Akash Mehta

the  ubiquitous  lawyer  is  shouting  on  a  phone  while  hurrying  through  
the  streets  of  some  unimportant  city  the  size  of  –

no  time  no  time  no  time  for  explanations  no  time  for  things  that  don’t  matter    

there  are  meetings  that  need  attending  to  
children  that  need  to  be  driven  home  from  school  

a  busy  old  lawyer  who  has  to  go  and  –  no  time  for  more    

the  lawyer  is  rushing  running  shoving  through  the  mass  of  bodies
he  ignores  the  curses  directed  at  him  he  goes  and  goes  and  then.  

I  see  something.  Something  exquisitely  beautiful.  I  stop.      

I  see  a  sidewalk.  I  see  that  the  sidewalk  is  gray.  I  see  that  it  is  cracked.  I  see  it.  I  see  it  
supporting  something.  It  supports  Life.  Individual  lives  but  also  one  Life.  One  Life.  Incorporating  all  the  dogs  on  leashes.  All  the  exhausted  candy  seller  men.    

I  see.  I  see  a  candy  wrapper,  lying  on  the  street.  It  bears  the  shoeprints  of  hundreds  of  Busy,  bustling  feet.  

Laughter.  Sobs.  Groans.  Exclamations.  Flat  tones.  Menacing  voices.  Barks.  Life.    

-You  are.  It  is.  He  is.  Something  –  everything  –  exists.  

I  see.  I  see  a  homeless  man.  He  is  bundled  up.  In  a  torn-up  sleeping  bag.  He  leads  a  life.  A  simple  one.  A  good  one.  A  better  one  (than).    

I  see.  I  see  myself.  I  am  free.  I  am  wise.  
It  doesn’t  mean  everything.  It  doesn’t  mean  I  don’t  have  go  to.  My  meeting. 

But  it  means  that  my  meeting  is  not  all.  It  means.  Thoughts.  Life.  Everything.    

-I  am  the  same.  I  am  different.  I  am.-  

Poetry

In this KidSpirit Poem, author Akash Mehta paints a picture of the hectic day-to-day life of a business man.

Importance

Prerna Chatterjee

“I walk through the unknown alleys alone
Drops of rain sting my skin
“What is this life?” I scream out loud
Death extends his arm to me
I take it, grasp it tightly. I fly…
Fly to the land of freedom”

He then tore the page from his notebook, crumpled it and threw it out of the window. He had been trying to write this poem for the past couple of weeks. The thoughts had been coming to his mind but he was unable to express them. He sighed and got up. “What is this life? What is this life?” he mumbled to himself. He was exhausted. His head felt like it weighed a thousand kilos. He looked at himself in the mirror. His long hair fell on his shoulders in tangles. His eyes were bloodshot. He realized that he had not slept at all for the last few days. He threw himself on his bed and wondered if he could sleep forever. This life was a burden that weighed more than his thousand-kilo head. What would it be like to shrug off the burden and fly in the sky? He fell asleep and dreamt of a green field where cows were grazing. A group of children were laughing and flying their kites. In his dream, he was flying over this field. Suddenly one of his wings broke. He fell.

It was a beautiful day for flying kites. A girl with a pink kite under her arms, skipped merrily towards the marigold field. She smiled as she saw her friends. She ran to them and excitedly displayed her beautiful kite. As she flew her kite, the wind took it higher and higher. It was almost as if the kite had touched the clouds. The girl laughed a hearty laugh which echoed through the whole field. Marigolds danced everywhere.

The poet, fresh after a short nap sat beside the window, drinking his coffee. He thought about the strange dream he had in the afternoon. He knew he felt amazing while flying in his dream. But somehow he felt happier when his wing broke and he fell in that field full of orange marigolds. Where was that? Was that heaven? There were no angels around. But wait, wasn’t the place a bit too familiar? He sighed. Putting his head in his hands, he sobbed.

A month later, the poet, frustrated with the agony of city life travelled to his ancestral house in the countryside. He hadn’t been here since his mother died twelve years back. He remembered how much he loved it here when he was young. Life here was carefree, wild and adventurous. Life here was free from the burden that weighed him down.

“What is this life? What is the meaning of this life?” he thought.

“Have you heard the poet is here?” the woman asked her daughter

“Oh! You know nothing. How would you know? You are busy flying kites all day long,” she scolded her child.

“He’s a poet. He writes poems. He is very famous.”

“So what are we supposed to do about that?” the girl asked.

“We should at least go and greet him some day. Yesterday Kamala and her husband went to his house with sweets. Kamala said he’s a great man. Gave them one of his poems.”

“What would Kamala aunty do with poems? She can’t read. Can she?”

“Oh! Shut up! We’re going tomorrow.”

