Los ganadores del concurso de escritura de 2022
Recibimos más de 100 entregas fascinantes y bellamente escritas por los hijos de nuestros miembros en el concurso anual de escritura de la Unión. Cada año estamos más encantados con la increíble creatividad y reflexión de los jóvenes adultos que pertenecen a nuestra familia de la Unión.
Éste es el vigésimo aniversario del concurso de escritura, que inicialmente fue posible gracias a una donación de la Fundación Shelley y Donald Rubin. Laurel Rubin, hija de Donald Rubin y nieta del primer presidente del Hotel Trades Council Jay Rubin, generosamente donó el dinero para el concurso de este año. Los ganadores recibieron premios que van desde $1,000 a $3,000.
Aquí están los seis ganadores del 2022 (en inglés):
Tenzin Choezom, Ganador global
Padre: Sonam Choesang, Hyatt Centric Times Square
"How I plan to change the world"
I skim through the book, its pages dull and text faded, looking for words and phrases- a source of energy- that will give me the motivation I need to start the 314-page novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera, for my sophomore year European Literature class. After minutes of leafing around, my fingers wind up at the very third page, where Kundera discusses the lightness vs. weight opposition. He argues that it “is the most ambiguous of all”, and furthers, “if eternal return is the heaviest of burdens, then our lives can stand out against it in all their splendid lightness. But is heaviness truly deplorable and lightness splendid?” Lips slightly parted and eyebrows furrowed in concentration, I read and reread those lines. My eyes carve into the page as the words carve themselves into my mind and I am bemused.
Of course, lightness is splendid. Lightness is a feather- it’s the ability to soar and soaring is certainly splendid.
However, I lean back in my bed, staring blankly ahead, trying to make sense of the question and arrive at a logical answer. Eventually, my eyes rest on a toy plane, not bigger than my palm, sitting on the bookshelf in my room. Picking it up, I am taken aback by how light it is and how much heavier it appeared when I first held it in my hand that May of 2010. My father had gifted it to me, after stepping foot on American soil, and I remember marveling at it for months, tracing my fingers across its figure: the same model as the plane my mother and I fled India in, Continental Airlines.
Flying away from poverty, political crises, inadequate education systems, and poor living conditions allowed a burden to be lifted from my family’s back. Our new one-bedroom apartment in Queens was as grand as the ocean I flew over in comparison with the run-down corridors of our neglected apartment complex that was housing far more people than it should have been. I was amazed by the new school I attended along with its stationeries and supplies I had never laid my eyes on before, facilities I could only dream of in my poorly funded school in India.
Yet, instead of feeling relieved, or free and light, I have come to realize that the transition has left an even heavier weight on my conscience. As Tibetans living in exile, my parents had so little, but they always bought fresh pomegranates, which were quite the delicacy in our provincial village, for me. I still listen to my father’s stories about our life in the third-world country- recollections of strolls on the dusty streets, stopping every once in a while to greet a friend, and eating pizza with a breathtaking view of the clouds on the Dharmshala landscape. Furthermore, my parents both held stable jobs: my father was a teacher and my mother was a secretary, so despite the poor income, they had relatively small workloads. In stark contrast, they both currently work as manual laborers, coming home fatigued and aching at the end of each day and my heart shatters watching them every single time.
I bear the additional weight of longing for the familiar scent of my grandmother’s embrace, the mountainous terrain of our Ghangkyi home, and the rich spiciness of laphing, a Tibetan noodle dish, from street vendors lining the city, is a load that I carry with me to every tennis match, piano recital, and karaoke night with my friends. It is a reminder that lingers in the back of my mind during every 2 A.M. study session and mathematics lesson I tutor.
The new lavish accommodations of America have instilled within me gratitude for the opportunity to come to America unlike so many suffering Tibetans back in Tibet, India, and Nepal, a responsibility to stay true to my Tibetan identity, as well as earnest, to make sure my parents’ sacrifices were not in vain.
Alas, I continue to come back to the toy airplane and the question that Kundera puts forth, “Is heaviness truly deplorable and lightness splendid”, to this day. The palm-sized memento is almost as old as I am. Its paint has chipped off, the wheels have fallen, and its miniature beacon light no longer flashes, but the weight and importance that it carries have only become heavier as I continue to tread forward; it now serves as a guiding light as I aspire to save others’ lives in the future, just as mine was saved.
