REFLECTIONS OF LIGHT
Personal Essays / Narrative Journalism
ISSUE ONE: (1) The literary device orange, (2) Aren't you glad? (3) Hot Take of the Issue: In Defense of Modern Art, (4) To all those writing history papers, (5) The Sixth Grade Trial
ISSUE TWO: (1) You’re Looking for a Cute Genre… But It Ain’t Me, Babe
ISSUE THREE: Coming soon!
The literary device orange
BY EVELYN YANG
According to social media, the use of oranges as a metaphor, metonymy, imagery, a literary device, is overdone. That once a writer reuses and recreates what was already created before, it is useless and meaningless. The juices of an orange, the walls which separate the slices, the citrus scent which sticks underneath your fingernails– cannot be used uniquely again. I agree, because of course everyone already knows of an individual’s inherently poetic and beautiful connection to a mere fruit.
Of course, everyone will know that oranges, fruit, is an expression of love I can barely accept. Of the meticulously peeled and cut slices of apples, melons, and mangoes that my parents used to set on a plate in front of me when I was child. The fruits which were chewed and swallowed hesitantly, tumbling down my throat with jagged edges. My throat would itch, mouth would tingle, lips would swell, as soon as I choked down their apology. As if I could sense the insincerity, the belief of righteousness, the shame. It is common sense that instead of apologies and loving touches, I have orange slices offered in the small space of a car, amidst the lingering of my frustration.
Art credits: Evelyn Yang
And it’s only right that they’ll know the scent of my perfume– the dragon fruit layered with orange blossom. The memory of plucking it randomly from a shelf at the end of summer, asking my friend if it smelled good. Being convinced to buy it and wearing it for the remainder of the smoky summer. Spraying it on while in the trenches of winter and bleakness; having the same friend turn to me with a smile and ask if I’m wearing the perfume “from the summer?” Smiling in return, and sharing a brief respite with my friend, visualizing the return of shorts and the sharp scent of sunscreen.
For the orange experience is universal, everyone knows the thrumming fear of accidentally swallowing an orange seed, and the sudden love for oranges that causes you to eat two, then three, then four. The stupid—and likely useless—hack of rolling an orange before peeling, as if detaching skin from bone through consistent movement. Plunging your thumb into the bottom of the orange, and tearing uneven strips until the rind detaches from the meat of the fruit, curling into a flower. Hearing a rumor in fourth grade that your old crush once ate an entire orange peel. Gently splitting the pre-divided slices, the whole unwinding like a clock. Going through phases of eating oranges like a habit, to the loss of its taste on your tongue.
So the consensus is that it’s too everyday to be notable, an orange. How pointless it is to be one, torn apart and never put back together. Nothing of importance, not enough to apply to a writer’s deep and unexplainable life experiences. An orange is simply a fruit of disappointment, tossed from writer to writer. Everyone knows that, don’t they?
Aren't you glad?
BY SARAH DUNCAN
To the elderly couple who lives across from Prospect Park, just be glad your apartment is rent stabilized. You should be set to live there for as long as you like, and grow old alongside your refrigerator and stove. There’s no need for the superintendent to renovate, he’ll take care of it once you leave, which won’t be for some time, right? He knows that letting your appliances deteriorate keeps you in checkmate, for there will be too great of a cost for any move you two could make. This is when you two must resign the game and know your king has been defeated, and it will rest on the board without having been touched though knowing that there were risks in every direction. Not to worry, your vintage apartment is pretty cool to anyone who has newly moved into your building and comes over to visit, although you may feel stuck in time when you go over to visit theirs. But at least you may remain frozen in time instead of coping with the price of moving forward.
And to my cousin, who has lived in the Crown Heights and Flatbush area for the nearly 20 years she’s been in New York, was the cultural shift at your train station the first sign? Has the lively community which reminds you of your island home been what compelled you to stay, because the soursop ice cream tastes like the ticket away from this concrete jungle? Make sure to tone down the steel pans and fetes on Labor Day: what sounds to you like community sounds drives others to file a noise complaint. And if any young, new resident tries to bar you from entering a family member’s building, assuming you could not possibly live in what they believe to be their neighborhood, empathize. It was a valid mistake on behalf of someone ignorant to the predominantly Caribbean demographic of their neighborhood. For they’ve only known the high rise buildings, while you still smell the spice from the roti shop that stood there long before.
And to my father, who lived in our Harlem brownstone 25 years before we moved in, aren’t you glad to see your old neighborhood less impoverished? You’ve tasted Harlem in two different forms, and yet you find the rusty reputation to be the most flavorful. Sacrifices must often be made in the name of progress. Now I no longer have to travel to the Upper West Side to find Trader Joes or Sephora, though they line the historic street where natural hair supply stores and soul food used to be. What good is it holding onto the past when progression forces you forward? What good is holding onto the culture disregarded in order to invite others in, and force you out?
