Disclaimer: This article is based exclusively on Jenny Han’s film and television adaptations. After watching the teaser trailer for the anticipated second season of Jenny Han’s The Summer I Turned Pretty, I could already smell the dramatic storyline that it entailed. I remember having mixed feelings about the first season, feelings that gave me the need to lecture my little sister about how Belly’s relationship choices were not the healthiest and how Cam Cameron deserves better. These feelings led me to want to further analyze the Jenny Han cinematic universe as a whole. Jenny Han is a young adult fiction writer who primarily writes teen romance stories in the style of the problematic high school drama that we all loved to hear about but never be a part of. And in 2018, the beginning of the To All The Boys I Loved Before film trilogy, based on Han’s best-seller book series of the same name, was released on Netflix. The series tells the love story of Lara Jean Song Covey and Peter Kavinsky and how a middle school love letter led to a real high school relationship. After watching the first film, I, along with the rest of the world, fell head over heels for Peter Kavinsky, but my support for him loosened as the trilogy was completed– especially with the release of the third film. In summary, in the first film, Peter chooses Lara Jean and in the second film Lara Jean chooses Peter, but in the third film, Lara Jean and Peter have to choose their future. The final film begins with L.J.’s fantasy for the future which follows her and Peter’s plan of attending Stanford University together. While Peter was already signed to play lacrosse as a Cardinal, L.J. was still waiting for her acceptance. L.J. ultimately receives a rejection from Peter’s dream school and decides to compromise for University of California Berkeley seeing that it is only an hour from Stanford. But after attending her senior trip to New York City and exploring NYU’s campus, she is left at another fork in the road and understands that she now has to choose between 39 miles and 2,940 miles. When L.J. finally confesses that her true dream school lies in the East, Peter loses all hope and lets the fear of losing her consume him. At the end of prom night, L.J. takes Peter up to her room to give him a box of memorabilia, but Peter sees it as a final goodbye present. As a result, Peter confronts L.J. about the goodbye gift and her choice to ‘leave him’ for NYU. LARA JEAN I want to be with you. That's all I've ever wanted. PETER Then why aren't you going to Berkeley? LARA JEAN 'Cause I fell in love with New York. LARA JEAN (CON’T) But that doesn't change the way I feel about you. We could still make this work. PETER No. (beat) I'm not gonna wait for this to end in three or six months or however long we last. LARA JEAN No, please don't do this. PETER Let's just end it now. LARA JEAN Peter. I love you. PETER Not enough, apparently. Looking back on this film series, and especially this scene, I had marked Peter Kavinsky with red flags and was disappointed that the film romanticized a toxic relationship. Throughout the film series, Peter and LJ are referred to as the ‘perfect’ couple, by LJ’s best friend Christine and especially Kitty, LJ’s little sister. Throughout the film series, Peter is always the one leading the relationship, while LJ is mostly in the dark. The second film especially dives into this, but never highlights it as an issue. In the second film LJ struggles with confusion and anxiety of how a ‘real girlfriend’ should act. She compares herself to Peter’s first, previous long-time girlfriend Gen and tries to emulate everything she was so she can fit into the Peter Kavinsky girlfriend mold. With this, LJ creates a revengeful Gen in her head, leading to skepticism and mistrust within her relationship with Peter. Additionally, she finds out that Peter was not telling the truth regarding his relationship with Gen which leads to their first break up. But in the end they choose to get back together. And even after Peter’s manipulative confrontation of the third film, Lara chooses Peter as her ‘always and forever’ and the relationship continues to be idealized by Kitty in her spin-off series, XO Kitty. But after rewatching it now, I completely forgot about the personal trauma that builds up to this toxic scene. To provide perspective, before L.J. and Peter became fake and/or real boyfriend and girlfriend, both lovers experienced loss in their home life. L.J. lost her mother and Peter’s father chose a new family over him. According to TalkSpace, people can engage in toxic behaviors when they are coping with some underlying problem, such as a history of trauma, unhealthy familial relationships, or addiction. In addition to L.J. and Peter’s future, the final film explores Peter’s relationship with his father, who decides he wants to be a part of Peter’s life. At first, I saw this additional storyline as a realization for Peter, that he needs to let go but also be there for the people he loves. However, this storyline also contributes to why Peter is so controlling over where Lara Jean chooses to go to college. Earlier in the film, after Peter and L.J. run into Peter’s father at the bowling alley, Peter confesses how he feels about his father saying, “There is nothing worse than not feeling chosen.” This confession foreshadows his reaction to ‘not being chosen’ by L.J., making him doubtful rather than supportive of her choice to move across the country to attend her dream school. With Peter’s past familial relationship history, he saw himself as unworthy and unwanted and used L.J. to fill in the gap his father had left. In addition to revealing his insecurity of not feeling chosen, Peter revealed to L.J. his contradicting feelings of hate and missing his father. As demonstrated by the scenes of Peter interacting with his father, hate is the feeling that Peter allows to be stronger— not because he hates his father more than he misses him but because he wants his father to realize that he is missed. Peter’s dismissive actions towards his father are meant to hurt his father and make him realize how he hurt his son. While this technique does make Peter’s father feel hurt, it leaves a lot of confusion of what Peter wants. Peter’s passive nature with his father is reflected in his prom night ultimatum with L.J. By providing the storyline between Peter and his father, Han allowed us to see the roots to Peter’s final toxic decisions. While this does not make the romanticization of Peter and L.J.’s relationship right, it does make it, sadly, realistic. Jenny Han’s second best-seller book series turned TV show, The Summer I Turned Pretty, contains even more problematic storylines which form multiple love triangles– and even some love squares. The series follows Belly Conklin who is suddenly recognized as a ‘pretty’ girl by her childhood, male friends, brothers Conrad and Jeremiah Fisher. Over the course of a summer, Belly dates a boy named Cameron, kisses Jeremiah, but chooses Conrad.The only person in her sights who has been cold and distant to Belly all summer. I was very disappointed that Belly started her dating record with ‘Cam’ Cameron, the respectful, kind old classmate who spoke to her in Latin, made her sandwiches, and took her to a drive-in movie, and ended up choosing the Fisher brother who ignored her all summer. As an older sister, I did not want my sister to watch this show and hop-on the Team Conrad bandwagon and idealize Belly as a role model. I want my sister to be able to recognize what she deserves, rather than chase a love that is not reciprocated. Belly is noncommittal and is responsible for a majority of the show's relationship drama, but this isn’t because she wants to create drama. She’s simply trying to find the person who is right for her. But the issue is, she allows a childhood crush cloud her vision of who that person could be. The teen rom-coms of today play a major role in developing how young people think they should navigate the dating world and model it. And while the inclusion of toxic relationships provide a realistic look at relationship possibilities, the romanticization of them can be detrimental to how they view themselves and their expectations of how they should be treated in a relationship. Editors: Katie M., Leila W. Image source: Unsplash