Now, what seemed apparent at first no longer feels right. Lightness means soaring, but it also implies insignificance, and although weight is a load I must carry, it stands for all that is who I am- it keeps me standing, grounded, and ready- and there is nothing more splendid than that.
Likewise, changing the world does not always mean that I will invariably make big and powerful decisions. At times, I will tread carefully, with steps as light as a feather. However, where it matters most, I will make sure that my steps are beneficial to others, confident, and heavy.
Christina Anto, 1er Lugar en ficción/no ficción
Padre: Johnson Anto, InterContinental New York Barclay
"The Beauty Within You"
“You’re pretty for a black girl,” he said. The words that followed me like a shadow. This simple yet complex compliment sat in my head for days. Why was I pretty “for a black girl?” Why wasn’t it just “you are pretty?” At a young age, I understood and realized the differentiation of my pigment from others. Kate (the girl who sat next to me in class) was way lighter than me. She was white, eyes like the ocean, and her hair was shiny and silky. Kate’s hair reminded me of the barbie dolls at Target. I could run my hands through it like water. My hair wasn’t like Kate’s hair. My hair would get caught in tangled curls that twirled in loops like the spiral springs you find in notebooks. Every time I shook hands with my teacher, principal, and others, I saw the differentiation. Sometimes, I felt that they can interact better with those who weren’t like me. After all, they shared more similarities with the rest of the white students. As I look at each and one individual, I notice the biggest difference, my skin was darker.
My family says “Black is beautiful from head to toe.” I remember Momma making me rehearse a poem every day in the mirror:
Brown skin, cocoa butter, makes my skin smooth.
Nice colored lips I can pucker them too.
Hair so curly, it bounces when I dance.
Look in the mirror, see the beauty in you!
Black doesn’t crack, and yes it’s true!
But sometimes I didn’t like my curly hair and being black. I wanted to have silky, straight hair and skin like Kate. Later on that day, during lunch, I dreamed about the way I would look with straight hair and lighter skin. Questions out of curiosity started flowing in my head. What if I just asked momma to perm my hair like the other girls? What if I could change my skin color? Maybe if I can then I’ll be able to experience what it’s like being Kate. I suddenly came back to reality as I heard my name from a distance being called. “Ebony, Ebony,” was repeated consecutively by my teacher Ms. Jackie. She was tall, had blonde hair, wore skirts and flats a lot, and had noticed my disappearance from reality and into my own world. Just as she was about to ask me a question, the bell rang as hard as the one down the road from my home. School had ended.
I waited for my older sister at the school courtyard like I always do. My mother and father said I have to wait for her every day so we can walk home together, till I am in middle school. My big sister Mary Jane (we call her Mary for short) spotted me in the corner, clinging to the arms of my backpack, and rocking back and forth on my feet from heel to toes. She grinned as she got closer and asked me how my day at school went as we walked home.
As my sister puts the key in, I swing the door open with a powerful air coming along. A pleasing smell leads me to my mother, who is in the kitchen. She is putting mittens on to open the oven. I sniff a little more to identify the aroma. Honey cornbread, it is. My sister and I watch her take it out and settle it on the island table to cool. She comes around to give Mary and me a huge big hug.
“I miss my two favorite humans on this planet,” she says in a soothing voice. Her voice always feels like a warm blanket. She tells us to go change and come help her with dinner so that once dad is home, we can all enjoy the cornbread and the meal she was preparing for us.
I head down to the kitchen wearing my favorite pink set, a Hannah Montana shirt and sweatpants. Momma calls our names to hurry just in time. I step into the kitchen and she smiles. “How about you prepare the salad and set the table, my love.” I nod with a smile back and start working. Words race in my head, trying to figure out a way to ask momma to straighten my hair. My palms feel sweaty and I am nervous at what she might say.
I blurt out the inquiry, “Momma, can..... I please...... get my hair permed?”
She looks at me with her eyebrows raised. I look away, nervous to hear her answer. And then she speaks, “Ebony Ashanti Jackson, why do you want to perm your hair?”
