The Choate Rosemary Hall hosted the premiere meet for the Westminster girls’ cross country team Saturday, Sept. 17. Catie McGuigan ’23, Saskia Mattiko ’23 and Hayden Schneider ’25 stepped onto the starting line for the varsity race. The two returning Sixth Former brought in the incoming Fourth Former for a huddle before Schneider’s first 5k as a martlet. The team of three took their first strides into the season. Schneider, McGuigan and Mattiko stayed together as a team for the first mile all the way through the third and crossed over the finish with each runner kicking with the remaining energy they had so as to not let any competition pass them. The girls blew through the finish line within seconds of each other, starting out the season as a team.
 
The rest of the girls’ cross country team continued warmups, workouts and warm weather runs together all season. The team started to create traditions such as blasting McGuigan’s “clean hype” playlist around the upper fields, writing mantras on their arms for race day, and wearing personalized hair ribbons. A new tradition of “secret psycher” was also created — a version of secret Santa as a team bonding experience and a way to hype up the team before each meet. This team dissolved cross country’s reputation of not being a team sport. The girls continued to race with each other, lifting one another up if one martlet was having an off or difficult day.
 
On the last home meet against Ms. Porter’s, the Sixth Formers on the team — Catie McGuigan, Chiamaka Kanu, Alice Liu, Saskia Mattiko, and captains Emma Mason and Simone Routledge — reflected on their time on the team. All have had outstanding seasons with the cross country team and will truly miss their running experiences at Westminster. At the two final meets of the season — Founders League Championships meet held at Choate Rosemary Hall and New England’s Championships at St. Mark’s — McGuigan, Mattiko, and Schneider continued to run as a pack.
 
Ultimately, the girls’ cross country team truly embodied Westminster’s core value of community and built one while running three to eight miles a day and they couldn’t have done it without the amazing support of coach Urner-Berry and head coach Vailas.

In the modern world, Halloween festivities have become nearly sacred traditions. This year, the spooky season on the hill was filled with mysteries, screams and nightmares. Community members participated in a series of activities that accelerated their heartbeats. Besides the horrifying haunted house the Sixth Form put together, students competed in the annual Halloween Costume Contest. With over 100 contestants, Sydney Courtmanche ’24 triumphed through popular votes by her peers. Alongside her buddy Ava Lynch ’23, Sydney dressed up as Zach from Zach and Cody. After being inspired by the trendy social media TikTok, Sydney and Ava began their planning process for this coveted competition. Sydney purchased her shirt and shorts from Goodwill, and her infamous wig from Party City. She stated: “Honestly, I think the wig really sold it. The cargo shorts were a great touch but I think the wig was what brought home the dub.” For those who don’t know Zach, he is a Disney character for an older generation and the crazy brother of Cody. When asked about her costume next year, Sydney explained that she will keep that information confidential but she will definitely come out with something big and interesting. Stay tuned!

As we are now almost two weeks removed from Halloween festivities and the annual Martlet Mush at Westminster, reflecting back on the event seems easy. As a result of the COVID-19 pandemic and different restrictions on our school and campus, the Mush was one of the awesome things that was taken from us. This is my third year at Westminster, and was also the first Martlet Mush I had experienced; I had merely settled for hazy details and tails of the Mush history books prior to this Halloween.
 
The 2022 Martlet Mush was a hit. We are fortunate to have an event as enjoyable and engaging as it makes its return for the students and faculty members. From my perspective, I got to truly observe the Mush — I oversaw the race, since I am on our cross country team and did not run the race. Excitement was high amongst runners whether you wanted to win the whole thing and had record-breaking goals, or you were being forced against your will to run this agonizing three miles by your coach and planned on walking a majority of the course. Unfortunately, there were no records broken, but there were definitely some very impressive runs. The overall winner was a person who I was not surprised to see separate himself from the pack: Mr. Cary. He cruised through the fluorescent final chute at a mark of 22:13. Although Mr. Cary crossed the finish line first, it was not by much. Shortly thereafter, Will McCarthy ’25 and Matteo Garibay ’25 crossed the finishing line together, each refusing to pull ahead of the other. Running is always easier when you have someone by your side, but to do so while running a genuinely impressive time is a commendable act. Both finished with times of 22:19, only six seconds back from the leader. The first female runner was star Varsity Girls Soccer goalkeeper, Liz DiBlasi ’23, halting at a final time of 25:18.
 
The Martlet Mush allows our community to show its true colors, which are bright and beautiful. This was a day filled with smiles and reflection, and while some students see having to run the Westminster Cross Country Cross course as a burden, most use the opportunity to push their limits and potentially surprise themselves. To me, this day represents Westminster’s motto of Grit and Grace better than any other of the year, because the students who choose to take this challenge head-on and battle through the tough task in front of them, while every single student does it with a smile on their face (even if it does come after they have found their breath again).

We’ve all come to know and love our campus dogs. They’re always there to brighten up our day and make campus feel a bit more like home; however, recently, dogs have been revoked of their in-dorm privileges due to allergies and a few too many stolen-goods scandals.
 
