Essay Excerpt:
Stowe on Racial Issues
In “Politics and the English Language,” George Orwell uses his essay to stress the importance of using English in a way the everyday person can understand. He pushes for the egalitarian usage of the English language and urges for its preservation from becoming a lazy language or an unnecessary over-sophistication language. Orwell believes the English language should not be defiled in any way and should be used with dignity and appropriately. He makes three points in defense of English: to get rid of clutter in the language, to speak clearly, and to avoid aged metaphors. Orwell makes a solid argument, and perhaps it is something that not many scholars and people have taken seriously over the past eight decades. People still use clutter in their speech, writing, and thoughts. People still do not speak clearly in their speech, writing, and thoughts and use overused metaphors. There are other ways to interpret and apply Orwell’s essay, such as using his principles in creative writing and as an academic tool. The essay may have been inspired by Orwell’s difficult beginnings as an author. At the bare minimum, and no matter what the topic, Orwell believes that people should use English to speak clearly enough for all to understand complex ideas. He also believes that one should do that if there is a way to say something in plain English rather than other languages.
Orwell argues that the English language is subject to deterioration and decay when there are political and economic factors rather than due to writers' poor language usage. “Now it is clear that the decline of a language must ultimately have political and economic causes: it is not due simply to the bad influence of this or that individual writer.” (Orwell 740). When the leadership of a government uses overused and out-of-touch phrasing and words, people become confused and do not truly understand what is being said. Politicians use phrases and concepts that people in their circles understand but the general public does not. In “Teaching Argument and the Rhetoric of Orwell’s “Politics and the English Language,” George Trail argues:
The applications of what Orwell is saying in this essay go far beyond what is conventionally thought of as "political writing." But my point in discussing this essay is not so much to ask for a conscious and critical response to primarily "political writing" as it is to ask for "active" analysis of argumentative writing in general, especially as concerns vagueness and exhausted idioms. (Trail 781)
This is similar to what Horace had to say about using extra “fluff” in the epics, “When weighty works professing greatness are under way, one or two patches are stitched in to give them far-seen brilliance,” (Horace 134). Orwell uses a similar ideology to the broader English language. It becomes unnecessarily complicated when extra diction is used in speech, writing, and thoughts.
Orwell argues that it is a habit for people to think so complexly that it becomes foolish and ugly in modern English. “If one gets rid of these habits, one can think more clearly, and to think more clearly is a necessary first step towards political regeneration: so that the fight against bad English is not frivolous and is not the exclusive concern of professional writers.” (Orwell, 741).
He believes that English should not use these sophisticated and pretentious words, but people should also use imagery and precision to get an idea across. To use precision means that they need to delicately and purposefully choose words that have meaning to people. They cannot stumble on fancy words that mean nothing to the general population. “Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.” (Orwell 749). Orwell ultimately argues that one must put thought and consideration into word choices, especially when it concerns the everyday English speaker. This problem can be resolved by teaching people the importance of editing and word choices. If instructors can invest time in teaching their students how to trim down and replace words, the English language can be used more efficiently, especially regarding communication. John Rodden believes that some of the essay’s points will not benefit beginning college students because they might not comprehend the points that Orwell makes, as Rodden would rather cut out big words for smaller and common word choices, “Orwell’s apparently casual, conversational style projected a plain-man populism that enabled an intellectual to speak as a common man. It is a writing strategy that demands consummate mastery of the language” (Rodden 609). People must be educated and informed to the best of their abilities, and it is difficult to do that when people do not understand what is being said.
This is not an issue only in politics, as complex or foreign terms are used in professional, academic, or religious settings. Using long, sophisticated words and Latin or Greek-rooted words shows that people cannot find ways to express their statements clearly. This may accidentally cause people to misinterpret their ideas to mean something they did not mean. “The writer either has a meaning and cannot express it, or he inadvertently says something else, or he is almost indifferent as to whether his words mean anything or not” (Orwell 742). Orwell thinks those who use sophisticated and pretentious words unnecessarily fail to explain their ideas. “Pretentious diction. Words like phenomenon, element, individual (as a noun) […] are used to dress up simple statements and give an air of scientific impartiality to biased judgments.” (Orwell 743). This makes the English language cluttered, and in a way, it makes the speaker or writer lazy as they do not try to simplify their statements into simple and cohesive statements. Using Latin or Greek, Orwell argues, does not make English any more inferior and does not make Latin or Greek superior languages.
