snack time in an idyllic garden…

Ana Carmona is a Bronx Native, deeply passionate about storytelling and advocating through the arts; she enjoys the process of doing so with photography, the craft of theatre, and writing in particular.

“listen to elders, don’t follow your passion,

sit orderly fashion, they don’t have compassion,

did you say something?

shhhhhhh”

snack time in an idyllic garden is not for all.

By Ana Carmona

a gate opens,

the sign reads “for anyone and everyone.”

where captivated dreams can be lived and relieved.

everyone has a chance in the idyllic garden,

pale skinned kids,

please take a seat,

it's okay, you’re just learning,

don't cry, the garden is for all.

a plate on the desk,

zip lock bags with the most organic,

brightest, freshest, handpicked,

heaven-sent carrots.

a cup of ranch dressing,

it's impressive,

how it sits alongside tempting,

crafted with love,

made up of exact proportions

of earth's greatest invention.

it consumed the children,

opened a door,

setting their path,

to success

from a small garden

that offered them snacks

preparing them for life outside.

everything got handed to them.

everything.

so someday they would sit in an office,

veggie fried brain, they’ll teach your children someday-

in schools where dreams

shine brighter than skyscrapers,

but that’s all they'll ever do, is shine.

because away from the idyllic garden

is a hidden alley,

a garden of wild flies buzzing,

decomposing fruits root deeper into the ground,

burying years of untouchable dreams,

and lives taken too soon.

in this garden, stroll shadows of those

that didn't make it past eighteen,

missing bullets, they pull up to guard our avenues.

this alley wishes to grasp

just a speck of refreshable, savory, delightful fruits,

an endless amount to resuscitate and

remain open to provide a home to the unfortunate.

because snack time isn't the same,

and not everyone is lucky enough

to get chopped up carrots

and ranch dressing at their service.

because brown-skinned kids,

bodies stiff, follow the rules.

this ain't no preschool.

listen to elders, don't follow your passion,

sit orderly fashion, they don't have compassion,

did you say something?

shhhhhhh

he’ll cuff your wrists,

erase your imprint like it's never existed.

cafeteria tables crowded,

chipped plastic plates,

half frozen chicken sticks,

unwashed, dirt infused leaves.

spoiled milk of all sorts.

we don't crave, instead

conversations overpower the rage,

of not being fed the same.

bodies programmed to think

they’re deserving of the littlest things.

because growing up,

whatever you’re fortunate enough to have is enough.

you accept everything given

and don't have the luxury to decline

or ask for a better garden.

you don't complain, you settle for less.

but i want to rise, we want to rise,

but our brain is rotten,

we’ve been forgotten;

this garden holds criminals,

can't let future entrepreneurs

escape the bars meant to imprison them.

“your ancestors were free,

but we’ll make sure no ones looking this time.”

we’re starving, dying, weeping, malnourished.

we want the sweetness of fruits

at the tip of our tongues for an eternity,

we want our garden to be majestic,

know what it feels like to be loved indefinitely.

give us a taste of what it means

to be whole, not part of a whole.

it will never make sense

how we’re in the same garden

how summer and spring are seasons of rebirth,

but fall and the winter

bring chaos and destruction.

chilly days and nights,

sunsets too soon,

we're not given enough time to shine

so we crumble.

we’re broken beings

but all we want is a decent plate on the table,

give us something to thrive off of,

where we can build our dreams from,

be enough to survive in the wilderness.

we want what everyone else gets.

all we all want is snack time,

a little bit of freshness,

freshen me up.

freshen us up.

don't tell us to straighten up.

wake the fuck up,

isn’t eating decent food a human right?

it shouldn't be a question.

eating bruised apples is less exhausting

than seeking answers,

so we lay our dreams in a coffin,

every night attempt

to manifest them,

we want this to be of existence

but it's helpless.

a kid sits on a table

having the luxury

to pick from pineapples to pomegranates,

the blood of our dreams slipping further away,

and once again we settle in our imprisoned garden.

on the other end sits another kid,

sipping on spoiled milk,

eating oozing strawberries.

getting told to eat, eat, eat, against his will.

he must eat to survive, he doesn't have a choice.

hang in there.

someday, we’ll have our own garden,

we’ll rebuild the one given to us

on purpose to erase us,

we’ll write our own narrative,

grow our righteous fruits,

we’ll free ourselves of the constraints

we’ll turn what was thought of as a fantasy.

to a reality in the idyllic garden.