This, in my humble opinion, is absolutely unacceptable. Who can better brighten up a sub-par day than man’s best friend? There are obvious solutions to our problems: the majority of dog allergies are minor, and no one’s saying you have to get close to them! And if dogs sniff around a bit too much in someone's room, first of all, what an excellent reminder to tidy up and take out your trash, and, secondly, put a leash around the dog! Problem solved.
 
I think we should take it a step further and bring our campus dogs back into our dorms. Bringing them back yields multiple benefits. Students learn the responsibility of taking care of a living thing; both students and our campus dogs benefit from the comfort. Additionally, we’d have a mascot!
 
I’m sure that by dividing tasks among over 400 students, we could handle taking care of a dog, giving it the proper care, nutrition, exercise, and attention it needs. And, just as a fail-safe, one chaperone who is a dog lover but isn’t up for 24/7 supervision could be the official “owner.”
 
I don’t see the harm in adding one more furry friend to everyone’s hearts. I vote for a King Charles Spaniel.

Chicken Duster, noun: A long thin pole with feathers on its end, used for cleaning; a certified weapon that can be equipped for both melee and ranged combat. (Pangster Webster)

The chicken duster was originally created to remove cobwebs from corners and to clear dust from vases, but over decades it has gradually evolved into a weapon when placed in the right hands.
 
Although I have never been hit by the chicken duster, just the threat of being split in half by the molecule was enough for me to cringe and crumple to the ground. One might question my composure: “Hmm, perhaps the Pangster is weak in the mind, and he is certainly not a Gangster.” Well, I’d like to see CBum, a man bigger than a Grizzly bear, stand his ground against my Grandma after he failed to finish dinner.
 
One major reason that China would win over the U.S. in a war is that a permit is needed to buy a gun, but you can buy a chicken duster at any convenience store. Assuming that one out of every two seniors in China owned a Chicken Duster, there would be well over 125 million feathered torpedoes sent at Mach 10 toward North America. It would be a horrifying spectacle, perhaps comparable to a meteor.
 
Baseball fans, be grateful that nobody thought to unite the elderly in my community and make them play baseball using chicken dusters. If this were to happen to pass the rivalry between Yankees and Red Sox would no longer exist, replaced by elderly strutting with their canes to reach first base. Wong and Tang would replace Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron in the Baseball Hall of Fame.
 
The chicken duster began as an object, a noun. It has evolved into something different, perhaps an adjective? Perhaps a verb? Whichever form it may take to best encapsulate the very essence of my culture.

On Nov. 8, the U.S. held the midterm elections to choose the entirety of the House of Representatives, a third of the Senate, and over half the governors. The Republican Party and Democratic Party had very different strategies going into this election. The Republicans went into it with a focus on the economy. They knew that if they could blame President Joe Biden for the recent troubles of the economy and get voters to blame him as well to sway more support to their side. They were also operating on historical trends; since 1922, the opposite party as the president have gained seats in congress in roughly 21 out of the 25 midterm elections.
 
Meanwhile, the Democrats focused more on democracy and abortion rights. They campaigned heavily to convince voters that if Republicans gained more power in congress, our democracy would either fail or be subverted and that they would put further restrictions on abortion.
 
As election day neared, polls showed that most Americans cared about the economy more than the issues being pushed by the Democrats. Additionally, it had been assumed due to historical trends and the low approval rating of President Biden that the election would be a “Red Wave” in which the Republicans would win both houses of congress in a landslide. But this was not the case.
 
As of Nov. 10, the Republicans have won 49 seats in the Senate and Democrats have won 48, this difference is far smaller than expected and it may even be possible for the Democrats to win in the Senate. The three remaining seats are Nevada, Arizona and Georgia. Interestingly, neither the Republican nor Democratic candidate has achieved a fifty percent majority of the vote in Georgia. Thus, a run-off election will be held in the state in early December between Republican Hershel Walker and Democrat Raphael Warnock. It is believed that this race will determine control of the Senate.
 
On the other hand, the House is somewhat of a different story. Of the 435 seats in the House, 209 have been won by the Republicans and one 191 have been won by the Democrats. There are 35 seats left to be called and either party must reach at least 218 seats to achieve a majority. Although popular belief continues to bet on the Republicans to win the house, their victory is likely to be by a far smaller margin than previously predicted. Overall this election is still likely to end in the Republicans’ favor, but by a much smaller margin than most political analysts and politicians themselves predicted.

Over the 2020 and 2021 seasons, the Philadelphia Eagles compiled 13 total wins, with prominent struggles on both sides of the ball. This year, they’ve yet to lose a single game. So how did they transform from a .500-ish team into the Super Bowl favorites?
 