Except for the useful abbreviations i.e., e.g. and etc., there is no real need for any of the hundreds of foreign phrases now current in English. Bad writers, and especially scientific, political, and sociological writers, are nearly always haunted by the notion that Latin or Greek words are grander than Saxon ones, (Orwell 743).
Sure, sometimes meaning gets lost in translation, but if people use phrases like “cogito, ergo sum” only to translate it right away to “I think, therefore I am,” to the average English speaker, it becomes pretty pointless to use the original language. “On the other hand, it is not concerned with fake simplicity and the attempt to make written English colloquial” (Orwell 748). This is what Orwell argues. Still, he cautions readers to be aware not to make English a “colloquial” language or slang. Things cannot be oversimplified, so they end up losing their meaning.
Essay Excerpt:
Orwell vs. Fancy Talk
Fiction Excerpt: "When Extremes End"
Dystopian Short Fiction
I did it…
It’s done. I blew it all up.
Hrmph.
I can’t feel anything. Am I dead? Am I in hell? The sky here… It’s just a layer of smoke. Black. Thick.
The smell of rotten eggs… no… burning tires… whatever it is… It’s not sulfur. It’s stinging the back of my nose like a million bees constantly stabbing me with their little stingers. It just smells like manmade crap here. All I hear is ringing, not fire crackling.
Okay… let me try to at least… move my finger. Just a little twiddle. I can overcome this… gravity… God… gravity is much heavier in hell.
I cannot tell if this is hell, or if destroying the Technotown is causing this… hellish sky. I can see a faint red glow in the general direction of the smoke. There’s no breeze. The sun I’ve known all my life is either above that supercell of smoke, or I really am dead. I’m dead, I have to be. My spirit is still attached to my body… It’s why I can’t rise.
Did I kill him? God, hell might be worth it if I know he’s down here with me. Or maybe all the workers’ deaths will be worth it, once God sees I saved the last of Lake Tahoe.
I… I don’t feel guilty… I think. Those AI datacenters… those damn Technotowns… had to go. Those workers were part of the problem. There has to be some reward for what I did. Or maybe my spirit will cease to exist soon enough. Maybe the reward will be that the movement against Technotowns will finally begin. Thousands… no millions… will be inspired.
They’ll undo everything he did with his company.
Nature will thrive once more.
A world without him… the devil himself.
There was a time when we lived in a shoebox of a crappy one-room apartment with peeled-off wallpaper with dirty edges. We lived next to another apartment complex, concrete, eclipsing our entire view from the only window we had. The fridge was barely functional, panting electrical hums, and the whiteness of it had become stained with dust, oil stains, and, in the middle of the door, eviction notices.
I was about seven years old, playing with little Hot Wheels cars with two broken off wheels and faded paint in the middle of the room.
“Dad, will you take me to the park? I’m bored!”
My father, his hairline receding, and dark circles under his eyes, shot a glare deep into my soul. He had a dingy, run-down laptop from his college days as a computer science major. He spent days scrolling through endless online job boards.
“The park? Seriously Walden? Why didn’t you ask earlier? I don’t have money for the bus fare, and it’s four o’clock! I don’t wanna walk back in the dark!”
“But, Dad, this place is so boring! I wanna go!”
He walked to me and kneeled at my eye level. His eyes were blood red.
“I promise you, I’ll take you tomorrow. I really need to keep looking for work!”
“This sucks! You suck! This place sucks!” I said as I began whining and stomping my foot on the floor.
He shrugged.
“One day, you’ll see how hard it is… but hopefully you’ll know how hard I am trying for the two of us…”
I didn’t really care what he had to say. I just stood there with my scrunched-up face, pouty lips, and crossed arms.
“You still suck!” I let out one last insult.
He turned his back on me and took a deep breath. “One day, you’ll count yourself lucky…”
Ha.
One day it will be hard, he said. If only I had known he’d be the one responsible for making times hard, I would’ve smashed up that damn laptop and thrown a tantrum, regardless of my age.
The ringing is going away now. Where is that bubbling coming from? Is it the remnants of the lake? Is it the water that cooled the AI servers?
Maybe by some miracle of God, I’m still alive. I wish I could stand and look at the destruction. I’m starting to feel numb, which beats feeling nothing. Whatever is beneath me, it must be soft. It’s penetrating my skin. Maybe it’s dirt. Or grass.
I can finally shift my fingers and my toes. I can’t move my head. I’m still glued to the ground. If I’m alive, I’m probably paralyzed for good. But how can I still move parts of my body?
