Let me tell you a story about my family. *          *          * My great-grandfather was a great business man. My great-grandmother was a great person. He was short. As short as Napoleon, my mom says, even though she never knew him. *          *          * She got these stories from my grandmother, who got them from her mother. *          *          * He wasn’t the most educated person, but he worked hard and took a hold of opportunities. He was a traditional man. All for the sons. He and my great-grandmother married when they were young. She was 17, he was probably around the same age. *          *          * My great-grandmother’s family was moderately wealthy, so her husband got a pretty good dowry. My mom thinks that he used this money to start his business selling fresh products in Changchun, Northeast China. Changchun is cold. Short summers, long winters. *          *          * My great-grandfather observed the fruits harvested in his area. They were not of good quality, and so he went to other places to see if their fruits were fresh. *          *          * He bought a bunch of the fresh fruit, Chinese haw berry, in places where they were cheap, plentiful, and of good quality. It’s a reddish fruit, like a mini pomegranate. He coated the haw berries with a hardened sugary syrup, which gave the fruit a sweet and sour taste, making it Tang Hulu, or a candied haw berry. Then, he put the candied haw berries into storage to sell for the winter, when haw berry was scarce, at a high price. *          *          * He put them on long pieces of hay, turning them into skewers. Since there was not a lot of this fruit of good quality in his region and time, he quickly made a lot of profit off of this business. He did similar things like this with rice, grains, and other fruits. Using the money, he bought large plots of land. *          *          * They were very large. Very large. My mom says they were the size of a whole county. Now that’s big. He rented out this land and the houses on it to other people, but since he was too busy running his businesses, he put my great-grandmother in charge. *          *          * My mom says that she was kind. Very kind. Too kind. She was a traditional woman, and put her sons ahead of her daughters. She was also strong. She lost six of her children, took care of her remaining three sons and youngest daughter, and also took in two of her nephews. She treated her own neighbors like family, and was fine with extending the due dates of rents because of family problems. *          *          * The family lived happily for quite a while. They had boys to carry on their legacy, and a young, healthy baby girl. They were happy. *          *          * But not for long. *          *          * During that time, the Communists and Nationalists were fighting over China. The Nationalists occupied Changchun. That’s where my grandma and her family were living. The Communists planned a siege, and cut off the city from food. People starved and died, including my grandma’s father. After the death of her husband, my great-grandmother decided to leave the city. She and her children escaped eventually, and sold her jewelry along the way. A diamond ring for a bowl of rice. A golden necklace for some potatoes. *          *          * And that’s how it went. *          *          * I don’t think that most people outside of China know of the civil war there. It was gruesome. It was horrible. After the Communists took over China, there was the Chinese Cultural Revolution. People thought that the poorest people, most of them who were lazy and unwilling to work, were the most pure and uncorrupted. They thought that landowners and landlords were bad people. They stole the people’s money and used that money for their own benefit. It might’ve been true for some people, but not all. Take my great-grandmother, for example. She was so kind and never liked saying no. But instead, they beat her. They beat philosophers and scholars. Musicians and famous actors. They beat wicked people, they said. But they beat good people. People who were kind and compassionate, I say. My great grandmother was so afraid for herself and the livelihood of her own children, she burnt the ownership papers. *          *          * She burnt the evidence of all that she had, all that she and her husband worked for to ensure that her children would not be mocked and scorned, even though she was. *          *          * I can’t believe that even though my family went through all that, I’m still here. Without the struggles they had experienced, I wouldn’t be here. I never knew them, but I feel like I do. *          *          * I carry on my grandmother’s legacy, my great-grandparents’, and my ancestors’ before them. They’ve been through so much, and still have endured. *          *          * No matter what happens in the future, the past will always be with

My house is wonderful. In its own way. When we moved in five years ago, it was pretty broken down. *          *          * I’m 12 now, so we moved in when I was seven. During that time, I was so angry. Why did we have to move? Why did I have to go to this new school? Our old house was wonderful. It was a wonderful community with wonderful neighbors. *          *          * Everything was wonderful. *          *          * My new home, well, it was pretty cool. It was way bigger than my old house, and I had a bigger room. I could decorate it any way I wanted. Paint the walls the color that I chose and get new furniture. *          *          * My thoughts then were conflicting. Would it be easy for me to fit in at this new school? Would I make friends? What would the curriculum be like? Eventually I got used to it. I made acquaintances, not friends. But the schoolwork was challenging, and the teachers were nice. I have great friends now. Some are still acquaintances, but I like where I am right now. I like my school. I like my teachers. *          *          * But what I don’t like is the fence around my house. *          *          * Before we moved in, there was already a fence surrounding our backyard. But we still needed to insert another one, in place of the dying trees. The fence is a whitish-cream color. I think it’s ugly. I don’t think that it’s that ugly. I’m not sure what I think of that fence. Before, I didn’t think much of it. Yes, it was noticeable, but I didn’t think much of it. One day when I was coming home on the school bus, my friend said to me “your fence is kind of hideous.” I was prepared to defend it, saying “so what?” and “what does that have to do with you?” Then I got off the bus. I looked really closely at that fence. The fence was a cream color. It looked fine. Then I looked at my house. It was painted white with a patterned roof. That looked fine as well. Then I looked at my house and the fence. The white color of the house did not look good with the cream-colored fence at all. Not at all. *          *          * But nothing can be “perfect.” Claire Jiang, 12Princeton, NJ

