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Almost
by Dessem Abella
Lahaina 2023 Wildfires Survivor
by Kealoha Dudoit
Crown of Shame
by Kaiehu Helela
Self Portrait
by Shania Nicholas
Young Glaive
by Shania Nicholas
Ho’ae’ae Sunset
by Shania Nicholas
Sirens Song
by Alyssa Kaelyn Savage
Sneaky Kitten
by Alyssa Kaelyn Savage
Sew Me a Story
by Lynne Marie Simon
Milkshakes
Art by Elsa Young
Ant House
Art by Elsa Young
Almost
A story by Dessem Abella
“How about we put you in tennis?” my mom said.
I was initially hesitant as I had my heart set on joining flag football, inspired by my dad. However, I realized that tennis was the right choice for me . My mom is a fan of the sport and was a former player herself who swore by the Wilson brand. Her loyalty to it could have one consider her a Wilson ambassador. She won multiple championships in local tournaments and has traveled to watch the four tennis Grand Slams, which are the Australian Open, Roland Garros, Wimbledon, and the U.S. Open. The local tournaments were hosted at the tennis courts in Kunia near Kaleiʻopuʻu Elementary School. She brought my two older sisters and me to watch her games and eat Filipino food. My sisters played the sport as well. My oldest sister was the athletic one who won a couple of tournaments, while the other was throwing tennis balls outside of the court to avoid playing. And then there’s me, the “last hope.”
I began tennis at the age of nine in November of 2015. My mom played a pivotal role as my first tennis mentor. Prior to my first formal practice, we would play tennis using wooden paddles and a rubber ball, turning our living room into our own little court. . We volleyed, served, and practiced forehands and backhands. These valuable moments formed a special bond between my mom and I shared while also improving my skills. Shortly after, my mom and I upgraded to proper tennis equipment when we purchased my first racquet at Walmart, a Wilson racquet, symbolizing an important milestone in my tennis endeavors.
I began playing orange ball with Coach #1, a level of tennis designed for beginner players where the court dimensions are lessened slightly. Practices were located at Patsy T. Mink Central Oʻahu Regional Park, popularly referred to as CORP. Entering the court for my first practice was nerve-racking. My palms were clammy, like moistened petals, legs shaking with anxiety amid unfamiliar faces. I sensed the gaze of the other kids fixed on me. How I hated that. I grasped my Wilson racquet and walked toward the baseline of the court, ready to hit. Coach fed the ball, and I missed. How embarrassing. However, since it was my first day, my atrocious performance was expected. Despite that, I learned the fundamentals of tennis, including scoring, groundstrokes, volleys, and serving.
When practice was finished, I remember asking my oldest sister, “Was I as bad as you on your first day?” To which she responded, “No, haha.”
After watching multiple tennis videos and attending practices, I improved significantly. I noticed that I was developing a strong adoration for the sport as I eagerly anticipated practices. I would convince my parents to drive me to CORP to practice every Tuesday and Thursday, where my mom and I would rally balls while my dad retrieved them. He would make an effort to play, but football was really more his thing. In the 6th grade, my class was assigned to create a layout of our future plans, and I illustrated that I was going to become a professional tennis player. On problematic days, I’d remind myself, “It’s okay, I have practice tomorrow!”
Because of my progress, I decided to join my coach’s Junior Tennis Team (JTT) called “Hawaiʻi Prince.” Our courts were located in the Hawaiʻi Prince Golf Club, hence our name, in Ewa Beach. Although I was fairly new, my placement on the team was first singles, which is the top-ranked player. To become first singles, players were required to match against other players in order for the coach to recognize where players stood in terms of level. I was known for having a powerful serve. I would hear the quiet “woahs” from the rival team’s parents due to the thunderous sound of the ball meeting my racquet when I served. Parents would ask my mom and dad, “Where did your daughter learn to serve like that?” and “Does she go to the gym?” I was recognized in the JTT community.