The sky is starting to break through the smoke. A stroke of an evening orange sky is leaking into my view… like one of my mother Gaia’s paintings. I miss her amazing scenes of forest fires and glaciers. The contrast always fascinated her. Destructive fire led to regrowth, and ice trapped things until they thawed, preventing life from continuing. I can’t believe he sold her paintings for a few bucks.
The summer before I started college, the devil reached out to him. I didn’t realize it was Lucifer himself at first. I never realized that what people said about him was true. He disguised himself as an angel, entering with a blessing.
“You might not need those student loans after all, Walden,” Dad said.
“Why not? I really wanna go to USC.”
“I didn’t want to say anything, but remember how a few weeks ago, I told you I took an extra shift at the gas station?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I had an interview with this man I met at the diner during my lunch shift. He was on the phone, and I overheard him say he wanted to invest in AI.”
I remembered feeling unsure when he said that, but I didn’t say anything. I actually believed there’d be no harm. I didn’t want to be negative. For once, I saw a spark in his eyes. Like all those years of working three jobs were about to be a thing of the past.
“Walden! He wants to see what I can do with AI. So, I’ve been doing research and playing with coding and development for the last few weeks. I think it’s looking good!”
He couldn’t contain his joy. He was like a little boy excited to show his parents a good grade on a project.
“I’m happy for you, Dad. I will still apply for those loans just in case,” I said, as I submitted my online financial aid form.
He simply nodded in agreement, but it seemed like he had been paying half attention. He gazed out the window, looking at our neighboring complex, only because it was there in his general direction. His thoughts were elsewhere. A smirk crept onto his face.
“We’ll be fine, son. More than fine. You’ll see.”
He said we’d be fine. But here I am. Tearing it down.
My body is shivering. I feel a draft up my legs. I’m feeling a warm breeze massage my head. It’s not coursing through my hair. I’m finally able to arch my legs. Did the explosion burn off everything on my body?
I’m alive. I know this now. This isn’t over.
But is he alive? I need to know…
~End of Excerpt~
ABOUT ME
Katniss Everdeen, the heroine of Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games, grows up in an impoverished area known as District 12, which is responsible for mining and producing coal for the authoritarian Capitol of Panem. The Capitol holds an iron grip on twelve districts, forcing each district to produce different goods against their will. Katniss grows up under this oppressive system instilled by the government, and she is surrounded by miserable people who work for the government but never for their own gain. Katniss lives in a society that reflects the ideas that Karl Marx articulates in his Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844. Suzanne Collins’ depiction of Katniss defies and challenges the Capitol, which devalues the lives around her. She accomplishes this by taking advantage of the Capitol’s culture. She achieves this through her awareness of how they constantly surveil the tributes for the Hunger Games and how she manipulates this surveillance to turn it against them. Katniss also challenges the system by living by her rules to protect those she cares about. This caretaking side of Katniss does not contradict her role as a political revolutionary, but it is why she takes a stand against the Capitol. She defies Panem and Marxist expectations by being empowered by an oppressive society rather than alienated.
The Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844 by Karl Marx is a theory that critiques capitalism and capitalist economies due to the way they impact the people or workers. Marx states that workers are viewed as commodities by their capitalist employers due to the competitive nature of capitalism (Marx 656). He further argues that workers become poorer and a “cheaper commodity” as they produce more products and goods. As they continue to work, they become bonded to their work, gradually dehumanizing them (Marx 657). Marx claims that the worker eventually loses sight of reality and begins to starve (657). The greater the labor is, the less valuable the worker is seen by their employers. The worker produces “palaces” for the employers while they live in “hovels” (Marx 658). This is evident in the lives of the people of District 12.
Marx argues that the more people work, the more their labor becomes external, which does not satisfy the soul, eventually denying the self and unhappiness. Physical labor drains the workers and can physically and mentally ruin them (Marx 659). Marx states that the workers only regain a sense of their humanity at home but are alienated at work. Marx points out that because of this, work is forced, not voluntary (659). To him, in a capitalist economy, the enslavement to external labor, that is, labor done for a quota and not for a personal sense of accomplishment, leads to self-alienation and a lack of self-care because the fruit of their labor belongs not to the worker but “to another” (659). Marx then inserts a belief that “what is animal becomes human and what is human becomes animal” (659). Marx closes his manuscript by asserting that capitalism can potentially deprive the everyday person of their sense of humanity.
