"Michaela's Mix" is the article I wrote for Anthony DeCurtis's Arts and Popular Culture class.
I later submitted it to Penn's Filament magazine for its December issue, #FiveDaysOfFilament.
- Carolyn Grace
I later submitted it to Penn's Filament magazine for its December issue, #FiveDaysOfFilament.
- Carolyn Grace
"A Decade Later: The DC Sniper Shootings" is an article I wrote for Stephen Fried's Advanced Creative Non-Fiction class. The assignment was to recreate a historical event using any resources we could find. For me, it was mostly Lee Malvo's memoir, as well as interviews both with Lee Malvo and with one of his victims, Caroline Seawell.
-Naomi Tsai
-Naomi Tsai
"A shaky foundation"
This is a column that I wrote last April for The Daily Pennsylvanian.
-Divya Ramesh
This is a column that I wrote last April for The Daily Pennsylvanian.
-Divya Ramesh
Giving Up
Carolyn Grace
I choked on a gulp of chlorine. Sometimes girls who had gone to water polo camp would do the human equivalent of a whale blow hole; they’d swallow water and blow it up in a spray. I couldn’t do that.
My eyes burned, and my body slowed down. It wasn’t that I couldn’t swim; I was too exhausted.
The whistle shrieked.
Coach Max has been screaming at us for 20 minutes. He was the 25-year-old former goalie for Occidental College’s D-1 water polo team. “Go!” he screamed. “Go!”
Around me fifteen girls started swimming. I didn’t even see their bodies. All I could see was a wave of white water. I stayed where I was in the shallow end. It was our tenth time swimming 50 freestyle, equivalent to twenty laps, with a water polo ball. Roughly the size of a volley ball, it is hard enough to knock several teeth out or leave you concussed for three weeks. My arms stroked around the ball, pulling through the water, but also forming a barrier to keep the ball in front of me. I keep my head poked up to watch the ball. I always needed to know where the ball was. We watched the goal, watched the shot on goal, watched the next pass, watched for defenders who could kick you in the ribs or send the ball into your teeth.
I was the only girl who did not swim year round. My arms were limp. My lungs heaved. My forehead crumpled in frustration. I couldn’t see. I was crying. The tears mixed with sweat and chlorine.
Weak. That’s what I was. Forget the extra morning weight-lifting practices. Forget the group runs. It was never enough.
My legs stopped treading and sank to the pool floor.
“Carolyn! What are you doing!?” Coach Max’s voice rattled my brain.
Slowly, I swam to the edge of the pool where he stood and rested my arms on the edge. I drew a shallow breath. “I’m giving up.”
Carolyn Grace
I choked on a gulp of chlorine. Sometimes girls who had gone to water polo camp would do the human equivalent of a whale blow hole; they’d swallow water and blow it up in a spray. I couldn’t do that.
My eyes burned, and my body slowed down. It wasn’t that I couldn’t swim; I was too exhausted.
The whistle shrieked.
Coach Max has been screaming at us for 20 minutes. He was the 25-year-old former goalie for Occidental College’s D-1 water polo team. “Go!” he screamed. “Go!”
Around me fifteen girls started swimming. I didn’t even see their bodies. All I could see was a wave of white water. I stayed where I was in the shallow end. It was our tenth time swimming 50 freestyle, equivalent to twenty laps, with a water polo ball. Roughly the size of a volley ball, it is hard enough to knock several teeth out or leave you concussed for three weeks. My arms stroked around the ball, pulling through the water, but also forming a barrier to keep the ball in front of me. I keep my head poked up to watch the ball. I always needed to know where the ball was. We watched the goal, watched the shot on goal, watched the next pass, watched for defenders who could kick you in the ribs or send the ball into your teeth.
I was the only girl who did not swim year round. My arms were limp. My lungs heaved. My forehead crumpled in frustration. I couldn’t see. I was crying. The tears mixed with sweat and chlorine.
Weak. That’s what I was. Forget the extra morning weight-lifting practices. Forget the group runs. It was never enough.
My legs stopped treading and sank to the pool floor.
“Carolyn! What are you doing!?” Coach Max’s voice rattled my brain.
Slowly, I swam to the edge of the pool where he stood and rested my arms on the edge. I drew a shallow breath. “I’m giving up.”