Then, I was introduced to tennis tournaments. I vividly remember my parents driving to a variousf tennis courts and clubs throughout the island, from Kailua to the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, Ewa Beach, and Pearl Harbor. My mom signed me up for about three tournaments monthly, essentially a tournament every week. In her eyes, losing was the end of the world and met with consequences and discipline. My parents’ disappointment after a loss pained me like a dagger penetrating my heart. The pressure and high expectations of being the “star player” were becoming overwhelming.
Gradually, I advanced to green dot, the second-highest skill level in tennis, with Coach #2. However, I remained in Coach #1’s JTT. In the first training with Coach #2, I noticed that his players were older and physically stronger compared to the group I was previously a part of. I was intimidated, to say the least. These kids were hitting rockets! Returning their shots was challenging, but the team was supportive of me nonetheless. I quickly attained the skill level of the other players and started to participate in higher-ranked tournaments.
One night in 2017, my family and I were practicing at CORP. We were playing doubles where I partnered up with my oldest sister against our parents, with my other sister seated on the bench, per usual. The opposing side returned the ball short and I killed it, accidentally hitting my mom directly in the chest. Sorry mom. On the other court, I heard the voice of a man say, “Nice shot kid!” Unbeknown to me, that man would be my future coach, Coach #3. He offered me to play with his team, to which my parents agreed. Conveniently, my mom was searching for a new coach at the time. Coach #3 didn’t believe in the concept of the orange ball or green dot levels, nor JTT, marking the end of my JTT career and the beginning of the traditional yellow ball. Again, practices were typically at CORP. At first, I had a private lesson where we introduced ourselves and became acquainted with one another. When exercising drills, he immediately started correcting my form, which had beeninfluenced by my previous coaches. I learned that I had improper form on my groundstrokes and serves, which are crucial in the sport of tennis. His style of coaching was vastly different from what was familiar to me. I was taught to “listen to my watch,” which helped me follow through on my groundstrokes, how to properly serve, and the various types of tennis grips: the continental grip, which is used for serves and volleys, the eastern grip, and the western grip. Unexpectedly, it later transitioned into a group practice. If I thought Coach #2 kids were outstanding players, these people were downright professionals! To me, the balls were going at the speed of light. On the receiving side, I’d panic like a deer in headlights. I couldn’t return a single ball, but I eventually managed to block them with my racquet. The atmosphere of Coach #3’s practices were grave and intense, far from what I was used to. Mistakes, especially unforced errors, were unacceptable and met with discipline, involving rigorous conditioning and intense running. Coach #1 and Coach #2’s lessons were relaxed and centered on fun. Errors were casually dismissed with laughter and lighthearted head shakes.
In the following months, I demonstrated moderate but visible improvement. I switched from my beloved Wilson Federer racquet to a Babolat Pure Drive racquet, recommended by Coach #3. I was attending practices five days per week for two to three hours a day. On weekdays, group practices were located at CORP from afternoon to evening, and on Sundays my private lessons in Ewa Beach were from morning to noon. The sheer amount of conditioning and drilling was exhausting. I continued to participate in tournaments. In 2017, I was the singles champion of the Pearl Harbor Summer Challenger Tournament and placed 3rd in the 2018 Hawaiʻi State Championships singles division. I placed 2nd in most of my tournaments, which sucked. “Almost.” What a lousy word. At that point, I was feeling burnt out.
“Ow,” I thought to myself, reaching to touch my right shoulder. I brushed it off. .
Freshman year, I was involved in the high school varsity tennis team. The head coach, who I’ve known since I was in kindergarten. Her daughter, who is also a tennis player, and I attended the same elementary school. She was like a second mother. From my past experiences with different teams, I held high expectations of the players. But, to my surprise, the majority of the team were fairly beginners. After competing in a couple of placement matches, I was placed in first singles yet again. That season, my one loss was against Mililani High School. Considering that their roster consisted of numerous top-ranked high school tennis players, defeat was inevitable. In my freshman year, I was titled the 2020 Most Valuable Player. It felt incredible. When I arrived home, I proudly presented it to my family, friends, and Coach #3.