The next day the girl and her mother went to the poet’s house with ripe mangoes from their orchard. The poet thanked them with a poem of his. The girl found the poet weird. He had a face of a child and yet he looked so old and tired.

“Do you fly kites? If you do, then you can always come with me…” the girl started to say.

“Interesting. Kites, eh?” the poet smiled a little.

“No, no. She doesn’t fly kites. I mean she flies them once in a while–not always,” the woman said.

Later that night lying on her bed, she read the poem the poet had given them.

“I live in a gray room
Full of smoke…
I choke…
Everything burns in blood red fumes.
Life is a bird with broken wings,
It struggles
It falls
In a field of blazing marigold strings”

What sort of a poem was that? The girl didn’t like it much. It was not that she understood a lot about poetry, but this poem seemed to be full of sadness and melancholy. What did the bird with broken wings signify? Why was everything burning in fumes? Strange. Really strange.

A week later she again visited the poet with a bunch of flowers. It was not that she wanted to, her mother forced her to it.

“Heard that you’re going away the day after tomorrow. Mum sent these,” the girl said and handed him a box of sweetmeats.

“Oh thanks. What are those?” he said pointing to the flowers.

“These are for you. I got them from the field.”

“You’re the girl who flies kites right?” the poet wanted to know.

“To fly kites?” The poet looked at the girl.

“You’re a poet. You don’t fly kites. Mum said poets only think. Kites are for airheads like me.”

“I used to fly kites when I was a boy,” he confessed.

The girl took the poet to the marigold field. The field was filled with little golden flowers. Children flew kites. Ancient banyan trees surrounded the field. Cows grazed in the shades of the trees. A group of urchins sat on the branches of the trees, pretending to be monkeys. The poet looked in amazement. Was this heaven? The heaven he had dreamt of? But he was alive, wasn’t he? For the first time, he wanted to be alive. “This is life. This is life,” he said to himself.

“What? What did you say?” the girl asked.

“Tell me. What is life? What is the meaning of life?”

The girl extended her hand towards the poet. The poet took it, grasped them tightly. They ran though the soft grass. The poet felt like he was flying. He laughed with joy. Never did he feel so happy. When they were out of breath after running, they sat down in the shade of a tall tree.

“Why do you write sad poems?” the girl asked.

“My life is full of sadness,” the poet answered.

“That’s not true. You just don’t look at the bright side of life.”

“Bright side? What is that? I don’t know a bright side of life.”

“And I don’t know a dark side of it,” the girl laughed.

“It’s easy for you to say such things. You have never seen the real world. Living in this peaceful countryside, how would you know the evils of city? You have not encountered betrayal, greed, envy, competition, and failure.”

“My father died when I was in my mother’s womb. My mother was thrown out by her in-laws when dad died. I was born and brought up in a tiny shack, where I learned to cook at the age of five. I worked in people’s houses and earned a living. With the money I earned I went to a school to learn how to read. We struggled for years until we made a new home for ourselves. We never gave up. I felt fortunate to live. Life was never a burden for me. I accepted all that came with open arms. Pain, suffering, betrayal — I knew these wouldn’t last for long. I knew these were just a part of life and that life wasn’t a curse. Life is a gift,” the girl said, smiling.

“From where do you get the strength?” the poet asked.

“From my faith. I have faith in life.”

The girl laughed. She ran to the kids flying kites and borrowed a kite from them. She threw it in the air and made it fly.

She held out the string of the kite to him.

The poet took it. The kite rose up, carried by the gentle breeze.

That evening the poet wrote the poem he had given up on, months back.

“I walk through the unknown alleys alone
Drops of rain kiss my skin
“What is this life?” I wonder out loud
Life extends her arm to me
I take it, grasp it tightly. I run…
Run to the land of bondage
Which gifts freedom that a poet craves.
A smile that offers love,
A field of golden flora and
Kites that fly to the unknown.”

Two days later the poet looked out through the barred window of the train. The station was empty, almost. The train would leave in five minutes. He was happy to be going back. There was so much to do, once he returned. The first thing he intended to do was to get a haircut. He knew why his head felt heavy all the time. Unkempt, shaggy, dirty hair was the reason. He laughed thinking how weird that sounded. Suddenly a familiar figure caught his sight. She ran to the train, barefoot. Within a minute she was before the poet’s window with a string of marigolds and a box of fried rice.

“I’ll come back,” the poet promised.

The girl stood before the window, with a hollow look. She stared at the marigold flowers on the poet’s lap. The poet touched her face and slowly she looked up. She gazed at the poet for a split second.

The train started to move. The girl walked along with the moving train.

The train gained speed and she was left waving from the platform. The poet found a new rhythm in the chugging of the train. Perhaps, this reflected the new rhythm of his life. The train sped on towards the gray city which the poet intended to color with bright shades of life…

The meaning of life is what a person makes of it.