And to the long standing or previous residents of Nostrand Ave, aren’t you glad there’s a Starbucks in your neighborhood? You no longer have to rely on the quaint Haitian bakery for the warm, fresh bread rolls as a morning treat, now you may find green juice and franchised coffee on every corner. Why do you shake your head and sigh? When I was 8 years old, I so desperately wanted to try a Starbucks frappuccino. Not only was I too young to drink coffee, I also only found Starbucks in the neighborhoods I cannot afford. I quite like frappuccinos; they are the sweet, chilling taste of the teenage girl I wanted to be. But I’ve come to prefer black coffee and besides, everyone has moved onto strawberry acai. On every one of my infrequent returns to this unfamiliar street, and its unwelcoming stench of commonality, I will search for the aroma of beef patties. Only then will I know I am still welcome home.
Hot Take of the Issue: In Defense of Modern Art
BY BELLA HOLT
If you own a TikTok account, you may have seen a trend in which people stand next to modern or contemporary artworks with the text reading something along the lines of “standing next to art we could’ve made”. In recent years, this scorn of modern art is widely acknowledged on social media; “modern art is not real art”, some say, and others, “BRING BACK RENAISSANCE ART”. Although the fact that these opinions are being expressed is perfectly reasonable, I believe that many of these arguments lack depth by overlooking the basis on which it is made.
Modern art, according to visual arts teacher Emily Valenza, is art made “anywhere from the 1860s to the 1970s, [starting] with the proliferation of photography and the camera. When cameras and film photography were readily available for people to use… [art] went from recording to expressing.” Movements such as expressionism worked to convey the story and emotion of an art piece. Meanwhile, impressionism went against the tradition of invisible brushstrokes, and dadaism rejected the presumption that an art piece should have meaning at all. Minimalism, the art movement that is most often criticized in these tiktoks, uses basic geometric shapes and blocky colors applied seamlessly to explore color relationships, and often, human experiences.
Talia Ziblatt argues that minimalism “is lazy [because] you can give meaning to anything. It’s not interesting to look at, and it’s just the same materials over and over again.” The supposed easiness of making minimalism often makes minimalist art seem unworthy of being in museums, especially due to the assumption that museums are prestigious and only for those who have studied art for years. If you happen to agree with this belief, I ask you the following question: why should the value of artworks be measured by the standards of technical skill set by art that captures reality in a traditional way?
“Faraway Love” is a painting by minimalist artist Agnes Martin in 1999. On the screen of my computer, it appears to be almost entirely white; however, upon closer inspection, a very subtle distinction between the painting’s light blue background and ivory stripes can be made out. I know that one of my friends will look at it and admire the clean, exact lines of paint made by the stripes, whereas I look at it and feel pitiful that this “faraway love” has gotten so far that it is barely noticeable anymore, and yet another of my friends will glance at it without feeling much connection to the piece. However, one of the opportunities minimalism and other abstract artworks offers is the freedom of choosing the way you interpret it. You don’t have to like or “get” the colors and shapes you see on a canvas; art simply exists to be observed.
Examples:
Carol Walkers, A Subtlety
Mark Rothko, Orange and Yellow, Black on Maroon, No. 6
Felix Gonzalez-Torres, “Untitled (Portrait of Ross in LA)”
To all those writing history papers
BY LYRIA HUNTE
To all those writing history papers for school please keep academia in mind
I remember being in the car on my way home from school when my father mentioned that Barbados had finally fully separated from Britain and become a republic. At the time, he added “We’re from there, you know,” and I didn’t, because having more than a vague idea of where you come from is not part of the ‘African American experience.’ But I said “Oh, really?” or something like that because I was tired, and thinking about race when you’re tired only makes you bitter and not in any sort of productive or mournful or forward-thinking way just bitter. I always hated feeling bitter because I could never put it anywhere. 3 years pass and I am passively aware of my bajan-ness just like I’m passively aware of everything else my bloodline has to offer.
All of that is to say that if you are ever in school in the United States and are ever given the opportunity to write about the constitution of Barbados for a history unit that barely covered any of the Caribbean islands in the first place, don’t. You may be tempted to use it as an opportunity to learn about your heritage; that line of thinking is a trap. If you do it will most likely shorten your lifespan by at least 7 years, maybe more. You see, no one cares about Barbados. No one cares about Barbados the same way no one cares about The Bahamas or Hawaii or most of the other islands in the Caribbean for that matter, not even the internet somehow. Those places are simply too beautiful. They are places you are supposed to go to get a tan and not live and if you do live there you probably work at the resort or something. The only semblance of interest academia has in such places is how their economy, upheld almost entirely by tourism, is going.