I blurt out again, “I want my hair to be straight like Kate’s.”
“Well, sweetheart, I want you to be original. I don’t want you to ever feel you need to be a copy of this girl, Kate. But I guess a new hairstyle won’t hurt. We will go to the beauty supply store to pick up some items over the weekend.” At this very moment, I feel like a can of soda that’s just been shaken. A burst of excitement and a very hard smile leaves me with my cheeks hurting. “But no perm. I don’t want your beautiful curls to become damaged. Maybe you can decide if you want a perm later in the future when you’re older,” she says, reassuring that it is a promise.
I sit in excitement and daydream of having straight hair for the next couple of hours. Later, Father finally arrives home and soon we are all seated in the dining area. I examine the delicious meal placed at the head of the dining table. Lasagna, a pitch of water, salad, and the honey cornbread all sit perfectly, waiting to be devoured. Every night at dinner, Father tells us to bow
our heads, and each week a rotation of Momma, Father, Mary, and I have to lead prayer. This week is my turn. I start off the prayer and everything goes according to plan until I state my second wish from God, “... and I pray that Lord you bless me with lighter skin like Kate’s.” At that moment, a bit of regret formed in my heart. Not because I said it, but because I had learned from a young age that, black is beautiful from head to toe. I felt I had just stripped this truth away from my family.
Mary’s jaw drops, Father accidentally opens his eyes, and then Momma says quickly, “Amen, let us eat.” Momma says amen before I do. I know she isn’t happy with my wish, but Father and her show no sign of anger or disappointment. Mary just stares so much I can’t keep count anymore. As I look down on my plate, not a single spot is left uncovered. I clean my plate, leaving no crumbs. While Mary, Momma, and Father talk about their day, I sit quietly listening. I think about how my day consisted only of daydreaming of having lighter skin and silkier hair, and how Father and Momma wouldn’t be too happy to know about that.
As I get ready for bedtime, I try to find my bonnet. Small footsteps get louder towards my bedroom door. It must be Momma and Father. They always make a quick trip to our rooms to say one last goodnight. Momma says, out of curiosity to hear more of my reasoning, “What about Kate makes you want to be like her?” I grab my bonnet and plop it on my head making sure it’s secured for the night. My back sits straight and my legs are crossed on my bed.
I respond, “I want to know how it feels to be white, with straight, silky hair that doesn’t get stuck in combs. I want to look in the mirror and see how I could look.” That’s when I see her shake her head and Father looks at me with a concerned face.
“Sweet-heart never feel you are not enough within your own skin. Your melanin is stronger than medicine. Your curls hold the roots of generational stories passed down.” She pulls two
strands down my face. I look up as she says, “See how the pattern is different? All of us are different because it makes us unique.” Father pulls out an old black box. As he opens it, a particular photo catches my eye. Was my father secretly Steve Urkel? As he looks through the photos, he realizes he’s caught my attention, so he shows me.
“Oh, I see one has caught your eye. This picture is so old. That was me at 14 years old. I differed from a lot of my classmates. I hated wearing glasses. I wanted to be like the other boys who didn’t need glasses and caught all the girls’ attention. But then I discovered how to love myself for who I am and realized that my Steve Urkel glasses didn’t make me an outlier.”
“You wouldn’t believe the look on your father’s face the day I told him I love his glasses,” Momma adds on. We all giggle quietly, trying to not wake up Mary in the other room. Father asks me to recite my poem for the night.
And as I recite, Momma tucks me in bed, leaving me with the last words, “look in the mirror, see the beauty in you! Black doesn’t crack and...” The room goes black as Momma and Father close the door. My eyes close and everything becomes silent.
Years later, as a mother of two, I have grown to appreciate myself for who I am. Both of my daughters read the poem day and night, never forgetting to remember the beauty within them because self-love is the best love. And you're probably wondering, Ebony, did you ever get to perm your hair? Well, the answer is no. As I got older, I accepted my big, kinky afro, and I wore it more often and found new ways to style it. I have a message to all the beautiful girls out there who feel insecure about their body, complexion, hair, and anything else. Your worth isn’t determined by any aspect of your appearance. Your beauty exists because you do. So rejoice and remember “look in the mirror, see the beauty in you!”