For some, going through a tough time, it’s a burden. But one thing I have realized is that tough times don’t last forever. They do make us cry, suffer, want to surrender. But giving up is not the only way out. Death is easy. Life is hard. And yet it is wonderful, for the magic in it. This magic is not the conjurer’s trick that makes colored ribbons come out of his sleeves. This magic is the way new leaves grow on dry branches. This magic promises spring after every harsh winter. This magic enables a mother to love her child. This magic grows marigolds in unknown fields and flies kites in the blue sky. This magic grows hope in the hearts of frustrated poets. This magic gives people the power to strive. This magic creates love that binds people together forever. This magic makes life ever beautiful and worth living for every single individual…

Teen writer Prerna Chatterjee explores the big question, "What is the meaning of life?"

Kites, Flowers and Beats of Life

Perhaps I should start off by making one thing clear: I know nothing about anything I’m about to write about. This article is purely engendered from curiosity – it’s merely my personal exploration of questions that happen to interest me.

I haven’t read much work of the great philosophers or scientists, (although I do have a three-year-old baby brother, who is arguably the wisest person on the planet) and there is no reason why my personal opinions and thoughts on things have anything to do with reality.

So where do I go from here – what questions should I try to answer? I can’t write about why some king killed some other king – I’m no historian. I can’t write about what our DNA tells us about ourselves, and how the rocks tell us about how the earth was made – I’m no scientist. I can’t even write about what constitutes a good article – I’m no writer. I’m trying to answer questions, but the unfortunate fact is, as a twelve-year-old boy who has seen so little of this world, I don’t have any answers.

Well, there’s an easy fix to this problem – if I don’t have answers, all I have to do is ask questions which don’t have answers! And in my humble opinion, those happen to be the most interesting ones of all.

I like thinking. I may not be so good at it, but I like it nevertheless. We all think, almost every moment of our lives. The branch of thought I wish to explore with you here is conscious thinking; for I fear that the ways our brains operate without our commanding them to are no different from any of our other involuntary actions, but for their greater complexity.

The scientific world at large has never made any confident assertions about what, precisely, a thought is. The general idea is that thoughts involve electrons somehow, and perhaps are some sort of neural activity. There are quite a few theories, but it is widely regarded as an unsolved mystery. Well, this leaves it open to speculation…

What you’ll think of what I’m about to say depends on who you are – some of you will think it obvious, others ridiculous. I think it unwise to rule out the possibility that there isn’t any conscious thought, because there isn’t any consciousness. Is it not possible that our consciousness is merely an illusion? That all actions are involuntary?

Try a little thought experiment. Literally. Think to yourself, let’s say, that you like ice cream. Done? All right. What made you think that thought? This article, of course! Thinking that you like ice cream was just a reaction to a message sent to your brain from your eyes. Or, if this article was being read to you, you’d be reacting to what you heard. The point I’m trying to make is that all thoughts are engendered from that which we sense. Even if you think a random thought, you’ll still be able to connect it to a recent experience. Try it – try to think of a random thought. When I just did so, I thought of a soccer ball. Guess what I was just kicking around earlier today… Sometimes it’s harder than other times to connect our thoughts to our experiences, but those connections are always there. There is no real ‘eureka’ moment – even though it may seem that a thought comes out of the blue, thoughts are always merely reactions to experiences.

But I do think it completely possible that God exists.

Let’s assume that what I’m saying is correct – and basically, I’m just saying what Aristotle said, that everything is caused by something else. Now we can trace back reactions and causes. Right now, the world in its current state is the way it is through its reaction to the world in its previous state. And that world’s state was caused by the previous world’s state, and so on. This might have been going on for an infinite amount of time. This raises the question, how did matter get here in the first place? There are two possible answers. But this leads us first to a discussion of time and events.

What is time? The definition that most people seem to agree with is that time is the progression of events. But if nothing existed, there wouldn’t be any events – and thus no time. This is why most scientists and philosophers today agree that time depends on the existence of matter in order for it to exist itself.

Now let’s look again at that conundrum: how did matter come into existence? Well, there are two possible answers to this. One, it didn’t; and two, it was caused by something else.

Let’s start with the former: it just always existed, along with time. Reactions and causes have always been going on. And this is where belief comes into play. There isn’t any reason for matter to have always existed – most people who believe matter to have always existed simply do so because they think it’s the most likely of all possibilities. There isn’t a real argument against it, either, though. There isn’t any reason why this is impossible. The reason some people don’t agree with this argument is because they don’t believe that it’s true. It’s all belief and speculation…

The second possibility is that there was something other than matter that caused it. Many people call this other “God.” Some are completely satisfied with this explanation: God is a being that isn’t comprised of matter, that somehow created matter. The obvious question: how did God get there? The most common answer: because God isn’t a being of matter, he/she doesn’t need a cause – but always existed.  God exists outside the laws of space, time and matter, and therefore is not bound by those laws. Again, it’s completely a question of what you believe. There isn’t any proof that God (well, at least God in the sense of a being who created matter) does or doesn’t exist.

