Bethesda Local Writer’s Showcase: 2024 High School Essay Contest

High School Essay Contest – 1st Place

My Two Worlds
By Hannah Brunick

I stare blankly at the mirror as she smears charcoal eyeliner into a wing on my face. She says the shape, paired with her ridiculously placed smudges of highlighter, will bring out the Asian in my eyes. I am a confounding collage of features: a biological representation of two cultures intertwined, yet they have never felt anything but separate.

My Western traits are admired by Korean aunts and grandmothers. They praise my large eyes and double eyelids. They paint me in the light of coveted American beauty. I did not feel this American beauty when I opened my lunch box and the other kids covered their noses. I did not feel this American beauty when they pulled their eyes back with their fingers and sneered, “Ching chong.” In these instances, I feel only the burden of that foreignness inside me. I am other.

I have my mother’s eyes when I smile; when my face is all scrunched with joy, people suddenly believe I hold some resemblance to every Korean relative I have. My sporadic moments of Korean beauty are hailed as a trend—an aesthetic. I do not feel this Korean beauty as I watch my culture become an internet fad, frequently fetishized to the point where I am disgusted to be myself. I do not feel this Korean beauty as I grapple with the ability to speak in the language of my family, nauseatingly conscious of the way I am allowing my heritage to slip between my fingers. Now, I fear myself in a different way. I am not foreign enough, just another uncultured girl amidst the ranks.

There is no question as to whether or not I have felt either side of this beauty. Undoubtedly, I have felt both, but I have yet to feel them on the same occasion. My two sides have always remained just that: distinct halves that cannot fuse.

High School Essay Contest – 2nd Place

Mortality and a Rainbow School Bus
By Sofia Guyer

There comes a point in your life where mortality extends its shadowy hand to claw something beloved away from you. This shadowed figure manifests itself in different ways—maybe the death of a childhood pet, or the passing of a grandparent. This devastating event permanently alters how you perceive existence. Although it robs you of a certain innocence, of a belief in a world free of suffering and mortality, it can mark a certain awareness in your life.

Although there are infinite literal ways to react to death, philosophical reactions typically fall under two camps. The first is the common reaction—the submission to nihilism, the insurmountable, crippling depression, and the loss of faith in the world. The second reaction is a choice to believe in the better parts of existence and look at loss as an opportunity to explore parts of the world they hadn’t appreciated before. I’ve witnessed my relatives experience both types, and the difference in how they’ve been able to continue their lives has been astronomical.

My Nai-Nai¹ passed away in 2016. I watched as my Ye-Ye’s² spirit seemingly died with her. The man I once knew as a hard-working, passionate, and considerate first-gen immigrant capable of making a life for himself in a whole new continent became a ghost of his former self. Even at the young age of 8, I could tell something was horribly wrong with my beloved Ye-Ye. The bags under his eyes became heavier, he lost weight from not eating, he rarely left the house, and most noticeably the light in his eyes was gone. He spent the next few years haunted by the death of my Nai-Nai. He hoarded old portraits, pictures, and books, and closeted himself away in his room. He fell under the more common category.

My grandpappy lost his wife to cancer in the summer of 2018 and he defined his life according to his conscious decision to live bigger and brighter than ever. He sold his house. He bought an old school bus and painted it rainbow. He took that rainbow school bus and drove it all over the country. He drove down the Pacific Coast Highway, across the Midwest, and after weeks, he arrived in Maryland, to the quaint pink house my family was nestled in.

I could see the age and traces of grief in my grandpappy’s face, but most prominent was his endless love for life. You could see it in his smile lines, his wind-ruffled salt and pepper hair, his effervescent blue eyes. Although he had lost the love of his life he had found more to live for. He found the quiet, holy moments on the road where it was just him, the wheel, and whatever was playing on the radio. He came to savor those moments of just existing.

 My grandpappy fell under the category of embracing life—and he was much better off as a result.

High School Essay Contest – 3rd Place

Suture Your Future
By Ariana Miranda

I love needles. Their versatility is incredible. From creating vibrant designs out of piles of yarn to providing life-saving medical treatment, the power a simple metal rod holds is astounding.

Each needle I own represents a different phase in my life.

When I was 6, I was given two small pink knitting needles. During the summer my parents went to work so I stayed with my grandmother, Serafina; wherever she went I followed, and whatever she did I copied.

“¿Qué estás haciendo?”

( what are you doing?) I asked her

“Estoy tejiendo, ¿quieres que te enseñe?”

 (I am knitting. Do you want me to teach you?)