La Pompa: A Dream Deferred

A proud Bronx native, Lucki Islam is a student at New York University, where she is studying theatre that uses her art and activism to make her voice recognized. Photo courtesy of Lucki Islam

“Like the Pompa, our dreams can not be contained. We are formless, but our environment does not dictate our futures.”

By Lucki Islam

“La Pompa.” The pump is running. The water flows down the streets, it connects the different blocks, cars passing by, but even more- it connects the people of the Bronx. Water has no form. However, depending on our environment, we are contained in different shapes and characters.

No neighborhood is stagnant. The Bronx is changing. A society that was formed from the ruins, and continues to thrive in this ruin. Nevertheless, it is the nature and substance of the changes caused by those who are blind to the culture of the Bronx that causes friction.

Going to public school in the Bronx for 17 years, you quickly learn that what they teach you will rarely prepare you for what reality has in store. In school, we were just kids learning about the periodic table, or the philosophies of Aristotle. But outside of school, we dream of being something more.

Like the Pompa, our dreams can not be contained. We are formless, but our environment does not dictate our futures. Water can flow or it can crash, but it is up to us to decide and take up those spaces that we often fear we can’t be in.

The system of public schooling is fragmented and imperfect so it is up to us to make the best out of what we have. The Pompa is beautiful when it's broken and uncapped. That is the rawness of the people in the Bronx. Those who want change will create it, just like those who want education will seek it.

I often feel overwhelmed and unprepared for the future, and as I walk down the familiar streets, I think about lost souls on summer nights- fire hydrants, broken and running, but the water droplets feel like home. I think about where I would be if I decided to be the high school dropout that plagues the back of my mind. I have seen many who were sucked into that black hole, but even I felt helpless in trying to give them a reason to stay. I saw friends drop out of school as much as I saw bodies drop down on the streets. I wanted to escape from this reality so I found myself falling asleep in all my classes in my sophomore year of high school. What did that mean? That it was all over? That there was no way I could go back to being the perfect straight-A student? Junior year rolled around and I started to believe that I was just another statistic, forgot my dreams in trying to prove I was different. If you were to ask me where I see myself in ten years, I would tell you, hopefully, alive and less lost than I am now. The Public School system is a passionless fruit but I’ll take what I can get, and without hesitation, I will run with it.

Do not ask me why he never graduated. Because he’ll tell the story better. They told him he couldn’t reach for the stars so he reached for the drugs and guns. Do not ask me why he never graduated. Because I’ll tell you he was the smartest kid I knew. He wanted to work for NASA, but the irony still stands. He wouldn’t make it out alive. His dreams were too big for a boy in the Bronx. Before you ask them why they never graduated, ask them what they anticipated. We’re alienated, but we hope that they see us as humans and our futures are exonerated.

La Pompa ensures that we are free to know and accept peace no matter the uncertainty. That the Bronx can not contain us.

I think about how important it is to get an education when I think about the world today. Yet the fact remains that students of color have been failed by the Public Education system, and it will continue to do so before we understand the barriers beyond academia. Education is not just about getting through the day but being driven to learn more. 

The pump is running. I pass my hand through the cool water droplets and know that my future is not set. That I have the power to break free from my containment. That I have the power to tell my truth.

La Pompa reminds us that there is no perfect storyline for us, there is only a feeling.

My Home

Destiny Carrion is currently a freshman at Ithaca College studying Integrated Marketing Communications with a minor in Latino/a/x studies, with a goal to make change in her community and those similar to it.

“I remember watching television shows when I was younger and the main character would always want to move to New York. I couldn’t understand it.”

By Destiny Carrion

When I was younger my grandma used to say I had a microphone in my mouth. I was a loud kid and wherever we went, whether it be the train station or the bus stop, I was heard. So I guess it makes sense that someone as loud and energetic as myself comes from the city that never sleeps.