I want to draw your attention to something interesting about this second possibility. The argument is that God existed before matter. But didn’t we conclude that time only exists with matter? This is a clever supporting argument for this possibility: God didn’t come into existence because coming into existence requires time, but there wasn’t any time before matter, so God just existed without coming into existence.

One last note: my view on this issue is that humans are so narrow-sighted and ignorant of the ways of the world that it is almost impossible that any of the guesses that any of us have come up with are correct. Remember when I said that my three-year-old brother was the wisest person on the planet? I didn’t say that only for effect – it has a shred of truth in it; it is my opinion that we keep persuading ourselves that our speculations and beliefs are fact, but we keep overturning our beliefs. For example, first the general consensus was Earth was flat, then that it was a sphere. And for good reason – knowledge about physical phenomena is that which we observe, and that which keeps in consistency with our observations. But the problem is, our observations compose merely a fraction of that which exists in the universe. Even in the current state – many of us are convinced that we know how the world was created – some of us think God did it, some of us think it was the Big Bang. But I think assuming that we know something like that is arrogant – and this arrogance is displayed both in scientists and in religious figures. And so, the reason I can suggest that a three year old is wiser in some regards than an older, more worldly person is that a young child can easily accept new things as the truth – they are constantly changing their perception of the world. But an older person who has had more time for one concept to settle in will naturally find it harder to accept its flaws and perhaps inaccuracy.

So… no, I don’t think we’ve got any answers. But we’ve got the questions, and that’s the fun part.

In this feature article, teen writer Akash Mehta tackles life's big philosophical questions.

Questions Without Answers

Liam Shields

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Liam Shields shares a powerful piece on a difficult decision on a snowy night.

What Shall I Do? (The Last Leaf Standing)

Rabbi

Joshua M. Z. Stanton

I was in a new school. New teachers, new classmates, new bus route, new schedule. I was struggling. My new middle school classes were difficult enough. Having to make friends at the same time was completely overwhelming. I found myself at once isolated and confused, determined but uncertain.

Worst of all was the lack of meaning. What was I even in school for? It was evident that I needed to get used to my new surroundings and make new friends. I couldn’t go on feeling so alone forever – but more importantly, I needed to know why. Why was I even in this new middle school? My parents told me it was supposedly the best public school in the state; my older brother told me that it was “cool” and “just the way it is”; but those reasons seemed distant. They could hardly get me through the day with a smile or feeling of fulfillment.

Not knowing where to begin, I began to study. That didn’t always mean cracking a book. I mostly studied people, school, my classes, and how they all fit together into what resembled a community. I came home from school and began to write in a journal. I would write my thoughts down and then cross some of them out, edit them, and put them down anew.

That didn’t last long. I would return to writing again and again as an outlet and passion. But I couldn’t stick with it when I had more questions than answers. Writing was a way for me to put down more complete thoughts, but all I really had for a while were snippets and the start of bigger ideas.

My writing went by the wayside. But I did keep studying. I needed to watch and listen carefully and start to figure out what this middle school was all about. Studying could mean going to a school dance and trying to make sense of the awkwardness when I asked someone to dance with me. It could mean playing a game of soccer with a new group and seeing what they joked about while passing the ball up the field. It could mean observing how my history class worked; figuring out what made the teacher proud or sad, what engaged the other students. It could mean playing videogames online with people from school I was trying to become friends with – and seeing what got them excited or angry or confused.

At first, studying people was even more confusing than trying to just get by in school. It took so much energy to get to know people, talk with them, spend time with them, and try to understand them. But gradually I began to make sense of the people I was with. Everyone seemed to want affirmation, a sense of purpose and companionship as they worked to fulfill that purpose. I could fit in by helping others feel good as they sought out whatever it was that gave them meaning – and in doing so fulfill my own need for friendship and a sense of belonging.

After what must have been nearly a full year of reflection, I decided to take a risk. I worked to befriend the most popular circle of friends at the school – the kids who knew everyone and led all of the school’s activities. I worked up some courage and then, one day in between classes, joined a circle of them in the main hallway. I tried to be funny – but most importantly, I just worked to be really nice. To my surprise, they were also looking for purpose and friendship. They were a bit insecure, worried about losing their places in the most sought-after social circle. In being nice, I helped them relax and drew out the kindness that lay behind their social deftness, athletic abilities, and smarts.

To my surprise, the popular group enjoyed my company. In time they took me in to be one of their own.