Taskin Arisha, 2do lugar en ficción/no ficción
Padre: Kamruzaman Bhuiyan, InterContinental Times Square
"What My New York Is"
With sweat glistening on our foreheads, we tug on our shirts repeatedly to let in the stale, humid air. As our breathing slowly mingles to become a gentle, rhythmic tune, we hear the whirring noise of the wheel come to a halt. The letter F blares onto my friend’s cracked screen. We rush up the steep, treacherous steps as we hear the monotone, yet authoritative, garbled voice of the train announcements. Within a few stops, the persistent instinct of getting off resonates within us. "Should we get off here?" one of my friends asks. Brief nods are exchanged in response to the question. We all proceed to exit the train and walk mindlessly to the northeastern exit of 74th Street and Roosevelt Ave. We never forget to exclaim our never-ending surprise at how we manage to always end up in our second home. Even with the various ways of digitally viewing maps or directions, our feet seemingly know every detail of an intricately detailed map, hidden from every outsider to this place.
After we quickly exit, my friends and I discuss where to get food. Usually, my stomach would be filled with the flaky texture of the peppery paratha (South Asian flatbread) dipped into the Chana Masala‘s (chickpea) citrusy, buttery taste. My mother’s kitchen would fill with the aromatic smell of garam masala (hot spices). However, during this trip, I have decided to endure the slight pangs of hunger in hopes of indulging in one of the many restaurants within Jackson Heights. As we walk into Haat Bazaar Restaurant, I remember how two of us believed the samosas were unappetizing, discouraging us from ever eating here again. However, as we pass by the intensive selections of the rich, piquant food, the chicken biryani, with its beautifully sprinkled array of saffron and dried onion, stands out the most. As we wait for our food, I peer towards the back of the shabby, high-ceilinged area. I see men with trays filled to the brim with the oily, red tint of beef curry. After a long wait, our biryani is finally here. The taste of the tender chicken mixed with the nutty flavor of the basmati rice brings about a moment of nostalgia. The rice explodes with the earthy flavors of the cumin that are balanced out with the fiery flavor of the black peppercorns. It transports me back to my mother’s spice cabinets that are labeled in Bengali with powdery chalk. Not long after, the biryani is being scraped clean off the plates. We leave the restaurant, leaving behind the bitter aroma of freshly fried methi (fenugreek).
As we enter the radiant, glaring rays of the fierce sun, we pass by Khaabar Baari. It brings back the memories of sitting towards the vacant end of the restaurant in the worn seats that have their leather skin scraping off to reveal the clothy white underneath them. The LED bulbs emit a luminous, intense white glare down towards the steep entryway, heading towards the red door with flimsy plastic as its window. My mom takes a bite out of the Kacha Morich (green Thai chili peppers), a staple ingredient for Bengali cuisine, as the single crunch silently echoes throughout the vacant restaurant. I can’t tell if the squeeze of her eyes and wrinkles that flare out on the corners of her eyes were from how hard she bit down into the Kacha Morich or of the long wait for the food. As we walk out, my parents critiquing the restaurant, we pass by Patel Brothers. The block words saying, "Patel Brothers. Celebrating Our Food...Our Culture" are a shamrock green shade. From the bustling sidewalk, a lady with a lilac, crocheted sweater accuses one of the store clerks of his failure in putting her groceries in the proper way. We enter the store, ignoring the commotion of the rickety sounds of the shopping carts. My eyes follow the lime-colored walls as I rack through the shelves filled with South Asian and Middle Eastern treats and groceries. I rush over to aisle 6, where I find the Pran Frooto Mango Juice in stacks in the styrofoam boxes. I grab one as the tangerine-colored liquid inside swooshes around, hoping I can savor the tropical, sweet taste of it once I get home. I head over to aisle 1, where I stumble upon my mother, who is intensively peering into the open display case fridge filled with frozen foods. My mom grabs the Deep Cocktail Potato Samosa package that is lightly coated in a frost of ice as my dad rushes her to hurry.