However, despite the comparisons, I desperately wanted to live in a house far away with a white picket fence. I remember watching television shows when I was younger and the main character would always want to move to New York. I couldn’t understand it. What they were trying to escape, I wanted to run away to. It wasn’t until I was much older when I began to see the magic of where I come from. A subway system that takes you anywhere, unlimited food options, fire hydrants as sprinklers during block parties. The city contains an energy that’s unmatched, and the memories I’ve made in my 17 years far surpass those of a Disney Channel Sitcom. Yet, within a sea of diamonds there are always bound to be rocks. Behind the Broadway stages and beneath the concrete sidewalks, there are deeply rooted systemic issues that need to be addressed. From poverty to racism to the lack of educational equity and beyond. I live in Bed Stuy, but I was sent to school in Park Slope, one of the wealthiest areas in Brooklyn, in order to get a better education. I had a hard time fitting in. I was a Puerto Rican girl amongst white kids. I didn’t live down the block like the other kids. I couldn’t relate to their time at their summer houses or expensive camps. But what I found to be the most upsetting in all of this was the preconceived notions of my neighborhood.

“It’s the ghetto.”

“Oh yea no I’d never shop at a Dollar Tree.”

“Well you don’t act like you’re from there.”

Yes, my neighborhood isn’t perfect. However, we speak the language of family, of hard work, of love. Yet, the same people who taught these children to look down on my home now want to move in. Family owned companies have disappeared. I grew up going to Fat Albert, where we would buy everything from shower curtains to plastic Christmas trees. Now it’s a Chipotle and a Starbucks. Gentrification is all I see when I step outside. Just recently they built an artisanal health food shop and named it “Bodega.” Disrespecting the Latino communities who immigrated and or migrated to this city and needed to have quick food options. That store I passed wasn’t a bodega, but it was an embarrassment.

My biggest goal for New York is to give back to the heart of it. The people who live in the apartments next to me, the city workers, the truck drivers. I want to create a non-profit that benefits their children. I want to provide affordable test prep. Though New York City allows every student the opportunity to go to non-zoned schools, not having the correct preparation makes it harder for low income and POC students to get accepted. My parents had the ability to send me to nicer schools because my grandma worked within the district. However, not many students near me have these same opportunities. Going to a middle school in Park Slope was most likely the reason I’m in performing arts high school today. A student from my area could have the same amount of talent as me, but because of the lack of educational equity in our city, they most likely weren’t prepared properly for the auditions. A similar issue occurs in applying to Specialized High Schools. I took the entrance exam, which was free. However, the tutoring was not. So I had to figure it out myself. I didn’t pass, but it wasn’t detrimental to my future because I wanted to go to a school focused on music. However, for many, passing the SHSAT could be the difference between going to a school that will prepare you for college or not. I don’t want that to be an issue for anyone. I want students like myself to have opportunities right outside their doorsteps. When I imagine a new and improved New York City, I see one where your income doesn’t set you back. Where ambition instead of privilege is the path to greatness, and I’m hopeful that one day soon I'll make this the reality.

The Path to Change

Jayline Coste is a 2021 Graduate from Frank Sinatra School of the Arts and a Hunter College undergraduate.

“I sat in my room feeling helpless but the truth was that no matter how powerless I felt, it wouldn’t change anything in my community and in the health care system. So I got to work.”

By Jayline Coste

As a high school student being introduced to a whole new environment was as overwhelming as it was exciting. I encountered a variety of subjects including environmental science, chemistry and AP biology. Learning the sciences was a whole new territory. I had to learn to listen and analyze the information differently by thinking more practically and directly. The ever growing ideas and knowledge made me feel empowered and curious which only increased my love for science and as a result I made the decision to pursue biology as a major and medicine as my future. In March, of my junior year, as COVID-19 cases increased, NYC was quarantined and my education was halted. Then, on May 25th, 2020 a black man named George Floyd was murdered and the world grew with unimaginable pain, anger and sadness. The streets filled with protesters, and the media erupted in violence and bloodshed. Almost as immediately, information about how black people are viewed in every aspect of our society was being shed into the light.