Then, the COVID-19 pandemic hit, restricting social interaction and changing our daily routines. For me, that involved tennis. I was simultaneously frustrated and delighted. The months without practice due to COVID-19 regulations led to a substantial decline in my performance and confidence. A break was desperately needed. Tennis had inflicted a major toll on my physical, academic, and mental well-being and slowly, it transformed from a means of escape to a burdensome chore. The heart and passion I once had for the sport evolved into disdain and resentment. When COVID-19 cases declined, practices resumed. I dreaded going, wishing for rainy weather to cancel them.
2021 was the year schools permitted students to return for in-person classes, which meant that sports would continue. Tennis was back. Yet, the pain in my shoulder refused to subside. Growing up with Asian immigrant parents, I figure my mom wouldn’t support the idea of physical therapy had I asked, so I disregarded it. Junior year, I lost the ranking match, and my placement on the team was second singles. Second, after years of being first. Another word for “almost first.” I was devastated. Throughout the years, my mom became less harsh on me. I told her about my results that day and she chuckled and said, “It’s okay Dessem,” which was weird because she would usually have scolded. Even so, I could sense her disappointment deep down. I decided to pluck up the courage to have a conversation about the pain I was experiencing in my shoulder, to which she responded, “You’re only faking it because you don’t wanna play anymore.” With a heavy heart, stormed off to to my room, tears welled up in frustration. Not allowed to quit the sport until high school graduation, I felt utterly trapped.I was suffocating. All I yearned for was it to be over.
From five days a week to one, I continued to do private lessons with Coach #3 on Sundays at the courts near Pearlridge Elementary School. The other kids had shown striking improvements. Everyoneexcept for me. My confidence and mentality plummeted. hitting rock bottom. I was encouraged to return to team practices, but I refused in fear of upsetting my coach and disappointing the team from my lack of progression. Coach #3 would reassure me, emphasizing, “You’re a talented player, you just think otherwise because you’re surrounded by other talented players.” “You could beat everyone if you really wanted to,” my mom would add. Dealing with a negative mentality, accepting those statements was difficult, but I tried. I truly did.
Eventually, my shoulder pain became unbearable. I demanded a two-week break and my mom complied. What was supposed to be two weeks ended up lasting a year and nine months.
I played my senior year of high school solely to fulfill my mother’s wish and for the senior night event. My rank remained second, but that season, my team qualified for the 2023 Playoffs, and a select few and I advanced to the quarter-finals. A decent run where I almost qualified for states. There’s that word again.
After seven years and a considerable financial investment, that chapter of my life finally concluded. I catch myself reflecting on that phase of my life and contemplating the thought of returning to the tennis courts. My wasted potential, what I could’ve achieved had I put in more effort. I ponder my younger self, that little girl who dreamed of becoming a professional tennis player, competing in the Grand Slams for my mom to watch in the front-row seats. Yet, a wave of relief washes over me, as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Being released from that athletic burden has allowed me to recognize and accept the present and the path I’ve journeyed, regardless of unfulfilled goals and unmet aspirations. I’m immensely thankful for the opportunities my parents have provided me throughout this phase of challenges and triumphs.
Lahaina 2023 Wildfires Survivor
by Kealoha Dudoit
When I woke up on the morning of August 8, 2023, it was 4:30 a.m., three hours earlier than I needed to be awake to get to work on time, which was only 10 minutes away by bike. In Lahaina, a town which was only 2.5 miles long, everything was 10 minutes away by bike. The first thing that I noticed was at 4:30 am we had no power. The fans and AC had stopped. The second thing that I noticed was the air was silent, and there were no birds singing. The wind began to move and howl at a fast pace. The air was hotter and dryer than usual, even for Lahaina. I realized the birds had sought shelter in a safe place far away. I did not know that soon everyone in Lahaina would be seeking shelter in a safe place far away. And like the birds that filled the air with the beauty of their song, the residents of Lahaina would find their voice again. After surviving the fire, we found ourselves stronger and more resilient than before. I think that everyone learned that in order to survive a disaster you have to: Learn to trust your own instincts as a survival skill. Always use compassion and help others to safety. Learn to breathe through the immediate trauma and find a pule like I Am Enough to help keep you centered, and in a frame of mind that the future lies ahead and will hold something positive; like the phoenix rising from the ashes.