Knitting requires using two or more knitting needles working together to create something out of yarn. My grandmother held my hands in hers and showed me how to knit. While she was cooking dinner, I would sit on her stool, and start knitting, just like her. When I was first learning, I would constantly ask for guidance and be terrified of ruining our creation. Row by row, we completed them together.

After my grandmother left America, those needles became meaningful to me. Whenever I use them, I am reminded of our time together.  I remember the sound of metal rods constantly clicking against each other and the smell of her humintas—a Peruvian cornbread wrapped in corn husks—coming from the oven. It was truly perfect.

“Tengo dos agujas de tejer, uno para mi y uno para ti.”

(I have a pair of needles, one for you and one for me.)

Crochet needles and hypodermic needles are currently my most used needles. A crochet needle stands on its own, a singular tool used to create a diverse array of new things. I taught myself how to crochet during the global pandemic, when navigating a new and unknown normal, isolated from both friends and family. They have become a personal talisman of mine representing my growth and development from constantly depending on my family, especially my grandmother, to an independent teenager. Although a crochet needle isn’t alone, it’s independent and capable of creating so many things. While many people fear hypodermic needles, to me they represent healing and my future career path in the medical field. This powerful yet simple needle is used every day to save and protect lives, with vaccines, EpiPens, and more.

Suture needles are the needles that I strive to use in my future career. Only specially trained medical professionals can properly wield them. They literally put people back together with a needle while using incredible technique.

Needless to say, needles have constantly been a part of my life. They have been with me in the past, present, and hopefully the future. They have been a physical reminder of how I’ve developed as a person.

No matter the distance, I know my grandmother and I will always be connected through the needles she passed down to me, and as a first generation American, someday I will pass down needles of my own.

High School Essay Contest – Honorable Mention

Be Water, My Friend; But Also, Be Granite
By Winnie Chen

“Please remember what Bruce Lee said: ‘Be water, my friend!’”

At weekly flute lessons, my teacher often disapproved of my attempt to perform perfectly. Her philosophy was that to be a superb flautist, it’s essential to “flow” with elastic and ongoing motion. Yet the flute is also a highly responsive instrument that demands the opposite: control as intense as granite.

That paradoxical blend of water-like fluidity and granite-like solidity also applies to the creative realm. I’m both a classical and a jazz musician, and everything from cadenzas to improvisation requires a sophisticated mixture: of fluid spontaneity and interpretation combined with a solid base of knowledge and practice.

Playing a jazz riff, for example, demands solid knowledge of music theory so that I can invent magical sound creations that can develop in unexpected directions. Balancing those contradictory approaches of fluidity and solidity has been a challenge throughout my life.

In illustration, while growing up in Shanghai, I was a popular student who ate with different friend groups each lunchtime and always felt a relaxed sense of belonging: if my life then were a flute choir, it would be exceptionally harmonious.

However, when I moved to America just before high school, I slammed into a cultural granite wall. Indeed, while adjusting to my new school, I was so ashamed about my lack of belonging that I hid in the restroom for the entire lunch period, anguished day after day.

Therefore, my life felt like a staccato flute composition with lengthy and bewildering pauses. I was struggling to process no longer being the girl whom everyone knew and liked, but instead, a “Who is that?” Over time, though, I made many friends and attained a waterfall-like social life, but I still am processing differences between adolescence in America and in China.

Experiencing an intercontinental move had benefits, though. In the process of adjusting to a radically novel culture, I discovered my delight in making the most of any opportunity that flowed my way: eagerly navigating the challenging rapids of my new circumstances, rather than resisting them.

That’s why I began participating in parliamentary debate, where the topic is provided topic only on the day of tournaments. My impromptu speech skills transformed rapidly, and I’m proud that in just three years, I’ve morphed to someone who masters torrents of words: clearly articulating arguments, effectively refuting opponents’ points, and robustly affirming stances.

Lee’s advice about fluidity continues to serve me well in all aspects of life, yet he developed his thoughts further. He also claimed that water embodied the “very essence of gung fu” because no matter how fiercely he hit water, he couldn’t damage it. I’m determined to embody that contradictory position: fluid and open, yet concurrently so solid in my values that I cannot be harmed.

Consequently, my unique personal philosophy—after adjusting to life in a new country and thriving—is a twist on his guidance: “Be water, my friend; but also, be granite!”

High School Essay Contest – Honorable Mention

The Tarnish that Remains
By Joanne Fan

One day, I looked down and noticed the tarnish between the keys of my flute instead of its usual shiny luster. It seemed dull and lifeless. I can’t recall when it exactly happened, but this darkness continued to resurface relentlessly like an uninvited guest at my doorstep until I felt I had no choice but to let it in.