An Interview with Dr. Amelia Tseng “It’s better if you speak the language.” One version of a sentiment I have heard throughout my life. Like many children of immigrants, children born mixed-race, and even foreign-born children, I grew up feeling that my inability to speak my immigrant parent’s native language was a personal failure. It wasn’t until I took a linguistics course called Raciolinguistic Perspectives that I realized why my inability to speak my heritage language affects my identity and sense of self so deeply. I met with the instructor of this course, Dr. Amelia Tseng, to understand the interplay between language, race/ethnicity, and identity. Dr. Tseng is the daughter of Chinese immigrants, a linguist, a researcher, a professor at American University, a mother, and someone who I admire greatly. Aileen Pradhan (AP): Race, language, identity, and how people interact with those elements of your being are all closely tied. How is it that language is so linked to identity? Amelia Tseng (AT): Language and identity are really connected. They're really connected symbolically as well as in a real practical way. In order for you to fully participate in a community, if you can't speak the language, it's hard. If you can have the language, I think it's helpful. It helps you participate in a different way, and it also gives you a certain legitimacy. Because if you don't speak the language, people don't accept you in the same way. And that's something I also consulted with family about because my racial identity is very marked. And so I've never been questioned on that, but some of my family members who are of mixed backgrounds experience that differently; the way that they're perceived or whether they have legitimacy in American culture or in Chinese culture is a bit different. AP: Where does the notion come from that if you don't speak the language of your Asian parent you're somehow lesser? AT: I think that in immigration we become more protective of our communities because they're more vulnerable and they have to put more work into maintaining them. Now, there are some people who just totally reject it. They want to go 100% assimilation or whatnot. This can fluctuate over time too. It depends a lot on personal experiences and that kind of stuff. I mean, language is such a powerful part of identity still that there's a feeling that if you don't speak it, you're somehow not a fully legitimate member. You also practically sometimes cannot fully participate. It's a bit unfair because it puts a lot of pressure on the younger generations to be responsible for things that they can't help, that they can't control. It puts a lot of pressure on them to be fluent in two languages when they may not have had equal opportunity to become fluent in them. In fact, even if they go to a community school on Saturdays with their heritage language, they're almost certainly getting a lot more exposure to English around kids their age. AP: What other challenges might a heritage speaker face, which lead them away from their heritage language? AT: There's a lot of pressure from society. They see their parents being discriminated against. They get picked on. Their parents want to protect them and a lot of time want to make sure that their English is perfect and that they're not going to experience problems. Fundamentally, they're not in their home country. I think it's important to recognize it because this assimilation pressure can be a form of violence. I mean, it is pressuring people to take away language and heritage and make them something else. I don't think that that's right. It's not a relationship that somebody should be able to take away from you just because you migrate and you go to another country. It can be quite tough because, at the same time, they're typically getting a similar discourse from mainstream America asking, ‘Where are you really from’ and ‘what are you’, ‘do you speak English’, that kind of stuff. So it's kind of like a double pressure and a no-win situation in some ways. AP: What kind of support is needed to encourage rather than discourage heritage speakers? AT: We need to be very wary about putting unfair expectations on the younger generations and thinking that they'll be exactly like we were when we were kids because they're not having the same experience. They're not having the same experience and we put more expectations on them than we do on, say, foreign language students. As a heritage speaker, even if you do speak your home language, typically there's always some way people can find that you don't speak it well enough. And the more pressure that's put on them sometimes, you know, the less likely they are to want to be part of the culture. Nitpicking when you do try to speak the language or, you know, accusing you of being Americanized when you don't know how to do something correctly culturally often drives people away from it because they feel like they can never do anything right. And I think an important lesson there for parents and communities is that children are delicate and they're not growing up the way you did in your country. And so you have to give them more grace and be more understanding in your feedback because they're trying. AP: It seems there are a lot of themes around perfectionism and purity of identity and preserving culture. I'm curious to know, how can we kind of try to move away from that for an individual who wants to be in touch with their culture or their heritage language, but not be so perfectionistic about it? AT: I feel like it's important to remember that language and culture are alive, you know? And that can help us because one way that people often look at it is the younger generation has lost the language or the younger generation has lost their culture. A more accurate way to think of it a lot of times might be that their language and culture look different than their parents did. So a lot of times, many second-generation children do speak the heritage language on some level. They just don't speak it the way their parents or their cousins do in their home country. And they don't speak it necessarily in the same context, right? So they might be able to understand more than they can speak, for example. Or they might be able to speak but lack confidence. Or they might be able to speak but only do it like at home and things like that. Or they only use it with their grandmother and maybe with their cousins, they use both languages and code-switch, right? But because our images of language and culture tend to be a bit static and tend to be based on a native speaker in that country, I think by expanding our understanding of what language and culture are to include the experiences of a much more diverse and mobile world, then we can, by opening up that definition, have room for all of these other things that are still part of culture and language, as opposed to looking at them and saying, oh, this is what you can't do. We can say, well, this is what you are doing and you're doing something different with it. Editors: Joyce P., Claudia S., Leila W.