I lived in Wahikuli on Kahoma St. which is about a block away from the evacuation zone at the Civic Center. By 5:30 am we were being directed from Wahikuli to the evacuation center. Almost two hours later, the evacuation was called off because according to the Lahaina Fire Dept the fire at Lahainaluna had been extinguished. This was to prove false and foreshadowed the survival skill of learning to trust your own instincts.
Not only had the original fire at Lahainaluna not been contained, it had spread across the small town and eventually burned down Front Street with many jumping into the ocean to avoid the life-threatening flames. My roommate worked at Aina Nalu, and he had left for work that day not knowing that the roof of the building would catch fire, collapse and eventually the whole Outrigger resort on Waine’e Street would burn to the ground. He went from room to room and evacuated the entire hotel. He did not hop on his e-bike and go and try to save his family, and himself. He put others before his own survival and made sure that everyone was evacuated safely. During dangerous disasters, it can actually be easy to put others first. I am not sure if it was because we were all in shock or if that is just how Maui reacted, but showing kokua to neighbors was like an instinct that came naturally whenever we saw that we had the ability to help others to safety. Throughout the horrifying disaster, I saw that we all joined together and helped each other. I learned that it is actually easy to show consideration to people who are in the same difficult time, and this experience has made me a more compassionate person.
As the night went on and the sky became darker, I could see the flames surrounding our town in a ring of fire. It looked like a fire tornado moving at phenomenal speed burning down everything in its path. Our original evacuation zone at the Civic Center had to be evacuated as the fire spread closer towards Wahikuli and Leali’i Homes. The cars lined the Civic Center area departing for our next evacuation zone at Maui Prep in Napili. The fire department and police station had to evacuate as well and regroup at Wahikuli Beach Park. That was where the fire ended, exactly across the street from the Civic Center and Wahikuli Beach. We had come so close to our lives ending several times in those short hours. We sat huddled in silence, shaking and in shock as we drove to Maui Prep.
We arrived in Napili at around 11:00 p.m. The disaster workers had prepared everything for us. It was really hard to think straight, most had experienced smoke inhalation, some were burned, and we were all suffering from exhaustion. It was really the small things, like a blanket or a glass of water that mattered. Those small kinds of essential realities were all that our brains could comprehend. There was no way to comprehend time or reality in those moments. We had all escaped the fires, but we did not know at that time that our entire town had burned to the ground. The disaster workers encouraged us to get some sleep and rest up for the morning.
The morning brought a new reality. We had lost everything we owned and had held sacred in our families for generations. My great grandmother, Mary Kealoha, was born and raised in Lahaina. My tutu had always told me stories of old Lahaina when I was a keiki. As she recalled the memories of a Lahaina that no longer existed, she would get excited as she pointed at ancient maps detailing the wetlands of Moku’ulu. Even though we had lost every single sentimental and tangible possession that we owned, we had nevertheless survived and were still alive. I remembered a mantra I had seen at a yoga class that simply said I Am Enough. I begin to say I Am Enough to myself quietly under my breath. I was focusing on my breathing and saying I Am Enough. The next day after the fire we boarded the buses to transport us to the War Memorial on the other side in Wailuku. We were told that we were being driven with a police escort to meet Red Cross and FEMA, who were waiting for us at the War Memorial. As we drove across the burnt landscape that once was Lahaina with tears in my eyes I whispered under my breath, I Am Enough.
The August 8, 2023 disaster in Lahaina is not an event that is easy to put down in words. It was one month ago on September 8, and I think that is a date that will be burned in our minds for an eternity. Watching our city burn down as we ran for our lives is something that will cause all of us survivors PTSD for years to come. I was fortunate to live in the Wahikuli area and have had help to evacuate by the police department and fire station. Others had to fight blazes themselves and evacuate as many as they could from their jobs or even their neighbors. Once we were safe from the disaster we all felt numb and afraid.
