Fatema Karimi

We were like clockwork.
A twist from both ends
A slight movement to the right and perfect.

Our minds synchronized, our tempers low.
Our lives in a mixture of fire and earth
Our minds speaking languages only we knew
Our taste in the music of life so clear
Much like bubbling water.

Our rooms filled with colors of blue
Our happy place the beach where
We pretended to be mermaids
On an adventure.

On a roller coaster that keeps spinning until all you can see are colors.
This was the feeling we felt
This was life for you and I.

Now I see greens and you see reds.
What once was the beach is now just a collapse of earth and water.
What was fire and earth is now air and water for you.
What was a roller coaster of life is now a sidewalk for you.

Bubbling water has become wine, diluted with crimson
You have become a shade of red and I have become a blazing green.
Strangers we are, each a color of our own.

Poetry

In a KidSpirit poem, teen writer Fatema Karimi dwells on the gradual process of drifting apart from a person you once thought you knew.

A Color of Our Own

Mustafa Khan

The stranger can’t be trusted. The stranger is inhospitable and dangerous.

Pakistan is a developing nation, and a large percentage of the population faces poverty and struggles to earn an income. These people are hungry and poor, which can provoke anger and bitterness amongst them. The literacy rate in Pakistan is just over 50 percent, which means that almost half the population can’t even spell their names, rendering most of them unemployable and unable to provide their families with the basic necessities.

The frustration among these people can trigger them to break social boundaries and laws. They resort to kidnapping, mugging, and robbing people who possess money. They make this crime a source of income, since apparently it’s an easy thing to do. These criminals are never caught and punished. For this reason, mugging has become an issue faced on a regular basis in Pakistan — and the conditions are only getting worse.

I was 14 when I was mugged. I was with my mother and my sister that day; we were in an empty street with only a few houses scattered around the area. My sister was doing an art project on that street for her school, but I was dubious about going there from the get-go.

Two men crossing the street halted their motorbike behind us. They got off and hid behind a tree, which stood on the surrounding bleak land. Their behavior was suspicious. They started wandering the street, observing our actions. My mom decided that we should leave since it was evident that the intentions of the two men were to do harm. I could sense that they were getting closer to us, and before we even sat in the car, they took out their guns and pointed them at our heads.

Imagine standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down at your destined death — that is how I felt. My mind became vacant. I had never experienced being so close to death. The gun was loaded, its bullet ready to pierce through my head and end my life. We gave them everything we had, including a part of our souls, and they left.

I’m one of thousands of Pakistanis who have undergone this terrifying experience. The man who pointed the gun at my head, who was powerful enough to put an end to my life in an instant, was the stranger.

He’s not one, he’s a whole group. They stroll the streets of my city, making looting a regular practice. While my family and I were left physically unharmed (though mentally tormented), in many other incidents, the victims are shot and abused. The consequences are usually fatal. In some cases, victims are kidnapped and family members are expected to pay a large ransom for their release. It seems like playing with human emotions is another way of obtaining money.

It upsets me how trivial the value of a life has become. A friend of mine was shot and killed over a mobile phone. The phone was more valuable than his life. I believe any person with even the slightest sense of morality would realize that a mobile phone, with a price attached to it, is not greater than a human life. How can we call these people normal? They have no humanity left in them.

It’s very easy to take away someone’s life, but the pain it places upon the family members is unimaginable. Why then does it happen? Why has the value of life come to mean so little?

"Why has the value of life come to mean so little?"

Perhaps the sense of morality, mercy, love, and everything we attach to humanity, is eradicated from the hearts of those who are starving. The desperation to survive is so supreme that they resort to these acts of inhumanity. And when they succeed, it seems so easy that they make it routine.

I don’t believe any normal person would raise their child by telling them that a mobile phone is more valuable than human life. The poor, however, are pressured to grow up and earn money to support their family. It is ingrained in their mind that money is everything, since they’ve been deprived of it. When they realize that they can get money by valuing it more than a human life, I believe that they wash away their understanding of morality. With no humanity left in such people, I don’t believe they should be referred to as humans. They have no identity, they are inhumane, and to me, they are the stranger. The government is largely to blame for this. If such a large population of our country weren’t facing poverty, this might not be the case.

How can we trust the stranger? In my experience, the stranger has proven time and time again that he has no consideration for human life. The stranger cannot be stopped by anyone, even the police, because his roots have grown into the soil of our country. When your own life has so little value, you become protective over it. A normal person would go out to be around family and friends on a Saturday night, but my mother, for example, would prefer to stay at home. Not because she’s anti-social, but because of the fear engendered within her after a gun was pointed at her face.

As a child, I was told to respect the poor and not to discriminate against them. However, now, when a person wearing shoddy clothes stands next to me, I tremble. I fear that he could be the stranger. I don’t feel the same way about a well-dressed person, and I wasn’t brought up to have this bias. I have never felt that it was right to discriminate, but these are now my instincts.