Drafting Strategy
For the past few seasons, it has begun to seem like the only way to win in the NFL is to have an elite, top-10 QB commanding the team. The trouble is, finding this type of quarterback is like finding a needle in a haystack. The upside of doing so is high, but so are the costs. We witnessed several teams buy into this model by either moving up in the draft or trading for a veteran QB, costing years of future picks and players. And it does work — sometimes. Last year, the Rams were able to make a playoff run and an eventual Super Bowl victory with Matthew Stafford at the helm, who cost them two first round draft picks as well as quarterback Jared Goff, who was at the helm when the Rams played in Super Bowl 53 in 2019. But there are also examples of this not working out as intended. The 49ers traded three (3!) first rounders to select Trey Lance, who is still unproven in the NFL and is currently out for the season. Likewise, the Broncos gave a boatload of assets to acquire Russell Wilson, in addition to his $50 million annual cap hit. They are now on pace to have a worse record with him than the previous season without him, and take make matters worse, Wilson’s former team in Seattle has found form and currently leads the NFC West. These teams forfeited significant resources that could have been spent on less risky players that would enhance the overall talent of the roster.
 
Instead of selling the farm for the opportunity to pick a top QB in the draft, the Eagles patiently waited until the 53rd pick to select Jalen Hurts from Oklahoma University in the 2020 NFL draft. By doing this, they preserved valuable capital. Additionally, they avoid any issues of sunk costs, where franchises are hesitant to move on from clear draft-bust quarterbacks because of the high pick invested in them. An example of this would be former Jets and current Panthers backup quarterback Sam Darnold, the third overall pick in the 2018 draft, who started for four years in the NFL, despite continuously being a bottom 5 talent at the position. With these high-value picks that the Eagles retained, they shrewdly added the best players available: Devonta Smith (WR), Jordan Davis (DT), and a trade for AJ Brown (WR). Additionally, the Eagles’ front office has been successful in drafting starting talent in the late rounds, such as Jordan Mailata (T) near the end of the seventh round in 2018.
 
Roster Management
In addition to drafting, the Eagles have filled out their roster through free agency and effective signings. Over the offseason, they picked up some strong starters for the defense in Kyzir White (ILB) and Haason Reddick (OLB). Every year, teams in free agency make the mistake of paying top dollar for players that never contribute at the level they are paid. This year, the Chargers agreed to pay defensive back J.C. Jackson $82.5 million across five years after his success in New England. He has since been benched due to multiple weeks of poor play, and the Chargers are still on the hook to pay him. On the contrary to many teams, Philadelphia has been keen on reasonable contracts. And overall, no single player accounts for more than 8% of the total salary cap, allowing them to have stars across the board for relatively inexpensive price tags. Notably, the four rostered running backs that lead the offense make up less than 3% of the total cap altogether. It’s been shown that giving running backs significant contracts is a bad idea, so avoiding is key to their success. Just ask the Cowboys, who will be paying Ezekiel Elliot $15 million+ as he enters his age 32 season, celebrating his abysmal efficiency in the signature crop top jersey. Meanwhile, they’ll be paying big money to Dak Prescott, Ceedee Lamb, Trevon Diggs, and Micah Parsons, all of whom are far more valuable than Elliott. Even the Packers will likely find themselves regretting the four-year, $48 million deal they gave Aaron Jones this past offseason, with AJ Dillon lurking behind him in the depth chart, angrily repping 650 lb. squats. Instead of investing tens of millions across multiple years in an injury-prone position, the Eagles have a committee of young, talented runners on rookie contracts. Other noteworthy players include Darius Slay, Jason Kelce, and AJ Brown, whose cap hits are less than $10 million each while playing at the highest level for their respective positions. Looking past the star players, there is depth throughout the roster. Unsung veterans like defensive back James Bradberry, defense end Josh Sweat, and tight end Dallas Goedert, among others, were savvy acquisitions and have proved to be the backbone of the team.
 
Offensive Identity
Good players are nothing without an effective scheme to maximize their talents. This season, the Eagles have leaned into their run-heavy offense while also maintaining an ultra-efficient passing game. They are No. 2 in total rushing touchdowns and No. 5 in total rushing attempts, with rushing TDs scored by Hurts, Miles Sanders, Kenneth Gainwell and Boston Scott. This young rushing core, complemented by the No. 1 run-blocking offensive line, has taken the weight of the offense off Hurts’ passing ability. By not forcing him to throw the ball 40+ times a game, the offense has minimized turnovers and created a dominant run game. Through this, the Eagles can control possession of the ball and the game clock as they desire. This is an aspect that other prominent, high-powered offenses lack. Although teams like the Chiefs and the Bills have elite passing, they are rarely able to establish the ground game. In week nine, Patrick Mahomes passed the ball 68 times in a slim victory against the Titans. Meanwhile, their leading running back Isiah Pacheco had a meager five carries for five yards. This isn’t to say that Jalen Hurts isn’t a good passer, though. He has an outstanding touchdown to interception ratio of 12:2 in his best year yet as QB. And though his pure volume stats aren’t on the level of other top QBs, his efficiency stats are. He ranks sixth in QBR, fifth in PAA, and sixth in EPA, all indicative of strong passing ability. The addition of a proven No. 1 receiver in A.J. Brown has also contributed to this newfound efficiency, giving Hurts a bona fide star to turn to. Both Brown and Goedert are in the top 15 in the NFL in total yards after the catch (YAC). The marriage of these elements has been effective thus far, yielding the second best offense in the league, up from twelfth-best last season.
 