In his study on “Alienation” in his book Hegel and Marx Economics and Democracies, Timothy Luther explains that the theory of alienation is the “devastating effect of capitalism on humans” (115). He discusses how Marx believes that capitalism leads to humanity becoming “devoid of spontaneity,” “joy,” and become “depersonalized” (105). Luther further explains that in the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, Marx argues that workers are “alienated” from the “objects of their work and that the products they produce do not belong to the worker but the employers” (116). Luther argues that people become alienated due to the wages they earn. He explains that Marx believed that workers had nothing to offer besides their labor, and they had to do it to survive in a capitalist system (117). Additionally, Luther points out that workers are made to compete with one another for a limited amount of jobs available (117). Moreover, he states that Marx views humanity more like animals in a Capitalist society and claims that “alienation is dehumanization” (118). Luther explains that in Marxist theory, capitalists are alienated as they either have to “maximize profits or get out” (119). Capitalists also risk being put out of business and losing their wages. Capitalism has its risks for both employers and workers, which could affect a country and its society.
Shumaila Noreen’s “The World Will Be Watching: The Panoptic Nature of Reality Television in Young Adult Fiction” is a compelling research essay investigating the Marxist model in The Hunger Games. She provides detailed information on Marx’s critique of capitalism and its effects on a country. She explains that Marxist ideology tends to highlight, if not expose, tyranny and oppression in capitalist societies. Marxist ideology discusses the workers getting paid poorly for their labor no matter how significant or jobs may be. Workers are not treated as humans but as “commodities” that can be “sold like property” (86). This is present throughout The Hunger Games. The people of Panem are expendable to the Capitol, but this affects not only working adults but children, too. Each year, each district is expected to offer one female and one male between the ages of twelve and eighteen to compete in the Hunger Games. It is arguable that the Capitol and its citizens almost expect and anticipate children to be sacrificed for entertainment.
I'm Jonathan, but sometimes I go by Jonni. I am autistic and was diagnosed at a young age. Writing became a way for me not just to communicate but also to express my feelings and thoughts. I majored in English and minored in Creative Writing for my undergrad and am currently pursuing my Master's in English Literature. My dream is to be a novelist and comic book author. I pursued my Bachelor of Arts degree in English with the goal of further enhancing my writing talent and focused a lot on how to make different topics accessible to everyone. I also wanted to write engaging and interesting fiction stories and poetry. This portfolio contains some of my best and/or favorite writings from my time at California Baptist University, as well as links to official publications.
This poster sums up the key points from my Capstone research paper. Presented March 2025 at the California Baptist University Arts and Letter Symposium.
Fiction Excerpt:
"Stuck in the Past"
Sci-Fi Fiction Story
Harriet Beecher Stowe uses Uncle Tom’s Cabin to highlight and address various racial issues during her time. The main issue she addresses is slavery and how slaveowners of her time abused slaves and viewed slaves as nonhuman. In the novel, she comments on the institution of slavery by providing a general idea of her stance on slavery and occasionally directly calling out to her original audience. She connects to Christians since her audience was southerners which may have been religious, by her characters’ view of Christianity and how it impacted them. Stowe then shows the family dynamics of slaves and how the slave institution affects slaves by putting them in dire situations. She also shows the relationship between slave owners and their slaves by exploring the symbolism between white and black characters. She then depicts the slave abuse and the possible causes for a slave to run away. Despite being an anti-slavery novel, Uncle Tom’s Cabin has shown to be a product of its time, as its racial themes appear outdated to the 21st-century reader. Yet, Stowe manages to tackle important ideas and beliefs of her time again, in support of slavery abolition, by showing the daily hardships of slaves.
Harriet Beecher Stowe’s view on slavery and race is interesting, as she appears to support and care for slavery abolition. While her stance encourages her audience to stand with her in support of the freedom of slaves, she still depicts slaves based on their misconceptions of them during her time. One point that Josephine Donovan makes is that because of her father’s teachings, Stowe viewed Africans as a “feminine” race compared to “Anglo-Saxons,” which was viewed as a “masculine” race. Harriet Beecher Stowe, immersed from birth in orthodox Christianity (both her father and her husband were theologians) would probably have resisted the more heterodoxic aspects of Swedenborg’s theology. However, she clearly picked up his views about Africans, in particular his idea of them as feminine, as opposed to the masculine “Anglo-Saxons.” (Donovan 26). Stowe uses methods of calling out the audience of her time to provide her stance on the slave institution and their misconception of black people.
