As you can probably imagine, my junior year of high school was a tumultuous one. Between the pandemic and the accessibility of the 24-hour news cycle, it was often hard to not feel hopeless. On top of that, I was expected to continue doing well in my classes. I dreaded one in particular: Physics, the hour and a half of utter bewilderment that preceded my lunch break. Needless to say, it was far from my favorite class. If the sheer amount of awkward silence that followed every question my teacher asked was any indication, Physics was far from being anyone’s favorite class. Not only was the material often counterintuitive, especially as someone much more interested in the humanities, but asking for help had much less privacy than in previous school years. Not knowing meant announcing it to everyone, and no one seemed particularly interested in doing so, much to the frustration of my teacher. By mid-October, it had gotten to the point where he’d check for understanding and pointedly refuse to proceed with the lesson until someone unmuted to say that they understood. This quickly drew the annoyance of my classmates, and fourth period became a process not dissimilar to a twice-a-week pulling of teeth. It’s only partially true that I started speaking up because I got tired of the long pauses that plagued my late mornings. Mostly, I just found it difficult to understand my assignments, and it was apparent that I couldn’t wait for someone to have the same questions as me. So, the next time my teacher asked if anyone needed clarification, I seized the opportunity. He smiled, and I could tell that he was relieved. I got my question answered, asked another to be sure, and ended up feeling much more confident in my understanding of the lesson. It seemed to put him in a much better mood as well, and the class moved along smoothly after that. I’d do the same thing the next time we met to much the same effect. The lack of tension was palpable. Physics, I found, was much more enjoyable this way. It was here that I decided to speak up not only for myself, but for the sake of fourth period as a whole. After all, if I had hoped that someone might pose the question that I was too scared to ask, it might be the same for other students. This didn’t mean that the embarrassment of being wrong went away entirely. It still unnerved me whenever my teacher had to spend time correcting my work in front of the class, so I began seeking out tutoring in order to better comprehend what it was that I kept doing wrong. With the help of both my teacher and older students, my work in the class improved. I also became more confident in completing tests, quizzes, homework, as well as answering questions that I got from other students. Though it was only one simple practice I maintained over the course of a few months, volunteering in class made me feel good to know that even in a year where I felt helpless, I was still able to help others.

“Charles City,” my teachers say, the second syllable cramped against the roofs of their mouths. What they don’t know is that it’s pronounced more like “Cha-city”. Every time, I choose not to tell them. In my freshman year at a magnet school, I found that code-switching in ways like this was a necessity for being both understood and respected. Though it was only ever implied, I could tell my intelligence was not assumed. So, I made sure to pronounce my R’s. Now I’m a senior and I find it hard to drop the habit. Two years ago I could’ve asked the upperclassmen how they managed to balance culture and academic success, but I was too shy then and it’s too late now. I’m left without the vocabulary to relate to the underclassmen behind me. This has made me quieter, alienated even from my own class. If I speak at all, my voice cracks. As a remedy, I’ve tried turning back to what gave me a voice to begin with. 2016 was a turbulent year whose consequences I had virtually no way of mitigating. I was 12 and it was the first election year I truly felt invested in. Still, despite all my hope, I could do nothing to sway the outcome. During this time, art gave me a place to vent a frustration I didn’t have words for. In my sketchbooks lived a world where I had the power to make things good, where people like me could have hope for the future. Time went on, and academic pressure meant I had no time to draw. This was good for me, I thought, since I never had an answer to the well-meaning familial question of how I’d live off of art. Around this time, I remember deciding to become a therapist. Then COVID hit, and I suddenly had all the time in the world to remember why art mattered to me. This time, however, it wasn’t my old sketchbooks that captured my attention, but instead a new favorite movie. Only Yesterday was exactly the type of movie I needed to see then. It’s a film that calls to light the thousands of small injustices we face as children, and it revealed to me an old kind of heartbreak I didn’t know I’d been holding onto. I felt seen, and something clicked in me then: this is what I’d been trying to do years ago. This is what I wanted to impress upon others: the kind of kinship that comes with knowing you’re not alone. Isao Takahata had done it without relying on his speaking voice. I decided that I could too. Filmmaking became a passion, and storytelling an obsession. I wrote about connection, about understanding, and most of all about love. I wrote like the world was ending because to me and too many others, it already did. Again I had the power to make things good for other people and if not, I could at least give them a point of reference to explain themself to others. I’m certain now that this is what I’m meant to do. I’m not yet able to project as well as I’d like to in my own life, but it helps to know that my work has the potential to help others project in theirs. Knowing that gives me hope to try.