By avoiding the increasingly common mistakes within the NFL — misguided investments in the QB positions, overzealous free agency signings, and ineffective offensive schemes — the Eagles have proved themselves as the NFL’s premier team. And with young players across the depth chart, cap space for the future, and two first round picks in the 2023 NFL draft, it’s clear that their contender status is here to stay.

On Oct. 29, 2022, a Halloween party took place in Itaewon, Seoul, South Korea. The Halloween festival in Itaewon was banned for the past two years due to COVID. However, as the COVID-19 pandemic eased this year, Itaewon streets were again filled with music and lights.
 
Everyone overflowed with joy and excitement until the situation escalated. More than a hundred thousand people visited Itaewon, and many found themselves unable to move. One of the uphill roads became utterly packed with people, setting the tragedy in motion. People found themselves stuck between each other, and many began pushing each other. Shouting and screams echoed among the people, but there was no police power to control the problem, and as a result, more people stepped into the uphill road without knowing what was happening.
 
Countless people fainted or broke their legs and arms, falling on each other. Severe traffic and confusion delayed the arrival of police and rescue workers, worsening the situation. Some protected themselves by climbing up the stairs and buildings, and others were pulled to the side stairs by others who had escaped the crowd earlier. Still, numerous people were trapped inside the narrow hill, screaming and crying for their lives. When the police and rescue workers arrived, civilians and survivors volunteered to help clear the situation. Some worked with the rescue workers and assisted them with CPR to aid those who passed out. Many ambulance crews drove back and forth, sending people to hospitals and contacting their families. People faced their friends and families lying down on the ground, receiving CPR from the rescue crews and other volunteers, and all they could do was pray for their loved ones to survive.
 
More than 150 people died, and at least 80 were injured in this brutal Itaewon stampede. The majority of the people who died were college students and teenagers who were there to enjoy the night and celebrate Halloween. This calamity would have been preventable with tighter police control and better communication. Unfortunately, the lack of organized systems and confusion resulted in one of the most disastrous circumstances, where the lives of many vanished in a few hours. Now, sorrow engulfs Korean society. Therefore, the Korean government must stand firm and take responsibility for protecting its people. The ultimate task of the Korean government is to pay its respects to those who lost their families and friends by establishing a sophisticated rescue system and preventing similar accidents from happening again.

Following former U.K. prime minister Liz Truss’ turbulent time in office, the term “trickle-down economics” has returned to public political discourse. Critics attributed this term to her massive tax cuts associated with chancellor Kwasi Kwarteng’s Growth Plan of 2022. Trickle-down economics is a critical term given to the ideas, often based on supply-side economics which focuses on maneuvering aggregate supply as opposed to aggregate demand, that promotes tax reduction, especially for the upper-income class. The wealth created by these reductions would then in turn, through expenditure and investment, “trickle-down” the economic ladder. The Growth Plan decreased both the base income tax rate to 19% and abolished the 45% rate of income tax for earnings over £150,000; these measures were criticized for disproportionately benefitting the wealthier taxpayers. However, while the Growth Plan was meant to promote economic growth, it has been detrimental to the UK economy, further exacerbated by massive bond sellouts related to concerns about the economy.
 
Proponents of similar theories to trickle-down economics refer to the Laffer Curve, which graphs the relationship between tax rates and tax revenues. The “prohibitive range” of the graph illustrates a phase where the decrease in the tax rate would theoretically lead to an increase in government revenues. It is theorized that the increase in spending power as a result of the decrease in the tax rate would encourage economic growth, which boosts tax revenue.

​Laffer Curve

This October, scientists at Cornell University’s Laboratory for Intelligent Systems and Controls developed algorithms that can predict in-game actions of volleyball players that has been tested at an 80% success rate. The lab is now expanding the project’s applications to include the school’s ice hockey teams. These algorithms combine visual data, such as an athlete’s location on the court, with more implicit information, such as a player’s role on the team, to make predictions in regard to what that player might do next.
 
The leader of the project is Silvia Ferrari, the professor of mechanical and aerospace engineering. About her project, she states that the “Computer vision can interpret visual information such as jersey color and a player’s position or body posture.” In addition to using real-time information, hidden variables, such as team strategy, are also able to be integrated for the benefit of the predictions. The algorithms extract data from volleyball game videos and then apply it to new games to help them calculate these predictions. They can predict multiple actions with an accuracy of greater than 80% over a sequence of up to 44 frames.
 