So please, unless you happen to be a historian, for the love of god, don’t try to do a history research paper on Barbados. Do something important and intriguing like the Cold War or South Africa. It might be hard to abandon your country but realistically if you are not white and living in the U.S. you probably already have in some capacity. The most well-off of us are people pleasers who will maybe get to do some research in their own time.
The Sixth Grade Trial
BY CHASE AARON AGUDO
That afternoon has lodged itself firmly in my mind.
I was in sixth grade. A spirited and rambunctious kid whose middle school exploits were naughty but insignificant misdemeanors, I had never gotten into the kind of trouble that would go into my school record. But that day, I was in the principal’s office for a more serious reason: I had hurt one of my best friends. Clever, witty, and just as arrogant as I was, Winston was a willing accomplice to several of the school crimes I committed. That's why, when his face was covered with a mixture of blood and tears after I shoved him a little too hard against the fence during recess, I felt a sense of guilt that still lingers. But, I also detest how the situation was handled; today, that resentment is perhaps stronger than the guilt.
It was an oppressively hot day at I.S. 25. I leaned against a fence with a gang of other sweaty boys. Towards the end of recess, we exchanged verbal jabs rife with challenges to our then undeveloped manhoods. After one such insult from Winston, I found it necessary to reciprocate physically. I didn't intend to hurt him; this was simply a routine exercise when faced with such a remark. I extended both my hands towards him; he responded in kind. We interlocked our fingers and braced ourselves for Mercy, a game where both participants would try to force the opponent into yelling "mercy!" via crushing grip strength, balance, and spatial dominance. For the first few seconds, Winston was winning. However, after a quick maneuver, I pushed his arms behind his center of gravity and inched him closer and closer to the courtyard fence. I expected him to yell "mercy” at this point, but his eyes reflected no intention of capitulating. So, gaining speed as I forced him backwards, I shoved Winston against the wall of metal wire.
I turned around to revel in my victory, looking at my spectator friends with a smug grin as if expecting fanfare. It took only a short survey of their faces to realize that something had gone wrong. As I looked back at Winston, he was crouched against the wire fence, clutching his head. Trickles of blood ran down his forehead, and tears joined the drops of perspiration on his cheeks.
The next hour was a blur. I brought Winston to the recess supervisor to go to the nurse as soon as I saw blood. Feigning indifference, I joined the boys in the hallways on our walk to English class. I clung to the chance that Winston would be able to coherently explain that the whole ordeal was just one big accident, that I didn't mean to cause the bloody gash on his head, that all the adults involved would pass off the incident as a common occurrence among boys who play hard.
When the assistant principal walked into my classroom, my stomach dropped to the floor with piercing worry. She wore a washed-out gray cardigan over a wrinkled silk blue shirt, made somehow even more drab by the passively stern look she always had. Looking directly at me, she asks the history teacher:
"Can I talk to Chase, please?"
My teacher relinquished me to the she-devil. As I commanded my terrified feet to move, I felt the stares of my classmates burn into the back of my head as if to say uh-oh, he finally went too far this time, didn’t he?
The assistant principal dragged me to the principal's office as if to take out the trash. Leaving me at the door, she sighed as her glare drilled a hole into my eyes. Her wretched pointer finger directed me to sit at the table of a dimly lit room.
"Wait until the principal gets here," she demanded, muttering "stupid kid," as she walked away from the room.
The longest five minutes of my life passed in painful silence before the principal entered the door. A blonde woman with jaded eyes and a straight posture, she sat directly across the table. She must have seen the scared look in my eyes as, for just a split second, she regarded me with concern.
But immediately, she bombarded me with questions:
"What did you do?"
"How come there's a kid with bloody hair in the nurse's office?"
"Huh? So? What is it?"
For a minute, I looked at her with a disconcerting mixture of loathing and guilt. I wanted to say that it was only a game and that I didn't want anyone to get hurt. I wanted to emphasize that all boys who participate in such activities know and acknowledge the danger that comes with physical play. I wanted to tell her that, although I hurt Winston, we were only playing, that these sorts of things happen all the time between friends, and I would take any punishment thrust upon me with dignity and forbearing. I wanted desperately to relate to this adult woman the inner workings of a 12-year-old boy's mind, to show her that situations like these must be handled delicately. I wanted her to see that I was not defined by one isolated act of unintended violence. Years of dealing with worse juvenile delinquents must not whittle away one's sense of compassion. I wanted to have a voice in my own trial.
Yet, my mouth refused to speak. Instead of articulating the sentiments that rang so clearly in my mind, my throat choked on the pathetic words "I didn't mean to do it!" and "I'm sorry!" In between my sobs, I juggled between trying to explain what the game of "mercy" was and emphasizing that I simply did not intend to hurt Winston. One eyebrow raised on the principal’s face as she almost gave up trying to understand me.