More surprising still was the fact that my quest for meaning did not go away when I became one of the popular kids. I was less insecure, but equally perplexed. Now I had friends and status; I got invited to parties and had people to sit with at lunch. But I still didn’t understand why I was in middle school and what it was all about. My feeling of belonging had not answered my desire for meaning. So I went back to what I new best – study.

Who seemed fulfilled? What did they do differently?

To my surprise, the person who seemed most fulfilled was not a classmate or a teacher, neither of my parents nor my brother. It was my grandfather, Henry. Who knew that someone so much older than me would be so relevant to my life in middle school?

I knew my grandfather Henry as “Saba Hank” – saba is the Hebrew word for Grandfather, and everyone who knew him well called him Hank. He was one of the strongest people I had ever met, but also among the most loving. He expressed gratitude for every day. I wanted to know why and, more importantly, how.

He lived in California, and I only saw him a couple of times each year. But we could talk more regularly by phone. I began to call him every month, then every couple of weeks, then every week, and before I knew it practically everyday. Saba Hank was using his sense of purpose to deal with a deep feeling of loss. His beloved wife of more than half a century – my grandmother Ursula – had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease, a condition that eroded her memory and made her depend on him more and more to take care of her. By the time I started calling Saba Hank regularly, he was her full-time caretaker. While he expressed grief at seeing his wife in such a state, he didn’t seem any less fulfilled.

How could it be that Saba Hank was both sad – grieving, really – and fulfilled at the same time? How could he be a full-time caretaker and grateful for every day? As he and I talked and talked and talked, I learned how he too had sought out fulfillment over a period of many years.

Saba Hank had been a refugee from Germany. As a Jewish boy growing up in Berlin as the Nazis came to power, he narrowly escaped from his home country with his life. He lost countless family members during World War II but managed to land on his feet – first in England and then the United States. After a brief stint in Chicago, he made his way west to California.

It was in California that he rebuilt – and worked to reestablish our family. In a community college in San Francisco, he met my Grandmother, also a refugee from Germany. She wasn’t a good note-taker, and he gave her his notes for the class they were taking together. In return, she offered to make him a German dinner of the sort they had both been used to in Europe. After a few dinners, a romance was kindled, and the two were soon married. It was a relationship that enabled the two of them to reestablish life anew after the devastation their extended families faced in Europe.

A major part of Saba Hank’s project with his wife Ursula was finding a way to earn a living in order to support the new family they were building. His wife was a talented nursery school teacher and in time shifted paths to run the food service of a local university. But my grandfather, like me, felt at a loss as to what he would do. Even though he was very bright, he never felt smart. After trying his hand as a hotel manager, he began to work for the American Air Force. He managed the delivery of supplies to different Air Force bases and found the work meaningful and challenging.

While publicly Saba Hank was a successful employee of the Air Force – indeed a job he took great pride in – he was also pursuing a personal dream: creating and supporting a new, safe, happy American family. His job enabled him, along with his wife, to support their family, which soon grew to include two boys. He was able to support them through college and until they were ready to establish families of their own.

The process of rebuilding a family that had nearly gone out of existence during World War II was a central purpose in Saba Hank’s life. It gave him profound personal meaning. It gave him a sense of purpose and fulfillment, even if he faced challenges his day-to-day work. It gave new meaning to the friendships he formed and added to his already-strong relationship with his wife.

In short, Saba Hank had a guiding vision of what he hoped to achieve in life. It was challenging and would take time to realize. But he also knew he could achieve it with time, effort, and patience. Even as he spoke to me decades later about his life’s path, his vision remained in tact. He could at once be sad about experiences that bothered him in his day-to-day care for my grandmother and fulfilled about his life as a whole and grateful for each day he had to enjoy it.

I, too, needed a guiding vision. But, as my grandfather cautioned me, I did not need to rush to find it. The process of finding a purpose was also full of meaning. So I returned to study.

In this KidSpirit PerSpectives article, Rabbi Joshua Stanton recounts memories of his grandfather, Saba Hank, and what it means to live a fulfilling life.

Searching for Meaning with Saba Hank

Caie Kelley

I see my life as a mosaic, a thousand different colored pieces, some big and some small, all fitting together and coinciding to create a piece of art: me.

My appearance, my likes and dislikes, my strengths and weaknesses–they all shape who I am and who I will become. But there is one part that, no matter how hard I try, can’t seem to fit, and that part is my name.

The name on my birth certificate reads ‘Zhi You,’ a Chinese name meaning ‘freedom.’ Yet my friends and teachers at school recognize me as a short, black haired American named ‘Amy.’ I have called myself this since kindergarten, after realizing that nobody can pronounce ‘Zhi You’ correctly. It serves me well because it eliminates my peers’ looks of anguish as they try to pronounce it, and their embarrassment a few minutes later when they realize they can’t even remember what I am called. It prevents the substitute teacher’s flustered behavior while trying to take roll, and helps me avoid the hassle of trying to enunciate ‘Zhi You’ over and over again while people struggle to catch on. Put simply, the name ‘Amy’ is easier, a name thrust upon me to help others remember who I am.