Stowe poses rhetoric to slaveowners to feel ashamed for owning slaves. In one instance in the novel, she calls out to her audience when a slave woman’s son is about to be traded. “If it were your Harry, mother, or your Willie, that were going to be torn from you by a brutal trader, to-morrow morning,– if you had only from twelve o’clock till morning to make good your escape,– how fast could you walk?” (Stowe, 92). She questions her audience and makes them ponder this scenario, possibly to get them to realize that these realities happen to slaves regularly. She calls out slave traders, specifically those who do business with them. “But who, sir, makes the trader? Who is most to blame? The enlightened, cultivated, intelligent man, who supports the system of which the trader is the inevitable result, or the poor trader himself?” (244). Her phrasing of the white trader being “enlightened,” “cultivated,” and “intelligent” is somewhat problematic. It suggests that she still views the white people of her time as superior to enslaved black people.
Stowe is still limited in some ways to the ideologies of her time by suggesting the “enlightened” and “cultivated” attributes of white people during her time. It is an unfair judgment and view of black slaves, given that they were systematically oppressed – that is, to the 21st-century reader. Despite Stowe’s intention to support enslaved black people, Thomas Graham believes otherwise when responding to J. C. Furness’ Goodbye to Uncle Tom, whom himself is responding to Stowe. He states, “Such a reply is needed because the disparaging tone of Furness’ critique does an injustice to Mrs. Stowe by underestimating her humanitarian concern and by misrepresenting the intellectual basis of her attitudes towards the Negro and slavery.” (Graham, 614). Graham also believes that Stowe was held back by the beliefs of her time on enslaved black people. “That Harriet Beecher Stowe shared many of the misconceptions about race common in her lifetime could hardly have been otherwise.” (614). Although her conceptions and beliefs about black people are inaccurate in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, she was still attempting to end these misconceptions with the novel, also noted by Graham. “Instances of her attempts to break through this barrier of insensitivity occur in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” (615). Regardless of her perception of slaves, she tries to get her audience to view them as people, not as merchandise or anything less human. She uses her novel to convey human emotion in these enslaved characters to help her reader understand that their slaves are humans.
Stowe also uses religion, specifically Christianity, to connect to her audience, who may have been mostly Christians in the South. Characters, both slaveowners and slaves, in her novel are Christian and hold Christian views, and she occasionally uses Christianity to call out her audience. She also has Uncle Tom depicted as a devout Christian, and on a few occasions, Tom tries to spread the Gospel to other slaves. There is a particular moment when an enslaved woman called Cassy comes to treat Tom’s wounds after being beaten. In this instance, Cassy tells Tom not to bother calling on the Lord. “There’s no use calling on the Lord,– he never hears,” said the woman, steadily, “there isn’t any God, I believe; or, if there is, he’s taken sides against.” (Stowe 664). Cassy continues to speak against God and the belief, but Tom rebuts her and continues to put his faith in God. “I’ve lost everything in this world, and it’s clean gone, forever,– and now I can’t lose Heaven, too; no, I can’t get to be wicked, besides all!” (666). Stowe may be showing her audience that Christianity looks the same to all who believe and follow Christ, even the slaves, and that they are unwilling to give up their devotion to Christ against those who think negatively about it.
Arthur Riss believes that Stowe may have believed that Black slaves held a likeness and a spiritual lure to the faith. He believes that she uses Christianity to gain sympathy from white readers. He writes, “This racialist claim about the African’s instinct for Christianity is clearly a powerful strategy to secure white sympathy for the Negro slave.” (Riss 519). Though Stowe may be using this tactic to convince readers that the enslaved Christian should not be viewed as anything less than human, this may fail to appeal to white Southerners in the way she intends. Riss argues, "If Stowe maintained that the surroundings wholly constituted a slave’s character, Southerners could then invoke her positive characterization of Tom to prove that slavery benefitted the African.” (519). This may have been grounds for justification for slavery, even though that may not have been Stowe’s intention. Riss continues, “Southern apologists for slavery, in fact, commonly insisted that the novel in general, and Tom in particular, provided proof of their contention that slavery was a “positive good” for the African.” (519-20). Though this appears to be a double-edged sword, Stowe still manages to depict the importance of Tom’s faith in Christianity.
Luca didn’t want to get out of bed for dinner. He had streaks of dried tears on his face, and his eyes were bloodshot and swollen from crying. He had been listening to music through his headphones, staring at the ceiling, since he got home from school. But it was six o’clock, and dinnertime had arrived. His mom was likely on her way to ask him to come downstairs. He stood up after a deep breath, then went to the bathroom to splash water on his face.
The cool glass of the mirror chilled Luca's fingertips as he stared at his reflection, his own gaze intense as he peered deep into his eyes. His eyes, once a fiery red, gradually lost their color, leaving a gentle pinkish tint before regaining their original white. He shrugged his shoulders, the quiet creak of the old wooden stairs echoing beneath his feet as he made his way to the dinner table.