During our transport to the other side, I was able to take three main lessons away from what I had experienced. Always trust your own instinct, and use your best judgment if it will help to save your life. Use compassion to help others to safety as you help yourself. Focus on your breathing and find a pule, chant, prayer, or mantra that you can repeat to yourself to help manage the anxiety that grips you. Telling myself that I Am Enough during the 24 hours after the disaster helped me to cope with the psychological trauma of watching my city burn. I know that one day Lahaina residents will sing again like the birds that filled our air with their beautiful voices. Like the phoenix we will rise from the ashes.
Crown of Shame
Photo by Kaiehu Helela
Artist statement:
“The uncertainty of identity weighs upon me — like a crown of shame.”
This is an introspective self-portrait centered around my inner conflict about what identifying as a Hawaiian should be. The use of black and white and the tight crop of the image work with the imagery of my hands stretching my exposed back to create a sense of internal strife, vulnerability, and the feeling of being boxed in. The flowers which I pressed on to the print around my head may look like the native ʻŌhiʻa Lehua, but are actually the common Bottlebrush flower, otherwise known as the ʻŌhiʻa Haole. I chose to use the likeness of the ʻŌhiʻa in the lei poʻo to further drive the point of estrangement and disconnect from my culture. I feel that the use of a flower that looks native, but is not, is very powerful — and where the sense of “shame” manifests.
Self-Portrait
Art by Shania Nicholas
Artist statement:
Although Baking was something I always considered as a career, the moment I first laid my 2H pencil down on paper, I realized, recreating an image by hand was something I enjoyed doing. I remembered after finishing my first ever graphite project in high school, my mind would immediately say “oh! I want to try to draw that” as I started looking more at my surroundings. Almost everywhere inspired me and gave me courage to attempt to draw or paint it. My love for art has developed and is continuing to grow as I want to better my skills and make something that represents me.
These works are a few assignments I have done during my first year of college. Drawing on such a bigger scale and getting into oil paints has given me challenges when working. However, these works are just the beginning and will be a starting point to my improvement in art.
Young Glaive
Art by Shania Nicholas
Artist statement:
Although Baking was something I always considered as a career, the moment I first laid my 2H pencil down on paper, I realized, recreating an image by hand was something I enjoyed doing. I remembered after finishing my first ever graphite project in high school, my mind would immediately say “oh! I want to try to draw that” as I started looking more at my surroundings. Almost everywhere inspired me and gave me courage to attempt to draw or paint it. My love for art has developed and is continuing to grow as I want to better my skills and make something that represents me.
These works are a few assignments I have done during my first year of college. Drawing on such a bigger scale and getting into oil paints has given me challenges when working. However, these works are just the beginning and will be a starting point to my improvement in art.
Ho’ae’ae Sunset
Art by Shania Nicholas
Artist statement:
Although Baking was something I always considered as a career, the moment I first laid my 2H pencil down on paper, I realized, recreating an image by hand was something I enjoyed doing. I remembered after finishing my first ever graphite project in high school, my mind would immediately say “oh! I want to try to draw that” as I started looking more at my surroundings. Almost everywhere inspired me and gave me courage to attempt to draw or paint it. My love for art has developed and is continuing to grow as I want to better my skills and make something that represents me.
These works are a few assignments I have done during my first year of college. Drawing on such a bigger scale and getting into oil paints has given me challenges when working. However, these works are just the beginning and will be a starting point to my improvement in art.
Sirens Song
Art by Alyssa Kaelyn Savage
Ho’ae’ae Sunset
Art by Shania Nicholas
Artist statement:
Although Baking was something I always considered as a career, the moment I first laid my 2H pencil down on paper, I realized, recreating an image by hand was something I enjoyed doing. I remembered after finishing my first ever graphite project in high school, my mind would immediately say “oh! I want to try to draw that” as I started looking more at my surroundings. Almost everywhere inspired me and gave me courage to attempt to draw or paint it. My love for art has developed and is continuing to grow as I want to better my skills and make something that represents me.