Discriminating against the poor seems unjust. They are not all criminals. They struggle to survive and their problems are much greater than mine. Corrupt people are present everywhere, among rich and the poor alike. Then why do I discriminate only against the poor population? Because of the strangers I talk about and live amongst.

Poverty doesn’t just affect those who face it. It affects the entire population. Not just because of economic reasons, but because victims of poverty make those who don’t face poverty their victims. They don’t just steal from those who earn — they kill them.

I long for the day when I can walk the streets of my city again, not having to worry about encountering the stranger. Human life is not supposed to have a monetary value attached to it. Unfortunately, these days, that term has been taken too literally.

In a KidSpirit Interfaith Connections article, teen writer Mustafa Khan describes a heart-stopping encounter he and his family had with a mugger.

The Stranger

The Interfaith Amigos

The Stranger in Jewish Experience and Teaching 
by Rabbi Ted Falcon, Ph.D.

Because my family moved to an outlying suburb of Cleveland, I began 9th grade at a new school. Our new neighborhood had very few Jewish people, and the new school had even fewer. The very first day, I was approached by the class “tough guy.”

When I said, “Yes, I am,” he hauled off and punched me in the stomach!

I was in pain, and suddenly realized that I was more than just the new student at the school. I was the stranger there. I discovered that there were no other Jewish kids in my grade. I remember one friend, with whom I had played after school for some months, suddenly telling me, “I can’t come to your house any more.”

When I asked him why not, he said, “My parents found out you are Jewish.”

I’m not sure which hurt the most, the constant physical bullying or the withdrawal of friends.

Now that was a long time ago, and I know things have changed a lot since then. I am grateful that my own son never encountered any bullying because of his Jewish heritage. But my personal experience taught me an important lesson of what it was like to be the stranger.

I could also understand, firsthand, why there are so many teachings in the Torah, the sacred first five books of the Hebrew Bible, about how we are to treat the stranger. There are at least 36 places in the Torah talking about befriending the stranger, treating the stranger justly, and even loving the stranger. For example, the Torah teaches:

“You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Deuteronomy 10:19)

“And if a stranger dwells with you in your land, you shall not wrong him or her… [but] you shall love the stranger as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Leviticus 19:33, 34)

It’s important to understand that in ancient times, the Children of Israel lived in the land of Egypt for some 400 years. During that time, we became the strangers, cast out from Egyptian society to serve as slaves. This historical enslavement serves as a symbol for all the times the Jewish people were seen as the stranger throughout history. The symbol of Egyptian enslavement also became important for many in the Civil Rights movement, for African-Americans were, and sometimes still are, perceived as strangers in our country.

Even though I was a stranger for the Christian majority at that school, I did have friends, and got along with most of the kids. What I noticed was that when I was picked on, they didn’t know what to do, so they just watched, and helped me up if I had been knocked to the ground. That taught me something very important. Often in such a situation, the real power belongs to those who are the quiet bystanders, the witnesses to such events. They are the ones who have the power to intervene. Maybe you will find yourselves in positions where you see someone being bullied, and you will remember that you and others can step in to stop him or her from being harmed.

The Jewish Bible, often called the Old Testament by Christians who have a New Testament, is a text that both Jews and Christians share. As Jewish literature continued to develop, there were no additions to the Bible itself.

The sensitivity toward the stranger is expressed in Jewish teaching through the centuries after the Bible was completed. For example, in the Talmud, the great compendium of teaching completed at the end of the fifth century CE, there is a teaching about one of the great rabbis:

“It was said of Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai that no one, not a stranger, not even a heathen, ever greeted him first, before he greeted them.” (Berachot 17a)

The stranger is the one who appears to us as the outsider, different in some way from ourselves. The stranger is unknown. Perhaps the stranger is a homeless person who doesn’t have enough money for proper shelter. Perhaps the stranger is one whose poverty leads him or her to seek handouts on the street. How do you feel when you see them?

Jewish folklore sees the Prophet Elijah as reappearing through the centuries, usually in the guise of a poor man, offering help where it is needed. Sometimes, as the stories have it, he is shunned, seen simply to be a poor beggar. Sometimes he is welcomed, and able to aid those who welcome him.

Maybe your first reaction before such a stranger is to draw away, and that’s pretty natural. But amazing things happen when we begin talking with those who appear to be different. Not only do we discover that they are human beings just like ourselves, but they have the riches of their own stories to share.

Caring and love come from sharing with others and discovering our common humanity. It might begin with a greeting. Perhaps you will begin to greet all others with a smile, even before they greet you. That’s in keeping with deep Jewish teaching!

How Are We to Treat ‘The Stranger’? A Christian View
by Pastor Don Mackenzie

There are two things to remember right from the start. There is and always has been a difference between Jesus’s teachings and the behavior of the Christian church in general, and the behavior and thinking of Christian people in particular. There is no one Christian view. There are many. Mine is one, and I am glad to have the chance to write this for you to think about.