They won’t even ask what’s wrong.
As he walked into the dining room, he sat beside his little sister, Gloria, with his parents across from them. Chicken parmesan, its golden-brown crust crisp, and a mountain of pasta were placed before him by his mom. Luca’s eyes lit up with wonder, and his mouth watered. He started eating. It was his favorite meal.
“So, Luca,” His mom said. Luca stopped eating and looked at his mom.
Is she actually going to ask me something?
“You won’t believe what Gloria did today at school,” she said.
Disappointment etched itself onto Luca’s face as he lowered his head, the silence punctuated only by the clinking of his fork against his plate. A half-chewed piece of chicken sat in his mouth as he finally asked, with a shrug, "What did she do?”
“She drew a very lovely painting of the family and our house! I’ll show you after dinner!” She said.
“Wow,” He murmured.
“Yeah, it was very colorful, and she painted smiles on all of us! It was crazy since you never smile!” His dad said, chuckling briefly after.
“I’m sure she did,” Luca said, trying to sound remotely interested.
“Her teacher also said she was one of the best dancers today during their dance time!” His mom said.
Ignoring the celebratory chatter around his sister, Luca found the delicious dinner a stark contrast to his bitterness, eating quickly so he could return to his quiet room. He'd heard it all before—the daily, hyperbolic accounts of Gloria's supposedly amazing school day, each one more unbelievable than the last, leaving him utterly unimpressed. His desperation to leave mounted with every bite, each mouthful swallowed quickly, a frantic attempt to be free of the suffocating room.
Maybe I should remind them about my honor roll ceremony tomorrow so they can shut up about Gloria already.
“Oh, Luca, I think I’m going to pull you out of school early tomorrow,” His mom said.
“What? How come?” He asked.
“Tomorrow is Gloria’s dance recital at school! You must come!”
“I can’t!” He said, slightly raising his voice.
“¿Y por qué no, chamaco?” His dad asked.
“I can’t believe you forgot! Tomorrow’s my ceremony! I’m the only student with a four-point-five GPA! I’ve been telling you for weeks!” Luca yelled.
“You have? I’m sorry, m’hijo. We must have forgotten,” His mom said.
“Well, what time is Gloria’s recital?” He asked.
“Nine-thirty,” His dad said.
“But my ceremony is also at nine-thirty, and you said you would come,” Luca said as he shook his leg nervously. He played with his fingers to shake off his nerves.
“We’re sorry, we really did forget. Maybe next time,” His dad apologized.
“You always say that! What if one of you went to my ceremony and the other went to Gloria’s recital?” Luca proposed desperately.
“I don’t know. We already told Gloria’s teacher we would both be there, and I think Gloria needs us there. C’mon, you understand. She does not,” his dad said.
Luca once again lowered his head and felt his heart drop to his stomach. He didn’t want to look up at his parents again, but he glanced at his sister briefly and felt a little disgusted. She had sauce all over her mouth and chin.
“I understand,” he said softly. He put his knife and fork down and stood up. He hadn’t finished his meal.
“Aren’t you going to finish that?” His mom asked.
“No, I’m full. Thanks,” he said as he went back to his bedroom.
Luca closed the door behind him, grabbed his biology textbook, studied at his desk for the next couple of hours, and eventually went to bed around midnight.
Poetry
"Do You Still Remember Me?"
Hey, do you still remember me?
How’s your life going?
Sometimes your memory comes up,
And I dunno… I miss you, I miss us
I miss playing Wii games,
Seeing who could jump
the highest on my trampoline,
deep diving into the swimming pool
Running around your block
to see who’d get the most candy
on Halloween
You were my first friend
Not just in life, but in a new town
You were my first sleepover
My first fight, my first play date
The first person I could connect with
Even though our youth meant we had no experience,
Like we both have now.
It was the only time I ever felt “normal.”
I just graduated college
I’m sure you graduated years ago
But I don’t know.
Maybe you’re married, a kid or two.
Me? I never quite got my life together like that
But whatever you’re doing, I hope you’re happy
I’m writing a story about us -
Only we’re superheroes
Just like how we used to pretend when we were kids
Running around the playground at school -
So I probably remember and think about you
More than you do me…
I’m sure I’m just some buried memory.
And that’s okay.
It’s probably because you’re doing great.
I hope you’re doing good.
I keep digging up the past because for me, life is…
Yeah….
Seriously.
I hope you’re doing great.