These works are a few assignments I have done during my first year of college. Drawing on such a bigger scale and getting into oil paints has given me challenges when working. However, these works are just the beginning and will be a starting point to my improvement in art.
Sneaky Kitten
Art by Alyssa Kaelyn Savage
Artist statement: Sneaky Kitten – When my cat had surgery she couldn’t hunt lizards anymore because of her cone, she’s since gotten better. But I think the photo captured her frustration.
Sew Me a Story
A story by Lynne Marie Simon
My manang (older sister) has always been the creative type. Her containers and cabinets were filled with all the crafting supplies you could ever need: yarn, ribbon, paper, stencils, stamps, and especially felt fabrics. Since I wanted to be just like my manang, I picked up whatever she did, taking the leftover projects and supplies she had from her last craft and trying it out for myself. I’ve given up on knitting, learned origami when I wanted to keep my hands busy, but I never took to those like I did sewing. I was around seven when my manang made dozens of Pokemon buttons out of felt for a school fundraiser when it popped into my head, Hey! I can also make things about the stuff I enjoy! So later that same week, she helped me cut the tiny pieces of fabric I needed to help with my first sewing project: 3 felt plushies of Minecraft Youtubers from Stampylongnose’s Lovely World series and a Minecraft cake. Since I was a dumb seven-year-old, my manang probably did most of the work making sure I didn’t poke out my own eye, but I was so proud of myself that I immediately jumped from one sewing project to the next. Bad attempts at embroidery with no idea how to embroider, ill-fitting clothes for my Barbies, and scattered scraps of buttons sewn into felt for fun filled my schedule for weeks until I moved onto the next arts and craft hobby; not because I lost interest in sewing but because my manang bought enough lei ribbon to fill another cabinet, and I wanted to learn how to make lei too
I always find myself coming back to sewing when it comes to making crafts for other people. As a little people pleaser who wanted to give things but had no money on them at all, I relied on my crafts to show that I cared. I found friends in a group of artists during intermediate school who drew and painted as a hobby, and while I also got really into painting around that time, I’d completely dropped my drawing passion, preferring to watch them draw instead. So, while they gave me drawings of video game characters and special moments that happened with the friend group, I gave back origami cranes and hearts filled with messages telling about how much I loved them, Perler bead creations of their favorite anime characters, and when a celebration called for it, a hand-made plush. When Christmas came around, I broke out the old sewing kit and stayed up all night making stuffed plushies for all four of my friends, though I only remember three now: a stuffed cactus with a pot that you can hide things in from overbearing parents, a red octopus with a flower crown hot glued to his body, and a tiny blue bird with button eyes. My friends had also dabbled in sewing themselves, fashioning small dolls of Dream and Alucard from Castlevania, and I complimented them with glee and envy at how they were so talented at everything art. When 2020’s Valentines Day came around, I made five felt patches of the Pokemon Applin to give to my friends since they roped me into getting really into Pokemon, and I’ve heard that giving that to someone was a sign of affection. Then Covid hit and everything started to fall apart.
Those two-and-a-half-years forced inside our homes caused me to let go of what little grip I had on my life-long anxiety, causing it to fester and grow out of control. It was always bubbling in the background of my life, like a constant white noise whenever my parents talked about my mediocre grades, when talking to a peer and worrying about if I said the wrong thing, but it was never as strong as the fear of getting hurt in a way that I would be changed forever. Everywhere I went I would think about the warning stories you’d hear from well-meaning adults and the news, kids not paying attention and getting hit by a car, or kidnapped, or eating the wrong thing and getting poisoned or choking. All of the little reminders that we as humans are so fragile and truly anything could end our own personal universes were around me. Dying of poisoning or of an illness and disease was a thought my mind loved to remind me of. Everyday stories of people getting hurt or sick and dying because of things out of their control would loop in my head 24/7, and I would just have to force myself to move past it, because what really are the chances of something happening to me?