In the future, these algorithms might be able to help teams prepare by evaluating game footage of their opponents, and then using their predictions to practice various game scenarios and specific plays. Ferrari is currently working with the men’s hockey team at Cornell and using videos of their games to further develop the software. The director of operations for the team, Ben Russell, believes that “this project has the potential to dramatically influence the way teams study and prepare for competition.” While it is unknown how successful these algorithms will be in predicting hockey and other sports, it is known that collegiate athletics are advancing greatly in terms of what is available for their use.

Saturday classes have been a long-standing academic norm at Westminster, but as the school changes and adapts to modern society, is school on Saturday still necessary? Although Saturday classes do balance out the half day on Wednesdays due to sports, it adds to the busyness of the week and gives students too much work. On top of the draining effects of Saturday classes, Westminster is one of the few boarding schools that still has regular Saturday classes. The majority of other schools have either abolished them or reduced them to every other week. Having no class on Saturday would not only reduce stress, but it would also provide students more free time to express their interests. Rather than having to attend traditional school, clubs could meet, students could catch up on work, or just enjoy the day off. Currently, Sunday is the only day that can be used for leisure, but at the same time it’s the only day to catch up on work. As a result, many students end up spending the day drained in homework. Without Saturday school, students can actually have a day off where they don’t have to do work. Overall, the abolition of Saturday classes would greatly benefit the students' mental health and give them some well-deserved rest time.

On the night of the 13th, a boy crept down the stairs of Cushing. He opened the door to the laundry room and stood all alone, surrounded by the noisy cycling of the washing machines. He scoured the room for a minuscule cross necklace, the one from the rumors. On the far right, methodically wrapped around the pipes, the cross dangled like a pendulum, swinging endlessly. But there was no wind. The cross necklace did not belong there, yet it seemed to be at home.
As the boy’s hands reached for the cross and made contact, an intense terror possessed him and sent fierce shivers throughout his whole body and down his very essence. With trembling hands, he hastily unwrapped the cross necklace as his mind was pounded with fear and screaming at him to run, run away as far as possible. Insects and rats emerged, frightened by the new presence that hid in the darkness. Only the boy was unaware of this new company, though he did feel this grimness and realized something was amiss. He stashed the cross into his pocket and ran as fast as his legs could get him away. Behind him the door shut hard, producing a harsh slam. As he ran up the stairs, the boy didn’t hear the grating footsteps drowned out by the ongoing washing machine. He ran and ran until he was sure he was safe.
…
Carrie
 
            The room was filled with hot air from the pipes. Every crevice of my body, hot and uncomfortable for the past week, was drenched in sweat. The torture of the profuse heat have never quelled since it started a week ago on the 13th. At 11 pm, someone knocked on my door.
            “Hello?” a familiar voice asked.
            “Come in.”
“Carrie. You’re up! Do you have any dresses I could borrow for tomorrow?” the visitor asked. She was Carol, my next-door neighbor. She stepped into my room, looked for a dress, and went out as soon as she found what she wanted.
After she left, I walked downstairs to the basement of Cushing to retrieve my laundry. When I got there, I saw that the cross had vanished. Not thinking too much about it, I got my laundry, went back upstairs, and prepared to sleep, though it was impossible to sleep amidst the heat wave. An hour into my sleep-like state, I heard banging, with distinctive warning-like patterns, on my door.
“Carol!?” I screamed, wishing it was her.  Instead, the pipes responded with furious erratic rattles, as if something were deliberately forcing the sound on the far end of the pipes. The banging stopped but the pipe rattles continued, though no one came into the room. My intuition told me not to go out. If I went out, something dreadful would happen to me, though I couldn’t say what. It was a survival instinct and I knew, deep down, I was in a desperate situation where I would either live to tell or die in vain. Then, the pipe noises got louder and louder. I froze with fear and hid under my covers, praying to someone and anyone to help me and let me live. Tears flooded down my face as I sobbed for mercy and questioned why this was happening to me. The pipes stopped rattling and I thought I was saved. Just to be safe, I stayed under my covers for another 10 minutes. When I peeked out of my cover, I instantly saw something in the corner of my room, concealed by the darkness. I hid again but it already saw me and made eye contact with me. The thing slowly walked over, and every step it took made grating sounds that my ears flinched at. It touched me. Then, I couldn’t move. 
 
