So when do you realize that your loved ones are slipping through your fingers? Once it’s too late? Is this an inevitable aspect of growing up? I am paralyzingly afraid that one day, I'll look up to find them completely gone before I’ve had a chance to do something about it.

When I was younger, I treated making friends much differently than I do now. I did so in earnest, in fear, and in strife. I did so courageously, with valor, and the questionable and ever-anxious tactics of a preteen girl. I was a collector. I sought out friends like the rocks or Pokémon cards of which my brother had previously hoarded. But now, as both collections sit in my possession, I begin to realize the misconstrued intentions of those who seek to have it all.

There he was, the man, the myth, the legend — Champagne Papi himself, preparing for the first concert of his tour. “Hairs did, nails did…” ShadeRoom’s caption read. Drake’s nails were pink, his braids were tightly coiled, and his edges were laid. I’m sure my friend thought I would cheer; after all, we would be seeing his hair, nails, and edges in the flesh in a few short months. Instead, I raised my eyebrows at the sight. Immediately after, I found myself questioning my reaction.

Sometimes, I wonder which came first: my passions or my personality. As a quiet, shy kid growing up in a loud, outgoing, and intensely artistic family, it was inevitable that I would fall into some sort of creative space. So, I began my search far and wide for an artistic spark to ignite my soul and give me “a purpose” like the rest of my family. I'd soon discover that no endeavor made me feel whole in and of itself. Rather, they were fragmented and oftentimes confused scraps of the artistic identity I would eventually curate.

Talking to Asha Bey, a queer seventeen-year-old with strong East Meck High pride, about their upcoming work wilted flowers, a poetry compendium, and Say My Name, a scholarship documentary that became so much more, changed my un-queer June stasis.

TW: Mentions of suicide and self-harm

To start, I don’t know anyone over 13 and under 80 that’s broken an ankle. Not exactly how I was hoping to end my senior year of high school, with surgery Monday, bed rest for a week, and crutches for 4 weeks, including stomping across the stage at graduation. Nonetheless, the ankle is broken. No amount of mumbling “how the fuck did this happen” will fuse my fractured bone back together. So here I am, an 18-year-old about to graduate who can’t drive, can’t play soccer, and can’t even go up the stairs. And so I am left with much too much time and very few places to go.

What should I do?

The ads are everywhere. I see the leaping young woman that acts as their default logo in about every public space I enter: she’s smiling at me in Jimmy John’s, in the junk mail, on a highway billboard, from the inside of a trash can.

The Alchemist seems to be a fairly simple novel on the surface. But upon further reading, what does it say about attaining true happiness?

Black history exists outside of the prescribed borders of Black history month. Here we have a collection of essays recommended by team members discussing race and intersectionality in America. We hope you feel inspired to read and carry these words with you, even after February 28th.