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
October 2020
Just Claire
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
Art, Music, and My Piano
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