…
Rosalyn
 
My roommate warned me not to believe the rumors of the nun. She tried to persuade me that Carrie's death was just a freakish accident, but I refused to believe her; there was just something odd about it. There was a pungent odor lingering in Carrie’s corridor, flowing through the aperture of our door into our room. There was nothing strange about her room, other than the burst pipes on her walls. I thought the smell came from there, as I moved my nose closer to the cracks. I left her room without giving much thought about the peculiar smell since Cushing always had such malfunctions. Maybe it was only a freakish accident. I entered the shower to ease my worries. I noticed a faint hiss in the same rhythm as the sprinkler's dribbles. I started to see pictures of the nun, and the question itself became clear. Her eyes were dark holes that had no end. Her pale face highlighted her Romanesque nose. Her pointed fingers cut into my tender skin, though it was too small to notice.
"All I want is a restful night. This is just my imagination.” I attempted to convince myself and closed my eyes.
As I walked through the hallway back to my room, I could feel her around me, strolling back and forth to get my attention. I could see her walking alongside me, trying to slow me down and trap me in the hallway. I clenched harder onto my towel. I hurried my footsteps in fear of glancing into her dark stare.
“I think I just saw the nun…” My voice trembled.
“The nun is not real; you were hallucinating,” my roommate assertively answered, and then she didn’t bother to respond to me anymore.
I flipped left and right in my bed, unable to fall asleep. The hissing continued ringing in my ears; I turned up the volume of my AirPods but couldn’t block off the sound. The sound turned from a light hiss to a loud high-pitch voice, trying to break through my eardrums.
“Rosalyn. Rosalyn!” my roommate screamed, “Can you hear me?” I tried to move my mouth, but something had cut my vocal cords.

Fun fact: The United States Postal Service is so efficient that nothing can stop them from delivering mail. Not even the death of recipients. Therefore, when someone dies, the deceased’s loved ones are responsible for stopping the sending of mail or forwarding it to another address.
 
Six paces down, a sharp turn to the right and a fork in Charcoal street gets you to a lamp post with a sixty-watt light bulb gleaming in it. This lamp post is the prelude to a house that seems to yell “Boo Radley.” If you’ve ever had someone stare constantly at you, you’ll understand my current predicament. You think, perhaps they’re staring at me or perhaps the two of us are blinking at the exact same time, each and every time. Perhaps you never see their eyelids close because whenever they do, yours resign too.
 
Or take for instance the mystical light inside your refrigerator. Does your memory conjure up a childhood extension of you attempting to catch the light go off? It’s always on when you open it. But it goes off. You know it. You try to catch it go off. Open sesame. Close sesame. Have a little sesame chicken from the first shelf of the fridge and try again. The light is immortal. Only when you’re not looking; does it truly die.
 
I always assumed that was the same thing that happened at the sixty-watt lamp-post house. It had always been honey, hamburg, and hubble bubble. Mozart spilled out of the oak walls filling the air around the porch in the late autumn afternoons. In the front seat of my imagination, I saw funny dinners where people laugh not because anything is funny but because they have the luxury of doing so.
 
“Pass me the salt, Eloise.”
 
“Oh haha, here you go.”
 
When the November rains fell, I took my feet for a walk and found that the portrait was of a different sort. Something had changed.
 
The lights were sleeping, curtains being introvertedly modest, were drawn together, the door shut up, and the chimney, fearing lung cancer, never smoked. I figured whatever mystical being lived within that house was on holiday in Mojito drinking up the Maldives. The weeks continued to bid my calendar farewell and nothing changed. Well, nothing that drew my attention at the time.
 
One evening while drifting past the sixty-watt lamp-post house, I noticed a sand-colored box on the third stair leading up to the veranda. Mail was delivered in the mornings. Whatever strange being lived in the house must have been lazy today. Perhaps, a bad day at work. One of those ‘do nothing’, ‘don't go out to get your mail for six hours’ days. I walked away.
 
Two weeks later, the box made a new friend. She was a gorgeous snow-white envelope and sat atop his head in a way that would only be appropriate to personified objects. Each week, the packages continued to increase: growing by leaps and bounds. First there were boxes and letters, then flowers that wilted in irony to the November rain falling a few inches from the porch. Then larger boxes, then longer ones and all the while, the ghostly being that lived within those four walls never checked his mail.
 
As life would have it, my curiosity began to grow. If curiosity really did kill cats I, in all feline glory, was on the edge of a very thin ledge, craving knowledge of what was in those packages and why no one had bothered to pick them up.
 
Call me scandalous but one package never hurt anyone. The sixth evening in December was my breaking point. I walked up to the aging porch and picked up the first envelope that screamed out for my attention. It was of a khaki color and rather small in dimension. Under my thirty watt-light bulb that night, I read out pain and sorrow from the viewpoint of a lady named Alma. She wrote to Ambrose, who is apparently our resident mystery-man.
 
To protect Ambrose’s well-deserved privacy, I shall not share the contents of the letter with you. I will however confirm that it ended with an,
 
“Oh my God, I’m in love with you and I always will be.”
 
One package never hurt anybody and neither did twenty four. Alma loved Ambrose but it seems he was having an affair with Dorothea because Dorothea loved Ambrose and she quoted their “undying romance” to have been the “most thrillingly radiant two weeks of her life.” Ambrose had dreamed of studying violin in Paris at the Lycee de la Campagne. They had written to him saying his music was the payable kind. Oh did I mention he listened to Mozart. Dreadful fellow! The bleeding flowers were from his mother, the journals from his brother, the letters from his two lovers; possibly three. Oh yes, there might have been another.
 
That was eons ago. The memories are still fresh out of the oven and in the air, I can still taste the honey melting into that precise moment when that first sand-colored box appeared on the porch of the sixty-watt lamp-post house.
 