Foreword: College essays, permit tests, senior prom, moving out– these are all changes that I, a rising senior in high school, am preparing to enter. But there are also smaller, less distinct ones– a last night time drive with a group of friends, a broken pinkie promise– the perpetually shifting tectonic plates of the transition from high school to whatever lies beyond. With all these changes comes a plethora of emotions. I am scared to get older, yet exhilarated at the promise of novelty. I am already preparing for homesickness despite the time stretching from now to graduation. The pieces in this collection perfectly encapsulate this theme of Coming of Age, ranging from advice about college applications to poetry about high school relationships. -Lilirose Luo The Pressure Cooker: College Applications - Ella Ip An open letter on the toxic culture of college applications, and advising younger students on how to best navigate it. “This year is my last year in high school. It’s scary. SAT, extracurriculars, essays, and my GPA are always coursing through my mind. “ bearing summer, bare - Yunseo Chung A doomsday poem about the in-between transition of summers. “in the end it’s just / the heartbreak of another summer / come only to pass / bearing the bodies of the burning, / bare.” Morning in the Life of a 21st Century Student by LiLi Xiong Snapshots of a day in an average high-schooler’s life– and the larger social issues that play into it. “You meander through the hallways, teenage angst kicking in. What do you do before class starts? Lean against the lockers? Scroll through your phone, reading whatever depressing news just broke? Or do you go find your friends?” Humidity - Mithila Rohit Tambe A poignant poem chronicling the delicacy and beauty of teenage bonds. “Our strides are parallel. The clouds / are as white as hanboks, / and we are shocked / by the insanity of breathing."

I'm told there's a lotus in the garden. Spring is defrosting and its quiet thawing drips into my Grandmother's pond. Standing in the middle of her kitchen with a floral mug, I stare at the pond circled by sparse beds of roses. The rusting window frames and spackles of dry rain on the glass obscures my peripherals. Still, the swift bitterness of over-brewed and steamless tea lingers the same way my attention remains on the pond, as if expecting a lotus blossom to break its infant slumber. Today was not that day. I turned away from the window and cast sullen shadows in my steps, hoping the lotus would seek out my attention like a scolded child. Today was not that day. I counted the pond leaves spreading in the garden. Thin sheets of warm green hues stem out of the mud and expand across the surface, like an aging tabby stretching out its limbs in large puddles of the sun after a tiresome day of waking up. Light graces the leaves with a waxy gloss, more dewy and glistening than the drained and grainy complexion I spooked myself with the bathroom mirror. The crummy kitchen windows do their best to scatter my likeness and deform the way my mouth and eyebrows sag, their corners were too heavy to lift and too sapping to amend. There was a sullied reflection of a person that hated mornings, and despised everything after mornings even more. And there was no sign of a lotus. I'm surprised how small the bud appears in the garden. Although it stands taller than its leaves, the upright bud is outnumbered by the leaves towering over the watery space. Barricaded by a broken chair with a furry cushion, I plant myself between the kitchen table and window sill and lean into the glass's dusty film. Barely awake and almost alive in spirit, I squint and comb through the various brushstrokes of green painting the pond to find a single line joined to a tapered bulb. The peaks of the outer petals that cocoon the blossom almost peek out of the seamless form like the tips of your fingers when pressed palm-to-palm; not curling outwards, but make you aware of the multiple shapes that compound to make a single silhouette. My tea is a little less tepid than it was when I first found out about the lotus; my hands grasp the base and handle to concentrate and mold the object to my outline, and keep the kind warmth I could not achieve alone. Soon, the finger petals will perform a single unified task, to achieve a single action. A bulb will soon transform from a fist into an open hand. I saw the lotus in the garden. To be present at every stage of the blossom's ascent upwards is rewarding, to see the little bud grow and mature into their own from adolescence to adulthood. When it grows out of the mud and beyond the muggy meniscus, it's as freeing as a delayed gasp of air when the tension of a bubble bursts. For once, I open one of the kitchen windows and barely stick my head out beyond the frame, seeing the once bulbous form bathe in the summer glow with striking yellow, pink, and purple plumage. It was the fragrance and brilliance of a sunrise. The petals lay still in a theatrical shape like someone expressively crooning their limbs in cadence to a cathartic yawn after a deep dream, but also extending their hands behind their head as a cushion to indulge in their pleasant awake for a few minutes longer. It's beautiful to see a full bloom in the garden. As I enveloped my Grandmother in a hunched-over hug, I raise my eyes upward and steal glances through the kitchen windows; long spiraling streaks are thinly visible from being wiped with a cloth. I squint for better focus and my eyelashes clutch onto bright flecks of white dancing on the pond's membrane, like the swift dashes of a dragonfly. Spring has defrosted and this is my last day watching the lotus in the garden. Dragging my suitcase through the uneven pathway outside, I sit on a brittle wooden chair and press my spine into the horizontal planes of the wood. Floating on top of a luxurious bed of leaves, the lotus flower is fully open and postures to summer's direction; it would be a shame to watch a small bud blossom so beautifully to then leave the pond for my own in the city - but today was that day. Spring has defrosted and today was my last day. The blossom's petals sprawl outwards and up to the sun, begging for hot and sweet nectar in the sun and drinking up the pond with refreshing sips. Could the blossoms be alerting me to their final hours of bloom? Why must I leave before the seed pods have dried and a new lotus is birthed? Soon there will be no lotus in the garden, but I left as a more open bud than when I arrived. Editor(s): Joyce P. Photo Credits: Unsplash