Let’s start with Jesus’s teachings. My view (which is shared with my colleagues and friends Rabbi Ted Falcon and Imam Jamal Rahman) is that the core teaching from Jesus is unconditional love. I mean loving without conditions.

Think about that for a moment. Have you ever or would you ever be able to love someone no matter what? This is what Jesus’s message is about. Unconditional love, sometimes called grace, is at the very heart of Jesus’s teachings. It is a core teaching.

The Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:15-32) tells of a parent and two sons. One takes his inheritance, goes to a distant country, wastes his inheritance and comes home, surprisingly, to unconditional love. The father welcomes his son without conditions. The older son doesn’t understand why the father has given a party in honor of the younger son’s return. The older son has never disobeyed the father, and yet there has been no party for him. The older son does not understand unconditional love. He is still in his own “distant country.” He has not yet connected with loving without conditions.

Many other verses suggest loving without conditions. “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you,” (Matthew 5:44) and, “Love one another as I have loved you” (John 15:12).

Could we love our enemies in any way except without conditions? As we think about Jesus, we can see how that he loved his disciples without conditions.

So what does this have to do with “the stranger?”

Historically, “the stranger” or “the other” has been a person who is, in any way, different. You know what this is about and you know how it feels to encounter someone who is different. How do we understand this new difference? Often difference has functioned as a source of fear and even anger.

Jesus appeared to honor everyone. The tax collector Matthew lived on the fringe of his culture. Jesus honored him. Zacheus was very wealthy. Jesus not only honored him, Jesus invited him to share his wealth with the poor. Jesus honored children in a way that suggested that children, because they can see life through younger eyes, can teach us much.

But even more than that, Jesus treated children as full human beings. Jesus treated women as full human beings — way ahead of his time. Jesus honored Nicodemus, a Pharisee and leader of the Jewish people. He was not in the habit of thinking the same way Jesus did, but he listened to Jesus and wanted to know more.

These are the kinds of people Jesus honored. They were all strangers in many different ways: the marginalized, the wealthy, the poor, children, women. In many ways, they were all strangers in their own culture and time. Why did he do this?

He was actually drawing on Jewish tradition. Remember that Jesus was not a Christian. He was a Jew and a rabbi — a teacher. Christianity was the result of his ministry. In the Jewish tradition, the essential dignity of every human being is to be honored. All people are created in the image of God. That doesn’t mean that we all look like God. It means we are all a part of what God is about, and our essential worth is the same even though what we do, say, and think can be very different. Those things are sometimes good and sometimes bad.

I learned this lesson a long time ago. In some ways, I learned it from my parents. When my dad admitted a young woman from Jamaica to the small college where he was dean, I encountered one who was understood to be “the other” in the culture of that small Illinois town.

Her name was Gloria. The moment it all came home to me was Thanksgiving, when I was about seven years old. The entire college community celebrated Thanksgiving together in the dining hall. Faculty members and their families hosted the students.

Each table had chosen a student to bring a turkey for the table. All of the students carried the turkeys on a tray, holding it with their hands, like we would expect. But not our Gloria. She brought our turkey on a tray balanced on her head. In that moment, I saw her essential dignity and it was a great blessing to me.

I hope you will take this little piece as an invitation to think about your life, about those in your life who are “different” and about how difference — instead of being fearful — can be a great source of vitality, energy, and growth!

Connecting with the Stranger
by Imam Jamal Rahman

Ever since I was a teenager, I was fascinated by a particular piece of wisdom in the Quran, the holy book of Muslims: God has deliberately created diversity in humanity so that, in spite of differences, we might connect with one another on a human level. Surely God could have made all of us into one community, but instead, our Creator chose to bestow upon each community “a law and way of life,” create “diversity of tongues and colors,” and make us into “nations and tribes” so that we might “come to know each other.”

Those key words “come to know each other” (Quran 49:13) resonate deeply with me. Today, I am in my 60s, living in America. Especially after the tragic event of 9/11 and its aftermath, I have realized the critical importance of human connections. A number of national polls have shown that almost 60% of Americans have an unfavorable view of Islam — but none of them know a single Muslim personally.

On the other hand, 35% of Americans report that they have a favorable view of Islam — and all of them personally know at least one Muslim. There is a teaching here. Clearly, the best way to overcome fear or distrust of the other, be that person your stranger or foe, is to establish a personal relationship with him or her.

How do we develop personal relationships with others who are not in our usual circle? I love the saying of the elders in South and Central Asia: “Share three cups of tea.”

Why three cups of tea? Because the time it takes to share just one or two cups is not enough to really get to know someone. This advice is about connecting with people sincerely and listening respectfully to what they have to say.

A few years ago, I decided to put this advice into practice. I was acquainted with a couple of conservative evangelical Christians who were profoundly distrustful and suspicious of Muslims, and I made a personal commitment to get to know them more personally. I made every attempt to listen sincerely to their fears and anger. It was hard to keep listening instead of getting distracted with what I was going to say next, but a helpful metaphor about authentic listening came to mind: “Put your head on the person’s chest and sink into the answer.”