In retrospect, the packages told me a lot more about Ambrose than I would have ever learned if I had been invited to dinner to laugh and ask Eloise to “oh, please pass the salt.”

did you know that while orca fathers will raise the offspring of other orcas,
they will never raise their own?
they will jump to play house with another child, but never glance at the one left alone?
perhaps i like to romanticize a dog-eat-dog world,
for i too often blanket the edges of interlocking teeth
with a blued baby idea of the calves,
             silent and clinging to their mothers,
watching giant dorsal fins shrink with each minute
                                                                                                                                                              into the blue
 
now, you're no marine biologist,
but you keep a leather-bound,
gold-edged folio of the man and the world in your back pocket so you can squeeze this story in, so listen here:
the night you taught your children to catch fireflies in mason jars,
Connecticut summer sticky sweet in the open palms of
bucket hat hands, one hand clutching a Frog and Toad book,
one closing the screen door behind, you
never looked back, never saw me,
the girl breaking off a crumb in hopes the sweetness would cancel out solitude,
you never could have seen
 
my dad, ripping car ads out of magazine pages,
Chinese literature in waxed capitalism, sweetened by
mooncakes of cyan, magenta, yellow, blacked over here,
this is how you fold a paper airplane,
this is how I teach you to bottle childhood by setting it free.
 
so we'd send creatures of ink and cartridge to their deaths under the guise
they would fall into a century-long slumber,
sleep always sweeter than death for
the curse is broken when the prince awakens the princess,
the hibernation ends and the fireflies will breathe summer into the night,
the orca, my father,
will one day see
that fathers do not need to doom themselves to solitude
much less their children
 
no, you never could have seen
but let me take a chocolate chip cookie home,
let me stay just a few seconds more,
let me have this one footnote in the story of your life
before you send me off to sea, to go and search for the lie that fathers
are separate from nature
 
let me play house in my head for a while
before the orca comes back.

I wish I was like her
She broke the surface of the water with an almost perfect dive. Her feet were slightly apart taking one to two seconds away from her streamline.
 Ugh, I wish I was like her.
She took her first stroke halfway across the pool, already ahead of the others those seconds missed were made up.
Ugh, I wish I was like her.
The light on the screen read 17.74 almost the world record.
 Ugh, I wish I was like her.
When she arose from the water and took off her cap I could’ve sworn her hair was perfectly dry.
Ugh, I wish I was like her.
Soon after the races were done she hugged her teammates so tight as if they were all her besties.
Ugh, I wish I was like her.
So much of the time she walks the halls, surrounded by people who wish to be her.
 Ugh, I wish I was like her.
Her grades were perfect, and her smile was even better.
Ugh, I wish I was like her.
 Only if I was slimmer, prettier, more grown up, sweeter could I really be like her, and even then
I wish I was like her.

There was this crossroads in front of the international school I used to go to. Right in front of the school was a hospital that seemed like it was under construction forever but had never been finished. My mother would make a right turn here in her SUV every morning before dropping me off. The dull mornings were matched by the gray and white apartment buildings on that side of the road. The left turn led to a territory I never explored until my 6th-grade year. The smells of buttered baked sweet potatoes and sizzling dian fen chang, a kind of starch-filled sausage, often tempted me when I walked by. But the good kid inside of me and my mother’s vehicle seemingly staring at my every move always kept me walking straight past it.
 
Terry was a completely different person from me during 6th grade. It was the first time in our time together that he had been taller than me. With his newfound confidence and transition into puberty, he had also become more rebellious.
 
It was a Wednesday afternoon when Terry came up to me grinning from ear to ear.
 
“You wanna go and grab some snacks across the road there?’’ he said in conspiratorial tones referring to that forbidden zone I dared not enter before.
 
“What? How?’’ I asked incredulously. “We have Dance Club in like 8 minutes!”
 
“Keep it down,’’ he whispered. “You know Dance Club doesn’t matter. They didn’t even care last time Catherine missed two sessions.”
 
“I don’t care what you say, I’m not going,” I declared in my best voice of authority.
 
“Come on! Pleeeease, just this one time,” he pleaded, putting his hands together as he wailed.
 
Reluctantly, I nodded.
 
All around us, swarms of students were rushing the gates. It was a sea of the grey and red of our school uniforms. Unlike Moses parting the proverbial sea, Terry and I struggled through the after-school scrum to get through to the other side. Once out of the gate, my head was on a swivel as I anxiously looked back and forth, as if trying to cross a busy road but just as importantly standing lookout for prying eyes. Even the trees seemed to grow them. I had to shut my mind off to the sensory overload brought on by my fear of being caught cutting dance and entering the prohibited area.
 
Although only a few dozen steps away, after that left turn, you reach a different world. I might not have been Alice in Wonderland, but everything made me curious. There were old men sitting in groups, their shirts off and showing more confidence than I’ll ever have in my life talking politics and how the recent Syrian conflict was going to affect China. Old women too, whispering among each other and walking in groups, their green and red house dresses almost too bright for the hot day.
 