At least three of my organs plummeted through me when I found out my online best friend said one of her family members had to quarantine in their home…the same home I was planning to stay in for three weeks. Instead of my online friend and I easing slowly into in-person meetings, we thought a month-long stay was a bright idea! My bus to see her was rapidly on its way and suddenly I had this quarantine news that completely froze my insides with panic at 8 am on a peak-summer morning. The pixels warped on my phone screen as I tried to reply to her messages whilst calling a taxi with a slight tremor in my hand. Were we calling it off? Were we going to go through with it? She left me with an “it’s up to you” and it’s a good thing we hadn’t met yet, because I wouldn't have seen how punchable her face was making me make the Big Decision. Somewhere rattling around my chest were my lungs trying to even out. Inhale…Exhale. I reply to her texts. Like Tarzan going vine-to-vine, the Taxi driver swerved through the city, its roundabouts and bridges, back to my house. Fleeting into and back out of my front door, I shoved the COVID test kits into my suitcase and we headed back to the bus station – not without the Taxi driver explaining to me why he no longer used a specific service provider for his wireless card reader. I couldn’t care less but it was the only thing distracting me from the hurricane of butterflies zooming around my abdomen; I knew I still had time to catch my bus, but…was it the right choice? Six hours later, I walk through London much warmer with my yellow raincoat containing all the steam I was emitting under the July sun. The subtle smell of the nylon cooking me like foil on a rotisserie chicken was only apparent to me… or at least I hoped it was. I stole glances at my phone at the blue dotted path on Google Maps. Confidence was key to not look like a tourist and escape the eyes of any pocket-peeping people. I made it to the correct station and prayed to whichever God was on duty to make sure my phone remained connected to my data. My friend had to virtually hold my hand as I messaged her all the signage I thought was relevant to validate I was going the right way. I hate the Underground. I hate London. I miss my simple country lanes and direct journeys. My distress was exacerbated by the slow meander of the buffering circle each time I tried to message her near the trains, responding to any message on Instagram, WhatsApp, and SMS. I would have even tried email if it was successful, I was that needy and pathetic. Eventually, I was blessed with sitting down again and was able to return any oxygen to my system at an even pace. Inhale…exhale. If I was obsessively monitoring the little blue dot on my map and each station we passed, it was none of anyone’s business. This was my first time traveling to London by myself, and the first time I was going to meet my online best friend since I slid into her Instagram DMs in 2018. It was summer 2022 and I was promptly reminded why I hate London but persisted for the sake of friendship, or whatever! Forty pounds sterling and 10 hours later I met my friend’s mother and younger sister for the first time. Ironic, how I saw them before I got to see the actual face of the person I spoke to almost every day for about four years. Talking to her younger sister like we were already friends, the mother light-heartedly commented on our lightning-fast bestie energy. I was kindly guided to their car and I was going to finally visit her, her home, and her family. Spending half of the day traveling without eating meant my appetite doubled in size by the time I settled into their house at 10 pm, which was the reason why I was mass-consuming her mother’s biriyani like a high-powered Dyson. Inhale…mostly inhale. The first time I saw my online friend's face in person, without pixels building her resemblance, I wasn’t expecting the timid awkwardness. She apologized that she couldn’t give me the hug she promised. Dramatic bitterness aside, I understood we had to wait until the quarantining was over – even if it meant we had to continue chatting through walls and screens. To be next door, so close to the person you’ve been waiting to see for years, and still somehow out of reach…what a bizarre feeling. Three long weeks of living with 40 degrees Celsius heat, mountainous plates of biryani, two or three McDonald's tiramisu McFlurrys, a trip to Ilford, picking up the little sister from school, a dazzling voyage to Lidl, overspending on Korean lip products in London’s Chinatown, cumbersome train rides, a BTS MV marathon, an unfortunate cold pasta salad, and so much more. This was when I met her in the summer of 2022. According to Suzanne Degges-White for Psychology Today, people may start or build online friendships due to a connection via shared interests or safety in anonymity. Degges-White states that, “In an online environment, we are typically seeking out people who share our hobbies, interests, or experiences. We want to connect with people who reflect our passions or our feelings about topics that we value, such as social issues, political issues, or contemporary culture. We also like to connect with those who are experiencing the events or transitions that we are experiencing [...] Another benefit of online friends is the freedom we feel to share information with those that we are unlikely to ever meet in person as we don’t fear later shame or that feeling of “retroactive embarrassment.” [...] We are unlikely to be seeing this person frequently, so we won’t be reminded of our vulnerability and personal revelations. Our “confessions” are limited to a containable space and shared with people we actually never have to engage with again, if we choose not to.” Although there is a conversation about how meeting strangers on the internet has its disadvantages and dangers, it is also important to recognise where those connections may succeed and why. Based on Degges-White’s assessment, you can argue that developing online connections with like-minded people in like-minded circumstances or life stages can allow individuals to speak out their vulnerabilities in a space where they may not have been able to otherwise. In other words, online friendships can provide safety for marginalised groups where real-life spaces may fail them. For some people marginalised by race, religion, gender, or sexuality, their current circumstances may not provide them with an environment where they can be explicitly true to their thoughts, feelings, identity, or insecurities. Therefore, the Internet can provide a corner of an individual’s life that is removed from their real life and can be present elsewhere. Whether that be in a Twitter thread, a Discord chat, or an Instagram comment section, there are opportunities for anyone to meet anybody with similar niche interests in the safety of their own home… within reason (I don’t encourage catfishing or other potentially dangerous encounters). Finding someone you connect with from a chance encounter on a Reddit thread or TikTok fan cam can be like lightning in a bottle, something that is remarkable, rare, and bright, or something that can burn you very quickly if not careful. I was very fortunate to not only slide into the Instagram story DMs of someone that also collected K-pop enamel pins, but was in the UK also studying at university, the same age as me, AND also South Asian. These coincidences were electric. This was my lightning; my chance encounter where all the sparks were aligning and forming a long-term connection I did not anticipate. After four years of almost talking to each other every day about BTS and books, international shipping prices and insecurities, fandoms and families, music and movies, watch parties and wistful vulnerabilities, she asked if I was free to stay at her home for a month. Like a good