippines.The story of my life began here. Although I did not grow up in the bustling

city, my area was fairly clamorous. The sounds of chicken fights occurring on the corner of the

street, people playing basketball, children playing tumba lata (kick the can), a man yelling “taho”

to let others know of his arrival, and loud uncles enjoying their time with alcohol would fill the

air with their noises. The air is surrounded by the aroma of delicious homemade cooking, the

disgusting smell of cigarettes, fresh fruits, and more that is carried with the gentle breeze. Even

though it is not ideal for some, this is what I used to call home.

My life was accustomed to these types of sights, noises, and smells as it was an everyday

occurrence. Everything I knew from culture to language was connected to the people who I am

surrounded with from classmates, neighbors, friends, and my loved ones. I never felt excluded.

Everywhere I go, I feel like I belong to this community that is full of life, love, friendship, and

happiness.

However, in a blink of an eye, everything that I knew changed with that one text message that I

read from my dad stating,“Come. Move here in the States this month, it will get the kids enough

time to get ready for U.S. school next month.” As I showed my mom the text, she was excited to

move to the states to be reunited with my dad. We packed our belongings and spent the rest of

our days in the Philippines with our loved ones.

My last days went by like a flash as in the summer of 2014, I soon found myself inside the plane

crossing the Pacific ocean. I was going to be living in the states, fulfilling the dream of many

Filipinos. I told myself during the trip that I shouldn’t be ungrateful for this opportunity given to

me as many work hard to get where I am. In return, I ignored the aching feeling of my heart

yearning to go back to the place I called home.

Upon my arrival with my family, I expected to feel excitement for what America has to offer, but

everything started to sink in as I realized that everything had changed. I used to be surrounded by

my people, culture, language, and loved ones that made me feel like I belong. Now, everything

changes as I venture into a new world where all is different. A new language needed to be

learned in order to communicate with others. The culture being the opposite of what I am

accustomed to. A distance of a few feet turning into a thousands of miles of land and sea that

separates me from my loved ones in a span of a few hours.

The feeling of estrangement, grief, and loneliness lingered around me like whispers in the air that

only I could hear as I adapted to my new life. Sub-urban America differs significantly from the

Philippines that I grew to fall in love with. There was a continuous monotone color that

surrounded the buildings, the surroundings were more hushed and quiet, and life overall was at a

slower pace. Although it is not what I am used to, I tried to adjust to the new lifestyle.

Moving into a new country became a nightmare for me as now I can recognize my differences

from everyone else. I did not speak their language nor grew up the same way as they did. I did

not know about a lot of pop culture which baffled others as they did not understand how a person

would not know anything about the hottest trend. I was always too late and slow to catch up. I

tried to conform to their standards in order to make new friends, only to be made fun of by my

accent, food, and mannerism. I became the laughingstock of the group.

In the process of fitting in, I lost my sense of my original culture and language in order to

become one with everyone else. I stopped bringing the food from my culture and started to eat

popular meals, like lunchables or plain sandwiches. My parents forbid me and my siblings to

speak my native language so we can learn to speak English fluently at a faster pace. I changed

my cultural wardrobe to dress up like everyone else. In a year or two, I was able to make some

friends.

I finally felt like I was accepted and that I belonged. With this new social group, it became my

new home. But is it really home? Is this truly acceptance? I was disregarding my background in

order to feel included with others. Then, after nine years, I finally realized how drastically I

changed after visiting the Philippines.

I was not able to communicate in my native language with my loved ones as I was used to

speaking English. I did not know about the latest trends or events which excluded me from most

conversations. It was weird to be welcomed in the family despite not having the feeling that you

are truly accepted. Even though I grew up with them as a child, I was not Filipino enough for

them anymore. I was distraught. I realized that I erased my differences rather than embracing

them to please other people. In return, I lost my connection to the people who I loved, my

community, and my culture.

In the process of adaptation, I lost my sense of identity for the connection of others. Although I

was young and naive, self-realization does not undo the damage that has built up for years. I

have learned that embracing my uniqueness and celebrating what makes me different gives

harmony in life. Contrasting the endless efforts of changing myself to conform to people’s

standards which has lost my sense of self. The ability to fit in everywhere is not an

accomplishment when there is no sense of belonging anywhere. Authenticity is vital to the

journey of self-discovery. Although I cannot go back in time and replace my story, there is one

thing I can change now: to consistently embrace my identity. After all, true acceptance is

acceptance of oneself.