It is Monday morning, and I stagger down the school hallway, my shoulders sagging from my heavy backpack and the thought of taking that “impossible history test.” It is just another monotonous passing period, but the atmosphere feels different. The clouds have parted after nearly two months of darkness, yet the ground still glistens from the last rain. There is a charged feeling, a sense that something is about to change. Yet around me, students continue to rush from class to class, oblivious to my revelation.

“Amy!” A friend calls me from behind, begging me to wait for her to catch up. I pause, sinking into thought about my two names and the conversation I had a couple weeks ago with my mom.

“Zhi You,” she had said, “is a very important part of our family history and why we are in this country today. You are a symbol of the freedom US citizens enjoy, no matter their race, beliefs, or gender. Your name is the opposite of what communism stands for. It represents the dream of possibilities your grandfather and grandmother had, the freedom they hoped you would someday live under and appreciate, and the blessing that we are able to live here.” She became upset. “You are living proof that despite the adversity we may face, there is always a solution. By relying on the name ‘Amy,’ no matter how easy it may be, you are not appreciating one of the most important qualities of human life: freedom. I hope that you will someday understand the significance of a name like ‘Zhi You’, but perhaps you won’t until you live under different circumstances.” With that, she turned and walked away.

Still, I had continued to use ‘Amy’ for everything, ignoring my mother’s words. Perhaps I was afraid that I would stick out in a crowd of ‘Emma’s’ and ‘Jacob’s.’ Or maybe it was because I was imagining the hassle that would follow this decision. Yet ‘Amy’ didn’t represent who I was, and the longer I waited the more apparent this fact would become.

So at that moment standing in the hallway, I decided that I wanted to be known to all as one person: Zhi You. ‘Amy’ had been a good name and served me well for the past eight years, but now it was time to change. I would no longer be bound by a name that didn’t fit me. Finally, I was truly free to use the name given to me at birth. The missing piece to my mosaic finally slid into place as I turned to face my friend.

“Zhi You,” I corrected her, “My name is ‘Zhi You.’ It means ‘freedom’ in Chinese.”

In a KidSpirit Feature article, teen writer Caie Kelley reflects on how she discovered the power of her name in light of her Chinese-American heritage.

Zhi You: The Meaning of Freedom

Colette Gerstmann

We all know that language is an integral part of human life. Without it, thoughts could not be effectively expressed to others. Nobody would be able to teach or influence others, because nobody would be able to communicate.

Language and communication are always present in human life and are the reasons that civilization, values, and progress exist.

In school, we learn foreign languages so that we can communicate with people from different countries and cultures. Things we read every day — newspapers, street signs, price tags, awnings above stores, graffiti on the walls of buildings — give us information, instructions, and provoke emotions. Words can inspire us, offend us, brighten our day, sadden us, or teach us. Every word we hear affects us in some way.

We care a great deal about communication. We invent slang words, add new words to dictionaries, and develop and learn systems of communication such as sign language, which deaf people can speak, and braille, which blind people can read. We sometimes judge others based on how they use language, and often learn from those who speak eloquently and with a large vocabulary. When we have an idea in our head, we convert it into words and can choose to speak it out loud or write it down. Sometimes we don’t realize how powerful words are, and how much our words affect others.

Words shape who we are, both as individuals and as a collective. When we see things, we give them names: book, hand, telephone. People, too, have names, and so do places. Abstract things, like music and freedom, have names too, and for this reason we are able to use these ideas and communicate their importance to others. Without words for them, these ideas would be inexpressible. For example, in the book 1984 by George Orwell, there is a dystopian world where a language is being created to prevent the concepts of freedom, art, science, and love from being understood and communicated by mankind because there will be no words to express these ideas or anything relating to them. Therefore, the people who speak that language reflect the nature of the language itself, unaware of any existence of these concepts.

We know a word for each concrete thing we recognize; when discovering a new, unfamiliar object, we immediately think, “what is it?” We give a name to it and obtain information about it: naming it, and knowing the words used for it, are what defines our recognition of it. The same goes for abstract things and concepts. Therefore, a society in which the language does not leave out any words for known objects — a society where concepts can be expressed by mankind — is one that is truly free. Limited language puts constraint on thought. Imagine if you were forced to have a conversation with someone using only a small set of words — it would be very difficult, nearly impossible, to say what you want to. The broader one’s vocabulary, the more concepts one can express, the smaller the range of words, the more constrained communication is. This is why a healthy civilization ultimately depends on uninhibited language and freedom of speech.

