In the seventh grade, I spent a week in foster care. It began with awakening to my mother drunkenly yelling at me and my brother from outside our rooms. Then, I told my father, who was living in his car, and he agreed to take us for a few days, and our subsequent stint with him in the Motel 6 across from the Round Table Pizza he worked at began. A few days later, a knock came at the door, and Child Protective Services took us away to a “more permanent” home, an hour away and severed from all we knew: ushered into a house with a foster mother we would never truly know. Whilst questioning my sanity after running for a week on sporadic sleep, water, a few Oreo Pop Tarts, and hash browns from Jack in the Box, I clung to one thing: my devious schemes to convince social workers to take me to my school. When they proposed enrolling my brother and me in new schools, these plans served as my way of fighting for what I needed: to be heard. I did not end up needing to implement my dastardly desperate plans for continuing my education in a familiar environment because my father was awarded custody with his lawyer’s promise that our stay in hotel rooms would be no different than “a stay in Disneyland.” I woke up the following day back in the same Motel 6 and realized that it was my 13th birthday. I suppose it was only fitting that my age would adjust itself accordingly to match my weariness, which intensified throughout the ensuing months of homelessness. During those months of homelessness, I shared a bed with my father because my brother “did not want to share,”spent hours alone in a hotel room, woke up early to commute to school from an out-of-town Travelodge, felt immense unease as an adult man ogled my underage brother, was met with a neverending onslaught of social workers until one stuck around, and we eventually found public housing. In public housing, I relegated myself to nothingness and rarely left our room. I began losing weight, never felt secure, and became convinced the rug would be pulled out from under me at any moment. I did not bother getting comfortable. The only place I felt happy was school. Although after six months of public housing, we were admitted into the new low-income housing unit, my adoration for education continued. Because throughout it all, school provided solace from the situation I still could not comprehend. I became dedicated to my coursework because, despite everything, it stayed the same. I could understand the intricacies of feudalism, edit stories for our school paper, and run the mile. As school soothed my reeling mind, I picked up the pieces of my life. I realized what life had been and knew how it would be was up to me. I started with maintaining straight A’s throughout middle and high school. In high school, I used school as a place to understand others. As I engaged with my peers, I found conduits for my pain that led to the sweetness of catharsis, which soothed my ever-present weariness. I learned how to love the period of my life that caused me such immense strife. Now, I can smile at how ridiculous it feels to consider that as I was actively wasting away and shoving my emotions down, I still advocated for myself to attend school. I continue studying to find bits of myself in the curriculum while feeding my cravings for knowledge.

My ideal bookshelf is adorned with esoteric trinkets, glimmering as the light dapples each item through the blinds, simultaneously highlighting embossed spines. Namely, the Bloomsbury 1st edition variant of The Song of Achilles, which stands next to its younger sister, Circe, basking in the sun's rays, a scene reminiscent of the former’s final scene, as “their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun” (Miller 369). I had a visceral reaction to Madeline Miller’s novel, The Song of Achilles. Before then, I had viewed those who throw books across the room or rip pages from the body of a book as a tad dramatic, seeing as I had not experienced said reaction myself. I was well accustomed to slogging through books, growing frustrated or disgusted by them, but never to such a degree that I would damage a book or risk wreaking havoc upon my room. However, as I read those final lines, something sick within me bubbled up: I tore out the final page, repeating the final paragraph all night. I physically could not stop. I had to imprint those words upon my memory. I can still recall it now, which, I concede, does not seem very impressive when I could have looked up the quote and made an empty claim. Regardless, in addition to the torn page and my self-imposed memorization, I was compelled to write poetry, which I shared with the majority of my friends and emailed to the owner of my local bookstore, the Napa Bookmine, which I would come to work at a few years later. When I started working at the Bookmine, I wrote a staff pick for The Song of Achilles, and my fervorous adoration for the book while speaking with customers continues. When it comes to the book itself, one of the main points I bring up is that Madeline Miller spent ten years writing it: one can feel the love soaked into getting everything just right. I was comforted to know she wrote this book for herself, taking the time to choose the word “pouring” rather than “spilling,” which would have created a more accidental/haphazard tone, choosing to prioritize her vested interest in Greek mythology rather than fast commercialization. This novel, which I adore and found through BookTok will be surrounded by fellow books from the TikTok community. Taylor Jenkins Reid’s The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, a book I read in a 5-hour work shift when it was completely dead in the shop, will finally physically be on a shelf of my own, rather than that of a store. This book shall also be accompanied by a familial tome in the form of Daisy Jones & The Six. The Secret History by Donna Tart will share space with Ava Reid’s gothic novels, A Study in Drowning, and a signed, first edition of Juniper & Thorn. These novels will be surrounded by black bows to aid in their contribution to an air of dark academia, as well as white bust statues, and a limited edition print from the aforementioned first edition of Juniper & Thorn, depicting Marlinchen and Sevas, romantic interests in the novel, gazing at each other as birds flit to and fro. All of these books are must-haves for me, and have affected the BookTok community by getting fans of these books interested in the community and sharing their thoughts, as well as the inverse: members of the community learn of these books and reading the,, thus supporting authors, growing BookTok as a whole.