I was confronted with the truth of a consistent pattern that went all the way back to the beginning of my freshman year, specifically to my science classes: all the people who made contributions to science where white cis males. I couldn't help but think how much of my education didn’t care for my needs as an Afro Latina woman, I began to realize the lack of representation in every aspect of my life, specifically my future as a biologist. I delved into all of the faces in the black community who didn't make it into my textbooks and common core lessons such as Henrietta Lacks, who gave us the first immortal cell line without her consent and whose cells helped scientists build careers and fortunes unethically; the Tuskegee Airmen, the first black military aviators in the U.S. Army Air Corps who were being unknowingly experimented on for research on syphilis; John Brown, who was tortured in medical experiments to create a widely believed myth that black skin was thicker than white skin so black men and women felt less pain, and Dr. Marie Maynard Daly, who was the first black woman in the U.S to earn a PhD in chemistry.

I felt anger and frustration thinking about the toxic narratives and myths created in the medical community about black men and women. On one hand, part of me thought “how could I live contributing to the continuation of such a poisonous narrative and environment that contradicted my existence as an Afro Latina.” On the other hand, my love for biology was eternal; the never ending innovations and knowledge was exhilarating and intense. Overwhelmed with my passion for biology and (wanting to make social change), I couldn't help but notice that despite the extensive innovations and technological developments, how much the science community’s past is being reflected in the present moment as public hospitals, such as Elmhurst, were packed with hundreds of patients and families suffering with the physical and psychological effects of COVID. So many people are being disproportionately affected in the medical community because of their race in medical research, diagnoses, medications, and health care. 

Soon after researching those medical inequalities, I began helping my parents in their store, where I noticed first-hand those inequalities and how COVID disproportionately affected communities of color in NYC, such as mine. In neighborhoods, such as Jackson Heights, East Elmhurst, and Corona, housing is often multi-generational and crowded, so following social distancing guidelines is relatively difficult which increases our chances of getting sick. Finding reasonably priced testing for people of color and immigrants, who earn below minimum wage and hold jobs that lack full health care coverage is extremely hard in a system that is designed, both implicitly and explicitly, to exclude black Americans. Ultimately, this results in an array of inequities — including statistically shorter and sicker lives as compared to their white counterparts. I sat in my room feeling helpless but the truth was that no matter how powerless I felt, it wouldn't change anything in my community and in the health care system. So I got to work. 

I began coming up with ideas for my own community and how I could make a lasting sustainable impact starting with my school. I started by actively listening to the concerns of my peers, and wondering how I could incorporate them into our school community. We began by discussing virtually what we would like to see in our classrooms and at our school, such as more representation in our common core lessons, more active listening and accountability from our peers and teachers, and more encouragement from our peers and teachers to showcase the talents of students of color. I spoke with my principal and teacher through email about how to extend more aid to our students and I came up with the idea of adding resources specifically to the Wellness Center, such as creating a group community to help students with the racism they encounter in school and to encourage them to take the appropriate next steps. I also initiated a “buddy system” where our teachers of color could participate in helping our students feel more comfortable, building a system where students could either talk to someone on the spot or anonymously file a concern they have. I want to involve parents and what they can do to contribute to their children’s community and education and I am currently working on getting funding or grants from organizations, and setting up a page on the school website where students and parents can donate.

As overwhelming as this all is, I'm excited to be a part of the change that is my generation and how we are actively changing the false narrative that is the “American Dream” into a narrative about community, acceptance, self-expression and independence. As a future biologist, my hope is to challenge the inequalities in the medical community and use the power of science to extend the feeling of enlightenment and health to others.

“Is that too much to ask for?”

Breanna Wignal is a Brooklyn-based writer who absolutely adores the feeling of a pen between her fingers. “Not only has writing allowed me to thrive creatively, but it has also allowed me to free myself from the simplistic shackles of societal expectations in general, causing me to break free from any box before ever even being placed in one.”

“Our dreams won’t be tarnished, instead they’ll be illuminated, a world where we all live in harmony, able to trust love and support one another or is that too much to ask for?”