As I began to bond with my conservative Christian friends, I also became aware of my own biases and prejudice.

“Where did these come from?” I asked myself.

Most of my stereotyping came not from my personal experience but from hearsay. This was a remarkable realization, and it moved me to work even harder to simply come to know these people as fellow human beings. There was no need to score points about politics or religion. We shared human stories and, when I was humble and honest about my intention, the conversations flowed. We found much to talk about. We bonded.

And I realized the truth of one of my favorite quotations: “The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.” (Credit goes to Muriel Rukeyser, an American poet who was devoted to equality and social justice.)

After two years of earnest work, I can honestly report that the results have been transformative. My conservative Christian friends are no longer anti-Islamic. On their own they have reached out to other Muslims and befriended them. We continue to have differences over scripture and politics, but these differences no longer loom as personal threats.

To me, the most important result of these encounters is my own transformation. I had considered myself open-minded, but came to realize that my views were narrow and uninformed. In getting to know these two friends, their families, and members of their community, I have become aware of a range of variations in Christian conservatism. But most of all, I have been deeply inspired and touched by their dedication to social justice and care for the earth. This fills me with immense hope. In spite of differences, once we establish personal relationships, we can all cooperate and collaborate on issues and projects dear to our hearts.

Thus, the best way to transform the stranger into a friend is to “come to know each other.” This sounds simple, but in reality, it is not easy. It was not meant to be! The Quran refers to this in a witty revelation: “We have made some of you as a trial for others” (Quran 25:20). But if we are patient, persistent, honest and creative, we shall find ways to connect with the other.

Rumi, the 13th century poet and sage who is my favorite teacher, once cried out, “O God, You have created this ‘I’, ‘you’, ‘we,’ and ‘they’ to play the game of adoration with Yourself.” It’s a “game” we all can play: seeking and finding the Face of God in every human face we meet.

In a KidSpirit PerSpectives article, Rabbi Ted Falcon, Pastor Don Mackenzie, and Imam Jamal Rahman offer three parallel commentaries on the concept of the Stranger, through an interfaith lens.

Honoring the Stranger

Will Hodgkinson

Sitting, bowed diffidently,
in the seat
of an idling car.

Leaning against the shadowed wall,
looking out at the brazen clamor
of a dance.

Imprisoned, motionless,
seized by the onyx manacles
of worry.

A ceaselessly unfurling
newsreel of
‘What If’s

The chill insidious
venom of
black anxiety suffuses
your mind

But then,
in its recesses,
something stirs.

You extend a quavering hand
to the handle of the car door.

Detach yourself from the
cold plaster of the
Dance Hall wall

And step into the
effulgence
of new experience

In a KidSpirit Poem, teen writer Will Hodgkinson dwells on the feelings of excitement and anxiety outside of a dance hall.

Strange Experience

Misbah Awan

I stare at the carpeted floor, sitting at the top of my bed with my knees touching my chin.

I sit here for 45 minutes, probably more, thinking about the question bouncing around in my head: Why does everyone seem to be stapled to one identity and I’m in a state of ambivalence?

Cool air pushes through the one-inch window space and I shiver. From where I sit at the edge of the bed, I see a dim light flickering in the library of the main building of my school. The gymnasium across the street is tucked between two six-story buildings, one of which is mine. In spite of the bedroom window being almost closed, I don’t have to strain to hear the laughter of passing strangers — prepubescent boys talking about yesterday night’s Mayweather vs Pacquiao fight, parents telling their kids to stop at the light, the super from my building saying hello to somebody. Ordinary life continues. Inside, everything feels slow and uncertain.

Tired of sitting, I stand and walk towards the dresser to touch the image of the person that stands before me. I hate how she has the boldness to mimic my every move. My cheeks are flushed and burning red. My lips are pale. My hair, not yet dried from the shower, is bunched together in a bun, baby curls falling in front of my face. The hijab sits at the top of the dresser in front of me. I reach out for it, slowly, then quickly pull my hand back. The bangles next to it wait for me.

The only thing that seems to comfort me is the aroma of my mother’s dinner cooking in the kitchen, a mix of different spices in rice. She’s making biryani, a common favorite back home. But I’m too scared to ask my mom if she needs help because I don’t want to face the discouraging comments that fly from her mouth.

You sit in front of a computer all day and never do any lady work! You are going to become crazy talking to yourself! You are not a proper female!

These exclamations eventually lead her to a tangent about how I’m too modern and that’s not how she was when she was my age. These sorts of comments lead me to questioning my identity. Actually, no… I know who I am. Right?

Everything is so contradictory, so paradoxical.

I am a New Yorker. I’m American by childhood and residency, Pakistani by lineage, Indian by ancestry. I’m a human being, but I’m treated like an alien. Alien is not belonging, being this abstract “thing” in the corner, not wanting to be touched. But I am also a cosmic superhero; I choose not to be like the rest. My identity is fluid. I am vibrant and colorful, but not perceived as “alien.”