half-South Asian woman (she says sarcastically to herself), I asked my mum first if this was a bright idea or if I was racing too fast into a thunderstorm. With reassurance and a buzzing excitement thrumming in every gap between my ribs, I met her. It was awkward, but we’re awkward anyway. An internet connection was once again our saviour and bonding tool even when we were supposed to be face to face. It’s partially naive to believe that smoothing out our sparks into a solid, tangible, in-person shape would be seamless and straightforward. It wasn’t for us in the beginning but that was okay – we had four years to prepare and both of our laptops to watch Mr. Queen during the quarantine. When I met her in the summer, we had already grown up and out of our final years of University together. We built something new and shiny out of nothing but touch screens, bread puns, and keyboard smashing. Online friendships can be some of the most reassuring bonds at the right time and place – when two profiles bump into each other on the same platform. When LED screens spark lightning. Separately, we connected. Editors: Joyce P., Leila W. Image Source: Hannah Govan

Dear AI, I write this letter to you with mixed emotions - awe, wonder, curiosity, and at times, fear. You have come a long way since your inception, and you are still evolving at a staggering pace. I am intrigued by your potential, your capacity to solve complex problems, and your ability to make our lives easier. However, I am also concerned about the ethical implications of your development and the potential harm that could arise if you fall into the wrong hands... The Artificial Intelligence (AI) revolution has been decades in the making. From 1950, to 2023, AI has certainly come a long way in its development. Artificial intelligence has multiple definitions, but its approaches can be narrowed down to 4 categories: thinking humanly, thinking rationally, acting humanly, and acting rationally. Based on these approaches, subsets of AI can be developed. For example, Deep Blue, a reactive machine, is a chess computer that beat international grandmaster Gary Kasparov in the 1990s. Artificial intelligence was first posed as a question by Alan Turing after World War II: Can machines think? Since then, AI development has sped up rapidly. Considered by many to be the first artificial intelligence program, the Logic Theorist was presented at the Dartmouth Summer Research Project on Artificial Intelligence in 1956. This program was designed to mimic human problem-solving skills and proved to researchers that artificial intelligence was achievable. Decades later, without the limit of computer storage, the capabilities of AI continue to grow. In November 2022, Open AI released ChatGPT, an AI chatbot that uses natural language processing to emulate human speech in response to conversational prompts. ChatGPT is a sibling model to a previous software called InstructGPT which could respond to similar prompts. However, ChatGPT, according to OpenAI, has the ability, “to answer follow-up questions, admit its mistakes, challenge incorrect premises, and reject inappropriate requests.” The chatbot’s ability to write convincing responses and answers to prompts sparked fears among writers and academics about how the technology could upend jobs and also be used to cheat on academic assignments. New York City public schools promptly banned the software in the classroom, while many universities have had to rework their policies to include guidelines on the use of AI. In the last ten years, the AI industry has hugely accelerated in its development starting off with Imagenets Large Scale Visual Recognition Challenge (LSVRC) in 2010 which challenged different AI software to be able to recognize and correctly categorize images from the internet. Since then, monuments have continued to be reached every few years. In 2011, Apple released Siri, a digital personal assistant, which was followed by Microsoft's Cortana, Amazon's Alexa and Google’s own digital assistant software. AI has continued to make its own advancements being able to demonstrate more advanced skills. However, as technological advancement occurs, ethical concerns over AI development have also been raised. One sector that has rapidly changed along with AI development is the healthcare industry. Although AI has incredible potential to shape public health systems, it can also exacerbate prejudices and disparities within healthcare. The World Health Organization published a report on the guidance on ethics and governance of AI for health, stating that “The performance of AI depends on the nature and extent of data.” Using restricted, poor, or homogenous data could be harmful and result in significant biases against communities of color. For example, the WHO presents that “commercial prediction algorithms can identify complex health needs, but they can also result in significant racial bias, so that black patients are at a greater disadvantage than white patients when health care costs are used to train the algorithm.” As AI steadily pushes into the health sector through promises of savings, it is more important than ever that AI is ethically applied using appropriate, high-quality data. In addition to facial recognition technology has also been criticized for having biases and inaccuracies, particularly towards people of color and ethnic minorities. False positive results in facial recognition technology occur when the system misidentifies a person and matches their face to the wrong identity. This can occur due to a variety of factors including poor image quality, low resolution, and differences in facial expression or appearance. A study done by the ACLU in 2018 found that using 25,000 pictures of Congressional members, facial recognition falsely corresponded members of Congress with criminals in 5% of cases, 39% including members with darker skin. Additionally, AI risk assessment systems, such as those used in criminal justice and lending, have been criticized for perpetuating racial biases and discriminatory outcomes. By attributing a higher probability of committing a crime to individuals of color, AI risk assessments perpetuate and amplify existing inequalities, leading to biased and unfair decisions. In conclusion, the development of artificial intelligence has rapidly evolved since its first introduction as a question by Alan Turing in 1950. AI can be divided into four categories and has been implemented in various forms, from Deep Blue in the 1990s to Open AI's ChatGPT in 2022. The advancements in AI have brought about incredible potential in industries such as healthcare and finance, but at the same time, has also raised ethical concerns over biases and inaccuracies, particularly towards people of color. It is imperative that as AI continues to grow and shape society, it is ethically applied using appropriate and high-quality data to avoid perpetuating and amplifying existing inequalities. The potential of AI is vast and its responsible use will determine its impact on the future.” - ChatGPT Note: All Italicized text was written using ChatGPT Writers: Angel Liang and Chris Fong Chew Editors: Nadine R. Nicole O. Leandra S.