I plan on pursuing a career in costume design. I adore reading plays and, sans any glances at other productions, creating costumes and entire characters in my mind’s eye, then promptly translating them to paper and getting to work. I want to share my love of theater and each character in a given play with an audience and make their experience easier through the garments each character wears. I want to ensure that everything makes sense and with careful consideration. I want to continue making actors feel more confident in their character and that their costume serves as an extension of said character rather than a hindrance or pain to wear. As the head of my school’s Wardrobe Department, I find, create, and keep costumes safe throughout the production. I enjoy going through what we own and making or purchasing whatever we need. I have lovingly organized our entire wardrobe closet by decade, clothing type (blazers, cardigans, vests, casual dresses, extravagant dresses, etc), and relevance to future productions. I consider the meanings behind colors, character relationships, connotations of jewelry placement, and historical accuracy. For example, last fall, my high school undertook the task of putting on the 1920s set play within a play, The Play That Goes Wrong, written by Henry Lewis, Henry Shields, and Jonathan Sayer. Florence Colleymoore, a woman cheating on her betrothed with his brother, typically wore a red flapper dress in all productions I researched. Before finalizing her costume, I looked at the aforementioned productions and compared their outfits with my plans. Though I could concede that the red passion associated with the color would match Florence, I had another idea: a green, beaded evening dress, a period-accurate low-cut neckline with black fabric behind it, and a hem extending past the knees, as was customary of most-high class women during the 20’s. I reasoned that since it was her engagement party, she should be dressed to the nines (rather than in dance wear popular in America when she was a reasonably wealthy British woman marrying into a family with even more money than she had). This, coupled with the fact that green is associated with envy and wealth, and that red would wash our actresses out, led to us going with green rather than the usual red. I wish to continue making new character decisions on pre-established shows whilst working to ensure they still make sense in the context of the productions. I want to ensure actors have someone backstage ready to help them with their costumes or provide moral support. Quick changes can be stressful, and there are always unplanned complications, such as an actor tearing a sleeve. I want to continue making actors smile in outfits tailored to them, hence why I plan on pursuing costume design.

My favorite anime got me through the week I spent in foster care in the seventh grade. Due to my father being homeless and my mother exhibiting mental instability, my stint in foster care began. After days of uncertainty, I had resigned myself to nothingness, shredding myself away for others' convenience. While questioning my sanity after running for a week on sporadic sleep, water, and hash browns from Jack in the Box that I can never eat again lest I vomit, I clung to one thing: my copy of Seraph of the End Guren Ichinose: Catastrophe at Sixteen. This ludicrous book held me together by bringing me undistilled, utter joy with lines like, “Holy shit, it’s Superman!”  Though I wilted away from what I knew, I saw myself clearly in the book I cherished. My catastrophe had already arrived, and I wasn’t even sixteen. What was I to do with the remainder of my life now that I didn’t have to resurrect my nine deceased friends or battle imperial demons? To keep myself occupied throughout the week, I mentally recalled the anime, Seraph of the End, which takes place after the events of Guren Ichinose: Catastrophe at Sixteen. The story shifts between two protagonists who find themselves embroiled in a world where tragedy has become the norm due to its post-apocalyptic nature, seeing as all adults perished due to an unknown virus, followed by the descension of vampires from the shadows, who use the children as their blood bags. I appreciate that these events occur in the first episode since the show wastes no time getting to the meat of the matter. The first protagonist we meet is Yuichiro Hyakuya, an orphan turned soldier who watched his entire family from the Hyakuya orphanage be slaughtered in front of his eyes by a vampire, amongst other atrocities. He holds a stalwart conviction to wipe out all vampires to fill the void left by the obliteration of his family. Unbeknownst to Yuichiro, Mikaela Hyakuya, the second protagonist and previous ringleader of the Hyakuya orphanage, survived. Unwittingly being turned into a vampire after the plan he concocted for the children to escape vampiric rule went awry, forcibly becoming the vile creature that caused him so much pain, Mikaela trudged through each moment until he could meet Yuichiro again. As the two work towards their individual goals, and after they are reunited, we are introduced to a wide swath of characters, each with devastating backstories. However, it is not the horrific atrocities but the unfathomable, hopeful compassion of Yuichiro, mixed with Mikaela's dour, realistic approach as they interact with others, that captivates me. Seraph of the End is a savage blend of yearning, revenge, vindication, love, manipulation, earth-shattering conspiracies, and a gaggle of teens just trying to get by, righting the wrongs inflicted upon them by a world forever stained with unchecked greed. This blend is enhanced by its soundtrack, composed by Hiroyuki Sawano. I adore the heart-thumping battle OSTs that I pop on now and then, as well as the tear-jerking openings and endings, X.U. and scaPEGoat. Both songs come from the perspective of either Yuichiro or Mikaela, highlighting their desperation regarding their overall circumstances, objectives, and the subsequent sacrifices they make for those around them, including each other. The music and show perfectly implement religious references, an essential pillar of the series, since it draws on many biblical figures and events throughout its storyline. Seraph of the End's characters, music, and attention to detail clinches it as a piece of media that has remained in my mind since I first watched it.