I thought I was being ridiculous. I thought I should stop thinking about those things and focus on important things, like grades! It didn’t really help in the end, and I had to talk to more than one student counselor at intermediate school because of the constant panic attacks I would have during the school year, but by the time freshman year rolled around, I truly thought I was doing okay and that I was getting better. Then the international news coverage of thousands upon thousands of people dying from an air-borne illness came in, the horror stories of hospitals flooded with the sick and overwhelming all the staff with the workload, and the inescapable feeling of hopelessness was felt absolutely everywhere. It was two-and-a-half-years of total despair and being surrounded by death wherever I looked. I was in hell.
There was a total of zero control over my life, so I grasped onto any scrap of it that I could and directed my fears onto something more tangible, something that I saw a lot of during that time: needles. Sure, I could handle needles when it’s threading string through fabric, but when it’s digging into me is an entirely different story. Trips to the dentists and flu shots were always really, really hard for me to deal with, feeling a thin piece of needle move under my skin and touching the most delicate parts of me in the hands of a stranger, so it wasn’t hard to focus all my attention to how terrifying it would be if a point of a needle were to break off and stay stuck under my skin. What if this flu shot has expired and these nurses are trying to kill me? What if someone startles the doctor and they move the needle while it’s in me? What if I die because of it? What if? What if? were my thoughts every time the news talked about the upcoming Covid vaccine or when my parents made appointments for check-ups. It was irrational, but unlike death, I could run away and hide from needles, push away the idea of this instrument of death from my mind if I close my eyes hard enough. Then my manang got a new sewing machine to make masks, so when she broke out the fabrics and needles my fear latched onto those as well. What if she leaves a needle on the floor and I step on it? What if when I handle a needle, I forget to put it away and I hurt someone? What if while I’m sewing something I stab myself in the eye and I go blind? What if? WHAT IF? I was convinced that I could never touch a needle again without something catastrophic happening, so I resigned myself to that fate and hid in my room whenever my sister started up her machine, which she did many times over quarantine. I never told her or my parents about this, why would I? They already had to deal with working during quarantine, they didn’t need to deal with an angsty teen suffering from severe anxiety and depression. They’d never believe me anyways, not with the entire world suffering along with us. It didn’t really click that I lost my love for sewing until I was spooked by my mom opening up the sewing kit she got for my birthday. I hid myself in my room and mourned the loss of that lifelong passion, though I couldn’t really feel much of anything at all at the time.
The rest of the quarantine passed by in a blur after that, and things started to look up a bit more when we got to go back to in-person schooling. Becoming reacquainted with the outside world after everything that happened helped me cope with my depression and anxiety; who knew not being cooped up at home surrounded by death and despair could do wonders for mental health! I got busy with school and enjoyed my time with my clubs and friends, taking my mind off my lost passions and filling my schedule with work. I didn’t really miss sewing all that much, unless I was talking to one of the costume designers who were in my glee club; talented tailors who rocked up to class in their own clothes, offering to make costumes for our musicals and flaunting their skills whenever they had the chance. I looked at them in awe of their craftsmanship, envious of the way they could hold a needle in their fingers and not fear for their lives. I wanted to be like that again, I wanted to stop feeling envious because it’s not their fault I couldn’t even look at a sewing kit, but I was still living in that irrational fear that served no purpose to me anymore. I made an attempt to get over it in the summer leading up to my senior year, with my manang getting into cross-stitching at the time and my curiosity finally winning over my anxiety, at least for a little while. I was succeeding for a bit too, the fear quiet for once as I was learning how to start off simple patterns I made. Then, just as I was about to complete my first stitch, the news of popular Youtuber Technoblade dying from cancer was released. I ran into my room, completely forgetting my cross-stitch as every anxiety I had about death came flooding back. I know how privileged I am to have never lost someone close to me before and to have that be my first real experience with the grief, but it was, and every single fear about the safety and well-being of me and my loved ones consumed my in every waking moment. So, for the following months until I had to go back to school, I stayed up playing video games and completing that cross-stitching project in an effort to not sleep, because what if I died in my sleep? What if my loved ones did? I had to watch over all of them, just in case something happened, and I wasn’t there to help. It was hell to deal with but, ironically, I think this incident helped me get over my fear of needles, since I was more scared of death by illness than by needles by then. A sharp piece of metal just didn’t seem as scary after all of that.