All I know is that it’s a never-ending struggle to find an anchor to validate my existence to comfort me. I can only conclude that I am a South Asian diasporan child. Diaspora is a condition of fragmentation, not only of place, but of time. I will always be moving, always wandering. It’s the absence of something, the yearning to be whole.

I am grateful for the term diaspora — it gives me some comfort. At least I belong to some group, right? But even in my own community, where I am supposed to feel loved and supported, I am treated with hostility.

If I were to go back to the motherland, I am afraid I would be shunned for being too “Americanized.” I would be seen as inferior because I don’t live up to the standards of Pakistanis — a group I should naturally be in sync with, a group I am supposed to feel I belong to. Instead, I would get double takes on my clothes, my eccentric and diverse taste in food. Suitors might ask my parents for my hand in marriage. I’d be known as the “American girl,” or labeled as lost. If I were to say I didn’t like a certain food, my aunts would talk about my dilute nature. Have they ever wondered if I just don’t like it because I just don’t like it? They would make me feel as though I weren’t allowed to have a different opinion on anything relating to Pakistan because I just “don’t get it” and will never “truly understand anyway.”

But that’s not where it ends. Even if you disagree with someone about something that has little to do with your culture, the end argument will most likely always be, “Oh, you Americans.” It doesn’t matter how hard you work to perfect your Pakistani accent, how well you cook, or how light the color of your skin is. The bottom line is: you’ll never be enough.

However, in America, the place I like to call home, I sometimes feel ridiculed and shamed for sticking to my roots. I cannot wear henna without hearing that it looks prettier on a white girl’s skin. I am discouraged from wearing the hijab because of comments that are often born of ignorance. I can’t wear my traditional clothing without it first being ridiculed, and then appropriated.

I didn’t choose these circumstances, so why am I held responsible for them? I still struggle with this, but I’m starting to realize that not belonging to anything only refers to our limited options. One is either Pakistani or American. The reality is, however, that we can belong to something else entirely; even though we may not know what that is. The problem is that I’m constantly told not to claim — or be proud of — my otherness.

Through the 17 years of my life, I have learned the most toxic lesson of all: I am not meant to be heard. Perhaps the original sin lies at the hands of my immigrant parents, the ones who packed their bags when I was just three years old, begged for a ticket into gilded America, and dragged me along to seek a better life.

Based on my mother’s rare reminiscences when she is feeling particularly nostalgic, I can vividly imagine what it would have been like years back: my father’s excitement to enter a new world that held promises for a better tomorrow. A once closed door that opened for us was a blessing and a curse; and little did we know about the curse. Once the visa was verified, family trips were possible. However exciting this process might have been for my parents, as their child it was, and still is, hard for me to decipher my “home.”

Despite having no understanding of Pakistan’s struggle to gain liberation from British India, I can, however, recite all the important dates of America’s involvement in both world wars. Without being able to read or write in Urdu, my vocabulary is so advanced in English that sometimes I catch myself getting frustrated when my parents can’t keep up with my rapid-paced tongue. With such a severe disconnect from my Pakistani roots, and without being able to find solace in the soil that has sheltered me since birth, I often wonder — where is my home? Can first-generation children say they even have one?

I reach for the bangles and put them on my wrist to match the traditional attire of a Pakistani young woman; I stretch my hand toward the hijab.

Though it is hard and scary to find my true home, the journey allows me to understand myself in a more nuanced way. I am not just one or the other. I don’t need a label to anchor me, because understanding myself is enough.

This time around, I am not afraid to say it.

In this KidSpirit Feature article, teen writer Misbah Awan expresses how the concept of diaspora has molded her identity as a Pakistani-American in New York.

i am Other

Gracie Griffin

The streets of Stockholm shone in the rain. Mist wrapped itself around the cobblestones.

My boundaries are marked by tack holes and curling edges, by yellowed paper and ripped corners. Maybe they haven’t always been this way. Maybe there was a time when my boundaries were crisp and straight, where they used to be white and clean. Life rarely allows boundaries to remain static. Instead, they fluctuate with our knowledge, our interests, our passions. Boundaries, whether physical, emotional, social, or mental, can be tricky. They must be pushed at some points, held strong at others. Navigating the balance can be confusing. Does breaking boundaries help or hurt us in the long run?

In a term sociologist Helen Fein calls the “universe of obligation,” human nature leads us to separate people into “us” and “them.” We are obligated to help those in our circle (“us”), while those in the other circle (“them”) can be left behind. The problem lies when we create walls and allow no movement through what should be a semi-permeable membrane.

This concept is illustrated throughout history with various racial, ethnic, and religious segregation. Creating a literal “us” and “them” can produce terrible results. The “us” and “them” mentality not only has the potential to sever bonds, but to prevent them from forming in the first place. Being overly tied to social boundaries such as class or race limits you to a single viewpoint of the world, a world of bias and prejudice. An extreme example of this is the Ku Klux Klan.