“The Creek at Night”
Ah, how calming is the sound of the creek at night
How majestic and sonorous are the croaks of frogs that unite
Singing harmoniously with crickets under moonlight
A night after clouds and rain blocked sunlight
Soft splashes of frogs bathing in watery delight
Crickets pausing each splash, leaving some in fright
Peacefully enjoying the creek at night
Believing nothing else is in sight
Except the window meters away, listening to the creek sing overnight
"Grief & Uno"
I can grieve the life I never had:
The countless parties I never went to
Talking all night with the boys
Over a cold one, vibing to rap
And the air scented like carne asada
Lovers I never fell in love with
And all the feelings that come with love
Warm bubbling feelings —
Electric kisses on the lips and deep gazes
Or running wildly through parking lots
Rolling down green hills and watching the night sky
Talking about how beautiful life is —
The whole cliché —
Friends you see every weekend
Driving to the mall or In-N-Out on a whim
Planning a life-changing vacation
Driving to my boy’s house to play games
Till midnight or beyond
Ordering a late-night pizza
And raging at uno.
I can grieve the life I never had
As much as I can grieve the life I did have:
The countless days of dancing and singing alone in my room
Wondering if old friends still occasionally smile at my memory —
Like I do —
Driving alone to parking lots to leave my room
Smelling cheap fast food
Dreaming about my perfect romance
Struggling to say hello
A pit in my stomach every time I speak
Fearing I did everything wrong
Driving back home to lie down on my bed
Till midnight and beyond
Reading and writing stories
Just to escape a night of
Grieving at being uno.
"Break a Leg"
Don’t be afraid, theater kid,
Life’s just an everlasting play
We’re all pretending to be something we’re not
For praise, for money, for passion
When the curtains open, theater kid,
Don’t forget, you’re not the star of the show
You’re just an extra no one will remember
Make room for the star of the show
He’ll put you in your place
Oh, he’ll humble you,
You’ll never be as good as him
You’ll run up to him and idolize him
It’s your role - it’s your purpose
So get out there, say your lines
Then step out of the spotlight
It was never your moment, but your parents are still proud
At least you’re following your dreams
That’s what you want to be, right?
You wanna be the star someday
So break a leg.
This poster sums up the key points from my Capstone research paper. Presented March 2025 at the California Baptist University Arts and Letter Symposium.
"Do You Still Remember Me?"
Hey, do you still remember me?
How’s your life going?
Sometimes your memory comes up,
And I dunno… I miss you, I miss us
I miss playing Wii games,
Seeing who could jump
the highest on my trampoline,
deep diving into the swimming pool
Running around your block
to see who’d get the most candy
on Halloween
You were my first friend
Not just in life, but in a new town
You were my first sleepover
My first fight, my first play date
The first person I could connect with
Even though our youth meant we had no experience,
Like we both have now.
It was the only time I ever felt “normal.”
I just graduated college
I’m sure you graduated years ago
But I don’t know.
Maybe you’re married, a kid or two.
Me? I never quite got my life together like that
But whatever you’re doing, I hope you’re happy
I’m writing a story about us -
Only we’re superheroes
Just like how we used to pretend when we were kids
Running around the playground at school -
So I probably remember and think about you
More than you do me…
I’m sure I’m just some buried memory.
And that’s okay.
It’s probably because you’re doing great.
I hope you’re doing good.
I keep digging up the past because for me, life is…
Yeah….
Seriously.
I hope you’re doing great.
"Song of Myself"
Somewhere in my dreams:
I’m standing outside the Kearney Drive house,
It looks gentrified…
Is it still haunted by that shadow?
One long tour, and I see an unfamiliar home…
Endless halls and white walls:
Vacant picture frames,
Toys scattered across the living room,
Two little boys playing out on the trampoline,
Then I see myself playing in the bathtub;
My parents finally arrive,
With my sisters, they are little girls.
Next thing I know,
I’m riding around Kearney Drive,
All the trees have been chopped down:
I see all the kids riding their bikes,
Down the asphalt hill,
And I’m watching myself trying to catch up to them,
It’s funny, they look like people I hadn’t met,
They’re chasing something amazing
but I can’t keep up.
Then I’m a bit grown up,
Ruddy’s in my old Honda Accord,
We’re at some unknown park,
Talking out our grievances,
But we’re not angry at each other,
I feel at peace when I forgive him,
Then I see the orange sunset,
Next thing I know, he’s gone without a trace;
I keep finding myself on Kearney Drive,
I see a little boy looking out the kitchen window:
He’s crying tears that water plants outside,
I feel a hollowness in my chest,
It feels like my heart is gone,
I turn away, and the other side of the street is gone,
Suddenly, I’m drifting down a stream,
I’m not sure where I’m going.