This darkness became my reality, and in this new familiarity, I found comfort. After coming home from school, I hurried to my bedroom windows, closing the white shutters that drooped lazily against slivers of scorching sunlight inching their way through. I collapsed on my bed, wishing to be forever held in the quiet embrace of my bedroom. Confined to my own little world of serene blue walls and childish clutter, I closed my eyes in an attempt to turn day into night.

As a highly sensitive person, I often feel deeply. Sometimes, it is as if I am being crushed by the weight of the world, the planets and the stars while I stand helplessly still as a statue. In my family, I feel so much like the odd one out that I entertain the thought of being adopted. While everyone else is driven and practical, I am idealistic and sentimental. I can shed tears over a line in a book, a song or someone sitting alone in a restaurant while my parents furrow their eyebrows in confusion.

The pandemic was one of my darkest times. But Wednesday nights as a flutist in my new youth orchestra changed everything. During rehearsals, our passion sometimes prevailed over our technique. My conductor called it a “beautiful problem,” his tone ever so optimistic. This phrase resonated in my mind, as even a positive adjective could be paired with a negative noun. Life isn’t simply black and white; we can choose how we perceive and react.

On the concert stage, I felt the sorrow, the joy, and the emotions in between. But here, they became my strength as I poured them into every note I played. Our passion radiated like a hundred hearts beating as one, and the music washed over me like a rainstorm after a year-long drought. The mouthpiece of my flute transformed into a mouthpiece for my soul. It grew into a vessel for all the words that go unspoken. Through music, not only could I heal myself, but I could also heal others.

My flute and I shone upon hospitals, senior homes, concert halls and classrooms in China. Laughter echoed across screens on Sunday mornings as I taught elementary schoolers, relishing conversations about cat allergies and Squishmallow collections while celebrating new fingerings mastered.

One day after practicing, I looked down at my flute. Again, I saw the spots of tarnish persistently nested between keys. I smiled. Like old friends, my flute and I have journeyed across brightly lit stages, towering concert halls and crowded warm-up rooms. Our scars don’t make us less beautiful; they brighten the joy that eventually comes after.

High School Essay Contest – Honorable Mention

Swimming
By Chelsea Zhu

Dedicated to father

The first time you take me swimming, I confuse your arms with a lifeboat. Believing I’m ready for the deep end, you let go and mistake my pleas for prophecy—you believe I’m born for the waves. Choking on chlorine, I try to scream your name. The weight of the water pushes my pulse out of my larynx. My body sinks. Seconds ago, you said, One day, this will be you—pointing to the swimmers wearing knee skins. Separated by a pool rope, I watch their freestyle kicks act like anchors. How they make these waters their cove of sanctuary. When you sign me up for swimming lessons, I swallow another wave whole—my stomach green.

***

During practice, I never complete the swim sets on time. Instead, I take turns with my friends to see how far we can swim down 13 feet. While I touch the bottom of the pool, the first time with my feet and the next time with my hand, I open my eyes. This is the first time I hear the ocean. Crescendos and decrescendos. For the first time, everything seems connected. Then, your face emerges in front of me. You shake your head, realizing the stroke you taught me to swim is my slowest. When I rise to the surface, I see the divers practicing their somersaults and twists. This pattern of jumping so high and hovering in the air in the tiniest moment—only to fall back into the water again.

***

If only I knew my skin would become a stranger to the pool.

***

It was all my fault. Please forgive me. Please remember all I want is to stop the water from digging into my body—too sore to climb out after all these meters. I forget about the evening swims—us two finding peace in the electric blue. You swim butterfly while I drift on my back, the sky shining over us. No matter how much I love drowning into the tune of the crickets and your lyrical splashes, I tell you I never want to swim again when you enter my room. This is when I burst out of the ocean, leaving my body behind—and you, engulfed in algae bloom.

***

I didn’t understand how I was not racing against other swimmers—but racing for a memory with you. Stuck in between two colliding waves, I’m castaway from your dreams.

***

Throughout the years, I remember you saying there are many concepts you can’t explain, you don’t know, and I think it is still beautiful if the oysters we find don’t have pearls inside them. The Earth becomes more forgiving when we find reassurance in the rock bottom. When we know that we can survive in the deep sea. I will swim back to where I left you. Today, I’m still waiting to discover what lies in these waters.

For more information on the Local Writer’s Showcase, please visit https://www.bethesda.org/bethesda/localwriters