However, the less extreme effects of social boundaries are seen in schools around the country. While stereotypical, cliques are a part of the schooling experience, and can do varying degrees of damage. While it may seem that cliques add a sense of organization, the high school caste system fosters competition. One group thinks this way, another thinks that way. When one is deemed to have better social status, the walls grow taller and stronger.

There is an argument to be made that “first impressions” are a boundary: you never really know a person until you talk to them. While you may jump to conclusions at first glance, going out of your way to make a connection can produce amazing results.

On drop-off day at summer camp, my brain switched from comfortable to overwhelmingly shy. As my mom and I lugged duffel bags and pillows up to my cabin, I reprimanded myself for acting painfully awkward in moments like this. Then I looked up and saw her. I recognized her immediately. This girl had a glow about her. She was one of the “cool kids.” She was lounging on the porch of my cabin, smiling at me. Little did I know that we would grow to be so close that summer, that I would begin to consider her a sister of sorts. In that initial moment, I felt nothing but panic. Later, I felt nothing but love.

As important as it to break boundaries, to discover the world you inhabit, some boundaries should be preserved. As much as I love travel and learning to be a world citizen, the power of my hometown — a small and safe 8,000-person village on the Atlantic — is undisputed in my heart. I understand it with my entire being. Part of me will always feel at home here, no matter where else I go.

Sometimes, being part of an exclusive and walled-in group actually strengthens that group. It’s the feeling of inclusivity, of family, of trust and loyalty. It is the feeling that you get when a sea of people jump up and down on the bleachers in the crackling autumn air, calling for a win at a soccer game. It is the feeling when your grade, dressed in your class color, pours into the gym for a spirit week rally, and you are just a face in the crowd. It is the feeling of falling twilight, walking home after a piano lesson, when you know every car passing you on Main Street.

While boundaries should be pushed, we should remember the reason that they were there in the first place. Boundaries are meant to preserve and protect. Somewhere inside us we have the innate ability to recognize a situation and immediately know how we feel. Some call it “fight or flight,” others say it’s “going with your gut.” In those situations, no self-reflection is needed. Our instinct speaks louder than anything else.

We all have boundaries that outline our morals and goals, our passions and comfort. However, this makes it all the more important to break them by exploring — so as to learn more about ourselves and find out how far those regions reach. Is there a limit? If so, what is it?

We live in a world where we are told to “open our eyes” and “expand our horizons,” but we are trained to look at screens all day. Though we claim the world is at our fingertips, we never actually touch the ground and feel the earth below us. There is a whole world outside of our boundaries. Take a class. Find a new hobby. Make a new friend. Look up.

I believe in pushing boundaries to make yourself uncomfortable, to experience new things, and discover hidden passions. When I sat down to the piano the first time, I didn’t know that I would try to become a songwriter; I only knew about the music locked inside of me.

However, I also believe in preserving boundaries of tradition and hometowns and morals. The decision of whether to push or preserve, to open or close the door, is highly personal. It takes dedication, self-awareness, and reflection. And even then, mistakes get made. I would rather make a mistake than wonder “what if” until the day I die.

Through experience, social exploration, travel, and reflection, I can learn more about myself and the boundaries that surround me. Most of all, I believe there will be a the day that I find that my boundaries are the shape of the person that I have become.

In a KidSpirit Big Question response, teen writer Gracie Griffin tackles the dilemma of whether or not to push one's boundaries through exploration, instinct, and making mistakes.

When Is It Important to Preserve Boundaries?

Valerie Zhang

A Step from Heaven tells the fictitious story of Young Ju, a girl whose Korean family moves to America in the search of a better life. Yet Mi Gook, which means “America” in Korean, is not the heaven Young Ju initially believes it to be.

Due to personal troubles and conflicting traditional and foreign values, Young and her family find that overcoming the “breaking” of abuse and domestic violence, which is “too loud, too strong,” takes more than just moving to another continent.

Though the book was first published in 2001, it transcends time by capturing the timelessness of growing up, the gradual shift from a childlike innocence to a jaded maturity. For instance, when Young first arrives in Mi Gook, she remains blindingly optimistic when she has trouble learning English. She tells herself that though she “knows little Mi Gook words now,” someday she will know “all of them.” In contrast, the high school Young realizes harsher realities, realizes that she “is not a child anymore” and does “not have time to wait for God.”

A Step from Heaven is heavy in its content; the novel deals in part with abuse and domestic violence. Young copes with her family member’s abusive nature by hiding under the covers and pretending she is elsewhere. Her view on the abuse, as well as her portrayal of the abuser, is uncomplicated — her main emotions regarding the issue are sadness and fear. Rarely does Young reflect on the impact of the family member’s violence; she does so only towards the very end of the novel.

Though at times I felt Young’s perspective a bit too young — granted, the book starts when she is four — I was captivated from start to finish. However, I will shy away from deeming Young’s perspective as more “authentic” than others. Doing so takes away from other voices in literature, other voices with stories just as real as Young’s.