"Song to Myself"
I grew up without an identity.
I’m still angry at you,
Every night I pray to God,
Hoping he takes my rage away,
I don’t know when you decided to call it off,
But I’ll never forget it.
I’m finally standing on my own two feet,
My therapist says it’s quite a feat,
I’m going to the theater alone,
I’m going places, sometimes with friends,
Sometimes, on my own, to be kind to myself.
I’m scared to look in the mirror.
No one needs to tell me I’m beautiful anymore,
Yet I don’t need anyone’s validation,
I’m fighting the darkness each day,
Call me an egomaniac, but I know my beauty.
You aren’t my worth, money isn’t my worth,
Nothing will be more valuable than the love
I give and the art I write,
And I don’t care if it’s embarrassing,
My hobbies are mine,
This is everything I wanted,
I would’ve never done this,
Without you.
"Kindness"
I’ve never been kind to myself—
I’ve always had others do that for me—
Now I’ve been waking up in the small hours,
Bored with my routine, tired of rotting,
Dried my eyes of tears,
Prayed that someone would rescue me,
Winter and spring escaped from grasp,
I’m not a prophet anymore—
Life will keep on going the way it wants,
I’ve dreamed new dreams,
About hope and despair,
Not about anyone long gone,
I’ve taken myself to new places,
Without any baggage,
One step after another,
I’m only getting stronger,
I’ve never been so kind to myself—
"Summers Aren’t For Me"
Summers aren’t for me…
I hate the heat; it tires me out,
I hate the summer,
It reminds me of you, you, and you,
You’re all the scars on my arm,
I used to hope you’d call me to hit up a party,
Instead, you told the party I was too weird,
Then you came along and gave summers a new feel,
In summer camps and bible studies,
Worship songs and In-N-Out,
Driving past Joshua trees,
Inserting myself in their circles
Then you finally came along,
Tricked myself until I became a husk,
I found a whole new world,
With brand new people,
I finally realized, their stories were never mine,
I never lived my own life,
Rightfully blaming it on myself.
I’m redefining what summers mean to me,
I’m doing it without a soul, so one will never
ruin it for me again, because I love the green leaves on trees.
You want to come back, but I’m not sure I want you around,
And I feel guilty.
Now’s not a good time for me,
I’m out with people.
Fiction Excerpt: "Glass"
Aiden found himself in the main hallway, but everything was tranquil. The house felt unoccupied, and it was frosty and damp. He stepped into the hall and looked for the thermostat. The scientist came across a hanging mirror and saw that he was a young boy. He was short and had no beard or dark-circled eyes. The scientist-turned-kid thought himself pure. He tiptoed down the hall, but his steps produced a wet squishing sound on the carpet. He couldn’t wait to see his father and ask him to go outside to play catch.
“Why is the floor making that sound?”
The yellowing carpet looked unhealthy; Aiden saw patches of mold, and the air carried a faint smell of decay as he looked down.
“Gross! Why is the carpet moldy? I don’t remember the carpet becoming so disgusting!”
The living room was dimly lit by a hazy sunbeam that created long, ominous shadows across the room, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the still air and the worn texture of the plush on a cream leather sofa. A large wooden TV entertainment center with a thick television with yellow, red, and white input cables jabbed into the front and another set in the back faced the sofa across the room. A slim white vertical gaming console was next to the TV, standing on a thick cable box. And in the living room was a collection of toys: racecars, soldiers, and other action figures. He sat down on the sofa but found it a little wet.
“What the heck? Why is this sofa wet?”
Aiden stood back up and noticed picture frames on the wall next to the TV and a lamp on a little end table. He headed to his old bedroom. The room contained the scent of wood and plastic toys; it also had a basic desk with drawers, a dresser, a closet, and a twin-sized bed. He remembered that his room was a light sky blue, but the paint had become this sharp and saturated blue color. A thick layer of black mold had spread into every corner of the room, its smell thick and earthy. Some of his old action figures had either faded in color or were dusty. There was also an iDog with an aux cord on its side. He went to pick it up, blew the dust off, and pressed the nose on its head that doubled as the power button. Turning on weakly and emitting a distorted robotic bark before sizzling out was unexpected; he had expected an energetic start. He put the toy back down, along with his shoulder and smile.
No Collections Here
Sort your projects into collections. Click on "Manage Collections" to get started
Published Works