By Breanna Wignal

From a gun, to a bullet, to the bullet through his head, there’s a black man wishing, but what’s his wish if he’s dead? Holding onto pain you implanted in our brain, only left us feeling extremely insane. I wish you could see how amazing we are or are you too busy turning the corner when you see us from afar? It seriously hurts us all deep within because we are definitely far more than the color of our skin. There are so many shades; chocolates, caramels, browns, and gold. How could you not love us? And our beauty we hold. Your oppressing hand no longer holds us, because now we know you can never fully control us. I am from a world where we triumph through hate, each step we take greatly mitigates, mitigates the pressure placed upon us because of who we are, where we’re from, and who we love. I close my eyes and vividly see a world once pure without you and me. Can we ever make it back to when times were once serene? Or is that too much to envision? Too much to picture? Too much to imagine for us as human beings? Walking down the streets of New York City I take a look around and inhale the smell of rain that filled the air. Little children running around innocently unaware of the world that we live in, they reminded me of my once pure and innocent mind; oblivious to the meaning of life and what is to come in time. Beat down buildings still held a sense of simplistic beauty, much like how there is beauty in you and I even through our impurities. My feet moved instinctively one after the other, where am I going? When will I make it? I am going to the future just wait on it. Where there is an abundant amount of love to go around, where we can all truly come together as one, a future where there is more love than hate or is that too much to ask for, is it too late? A future where our past selves won’t dissipate however our mindsets differentiates from the ones we currently possess. No more chasing time and dreaming about tomorrow because “today” will quickly turn into yesterday, we as mankind can be the heroes of the future, coming together as a collective interlock hand by hand we can match our way towards the sun. Today I look out my window and unconsciously begin to wonder why? Why do we dwell on our past mistakes if we as human beings are capable of creating change once we fully allow that change to take its place? We are the future, we are our only hope, an ounce of injustice anywhere is a threat to any form of injustice everywhere. Acknowledging those that oppress a group of minorities just to feel superiority is the first step of displaying a possibility of a brighter future. Equality today is glorified and encouraged however as a black individual our voices are still inevitably suppressed, our voices so thin they almost crack like ice, THIS IS NOT RIGHT, we live inside our heads afraid to live our lives, mothers burying their children becomes so normalized. This pain...this baggage we’ve been carrying for so long it gets played out much like a repetitive song. Being shunned because of the people we love it becomes hard to truly feel alive. Someday in the future these problems may be resolved...equality and justice may finally be given to all. We attempt to bypass time by constantly referring to the future as “later on in life.” We say this to allude that time waits on no one, we say this because we are unprepared, and most importantly some of us are afraid of changes. When I close my eyes I can see vivid dreams spring to life, in the future we’ll be set free from our cocoons, our full potentials will be unlocked and we'll finally be able to live without fear. Our dreams won’t be tarnished, instead they’ll be illuminated, a world where we all live in harmony, able to trust love and support one another or is that too much to ask for? Too much to expect from mankind? I wish to see a world where wars are a thing of the past, I wish to see a world that possesses love that lasts. The city of New York can make it so far, we just need to nurture the seed of love in order to stop the war, the war in which we create...all of this comes from all our hate.

I love my education

“The textbooks were whitewashed. When our history was mentioned, it mainly revealed our struggles in society.”

By Layla Hussein

“And that’s how the idea of vaccination was introduced,” said Mr. Harris. Astonished, the class pleaded for their history teacher to reiterate the lesson before the bell rang. “C’mon Mr. Harris! Tell us one more time!” hollered Darius, with the rest of the class chanting “please”. Although just a 7th grader, Darius was always fascinated to learn more about his history. Every lesson was more than just a slideshow for his grade, but a story that brought him to a world he never thought possible.

“Alright, settle down class!” Laughing, Mr. Harris continued, “I’ll repeat the lesson one last time.”

“Vaccination was introduced from the African tradition of inoculation by Onesimus, an enslaved person. He was sent to various places in the early 16th century. Eventually, Onesimus was owned by Cotton Mather, the Puritan church minister at the time. As his slave, Onesimus revealed a centuries-old African technique of inoculation.”