Often Americans feel torn between cultures, lost in a world that demands they pinpoint every aspect of their identity. Many Asian Americans, myself included, experience this mental struggle, where they must fit cleanly into one set identity. A Step from Heaven explores such struggle from both the child’s and parent’s perspectives. Young feels torn between loyalty to her parents and loyalty to herself, torn between retaining her Korean culture and assimilating into American life. Her parents struggle with instilling Korean culture into Young’s life while juggling work.

The author, An Na, received many well-deserved accolades for A Step from Heaven, including the Michael L. Printz award, and the book has lasting power. The author deconstructs stereotypes about Asians through the transformation of seemingly mundane moments into ones of burning brilliance. For instance, early in the book, Young Ju is forced to get her hair curled. Yet what starts off as a scene about hair quickly exposes the reader to themes of duty and domestic violence. The novel’s deconstruction of stereotypes is far from scripted or mechanical. Instead, it’s beautifully tragic.

Asian Americans have been stereotyped as the model minority, as hardworking, intelligent, and studious individuals. Like all stereotypes, the model minority stereotype is damaging. Often Asians feel the magnitude of their success is lessened by the fact that they’re Asian. “Because you’re Asian” has been uttered countless times to Americans of Asian descent. I’ve personally experienced this — just last month, my A on a test was explained by someone who said “that’s because you’re Asian.”

With four words, all my effort, all the significance of my achievement, was washed away. Young, too, is affected by stereotypes; she yearns to be someone more than just “the good Korean daughter” the world paints her to be.

Perhaps what makes A Step from Heaven so beautiful and tragic is its simple, elegant prose. The author takes the reader’s breath away, not only by breathing humanity into her characters but also by adding immense power in a few words.

“Your life can be different, Young Ju. Study and be strong. In America, women have choices.”

In just three sentences, the author weaves a message of hope, strength, and freedom. Though this idea communicates that America is an expanse of possibility, the wording of such content is what makes the message lasting and powerful. I felt chills when I first read those words. In fact, I still feel chills now.

I rate this story four out of five stars. Though I was often rendered speechless by the beautiful writing, Young’s views on the abuse she received were not nuanced enough. As a reader, I expected a more complex vision in response to the complicated issues brought up. Yet, more often than not, I was so caught up in the story and the author’s sparse prose that everything else floated away.

In a KidSpirit Media review, teen writer Valerie Zhang shares her thoughts on A Step From Heaven, a novel by An Na.

A Review of A Step from Heaven

Jung Woo Bae

Imagine a world without sight. What do you see? Darkness? Or maybe nothing at all.

The concept of seeing seems so simple, yet it is so complex to explain. I once wondered how one could have no sight and still “see,” like the blind. I knew so little about them, even considered them to be foreign. I naively thought that seeing was believing, when in fact, the opposite was the key to unlocking a new perspective.

Through the process of writing my first novel with a blind protagonist, then selling it and donating the money to a foundation for the blind in my community, I gained meaningful insights about what it means to understand alienated people. Most importantly, I was able to recognize how the act of making even a small difference could bring about understanding — the things we cannot see are often the most magnificent. I was able to develop into a more compassionate person by learning to empathize with people we seem to be very distant from, such as the blind.

My journey started in year 10 at my school. In that year, every student was expected to complete a personal project. The possibilities of this project were endless; we could pursue anything that met our interest. However, it had to have a “so what” factor. In other words, the project had to have some sort of an impact on the community, or even the world. Since I am a rather indecisive person, I had trouble coming up with ideas. I lacked faith and felt doubtful about my project.

Fortunately, I had a supervisor who was a writer. I loved writing, and so did he, and he inspired me to write. To do what I love is the purpose of this project, I thought. My supervisor offered suggestions. Yes, I thought again, I’ll write a book, a good one. I congratulated myself on my progress, as I had taken my idea a step farther.

It was extremely difficult to come up with ideas for the book. What would it be about? How would I publish it? I had so many unanswered questions, but realized I was being too reliant on myself. My supervisor was there to help. He guided me through the process, explaining how I could publish my book via a self-publishing website, and how I could write about my passions and interests.

A few years ago I happened to read a Greek story of Psyche and Cupid and was deeply moved by it. The story was about trust and faith, and I still remember what Cupid said to Psyche near the end: “Believing is seeing.”

I interpreted this sentence as an axiom. Believing is the first step to truly understanding anything in the world. Contrary to the commonplace phrase “seeing is believing,” believing can offer a whole new perspective. After all, we must first believe in ourselves to achieve incredible things, just as blind musicians learn to play music without looking at the score.

"Believing is the first step to truly understanding anything in the world."

I was so inspired that I decided to use the phrase “believing is seeing” as the title for my book. Then I contemplated how I could use the story of Psyche and Cupid. Faith was an important theme, so I linked it with my passion for music and my interest in the blind. I also decided to incorporate my own faith of Christianity.