Unlike the usual clean streets of Shenzhen, thick dust covered this one. I wasn’t too bothered about it, but it didn’t resonate well with Terry and his white shoes. Along with the dust, broken bricks would pop out of nowhere, making even a casual walk treacherous at times. There were street carts everywhere. They sold anything our snack-hungry stomachs could want - from syrup candy to buttered sweet corn.
 
Terry and I chose the safest bet - a grocery store with a yellow logo we’d never seen before. As soon as we walked in, a mixture of the smell of cheap cigarettes and sweat made an unwelcome beeline for my head. The shopkeeper sat on a wooden stool behind the counter, one leg up. His white tank top had been washed so many times it had a yellow hue. The pricing of the “fast food” section was stuck right on top of the counter. Above the counter, some prices were crossed out in favor of lower ones, a come-on to discerning customers.
 
I chose the rickshaw noodles. Although Terry was the kind of kid who often wanted to be different to show he was special somehow, he also thought the rickshaw noodles looked the best. It took the shopkeeper two minutes to finish. We squirted some ketchup on the thick brown noodles and decided we needed some meat.
 
Straight across from the grocery store was a diner that advertised itself as “Western style,’’ but in reality its menu offered just about anything from West to East and lots in between. The restaurant was empty at 4 in the afternoon on the hot autumn day, so we had the place to ourselves. Popcorn chicken seemed like the best decision out of everything in view of our limited funds, and that’s what we got. With our main dishes of noodles at our side and some snacks, we watched a movie I downloaded three weeks earlier on my iPhone.
 
It’s hard to tell when you’ve become friends with someone. That was the case with Terry. Play a few rounds of hide and seek under the September sun, and you become friends by third-grade standards. That’s how I met Terry.
 
What I enjoyed the most over the course of our friendship was spending time at dinner where we could talk about everything and anything, ranging from the greatness of Messi, to teachers we mutually disliked, to Terry’s crush on Catherine.
 
As much as I loved spending time with Terry, I parted ways with him after 6th grade. He stayed in Shenzhen, while I moved to another school, then flew overseas to school in America. Along with the essays and problem sets, the time difference caused our conversations to die down. We didn’t become strangers, but sometimes I’d have to scroll to the bottom of the texting app to find our last conversation.
 
The last time I saw Terry was a year ago. I just got back from school in America and decided it was a good idea to catch up with an old friend. We met in our usual spot near our old school.
 
I was pleasantly surprised when Terry emerged from around the corner - finally, I had reclaimed my spot as the taller friend. Terry didn’t look too different from the last time I saw him. His jaw grew a little bit bigger, and his haircut was more stylish now. There wasn't a smirk hiding behind his eyes, instead he looked fatigued. It was the first time he ever talked about the books he was reading. He was never much of a reader from what I recalled.
 
It was difficult to pretend like everything was still the same. The broken blocks still required attention and side-stepping navigation, sure. And the shirtless old men no longer talked about the Syrian conflict, but their arguments had moved on to other conflicts around the globe.  When we fell silent, there was a scent of awkwardness in the air.
 
“The chicken place closed down, you know?” Terry said, searching for a topic of mutual interest.
 
“Yeah, I thought it would. There were absolutely no customers there when we used to go.”
 
“Well, it was also like 4 in the afternoon.”
 
“Yeah, I remember.”
 
Then we went silent again.
 
“Wanna just go to McDonalds and get some chicken nuggets?” I suggested.
 
“Yeah, sure,” came Terry’s reply.
 
As we sat down in the white plastic seats, Terry finally became a version of his past self again. We started talking about soccer, video games, and anything that happened in our time apart. By the time we were done, the Coke had lost its fizzle and the fries had gone soft.
 
“Wanna come over and play some PES some day?” Terry asked as we parted.
 
“Yeah, let’s find a time. Just text me!”
 
I walked away satisfied with the result of that day. But we never talked after.

“Pandemic prevention at all costs.”
 
We crumble through white lies,
believe in falsehood;
oblivious but deeply immersed in
deceptions that they have created --
 
about us.
 
“Pandemic prevention at all costs.”
 
Under their power,
our voices mouthed nothing
but useless cacophonies, scattered through the silent air
as they gradually erase our thoughts --
 
with a single tear.
 
“Pandemic prevention at all costs.”
 
Still echoes,
When we fall and crash
into the abyss on the tour bus
that was supposed to take us to quarantine camps;
When she watches as her infant dies of miscarriage
in front of the hospital gate because she’d have to test negative first;
When she gets beaten up by drunk, mighty men just because she said no to
their ruthless harassment; when he gets aggressively arrested for
grocery shopping under lockdowns; when we’re threatened
by armed forces to stay inside our houses;
 
When every inch and fraction of freedom was suppressed;
When all COVID-related posts were banned;
 
When we are muted;
When we are silenced;
When we die --
 
by being alive.
 
“Pandemic prevention at all costs.”
 
Exactly,
what they really mean is:
 
We are the cost.