“And this technique was when materials from an infected person was scratched onto a non-infected person to develop immunity?” asked one student. “Exactly!” said Mr. Harris, gratified that his students were engrossed with his lesson. “But before your bell rings,” the teacher continued, “Cotton Mather convinced a doctor in Boston to test this technique during the smallpox epidemic in 1721. Essentially, Onesimus is known for paving the path to experimentation with vaccine development.”

“Imagine if Onesimus wasn’t a slave and had the resources to put his own theories into use!” angrily said Darius. Nodding in agreement, the teacher responded, “I know, it is a shame. But the important part we must focus on is the fact that we are learning about this side of history— DINGGGG!”

As the class hurriedly exits their last period, Darius waits for Noah, his best friend since Kindergarten. Although they have several differences, including race, sexuality, and hobbies, they find that as an opportunity to learn more about each other. As Noah gets his loaded bookbag together, the two exit school and get on the school bus.

Their conversations are spontaneous — their favorite part of their 7-year friendship. Whether it be discussing conspiracy theories, family life, or even politics, everyday brings a new aspect to learn about each other. But on today’s bus ride home, Noah and Darius simply conversed about their shared love of their history class.

“Although I’m not black,” Noah expresses, “I almost feel as though I empathize with all of their struggles from the past. It breaks my heart to even process slavery, you know?”

“Totally. I am so thankful for Mr. Harris’s class. There is so much to my history that it would take decades for us to research it all ourselves.”

“For real though!”

Darius continues, “And I feel like without history class, I would be unappreciative of my culture merely because I didn’t know much about it.” The conversation cut short as Darius’s stop was nearby. The two friends hugged as they said their goodbyes, with Darius leaving the bus stop and dashing to his home.

“MOM I’M HOME” exclaimed Darius, dropping his book bag to give his mother the world’s tightest hug. “Awe baby! How was your day my love? Tell me all about it! Lunch is almost ready!”

“YAY! Thank you momma! And my day was perfect! I learned about vaccination in Mr. Harris’s class!”

“Really? I could tell you’re in love with that class,” said Momma, watching over the pot filled with macaroni and cheese for lunch.

“Absolutely! History class makes me so proud to be black! Like, did you know that during World War II, historically Black universities were a place of refuge for persecuted Jews seeking asylum from Nazi Germany? Or that Dr. Gladys West contributed her calculations that lead to the modern-day GPS?”

“Wow honey, that’s amazing. I always learn something new from you every day.”

“Momma, you always say that, but did you really not know these things before?” Knowing that a lengthy conversation was ahead, Momma turned off the stove and answered, “Well, when I was a teen in 2020, we never learned these things. The textbooks were whitewashed. When our history was mentioned, it mainly revealed our struggles in society. Sometimes I still get shocked that your best friend is Noah because back in my days, it was hard for different races to accept each other.”

“So what happened in 2020?”

Momma left the kitchen to take Darius into the living room, as both of them jumped on the couch. “Well,” Momma says, “It all started when...”

The Beautiful, Yet Blinding Lights of NYC

Nayeon Park is a senior at Hunter College High School who loves collecting postcards, listening to talk show podcasts, and winning at claw machines.

“Six feet apart for me means miles away from being able to go to school, discover new Pan Asian cuisine, and stand on line for the best tacos de pollos on the block.”

By Nayeon Park

Best said by Gerard Kenny, New York, New York, so good they named it twice. So good, but I can describe it two ways. NYC is bustling, yet it makes you feel so alone sometimes. NYC is beautiful, yet hides so much filth and danger. NYC is exhilarating yet so exhausting. These dichotomies coexist to make NYC the amazing, enticing city it is. To an outsider, who romanticizes New York City as a city of dreams and lavish, luxury condos with olives dipped in martinis in the summertime, I would simply giggle. If you are not a rich business tycoon, blinded by the city lights and the adult playground we call Hudson Yards, NYC is far different. Living here feels like you are burning the candle at both ends; weaving through the mass of black, rigid businesses suits at the crack of dawn to catch your train to, when the day ends, being greeted by the dissonant symphony of taxi cars and construction until you finally reach home from two boroughs away late at night. Yet New York City remains a special place in the American illustration -- I believe this is because there is never a dull moment in my beautiful city.