Soon a plot emerged: A story about a blind boy who needed faith to fulfill his dream of becoming a musician. How could you play music without seeing the music score? It is because music is born within. How do I know if God is there or not? I do not, but I must believe in order to recognize his presence.

My supervisor was pleased with this concept. Throughout the year, I wrote the book, dedicating a significant amount of time to researching, writing, and editing. And the publication process was just as demanding. However, in the end, I had written and published a 126-page novella I was proud of. In order to fulfill the “so what” factor, I decided to order my published books, sell them for five dollars each to people I knew, and donate the money collected to the Royal New Zealand Foundation of the Blind. This was rewarding because I knew that I had made at least a small difference in my community.

However, my journey did not end there. To my surprise, this year my book was accepted for publishing by one of the leading publishing companies in Korea called Crayon House. The book is scheduled to come out in the next few months. I discovered that the people of the publishing company really liked the ideas and plot of my book and thought it would be a great inspiration to children in Korea. It was also decided that all the money earned from selling these books be donated to the blind foundation in Korea. I was surprised that I could even make a difference in other nations, and I hope that my book can inspire young children, disabled or not, to dream, have faith, and strive to reach their full potential.

Helen Keller, my central inspiration, once said, “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched — they must be felt with the heart.”

Writing about the blind, and using my written work to help and support them, was truly invaluable to me. Through this important moment I realized it was also significant to take the perspective of blind people. I came to recognize that things we cannot see are in fact the most wonderful in life. I was able to “see” from a different, revolutionized, viewpoint and realized how indirect ways of showing compassion can be so rewarding. Making a difference in even a small community was one epitome of such wonders.

I am so glad I pursued my personal project and chose a “so what” factor that focused on the blind. I was able to change into a more altruistic and empathetic person who came to understand and interact with different people, such as the blind. Through this experience I will be able to approach seemingly distant people in society and learn to understand them better.

My book may be neither the most impressive nor the most inspirational work, but I’m proud of it because it has made a difference. Above all, I hope people are moved by the title — that believing is, in fact, seeing. Because once you believe, you will see a whole new world.

In a KidSpirit Awesome Moments article, teen writer Jung Woo Bae expands his sense of empathy and imagination by writing a novel with a blind protagonist.

Believing is Seeing

Casey Robins

She’s an ostrich.
She has a long neck
so she can see behind big heads.

She has a long beak
so she can pick at her food when no one’s looking.
She has beady eyes
so she’ll never break her stare.
She has long legs
so she can outrun her predator.

Her heart is a closed system, contractile chamber.
She’ll ruffle her feathers when it gets too cold.
She spends the winter months alone.
She longs for the blue sky.

In a KidSpirit poem, teen writer Casey Robins presents an ostrich in verse.

Ostracism

Emily Chaflin

A lonely pair of shoes dangle quietly
From the telephone wires in the neighborhood.

As I walk below them, I begin to wonder.
I imagine a little boy wandering around the streets,
With tousled dark brown hair and dirty knees,
Barefoot, cold, and all alone just like his shoes.

Maybe he threw the dark blue shoes up there
So his parents would buy him a newer pair,
Possibly clean white, or bright red.

Maybe a big, mean bully took the shoes away,
leaving the boy to walk home in discomfort.

Maybe he hid something in the bottom of them,
And then threw the shoes up to keep the item
He was hiding away from everything and everyone.

Did he get the new shoes he had wanted?
Has the bully left him alone yet?
What was he hiding?

In a KidSpirit poem, teen writer Emily Chaflin contemplates a solitary pair of shoes dangling from a telephone wire.

Dangling, Dirty Shoes

Yashashree Ghatge

Spring, a season
When I want a reason
To blossom with the trees
In a gentle breeze
With dancing flowers.

Pretty water droplets on a rose
Fills the mind with hope
The encouraging morning scene
Makes the whole day green
With great joy and happiness.

In a KidSpirit poem, teen writer Yashashree Ghatge celebrates the bountiful season of Spring.

A Season of Blossom

Liam Shields

Hours and days pass with each consecutive minute.
What was once a year
becomes something less than a daydream.
Nothing has been the same
since we locked eyes
that fateful day.

My entire world became bleak and dull.
You drowned all the colors that once made me whole.
Nothing more than a simple gray
like the glazed look in your eyes
the day we first met.

You existed only to see me fall.
To some you come as a gift,
a reassuring sign that the end will come.
But to me, devilish friend,
you keep me in bed.

Just years prior, when you weren’t there,
I felt free, as if the world were at my feet.
King of the world.
Nothing could hurt me, or so I believed.

The day I awoke
in a room where my only visitor was a nurse.
She handed me mirror and said, “Take a look.”

In a KidSpirit poem, teen writer Liam Shields describes a life-changing encounter with an unusual, sinister force.

My Stranger

What makes someone a stranger? Are humans innately suspicious of others? Writers explore not only those who appear different or as outsiders — our traditional understanding — but also broader interpretations of the unknowable: memories of the past, lives of fictional characters, even parts of their innermost selves.

A Color of Our Own

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