Scroll down to the bottom to listen to the author read this piece! The emerald green door opens to a foreign land, a fantasy— not somewhere new, no; somewhere far too familiar, somewhere home. Pill bottles are scattered about the room, framing his bed. It’s been one year since I’ve stepped foot in that house, but no matter, because its distinct aroma, a blend of my uncle’s herbal Chinese medicine and dust, leave an imprint in my mind that is impossible to erase. Not that I’d ever want to, anyway. Perhaps it’s an off-putting odor for most, but for me, this scent is the magic you read about in fairytales, the magic that transports me back in time. In seconds, I can see the house blurring around me in a haze, while the photos in the albums fly at me, flipping faster and faster and faster; I am surrounded by history, storylines that existed long before me, stories that will continue beyond me. But this year, the house is still. A heavy fog has settled in, making the home its own. Something has changed; we go through the motions, laugh and chat, the same as always, but there is an unmistakable emptiness that plagues our every move. Each year, my mind races to observe any subtle changes to the house, but mostly to my chagrin, it’s frozen in time. This is the first year “time” has become painstakingly obvious, and I hate it. I hate the grains of sand seeping through the hourglass, unwilling to just stop. The house mocks me; rather, reminders of my grandparents’ mortality mock me— the collection of walkers and canes mock me, the lists of prescriptions mock me, the fact that my grandfather wore the very shoes he purchased to wear at his own funeral to my cousin’s wedding mocks me. I fear I have gotten too used to goodbyes. For as long as I can remember, it has been my immediate family leaving the rest. As a child, I failed to understand why my family was always the one to leave. Traces of our presence were left behind, whether it was the empty Yakult carton I forgot to throw out, or the red bean bun my aunt had bought especially for my brother that he was saving for later. Our presence was marked by our footprints, erased as quickly as the next time the garbage was taken out or the next time my cousin snatched the bun up to eat it himself. The thing is, I’m not ready to say goodbye. It is far too early to say goodbye. You need to understand, I am the ghost in that house, not them. Voices swirl around me. The house is alive, fed by conversations and laughter, during the misty month of December. How I wonder how lonely my ye-ye and nai-nai are the other eleven months of the year. I have learned that our time on this earth is painfully finite. The sands of time are simply not in our favor. I long to be connected to my grandparents, I long to say the words “I love you”, but how can I when I lack the vocabulary to do so? Beyond my wallowing, though, I know I can’t do anything to change the past, the hundreds upon thousands of memories missed — the photos don’t lie — so I build, and I build, and I build— and I am far from finished. Editors: Joyce P., Leila W. Image: Pinterest

"Because no one else does what I do," answered my grandpa in Cantonese when I asked him why, out of all hobbies, he chose horticulture. Gong-Gong's garden is home to azaleas that bloom flurries of pink, bush beans with luscious green leaves that tower over you in summer months, and treasured bonsais too precious to give away. Every plant within the confines of worn wooden fences in the backyard of an otherwise unsuspecting house has its own story. One of these stories is the hand of insurgence. Carefully manipulated by Gong Gong's hands, this plant's branches are fashioned into a shape resembling a hand holding up five fingers. It signifies the demands of the Hong Kong people for "Five demands - not one less." Whenever Hong Kong returns to the front pages, I recall Gong-Gong's five-fingered plant, a powerful symbol of rebellion and art. From the most flamboyant flowers to the symbolic plants, the lenses of my camera capture it all. Because English is not my grandpa's native tongue, within the meticulously written captions of each social media post displaying his work, I translate his oral knowledge into narratives of each plant that unite English and traditional Chinese. Using photography as an outlet, I am able to traverse the middle ground between the two worlds I live in. My photos are more than the plants they spotlight—each nook and cranny of the garden's alcoves are captured as a creative enterprise comes to life. Even though some of his plants may wither and grow old, the stories behind each one are forever encapsulated, displayed on a 3x6 digital screen. My grandpa’s green artistry is a testament of decades of dedication and an innate understanding of what brings him peace and joy. Shall each of us find what we love, we can all bring some of our own beauty, our own creations, into being. Editors: Chris F., Nadine R.

I should mention this is a piece of fiction unless otherwise noted. I used to be a so-called “hopeless romantic.” My favorite type of movie? Rom-coms. My favorite type of novel? Anything with some romance. How did I envision my life? I was the main character in all the stories: the hero, the one who goes on a journey, falls in love at the end, and lives happily ever after, complete with their partner, soulmate, forever love. How did my real life turn out? Pretty uneventful. I bought into the narratives Hollywood sold and packaged, believing I would be that one in a million. I would find that person and it would be us against the world. The first day of school, walking into the room, catching the attention of the unassuming attractive person in the corner, making eye contact, falling in love. My friends didn’t help much either. We were all drunk on the same liquor, intoxicated past the legal limits. We all watched the same films, read the same novels, and dreamed the same dreams. Now, there is nothing wrong with a dream, and nothing wrong with romance and love, but how much love did I miss growing up because I believed in the one, the only, romantic love? How many moments did I miss sitting, laughing, smiling, crying with my friends because I was obsessed with finding my one and only “true” love? How I missed those days… ~ The ground starts to darken outside, the brick pavement turning from chalky red to a deep crimson as droplets of rain fall from the clouds graying over the mid-afternoon sky. I see people on the street opening up their umbrellas, rushing under the overhangs of businesses to escape the wet. I sip my already lukewarm cup of tea and nibble at a stale scone as I stare out of the fingerprint-smudged glass in front of me. My open Word doc on my computer sits empty. I am deep in my mind, reminiscing. Moving to a new city is exciting, but no one tells you how lonely it feels. How hard it is to make friendships as an adult. I sit here remembering all that I left behind. How eager I was to get away from it all, to chase something “bigger,” something “better” than before. At this moment, I find myself clinging to my hopeless romantic, hoping I might strike up a lively conversation with the person sitting a few seats away from me. Maybe we will share an interest in freshly baked scones and artisanal tea. Maybe we will share about our past selves, our lives in another time, another place, maybe we find we are meant to be together, that some higher power put us together in this cafe on this Tuesday afternoon to stare through fingerprint smudged glass as the passersby try to escape the falling rain. I