Senior year of high school proved to be a period of growth. I took psychology and Ilokano, lost three of the four friends I made in intermediate, made new friends with the people from Glee club, got a new hobby in Dungeons and Dragons, and a new environment really helped me grow as a person. Going through that huge transition from high school student to actual adult in the real world took my mind off of old anxieties, a slow but steady recovery from the hell that was the Covid years and a very good distraction from my fears. Who had time to feel sad when finals are coming up and you have friends to hang out with? And as my mental health started to improve and I moved onto college, I totally forgot anything related to needles until Halloween was approaching, and I realized that I actually wanted to dress up instead of throwing something together haphazardly at the last second and envying other’s Halloween costumes. I decided to take a white dress that looked cottagecore enough and wear a white witch hat that I would sew myself, so the weekend before Halloween I bought a witch hat for cheap at Goodwill and pulled out the sewing kit without a second thought. I was truly struggling with the costume since I hadn’t handled fabric in years at that point, but I was having so much fun that I trusted the process, and with a lot of determination, holes in my fingertips, and hot glue, I made a very cute hat that I wore to my theatre class and immediately took off when I got home. I didn’t even get to show it off that much since my sister and I stayed inside to watch a spooky movie instead of trick or treating, but I was so proud of myself for making something that it didn’t hit me until days later. I held a needle, multiple needles and pins in fact, without a single bit of fear in my mind. I was so relieved and happy that I rode off this newfound high by starting on another cross-stitching project, a gift for my manang that I could work on while she was out of the country for her birthday. The moment she left the house, I scoured through her threads, mocked-up the pattern I was going to make for her, and threaded my needle all day and night, losing myself to the passion I thought I lost forever.
I forgot how soothing it was to pull a needle back and forth through cloth, to let myself relax as I mindlessly created something with my hands as I listened to a podcast, and to look at a finished project and say, “Hey, I made this and I had fun with it!” The fear would sometimes come back and linger for a bit, a whisper of what if you slip and poke your eye? Or what if you lose a pin? Have you been keeping track of all your needles? Then I put on my glasses and made sure to keep track of all my needles, soothing the thoughts as best I could by rationalizing back, I can’t poke out my eye if I have my glasses on, can I? I have seven pins in the pin cushion, no more and no less. After my manang came back, I hid the cross-stitching to save for later and started on making as many head bandana as I could, raiding all the pretty fabrics that my manang stock piled from her mask-making days and using a pattern that was intended for machine sewing but I went through with hand-sewn techniques anyway. Now wherever I go out I wear my sunflower patterned headband, I feel a sense of pride. I even took a big step and got my flu and Covid shots completely by myself, which I have never done before. My strength failed me a little. I called my mom to help me be thorough with my paperwork and checked all around to make sure no one would tamper with my needle or scare the nurse as she injected me, but after baring through the pain of needles under my skin, I walked out of the pharmacy shivering, weak, and incredibly proud of myself for not passing out even a little bit. It’s been a while since I’ve had the time to truly indulge in a hobby like this, completely losing myself in the process and having a thing to show off with pride, an emotion I’m not used to feeling in myself. I’m also not used to looking at a needle and not feeling that overwhelming fear of what if what if? in me. But as I help my manang cut out fabric for her Christmas project this year and she teaches me how to use her sewing machine, I think these are things that I can get used to feeling.
Milkshakes
Art by Elsa Young
Artist statement: Based on the 1975 Mysterious History of Cattle Mutilation, and the idea that Aliens Abduct Cows. Though the origin of the idea is dark, I made this piece much more innocent and silly. I like the idea that Aliens are actually abducting cows to simply make Milkshakes, and that’s why our galaxy is known as the Milky Way.
Ant House
Art by Elsa Young
Artist statement: Six Intaglio prints of an Ant that made a human skull into its house. Since we were able to play around with lines in this piece I wanted to do something slightly creepy but still have a silly vibe. Having cute or silly simple characters in a piece with a dark undertone are my favorite pieces to do.