My mother proceeds to take us on an adventure up and down the lively 74th Street. As Eid-ul-Fitr approaches, we find ourselves at the busy intersection of 34th Avenue and 74th Street. We walk into Wow Designs and Jewelry with its colorful array of orange, white, and red garlands of flowers used for the Baraat portion (one of the many South Asian wedding parts) of weddings hanging from a hook. Walking in, I’m amazed at the magnificent glow from the imitation jewelry. A warm, gold luminosity shines upon the entirety of the room, with display cases glistening with sparkling gold glitter flakes. Neck models adorn Kundan jewelry sets (a specific design of Desi jewelry) with ruby, topaz, and jade gemstones set within matching earrings and chokers. Pairs of jhumkas (specific design of Desi earrings) with precise designs of tiny hanging beads are pierced into the brown wall towards the right. I pass by the narrow hallway as my arms scratch against the bangles hooked on the cylinder holding pieces. I hear the whirr of the overhead fan blades as they move in a rapid circular motion, swaying the tiny beads of the shiny jewelry. I finish paying the store clerk a crumbled 5 dollar bill for the red and gold hoop jhumkas for my chiffon salwar kameez Eid outfit.
As we climb up the crumbly stairs leading underground towards the Lipi Fashion, the one near the law office of Mahipal Singh, we head to Mita Jewelers. A buzz, similar to a door entrance buzz, rings through our eardrums as we climb the stairs lined in dirty, mustard carpet. As we’re granted access to the jewelry store, my mother starts peering into the glass-encased gold jewelry. I head over towards the window, as I press my nose onto the counter glass, peering at the golden jewelry. I see the Aum symbol in slightly cursive Sanskrit.The circular strokes have a golden glint reflected from the streaming sunlight from the nearby window. Nearby, I see a woman with light brown streaks and burgundy painted lips, have her turquoise Georgette dupatta (specific type of scarf) , embroidered with heavy gold lace, draped from shoulder to shoulder. She’s on the other side of the glass-encased countertops exchanging Hindi with an old, frail woman with a dirty-orange sari (specific type of South Asian clothing) draped over one shoulder. The woman with the sari throws prices at the other woman. With every suggestion of bargaining, she slightly shakes her head and takes out the small, stainless steel weighing machine underneath the worn out painting of Kurma (one of the incarnations of the Hindu god Vishnu) to further prove why she can’t lower the price.
After exiting the store, I am arriving in front of the Fuska House Truck as my friends tap me on the shoulder, pulling me out of my daydream session. I am met with a street filled with stands of various hijab scarf colors and details. Black crates are filled with velvety, plush Islamic prayer mats. As I am looking for a hijab scarf through the assortment of colors, the man urges me to go downstairs to the Lavanya Store to view other colors as well. Instead, reluctant to actually go downstairs, I decide to take a picture of the mannequins dressed in a sage lehenga (a specific type of South Asian clothing). The lehenga consists of a complex sliver pattern adorning the embroidery of the skirt. There is a net dupatta that is a sheer gray color with floral patches clustered over it.
Heading towards the side entrance at the northeast corner of Roosevelt Avenue and 74th Street to get on the next train home, I recall how I will always be intrigued by how a single place could bring so many Desis together. Growing up, the air was always tense with the everlasting bitter legacy left by the British colonization and the partitioning that has bled through generations. However, at the age of 2, I saw people surrounded by their shopping carts while briskly walking away from my sight to unload the plastic, medallion bags inside their vehicles. The bright screens of their smartphones glowed against their cheeks as the slight buzz of their phones rang together with the chattering of the jovial crowd of shoppers in front of Apna Bazar Farmer’s Market. There was a soft, translucent glint of yellow that illuminated the grainy concrete. As I shift to place the heel of my foot on the very center of the orb of light, my dad lifts me up into the air. A strong gust of cool wind whips strands of hair across my face, obscuring the view ahead. The rattle of the rusted shopping carts pierces my ears. I see to my right the glistening, soft yellow hue of the headlights belonging to a black Honda car. As it pulls onto a slightly leveled paved road, a hand peaks out of the 3⁄4, opaque, opened glass window. My dad raises his hand to wave as we hear the crunch of the small pebbles beneath the massive wheels. I pick up occasional murmurs of the word "Gorom" to describe the warmth of the moist summer night air as I peer towards the eternal, moonlit sky. Within the tranquility of the serene heavens, it was the joy of the young, hearty laughter of the Bengalis, Indians, Pakistanis, Nepalese, and Punjabis mixed together in harmony.