Learning to Commit
By Naomi Tsai
He was a freshman, and I was a senior. He didn’t want to tell me about the guitar because he thought I’d be mad. He didn’t know that inside, I still felt like the scared fifth grader who had faked an injury to get out of the Junior Olympics because I didn’t think I would medal. I was the girl who always faltered – on stage, on the field, and in class. To me, not trying was better than imperfection, but the audience was restless; it was too late to back out now.
“I dropped the guitar, Naomi,” he said, “and a screw came loose. I’m really sorry if it doesn’t play.”
What?
A stagehand prodded my back, signaling it was time to walk onto the stage. The auditorium was so black, that had it not been for shuffling and whispers, I would have had no idea that more than 300 people were staring up at us. Some of them had donated over a hundred dollars to Seattle Cancer Care Alliance in order to attend this event, and not only had I organized the benefit concert, but also I was the first act. I was terrified.
I leaned down to plug the cord of my electric fiddle into the speakers. It was so dark that I couldn’t see my hand. I groped for a few gut-wrenching moments until finding the socket. As I struggled to my feet, two beams of light illuminated the guitarist and me. I positioned my fingers on the fingerboard; my hands trembled.
The first note lingered in the auditorium, long, slow and wavering, just as I had imagined it. For a moment, I gained confidence, but then, I realized that the guitarist next to me remained silent. He turned to me, a look of desperation etched into his face. I faltered, feeling naked and small without his accompaniment. I could feel eyes boring into me, and I heard the whispers of people realizing that something was wrong. I longed to stop, to hide in the backroom and close my eyes, so it would all go away, but my fingers had a different agenda.
The notes sped up, fast, rhythmic, cathartic. My fingers danced over the fingerboard. I glanced at the guitarist. He strummed next to me silently, his left hand moving from chord to chord, his head bobbing. It didn’t matter that only muffled metallic twangs were coming from his instrument. It didn’t matter that all his practice had led to naught. He performed with such confidence that I imagined I could hear him.
I turned my head back to the invisible audience. I couldn’t stop. I had to keep playing. Stepping forward, one foot after another, I walked towards my fears and the unknown. I committed.
By Naomi Tsai
He was a freshman, and I was a senior. He didn’t want to tell me about the guitar because he thought I’d be mad. He didn’t know that inside, I still felt like the scared fifth grader who had faked an injury to get out of the Junior Olympics because I didn’t think I would medal. I was the girl who always faltered – on stage, on the field, and in class. To me, not trying was better than imperfection, but the audience was restless; it was too late to back out now.
“I dropped the guitar, Naomi,” he said, “and a screw came loose. I’m really sorry if it doesn’t play.”
What?
A stagehand prodded my back, signaling it was time to walk onto the stage. The auditorium was so black, that had it not been for shuffling and whispers, I would have had no idea that more than 300 people were staring up at us. Some of them had donated over a hundred dollars to Seattle Cancer Care Alliance in order to attend this event, and not only had I organized the benefit concert, but also I was the first act. I was terrified.
I leaned down to plug the cord of my electric fiddle into the speakers. It was so dark that I couldn’t see my hand. I groped for a few gut-wrenching moments until finding the socket. As I struggled to my feet, two beams of light illuminated the guitarist and me. I positioned my fingers on the fingerboard; my hands trembled.
The first note lingered in the auditorium, long, slow and wavering, just as I had imagined it. For a moment, I gained confidence, but then, I realized that the guitarist next to me remained silent. He turned to me, a look of desperation etched into his face. I faltered, feeling naked and small without his accompaniment. I could feel eyes boring into me, and I heard the whispers of people realizing that something was wrong. I longed to stop, to hide in the backroom and close my eyes, so it would all go away, but my fingers had a different agenda.
The notes sped up, fast, rhythmic, cathartic. My fingers danced over the fingerboard. I glanced at the guitarist. He strummed next to me silently, his left hand moving from chord to chord, his head bobbing. It didn’t matter that only muffled metallic twangs were coming from his instrument. It didn’t matter that all his practice had led to naught. He performed with such confidence that I imagined I could hear him.
I turned my head back to the invisible audience. I couldn’t stop. I had to keep playing. Stepping forward, one foot after another, I walked towards my fears and the unknown. I committed.