"Let me get this straight," she interjected, "you thought it was funny—a game, I think you said—to throw him against the sharp metal part of the fence, then walk away and forget it happened?"
Failing to find words, my vocal cords contracted even more under the anticipated influx of tears. The principal belied what had happened! I would never think injuring him was funny; I just called what we did a playful, innocent game. I didn’t necessarily "throw" him against the sharp part of the fence; the word "throw" has a malicious connotation that was not what I had intended. I definitely didn't know that there was a piece of sharp metal in that exact spot where I pushed him. Above all, I was not as ignorant of the situation as she thought.
I realized that it didn't matter much what I said. At the end of the day, the woman in front of me was the judge, jury, and executioner. Sitting in that office, I came to terms with the fact that my intention didn't matter at all. I was to blame; I would be punished with no mercy.
"Young man," she continued, "if you were a little older, you would be going to jail for this. You're getting an in-school suspension for two weeks. Nope, don't even speak. I don't want to hear it." She paused, then looked up at me one last time before declaring: "Also, this is going on your permanent record. You may see yourself out."
Feeling utterly sorry for myself, I left. I couldn't even bear to think about what had just happened, but I did wonder how Winston was feeling. I hoped he was okay. The bleeding must have stopped by now, right? They would have to send him home, of course. Oh no, they would have to tell his parents what happened. More people would hear a hostile story about me without my input. I would be seen as an unruly delinquent by anyone who listened to the event told by everyone else but me.
On the walk home, I could only imagine the principal writing about the incident in my record. I could see her slender, haggard hands producing a thin paper portfolio from a filing cabinet, writing an ignorantly oversimplified retelling of the events. That damned report didn't include me, I thought. I wrestled with the idea that, although that portfolio had my name on it, none of my own thoughts were being recorded.
When I relayed the story to my mom, she forced me to walk to Winston's house and apologize to his mother on the same night of the incident. Winston ended up getting two staples along his mid-scalp region and couldn't participate in any physical activities for weeks. We remained friends, of course; ironically, unlike the administrators who had no patience to comprehend my side of the story, Winston understood what I had tried to say to the principal without my having to speak it.
A part of me still cries foul at how the situation was handled. While I was undoubtedly in the wrong, I still felt belittled, othered, and unheard. That dusty office saw the battle between an uncaring authority and an inexperienced defendant who didn't have the tools or latitude to properly defend himself. To this day, I still hate that the principal refused to empathize with me. After all, she should know better than anyone else that nuance should be used with a child whose common sense has not yet outgrown his adolescence.
You’re Looking for a Cute Genre… But It Ain’t Me, Babe
BY BELLA HOLT
As 2024 came to an end, Timothee Chalamet’s new persona hit the silver screen and reintroduced Bob Dylan to the world. A Complete Unknown, last year’s Bob Dylan biopic, watches as Dylan makes a name in folk music and later “goes electric.” With the success of the biopic, folk music went viral on TikTok and re-entered the mainstream. While this long-overlooked genre absolutely deserves the attention, Tiktok’s current folk revival disregards the genre’s crucial history.
Out of the entire movie, A Complete Unknown’s depiction of Dylan and Joan Baez’s affair was what resonated most with teenagers and young adults. The movie’s cover of Dylan’s “It Ain’t Me Babe” has been used nearly 40,000 times on TikTok— most often in videos where users soulfully lip sync to the lyrics, “I am not the one you want, babe, I am not the one you need.” However, users fail to look past the melodic guitar and observe that folk music is a vessel of protest.
At the height of its popularity, folk music was used to fight against injustice during the Civil Rights movement and the Vietnam war, not just croon of heartbreak. Renowned 1960s folk singer Phil Ochs once described himself as a “singing journalist;” he took the stories he saw on the news and trapped them in his lyrics, immortalizing this era of injustice and pain in a melody. Even without considering the genre through a modern lens, folk persists as a uniquely profound genre. However, when taking into account the unsettling political climate that we live in today, the genre undertakes a new significance.
Every day, we as American residents are faced with another concerning, frightening, or downright absurd news headline. The world we live in today has given us plenty of reasons to protest; as shown by April’s Hands Off and June’s No King protests. Thus, it seems only obvious that the protest roots of folk should be the main focus of its revival. High school student Sienna McCabe, class of 2027, emphasized that all kinds of protest art– including folk music– “keeps people from going numb…when everything feels overwhelming.” If you enjoy “It Ain’t Me Babe” or want comfort during these troubling times, perhaps experiment with folk’s protest songs– Phil Ochs’ “Too Many Martyrs” or, for a more recent artist, Jesse Welles’ “War Isn’t Murder.”