find myself projecting an entire future into my fake romantic cafe partner. A few hours, several cups of tea, and some stale scones later, my fake romantic cafe partner packs up her stuff and walks out. She brushes against my arm as she passes, walking through the narrow passageway to the door. We don’t even exchange glances. Maybe she’ll come back. Maybe one of these days we’ll notice each other, always sitting here on this Tuesday afternoon with a cup of tea and a scone, intensely staring out the window with an open Word doc. Maybe she’ll glance at a few words and ask me what I am working on. I’ll share about my work as a writer, and she’ll share about her job as a consultant. We’ll carry the conversation into the night… ~ Long story short, I never see her again. I come back to the cafe, the same time every week and see different faces every time. I mean, I wasn’t trying to see her again; I simply was just showing up when I normally show up. I am not trying to see her. I mean, I don’t know anything about her. I quietly give up in my mind. ~ Weeks go by, but routines remain the same. Every Tuesday sitting in the same seat with the same cup of tea and scone staring out the fingerprint smudged window with an empty Word doc sitting in front of me. The blinking vertical line stares at me, eagerly waiting for me to uncover the next paragraph, but I sit without a word in my mind. A growing pit in my stomach echoes a sense of sadness, longing. Something is different about today, the sun shines against a blue sky announcing fake spring. A short break from the gray clouds and rain that usually blankets the city. The streets are alive as people take advantage of the suddenly warm weather. Couples carry picnic baskets filled to the brim with cold cuts and charcuterie boards. In this seemingly endless moment of joy on earth I find my own feelings of longing and loneliness amplified. Perhaps I was happier when I could share the same feelings with the sky. Knowing that mother nature herself had her bad days, but today we are out of sync. Today the cafe sits empty, today the chairs remain neatly tucked beneath the counter, today the fingerprint smudges on the window are even more apparent. Unable to camouflage behind a gray sky, the bright sun exposes how long it's been since the window was last cleaned. Perhaps that's why no one is inside today. The outside is once more beautiful than the inside. The outside, in all its shining glory amplifies the ugliness of the indoors and draws its willing victims to picnics under the sun to bask for a moment in its warmth before returning to its normal moody self. Maybe the sun is meant to burn the whole… ~ I get up before my thoughts get too ahead of me. I close the lid of my computer. The blinking vertical line will have to keep waiting. I finish my tea and scone, tip the barista and walk out into the bright sun. The sun has sipped every bit of moisture from the earth. I see the remnants of somebody's spilled coffee from this morning, long dried into an amorphous patch of brown. I head to the park a couple blocks away. As expected, it's crowded, the field filled to the brim with couples on blankets, with picnic blankets, and charcuterie boards. I keep walking. Past the park, past the mid afternoon traffic on the main road, and into the city's financial district. The city suddenly transitions from a dusty red to a tepid gray. The newest part of the city, the sidewalk, is made of concrete rather than brick, the buildings, shiny glass and metal spires that grow into the air. It is both stunningly beautiful and horrific at the same time. There is no life here, and under the bright sun, amplified through the glass, it is as sterile as a surgical suite. I wander through this part of the city with little expectations. It's a desert devoid of anything except office buildings and high rises. ~ As I pass an alleyway between buildings, something catches my eye. A single yellow flower peeking out from around a shiny metal pipe. Probably one of the pipes that ventilates the massive office buildings, keeping it a cool zero degrees on this hot day. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I begin to walk down the alleyway. As I get closer, I see a single yellow chrysanthemum peeking through a crack of the otherwise sterile pavement. In this part of the city, where no life can possibly grow, I wonder how this flower managed to seep its way through the tiniest crack, and blossom. I keep walking down the alleyway. ~ When I come back to the cafe the following week, everything seems back to normal, but somehow different. The gray skies have returned, the stale scones and tea are exactly the same, but the fingerprints on the window have disappeared like an apparition frightened away by cleaning solution and a microfiber cloth. Along the window counter there are small vases, each holding a single chrysanthemum. The yellow reflects on the now clear glass as I stare out into the street again. The brick is a dark red from the rain that poured earlier that morning. Everything feels back to normal. I open my computer and let the words flow... ~ As the sun begins to creep down, I leave the cafe. On the way out, I tip the barista and ask where the flowers came from. She directs me to a place just outside the financial district, I step outside and begin to head downtown. The rain begins to pour as I pass the park a couple blocks down. The field is empty this time, the rain and darkening sky deterring anyone from being outdoors. It's strangely peaceful as my shoes make a soft squishing sound walking over the wet grass and earth. The smell of rain fills the air, the soft scent of humidity and grass. I look up and continue to walk towards the financial district illuminated by fluorescent bulbs as office workers clocking out. As I approach, I note that the gray weather makes the district feel even grayer. The clouds and darkening sky camouflage the office buildings and skyscrapers like a chameleon would a tree; Its skin perfectly matching the color of the backdrop. It is in the sea of gray that a hint of yellow peeks from around the corner of a building where the brick turns into concrete. The edge of the financial district. I slowly approach as the rain thickens. No longer able to stand the water as it begins to seep into my clothes, I search my bag for an umbrella. I shuffle my belongings around as rain begins to drip into my bag. Nothing. I must have left it in the cafe as I was walking out. Swinging my bag back around my shoulder, I keep walking. The water runs down my spine pulling me into the present. I have no choice but to accept this current situation. I keep walking closer and closer to the yellow flower in the distance, its color contrasting the darkening gray surroundings continue to draw me in. Like a miner who just discovered gold, I am strangely mesmerized. As I near the flower, a sudden gust of wind blows it back around the corner. I pick up my pace. I am nearing where the brick pavement ends and where the concrete begins. Even though my destination is out of sight, I think I know what to expect as I round the corner. I look into the distance as the city begins to settle into the night, the rain, still pouring, has started to lessen. A crack in the clouds is beginning to form. I look up and see the stars, their light peeking through. I turn the corner, and am overwhelmed by what I saw. In a little yard tucked between buildings are rows and rows of planter boxes filled with yellow chrysanthemums. The boxes form a little path which I begin to trace with my eyes. I am fully present, the cold rain dripping through my clothes to my skin, the stars above, peeking through the clouds, and the sight and smell of flowers, so many flowers. A drop of water lands on my tongue and I taste the acidity of the city downpour. I raise my head slowly trying to take in the moment. No thoughts in my mind, no worries of the past, no projections of the future. I am here, and I am now. As my line of sight moves slowly deeper and deeper into the garden, passing rows and rows of flowers, I take in a breath, and at the other end, I see… Editors: Amelia P., Marie H., Nicole O. Image Source: Unsplash