There is a reason NYC attracted my immigrant parents to settle out of our cozy Illinois home in the cornfields to the very antithesis of it. When it comes to diversity, NYC exemplifies it; we are a minority majority -- yet another magnificent oxymoron. I come from Queens, where I grew up with the comfort of my mother tongue, Korean, and the familiar taste of perilla leaves and jjajangmyeon. I come from the borough with the best dimsum and hot pot -- the 7 Train as our loyal, and only, way of transport. I hear the deep roars of airplanes coming out of their caves: the LaGuardia and JFK airports. On weekdays, I experience Manhattan, the popular girl of the five boroughs. As if I were straight from Gossip Girls, I travel to my high school in the Upper East Side -- without the glam and wealth, of course. My black Mastercard is in the form of a public school ID that allows me to enter one of the most iconic museums in the world for free -- The MET. After casually visiting the Monet exhibit, I go down the concrete stairs to catch the next Q train to Flatbush to meet my dad at his store in Brooklyn. Our family owns a beauty supply store in Flatbush where I get to live among the best Jamaican street food, $1 lip gloss, and critically acclaimed jerk chicken. In a city where having a driver’s license at 17 is unheard of, where a train stop away introduces you to an entirely different culture and community, and where rats eating next to a train is normal, NYC is unmatched if you are able to survive it.

As of now, due to the recent pandemic, things have changed. Six feet apart for me means miles away from being able to go to school, discover new Pan Asian cuisine, and stand on line for the best tacos de pollos on the block. There are over a million NYC high school students as of now -- the future of our city. We have grown up without the luxury of settling. Although we are still young in our world, most of us have learned how to accept everyone regardless of ethnicity, background, or socioeconomic status. As our population grows and our rent grows even higher, I believe our generation will be the ones to further homogenize other aspects of NYC; Such aspects that would allow everyone to treat NYC as their own playground, yet maintain the intimate, homely nature of each borough. It would be naive to demand economic equality for all in just a few years, but compassion can go a long way. Among the dozens of dichotomies NYC has, I think a new one can replace old ones. Although we are labeled as rude and no-nonsense, we should work towards kindness and unity so that there would be less people on the streets who can not fall asleep with the blinding city lights right above them or so that the bustling city does not make everyone feel so alone sometimes. New York City, a city of dichotomies and oxymorons, is a place I would never want to leave.

This Land is Your Land (Fees Subject to Change at Any Moment)

Elizabeth (Liz) Shvarts is a Staten-island based writer/performance artist who loves creating, building businesses, and drinking way too much oat milk iced coffee.

“Uncle Sam tells us to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps when our feet are bare and blistered.”

By Elizabeth Shvarts

America is not a dream you fall asleep to;

Salvation set against the backdrop of sweet sequoia pines and sunsets dripping

with milk and

honey

So sickly sweet it stains enamel gilded

Gold

We gulp the Gulf stream waters greedily as if to

alchemize our bones

Ivory into ichor into “American” lest our limbs remain contorted in the shape of the

dash

before (-American);

Land of the free, home of the forgotten

But paradise is a mirage

We pledge allegiance to

The bread crusts and bullet shells Uncle Sam passes across the dinner table

While Lady Liberty stirs the melting pot

but Uncle Sam clamps muzzle on our mouths before we can get a taste knows too

well we salivate for slices of mango cut by shackled hands

Let us savor shades of freedom

incantation for a magic buried by the Board of Ed because our tongue was ripped

from our

mouths before we even stepped foot into the classroom

Uncle Sam tells us to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps when our feet are bare

and blistered

From pounding the pavement paving a path to star-spangled salvation

Because we can’t afford an Uber to the golden gates

Because we know happily ever after is received on a first come, first serve basis

Packaged and sealed by the last to receive keys to the room where it happens and

the first to be

evicted

So we learn how to

slam fork and knife loud enough to wake the neighbors

Inversion of B-flat major into dissonance divestment

Till we stitch together the chords of a new song:

“This land is your land is my land

From the bodega corners to concrete battlefields

From morning rush melodies to the voice of my people our people rising above

the cacophony

of corporations chugging churning choosing to leave our lives on the chopping block

The tenor of a generation crescendos, our anthem front and center

This land is made for you and me and us

forever”