The saying goes, “The pen is mightier than the sword,” meaning that the written word has more potency than violence. This is true because a community reflects the language and communication that prevail within it. People create language, which creates communities, which create people, and so on: it is a cycle. This cycle is constantly influencing the individual and the masses, reshaping societies through the eras. The language spoken and written within a society represents and forms the community’s values, nature, and culture.

In a KidSpirit Feature article, teen writer Colette Gerstman examines the impact of language.

Language and Communication

Sam Miller

Upon first thought, WALL-E appears to be a “movie for little kids.” You would much rather watch Glee, or the new episode of Family Guy. 

But, there is much more to this movie than you think.

Andrew Stanton‘s 2008 film will bring out many emotions in you, and most of all, it will make you think. WALL-E is sure to be an instant classic.

The movie takes place in the year 2805. Due to the negative effects of mass consumerism, Earth is now covered completely with trash. Because of this, humans have fled the earth and retreated to a luxurious spaceship that floats in space. On Earth, a forgotten and rusty robot lives, by the name of WALL-E. Here, he works to restore the earth to its original shape, clearing garbage, in case the humans ever return. Later, WALL-E meets another robot named EVE and the two fall in love. As the story progresses, WALL-E and EVE are transported to the starship with the humans, and find the safety of the planet and the human race in their hands.

This movie is appropriate for all ages, and every age will gain something different from it. While little kids will laugh at WALL-E’s childish antics, older people will appreciate the philosophical comments that are raised. This movie is funny, smart, cute, deep, inspiring, and is an excellent work of art. I highly recomend it.

In this KidSpirit article, teen author Sam Miller reviews the movie Wall-E.

A Review of Wall-E

Naomi Chasek-MacFoy

In this KidSpirit article, writer Naomi Chasek-Macfoy reviews the book "The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down" about a Hmong child in America.

A Review of The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down

Khalid Husain

I felt uneasy as I threw my bag onto the bus and circled around to board it. The Stuyvesant Junior Varsity football team, the Peglegs, was 3-0, and we were about to play the only other undefeated team in our division.

Being currently undefeated in itself was a great accomplishment as Stuyvesant is a high school that has more of a reputation for its robotics and math teams than its sports teams. Throughout the entire morning I was thinking, “What if we don’t win this? Will people consider our first winning season in more than ten years a fluke? If I get to play, will I somehow screw up?” I stepped onto the bus, the putrid stench of sweat, rusted shoulder pads, and a sense of general anxiety taking over.

I took a seat next to my friend Donald, who would be starting as a lineman for his first time in his freshman season. I could tell he was nervous just as I and all the other ninth graders were; but soon we got to talking and stopped over analyzing what could happen. The time passed quickly, and sooner than I expected we arrived at 2630 Benson Avenue in Brooklyn, to play Lafayette High School.

When we walked off the bus, uncertainty suddenly restarted its relentless assault on my confidence: I am the youngest person on the football team as well as the smallest. I was scared about what might happen if one of our starting players got injured and I had to step in for them. Would I botch it for my team? Maybe we would lose because of me. However, after I got suited up and started doing warm-ups with my team, I started to feel at home and my fears were temporarily quieted. Okay, not exactly at home, but the football team is really supportive of everybody, regardless of age, and is like a huge family.

After about an hour of jogging, stretching, and walking through plays, the captains of both teams walked briskly to the center of the field with the referees to decide which team would kick the ball and start the game. We won the coin toss and decided to receive the ball from the Patriots. On the sidelines all of us were pounding our hands against our pads before every play; everybody chanting and clapping as a unit, while our team executed perfect plays. Even our running-back’s mother was yelling louder than all of the other team’s parents put together.

In the fourth quarter, when we were up 26-14, Coach Rivera called my name and put me into the game. Right as I heard my name I cringed, and wished there was a way to avoid going on the field and getting hit. A split second afterwards though, I was resigned; there was no way I could possibly get out of my predicament…I’d get hit hard regardless. As I jogged into the huddle, I was greeted by all of the starters, “Khalid! Way to go, finally getting some playing time!” Every play seemed to go by in slow motion and I performed all of my blocks almost perfectly, even against a kid who was six inches taller than me. I got hit and jarred once, but the feeling was only momentary and the pain was nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be. After about eight minutes, the game came to an end and our entire team ran screaming, “4-0!” to our side of the field where our coach as well as our quarterback gave us some inspirational words to ponder .

That game was one of the best times of my life. Every minute of that pure hour was exhilarating…

That game was one of the best times of my life. Every minute of that pure hour was exhilarating and I think that working together with other people to achieve a common goal bonds everyone together. We all worked hard to be where we are today, eight hour practices five days a week a month before school started, weight lifting, a ton of conditioning and sprints, as well as hours at home memorizing plays. In the end, all of that work paid off and I think that is the reason for my deep feeling of satisfaction; to put so much effort, time, and commitment into a goal, then to not only fulfill the goal, but go above and beyond the expectations that others had of me and I had for myself.