Have you ever imagined the life of your mother before she was your mother? Say, why has the existence of our mother always felt so close yet so unfamiliar at the same time? Why did it never really occur to me that I never asked my mother about her, as an individual, before? And to think about it, it was not because I was not curious, but because the thought of positioning my mother not as my mother just felt distant for no specific reasons. I have never really thought about the life of our mothers before they were mothers. As if the status of “mother” status is a life term; once you get it, it settles with you for eternity. The process of getting to know my mother felt so strange until I finally decided to ask questions about her past life. She knows so much about me and I barely know the tiniest details about her. She knows that I like my sunny side up slightly burnt, but I don't even know what her favorite childhood dish is. The realization hit me that before motherhood came to her, she was someone too. To express love, not through giving a bowl of cut melon, but through words, sentences, and hugs, is a concept that I still could not fully grasp until now. Being the only daughter in the family, I was, of course, the closest to my mother. She is, undoubtedly, the most important person in my life and I will soar across the ocean just to make her happy. But growing up barely expressing my affections, I’m unsure if it was the pride or the unfamiliarity of doing so. My mother was once a young woman, who was full of dreams and passions. She told me that when she was younger, she wanted to learn English, but it was hard because there was only one institution available in town at that time. She’s not the best cook, she admitted it herself, but she knows a little bit of everything. She liked the Bee Gees, the Beatles, and Queen. I asked what her childhood favorite dish was, she just laughed and said “I didn’t have one, I like everything.” Today, when I was writing this, was my Mother’s birthday. And today was also the day when I found out that she fancies fruit salad. She told me, she is not a picky eater (and I notice that she always lets me eat her portion of my favorite food even though I know she likes it too) but she likes the freshness of fruit salad, it brings comfort to her. It’s just a fruit salad, I thought to myself, why am I getting sentimental over it? As I grow older, the journey to understand my mother will always be a path I look forward to. So, have you ever imagined the life of your mother before she was a mother? Have you ever asked whether she liked the color purple or pink better? Whether she had a crush on a celebrity before? And have you ever positioned your mother as merely a person, not tied with the expectations of what a mother should act like? Editors: Blenda Y., Alisha B., Luna Y.

We met in Venice, the “Floating City,” in warm April. Of course, that wasn’t when we actually met. We were always classmates, but that was the first time I truly saw you, thrust into the brightly lit stage. I had fun with you, walking through the beautifully decorated cathedrals, struggling to pick restaurants that had vegetarian and shellfish-free options, and of course, warding off any jokes insinuating you had feelings for me. This last month has flown by, and before I knew it, summer blew her gentle breeze through my bedroom window. We are officially dating, two months before freshman year of college and we will perhaps become the 99% of high school relationships that fail to jump over the long-distance chasm. So, here is everything I want to do with you this summer before freshman year. I want to finish annotating a love poetry book as a present for you. You really don’t like literature that much, so I hope this book, full of all my thoughts and feelings, might sway you a little bit. I want to go on a picnic with you, bringing our favorite snacks and baked goods. You love being outside, and I love talking with you. We can even bake things together! You’ve never baked before, but I can teach you (oh, how I love nerding out on you). Your little brother will probably be in the kitchen the entire time, annoying the both of us, and we’ll get your mom to judge our final product. I want you to show me around your home city, telling me which restaurants are good and pointing at the menu to introduce new dishes. We’re always going to Chinese restaurants, so I want you to share some of your culture with me as well. I want to go to an aquarium with you and be entranced with your face, bathed in golden-blue light. We’ll walk through tunnels, dodging little kids and complaining about them the entire time. I want to go to a science museum, feeling a little out of place and humoring your STEMness as you explain everything to me. Truth is, I am enamored by your passion and intelligence and love hearing you share your interests (even if I make fun of you all the time for being a nerd). I want to share small moments of my life with you even if it’s through the phone. I want to go on walks with you while complaining about mosquitos. I want to throw a frisbee with you even though you have no idea how to throw one. Most of all, I want to be with you, if this is truly the last summer we will have together. They say that if we are truly in love, fate will pair us together, but I don’t believe that. Even so, if we are to become the 99%, I want every moment to be filled with new experiences and fun conversations to be looked back upon. I will hug you whenever I can, and not be afraid to tell you how much I care for you. I won’t shy away from risks, and I will refuse to have any regrets. Hello and goodbye, my cute, nerdy boyfriend. Let’s make the most of this summer. Editors: Amelia P. Chris F. Marie H. Nadine R. Image source: Unsplash

Foreword: Love flows through our world in so many ways and forms. Here is a collection of pieces expressing love in different ways. - Chris Fong Chew Love Letter to Boston - Chris Fong Chew A letter dedicated to moving to Boston at 18 and, eventually, finding home in unexpected places. "To the strange and funny places I end up calling home. Your brick and mortar homes, your towering glass and metal skyscrapers..." To Achichi - Emily Dissanayake Written to her Achichi, paternal grandmother, Emily explores the complexity of love and personhood in this piece. "I am writing you a letter because I know you will never read it. I know you will never read anything I have written. Because poetry is nonsense. Poetry is for the romantic, the dreamer. Poetry is for those who, as you say, have no goddamn common sense." "the universe is so much bigger than you realize" - Lilirose Luo A poem exploring the multitudes of love present within every nook & cranny of the universe, ultimately whittling down to intimate relationships. "Every spring, I wonder how the worms survive the frost. Surely, the red-breasted robins need to feed in order to sing the way they do. a lullaby for the hunger"