My name is from the Latin and French languages. In French, it means “clear” in its feminine form. There are many versions of the name Claire. Clarissa. Clare without the i, Clara, Clair without the e. Even Clarence. They all sound the same. Someone could say “Clara!” and I would immediately respond, thinking that they were calling me. Sometimes I wish my parents had chosen a different name for me. Something more unique and special. Like Theodosia, Indie, or Willow or Sparrow. *          *          * A name no one has but me. *          *          * It’s hard to distinguish when people are actually trying to call your name. When people say the word “clear” or maybe even “clarinet,” I’d perk up, ready to respond. Then find out that they weren’t calling me. *          *          * In my school, I am often made fun of for my name. “Clarissa!” or “Clarence!” My brother’s name is Terence, and my name is Claire, so why not smush them together and call both of them Clarence? In books and movies, there’s always a character with a name similar to Claire, Clarence, Clair, Clare, etc. Sometimes she or he is big, and sometimes she or he is small. Sometimes she or he could be tall and skinny, and other times short and fat. She could be the daughter of Ares, or sometimes he could be a chubby little boy with just two teeth. Ordinary enough, I don’t feel like them. I don’t feel connected to them in any way. I am me. Just me. *          *          * Recently on the news, I heard that the country of Macedonia is debating on whether it should change its name to Northern Macedonia. It doesn’t really seem to make a difference. *          *          * Does it? Then a woman came on the radio and pointed out how adding one word to the country’s name could change, surprisingly enough, its identity. If I wasn’t given the name Claire, would my identity change? Would the way that I think of myself and others change? Would the decisions that I make change as well? *          *          * I’m not sure. Claire Jiang, 12Princeton, NJ

My life would not be the same without music. Without art. *          *          * Art is a place just for me. Just me. I could draw anything, and it would be beautiful. No one cares if I mess up or not, or if I did this wrong, or if I did that wrong. It’s just me, perfecting this and that. I like it. *          *          * Me, enjoying how colors mix together, then look like a sunset on a blank canvas. How you could create the ugliest color in the world. Then take a brush, scoop it up, and place it on that canvas. And it would still look beautiful. *          *          * There are so many different forms of art. Photography, fashion, architecture, design, paintings, sketches. *          *          * All of them are different in each way, yet the same. *          *          * When I was younger, I loved singing in the car. For me, it was fun. It wasn’t something mandatory. Not something that I was forced to do. It was simply pure fun. When I was around four or five years old, I started playing the piano. I wasn’t some music prodigy or some talented child. Instead, I was a small five-year-old being told to do it, and so I did. My first piano teacher gave me jelly beans when I played a piece. She had a whole box of them from Costco, with all types of flavors. I would always look forward to that day when she would award me with two or three of those jelly beans after class. But she didn’t motivate me in any way. She didn’t care if I practiced or not. That’s why my mom decided that I needed to go to a different teacher. Her name’s Grace. She has a lively temper but a strong, compassionate heart. *          *          * She has two dogs and two children and three pianos. I don’t think she really liked me when I first came, but now she does. *          *          * At least I think she does. When I first started, we played Haydn. Now we do Bach, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Liszt, and some more Haydn. I got my first piano with her. It’s not a grand piano, it’s not a Steinway, it doesn’t cost a million dollars. *          *          * It’s a simple upright Kawai, with heavy keys but a beautiful sound to it. *          *          * There’s a framed picture of me at my first recital at Carnegie Hall when I was six, and a small pot with small pencils. They sit on a satin-like piece of cloth covering the piano, with tassels at the end that have long fallen off. It’s not ancient, not brand new. It’s not cheap, it’s not expensive. It’s not the best, and it’s not the worst. But it’s mine. No one else can touch it. No one in my family wants to touch it. They don’t know how. They don’t understand how we take for granted how a key makes a beautiful melodious sound. They don’t recognize the beauty and splendor of having a piano that’s yours. The beauty of being able to play a complex piece on this instrument, and make it sound effortless. Do. *          *          * Re. *          *          * Mi. Fa. Sol. La. Ti. Do. And that’s how it goes and goes. Until you can’t go any higher or lower. Claire Jiang, 12Princeton, NJ

There are plants all around my house. At the front door, behind the fence in the backyard, in front of the fence. I don’t know any of the names. I’ve always wanted to be that type of person who can distinguish between which plant is poisonous, which plant is useful and edible, which plant attracts this bug and which plant attracts that one. But that is not me. *          *          * I can’t even distinguish between an oak tree and a pine tree. *          *          * I really can’t. There are these grass-like plants planted in front of the old fence. They bloom and change color every season. Sometimes they’re yellow and orange in the center, like a blooming sun. They attract the eye amongst the greenish, long, thin leaves. Sometimes the flowers are purple, the purest royal purple, with a lavender color in the middle. I wish I knew the name of this plant. But I don’t. I just call them flowering sedges. You know what sedges are, right? Now that I’ve described the plant, experts and plant lovers will tell me that the name is so easy and the plant so recognizable that even the “most ordinary” person would be able to name the plant. The name will probably be as simple as lily. Or tulip. Or dandelion. It probably is, but that doesn’t matter much to me now. These plants change color every season. Yellow and orange during the spring and summer, then purple and lavender during autumn. In some crazy way, they remind me of myself. Sometimes I can be sunny and cheerful, like the orange-yellow flower that resembles the sun. Other times I can be frustrated and angry, like the dark purple flower. *          *          * I wish that I could be in the middle. Calm and secure. *          *          * Calm and secure. Claire Jiang, 12Princeton, NJ