Hoarding Ivy Huang I am known to many as a hoarder. At dinners, aunts and uncles would always tease about the stockpile of food I had gathered on my plate. At home, my mom always nagged about the piles of books and pens I refused to put away. My fifth-grade desk was infamous for its seemingly miscellaneous isle of garbage. I was obsessed with preserving the world around me. I just couldn’t throw away the pieces of myself.
My family moved around a lot. I was born at a hospital in Brooklyn, but my parents sent me and my younger brother to live with my aunt in China because they were not financially prepared to raise us yet. Shortly after, my brother and I moved back to New York with my aunt. Today, I can only vaguely recall my time in the Fuzhou village. It was a part of me that only appeared in the form of a mist, and quickly disappeared as soon as I tried to chase it. All I can recall are the sword fights with the other village children, and running across busy streets with cars racing by. Everything else I know comes from stories my cousins and aunts tell. They told me of the time my brother and I had to flee to a family friend’s house because robbers with guns had come in the middle of the night. I have no recollection of this event to this day. I beat myself up for not remembering. I tried mourning the loss of these memories, but it is hard to say goodbye to someone you’ve never met. When my parents finally raised enough money to support us, we moved with them to Mississippi. We then moved to Colorado, and then back to New York. Everything was a blur. I had no friends, but that didn’t matter because nothing seemed to last. I discovered my love for writing when I was in seventh grade. My English teacher had assigned us a realistic fiction assignment. For once, I didn’t have to write a personal narrative about memories I could not access. The assignment allowed me to deviate from my chaotic life. I wrote about a girl named Stephanie Peralta, who’s super smart and goes to Stuyvesant and eventually gets into Harvard. I was unaware at the time, but Stephanie Peralta is not entirely different from me. Even though she is everything I am not (besides the Stuy part), she is a figment of my dreams and memories. I wanted to be smart, and as a seventh-grader preparing for the SHSAT, I wanted to get into Stuyvesant High School. I named my character Stephanie after a tutor I looked up to, who also went to Harvard. After this realization, I became infatuated with literature and writing. It was a way I could resurrect my lost memories into being. I began reading books like The Stranger, Hard Times, The Great Gatsby, Lord of the Flies, and Blood Meridian. When diving into this literary journey, I discovered the power writers had. The images they paint, and the techniques they use can elicit certain feelings and ideas. For the first time, I was in control. And this time, no one can throw away the memories I could hoard within paper and ink. While writing wasn’t a part of my identity growing up, it has certainly become a part of who I am today. One of the many reasons to write fiction, as C.S. Lewis says, is to let ideas “steal past those watchful dragons” that guard our hearts. For me, it is a way to reconstruct memories I had lost, and chase away the demons that have lived in my mind rent-free. I could store anything I wanted in paper and ink; they were the vessels that safely stored my memories. Some call me a hoarder; I consider myself a writer.
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A Truth Universally Acknowledged Ivy Huang It is a truth universally acknowledged that every youngling at the prestigious Stuyvesant High School should strive for success (Austen, 1).
“Now, what I want is Success. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Success. Plant nothing else and root out everything else (Dickens, 1).1 There are only two types of people in the world: winners and losers. Winners are those who have achieved the sole purpose of life: getting into an Ivy League. The latter, sadly, fail to meet such standards and go on to live happy lives. Many of us are aware of the substance known as ... Happiness. My colleagues and teachers alike, have all witnessed the dangerous toll Happiness can have on children. As educators, it is our duty to protect our students from this toxic mixture of dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin, and endorphins in their brains.” The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a school conference room, and the speaker’s square forefinger emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on the bare chalkboard (Dickens, 1). The crowd of teachers erupted in cheers at Mr. Strangledchild’s words. One teacher was shaking in her boots as she recalled how one year, Happiness caused many of her students to pursue their dreams and worst of all: live life carefree. Smiling squarely at the applause, the speaker continued, “Raise these children with the fundamental values of Obedience, Obedience, and Obedience. Stress the importance of practical occupations. Doctors, lawyers, engineers, and accountants are all respectable positions. Discourage preposterous ‘jobs’ like that of a so-called ‘singer’, ‘writer’, ‘artist’ and even worse... an ‘actor’. Drill these thoughts into their malleable minds. Pour your spirits into their ears and when they’re finally ready for harvest— I mean graduation —they can be winners.” “At Stuyvesant, we want nothing but Success, sir; nothing but Success!” Another teacher had stood up out of the crowd of oversized tunics and mahogany sweaters. The rest slowly followed, slumping out of the plain gray conference-room chairs as their claps joined the cadence of the speaker’s wristwatch. At exactly eleven o’clock three Seniors descended to the lunchroom for a nutritious school lunch meal consisting of a pale banana and leftover cheese melted half-way on a dry hot dog bun. 98.5 did not mind the stench of the cheese, as she was more concerned with 94, their subpar peer. They2 were pronounced to be a very bad student indeed, a mixture of substandard indifference and mediocrity; they had no prospect whatsoever, no notable talent, no taste, no accomplishment. 97.15 thought the same, and added, “They have nothing, in short, to recommend them, but being an extraordinarily healthy person. I shall never forget their appearance this morning. No eye-bags, can you believe? They really looked almost wild” (Austen, 89). “They did, 97.15. They did, indeed. Very nonsensical to come at all! Last week, I heard they get more than three hours of sleep, nightly! I could hardly keep my countenance.” (Austen, 89) “Yes, and their smile; I hope you saw their smile this morning! Their smile was so wide and their composure was so lively, I am absolutely certain she has been infected with Happiness.” “No way,” gasped 96.3; “but I thought 94 got into Cornell, did they not? My mother told me it is impossible for Ivy Leaguers to catch Happiness.” “Oh please, Cornell is barely an Ivy League.” The trio’s chuckles were interrupted by a sudden appearance of 94 in the distance. To the surprise and horror of both 97.15 and 96.3, 98.5 makes a gesture towards 94, ushering them over. 1 This is from Charles Dickens’ novel Hard Times which takes place during the industrial revolution in England and satirizes economic conditions at the time as well as the education system. 2 94 is non-binary |
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