In a KidSpirit Awesome Moments piece, teen writer Khalid Husain shares the valuable life lessons of junior varsity football. 

An Uncertain Pegleg

Sofiy Inck

What does it mean to be a family? Can you love an adopted sibling like you would a biological sibling? Can you love a friend like you would a sister or a brother?

I have a friend who feels like more than a friend. She feels like sister. She is not a soul sister or something like that, but she is not a biological or adopted sister, either. Somehow, though, Ruby is my “sister.”

Ruby’s parents Orna and Nigel, who also happen to be dear friends of my parents, had been trying to adopt another child for quite some time. When my family and I heard that after months of searching they had found a baby, we were beyond happy. The day they brought him home my biological sister Hannah and I rushed to their house. He was small and pink. He didn’t have a name, so for a week or so we called him “the baby.”  Orna and Nigel eventually named him “Jasper.”

Jasper was still pink after six weeks, but now his eyes were always open, darting back and forth, searching for something. He cried a lot. His crying sounded fearful. Whenever he cried it made everyone tense.

One night my family was at their house, as we often are and Orna was holding Jasper. She asked me if I would hold him while she went to get a pacifier. Holding him in the crook of my elbow I started to sing The Rainbow Connection (by Paul Williams and Kenneth Ascher) very quietly, mostly to comfort myself. Jasper immediately went quiet. I started bouncing him and walking around the dining room.

As I put him down in a bouncy seat I wondered, what is a family? I love this baby like he was my brother, but he isn’t related to me at all. Is the love I have for Hannah, my sister, the same kind of love that I have for Ruby? And now Jasper?

I think that a family is a group of people that care about each other.

But they care about each other not because they are biologically related, but because they live in a way that makes each person know that they belong with another. With this sense of belonging comes a sense of responsibility. And that’s the kind of responsibility I feel for Jasper.

In a KidSpirit Awesome Moments article, teen writer Sofiy Inck shares her thoughts on the connection between responsibility and family. 

Jasper

Izzy Kalichman

Tempers rise and fall within people and the Earth

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Izzy Kalichman pens an ode to resilience.

When all the lights go out

Yushi Liang

The  memories  echoed  amidst  be-dreaded  winds,  
A  bitterness  sorely  felt.  
The  sceptre  of  war,  the  tragedy  of  sin,  
A  darkness  that  must  be  dealt.  
For  the  wither'd  embers  of  waning  dusk,  
hath  cast  its  bloody  glow.  
Upon  man's  yonder  shore,  
as  sure  as  fates'  doom'd  to  know.    

"Tis  graveyard  lingers  sullen  ghosts  
of  humanity's  deserted  hopes.  
Buried  shadows,  wrought  regret,  
seeps  the  blood  of  battle  moor,  
existence  borne  forevermore.    

The  endless  sea  of  clashing  waves,  
treacherous  tide  of  change  that's  fought.  
The  torment  of  delusional  craves,  
A  lust  unceasingly  sought.    

The  glimmer  of  sunlight  when  all  is  rain,  
The  promise  of  spectrum  through  man's  pain.  
Which  there  resides  a  flickering  flame,  
to  light  an  eternal  winter.  
That  the  bitter  climb  of  mountain  base,  
might  reveal  humanity's  wonder.  

The  glisten  of  aurora's  light,  
to  penetrate  the  darkest  night.  
That  through  the  wearisome  sorrow,  
Might  there  be  the  morrow.  
When  thy  faith  and  courage  hath  gone.  
Awaits  first  ray  of  dawn.  
Only  then  can  life  be  fair,  
The  balance  of  triumph  and  despair.  
Paid  at  price  of  hatred  and  love,  entwined.  
Paints  the  struggle  for  existence,  
Thus,  is  the  fight  for  meaning,  
The  pursuit  of  life's  legacy.   

In this KidSpirit poem, teen author Yushi Liang explores the meaning of life and all the darkness and light that comes with it.

In Pursuit of Legacy

Skyler Sallick

Remember the time she opened the present,

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Skyler Sallick reflects on a beautiful memory.

Remember

Katie Champlin

I can’t control myself from daydreaming

As I am greatly amused by the white flakes

I tie the laces of my ice skates so that I can throw them

for the moment where I will be spinning across the pond

As I progress my hand away from my shoulder

I can’t come to regret taking this wonderful walk

that this is what the earth should be like,

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Katie Champlin contemplates the beauty of a snowy winterscape.

Snowflakes Carry My Worries Away

When the Editorial Board pressed for this theme, I balked: “Seriously, you guys, do you really want to go this big?” They insisted that we should devote an issue to the question of meaning, with all its grandiosity and ambiguity. What evolved is a multi-faceted exploration that may leave you agape from its boldness.

Importance

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