Ivy Gomes, 1er lugar en ensayo
Padre: David Gomes, W Union Square
Dear fellow Immigrant,
Welcome to the United States! I know that is a very enthusiastic greeting
considering you are realistically terrified. Stepping into a new life and leaving behind everything you know is no small feat. While it is exciting to start anew, I know firsthand that it can be quite a daunting experience. However, that is what binds us together: the shared experience of having to build ourselves up. You may have a family with you. You may be all alone. Either way, there are just some things that only we immigrants will understand. And that is okay.
While it is easy to dabble in the joys of having opportunities you never thought were possible, I will also tell you about some of the harsh realities of immigrating here. There are many romanticizations of the immigrant experience. They say America is the “land of opportunities,” but they do not tell you about the lesser glorified side of it. Being an immigrant is not easy.
Some days, you may look to your left and then to your right, to your front, and to your back. Yet, you may not find yourself in any of the passing faces. Finding a community to belong to can be difficult when you are in a melting pot of people from many backgrounds. Sometimes you may find yourself overwhelmed with the conquest to find somewhere you feel wanted, somewhere you can say you truly belong. My parents and I lived in a predominantly white neighborhood for most of my life. Immigrating from Bangladesh, there were not many Bengali people here with who we could bond and share our culture. I remember watching my parents spend their days reminiscing on pictures of their friends back home. I could see the feelings of alienation and isolation in their eyes and how they spoke fondly of Bangladesh; there was always an undertone of sadness. They would never admit that to me because all they wanted was for me to fit in and belong. But I also struggled in my own ways growing up. Looking at the faces of my fellow students, I rarely found my big nose, poofy curls, or henna tattoos on any of them. My brown eyes stood out in a line of blue. There are many layers of loneliness in being an immigrant, and how I looked was no exception.
As an immigrant, you probably are no stranger to making sacrifices. It can feel like a gamble almost. You never really know what the future holds until you get here. “Living uncomfortably” is the best way I can describe it. There are so many little sacrifices you have to make as an immigrant. Sometimes it can feel like an endless cycle. As I got older and met people with more privileged childhoods, I realized how many little sacrifices my parents and I made. Some of the realizations astounded me because, for me, they were normalized. I was used to it. I can recall talking to a friend of mine about getting mail. She brought up having separate mailboxes for her tenants, so she would not have to sort through the mail to find the letters addressed to her as I did. Such small things like having to separate mail went over my head. The disconnect had been worse than I thought. My friends did not have to use buckets at every corner of their houses to catch the water dripping from the ceiling. They did not have to save up their lunch money from the very beginning of the school year in hopes of having enough to buy a book like everyone else at the annual Scholastic Book Fair.
I was fortunate enough to have learned English from going to school here. Unfortunately for my parents, this was not the case. I had to grow up watching them struggle to say words that came so easy to my mouth. Part of being an immigrant in America is experiencing the looks of impatience and smug remarks for not knowing how to speak English fluently. It may not always be direct, but the feeling of inferiority for not comprehending the language to the fullest extent is ingrained in all of us in some way, shape, or form. My parents always said knowing how to speak English was a privilege, and watching them struggle to communicate with the cashier at Key Food, I understood the anxiety it caused them. My father always told me how hard it was for him to find work. I would watch my uncles and aunts take on jobs for meager salaries because they had no choice.
I know all of this has been quite depressing to read. I do not mean to discourage you, but it is important that you know. Being an immigrant, in a nutshell, can be described in one word: difficult. There will be many downs, but if you keep at it consistently, you can also see the beautiful opportunities that this country has to offer. I wish you nothing but the best and all the luck in the world as you begin your journey here. Remember, no matter how lonely it gets, you are never alone.
Sincerely,
Your fellow Immigrant, Ivy
David Davitt, 2do en ensayo
Padre: David Davitt, Thompson Central Park
Mahana Joseph, 3er lugar en ensayo
Padre: Harry Joseph, Wyndham New Yorker
