“Kain na,” my grandmother, Mamu, whispers in Tagalog, as she places a bowl filled to the brim with delectable golden mangoes before me. The last time, it was a guava, and the time before that, it was a pineapple. It was another late night of studying in my room, where the only sound in the house was the dull drone of my dog, Goku, snoring downstairs. No matter how late it was, Mamu dropped in with a bowl of fruit in one hand, and the other wrinkled hand ready to caress my cheek. She never uttered anything more than “kain na,” meaning eat now, but I knew that encapsulated in the precisely sliced mangoes in front of me was a message of encouragement and love. I learned to appreciate the figurative fruits cut by my parents’ hands. My mothers hands are small and rough from her late nights spent as a nurse in the emergency room. Her nails are trimmed to hygienic perfection, but never polished, due to health code regulations. Her hands juggle two jobs that provide for my family. My father’s hands are large and calloused from long days of physical labor that earned him the money to immigrate from the Philippines to America. His hands steer the wheel that drives me to school every day. Finally, Mamu’s hands are the epitome of durability; lined with wrinkles that represent years of hard work, yet soft to the touch. Her hands wiped tables at the Japanese restaurant where she earned her first job when she immigrated to America. Her hands washed my hair and clapped vigorously when I took my first steps. Her hands represent the sacrifice and resilience instilled in every immigrant, and the hospitality and kindness ingrained in every Filipino. Her hands cut my fruit and caress my cheek. This is the story of the hands that cut my fruit–the very hands that possess inhuman amounts of tenacity, but maintain a surface level amount of tenderness. My family’s hands look and feel the way they do so mine can go to school and hold a pencil. Because of the hands that cut my fruit, my hands long for the day they can hold a diploma. I have now learned how to cut my own fruit. Under Mamu’s tutelage, I learned that she chooses the dullest knife to prove that she can cut fruit even with the absence of a cutting board, just as I learned that I can succeed academically with limited resources. I learned that she slices along the slender and smooth pit of a mango in order to not waste any of the flesh, just as I learned not to waste opportunities. I learned that she keeps the mangoes in the fridge to ensure a cold, firm fruit to slice, just as I learned how to keep a “cool” and level head in overwhelming situations. I learned how to advocate for my community, starting an Asian-American scholarship for Asian students at my school. I learned how to savor every drop of nectar from the fruit, just as my family savored every opportunity life gave them. I learned how to cut my own fruit so that one day, when I have worked hard enough to scratch the surface of my family’s sacrifices, I can bear the fruits of my success and appreciation to them. I will stop in front of them with my own bowl of fruit and say, “kain na.”

Feminism is the unity, equality, and equity of women, being able to see the individual and community-based struggles of women across the world and advocating for change. It's important to our society because we as women have been put down, dismissed, and forced to fight for our rights even today. We're trying to overcome many challenges such as wage gaps with our male co-workers, gender discrimination, and sexual assault. Each and every day we get closer and closer to reaching equality with our male counterparts, however, it is not so easy. We have been fighting for generations, hoping to make life and society easier for the next generation of women. A strong leading female who I personally look up to for representing the raw power of women everywhere is Greta Gerwig. Greta Gerwig is an actor, writer, and most importantly director who is known for directing films with a female-led cast and a strong female protagonist. Gerwig has always been an icon and subtle activist for feminism. Instead of leading protests or starting projects for her advocacy, Gerwig advocates for feminism through her work as a director and public personality. She's one of the few successful young female directors in a profession dominated by older men, and she hasn't shied away from speaking about it in live interviews. The sheer power of her career alone has caused a ripple in the Hollywood atmosphere, letting the world know that women can do it just as well as men can. In terms of her work itself, I admire the fact that Greta doesn't take herself too seriously. It seems that in our society, women must present themselves as the grave, or pressing in order to be taken seriously. However, Gerwig's projects are constantly fun and vibrant, showcasing talented female actresses in their element. She shows that women can be fun and creative, and just as talented as the men that surround them. Greta Gerwig has changed my view on feminism because she has shown that feminism isn't just protests and petitions, it's also being able to represent yourself, and represent all women. She makes me, high school girl, feel proud to be a woman. To know that she is absolutely crushing it in her profession, dominated by men, inspires me to know that I can do anything I can put my mind to. Gerwig is a catalyst for many young girls out there, and her impact will be seen in multitudes of girls who grow into strong, hardworking women because of her. As someone who is inspired by Greta Gerwig herself, I use said inspiration as motivation in the multiple leadership positions I am in. I felt inspired to start my club this year, which has turned into an outlet for myself. I've been able to become president of the Pacific Cultural Asian Enlightenment club with a few of my friends, and being able to plan events, and discuss real-world topics makes me believe that I am doing something right in the world. I'm contributing to the feminist movement by showing my peers that they can be female and hold leadership positions just as well as any man can. I advocate for women in leadership positions and uplift my peers who already are. I feel proud to see women succeed.

I like to call my childhood "The Golden Age," to symbolize how everything seemed to be bathed in this warm sunlight like nothing could go wrong. I had grown up surrounded by family members, raised by my three grandparents while my parents were at work. The concept of death seems so far-fetched to my young mind. I felt as though death was a foreign concept that affected everyone, but my family. I thought that we were immune. It wasn't until my grandfather and one of my grandmothers passed away one month after the other that the gravity of death seemed to pull me back to Earth. Being raised by my grandparents sculpted who I am as a person today. My grandfather was an immigrant from the Philippines who had to leave his kids behind to earn and send them money for a better future. He wore aviator glasses and loved gardening. My dad always told me about how strict my grandfather was in his childhood, but for me my grandfather was everything. He was the sweetest man who never said no to me and my brother. He made the house lively, and we never appreciated him enough for it. The BeeJees were constantly blasting in our living room when we came home, or he would wake us up with the news on full blast at three in the morning. Although he was an extremely masculine man, my grandfather never shied away from saying, "I love you." He was never one to say goodbye without it. You knew you were loved when he was around. The hole he left behind was astronomical, and now our house is quiet without him. Losing him made me spiral with my schoolwork, leaving assignments undone for days on end. I had no motivation to do anything, and my relationships with my friends were faltering because I refused to speak to them. I had never experienced death before, and it came in horrible waves that I thought would never end. Cleaning out his clothes and all of his personal belonging made me spiral even more, not wanting to erase the fact that he was here with us. I realized in my grief that family and relationships are what is more important to me and that they would help me cope. All the ties I had subconsciously severed were what brought me back to myself in the end. When I came out of my grief, I felt like I had a second wind, that I had another reason to live again. Talking with my friends and making our bonds stronger made me realize that there are people out there who actually care about me. It made me want to "fight" to strengthen the relationships around me, to let my friends know that they can on me just as I had leaned on them.

From as far back as I can remember, I've always had tiny bumps all along the tops of my arms. Little dots, sometimes red, always discolored, splattered along my arms like my own set of constellations, a galaxy on my body. It was only later that I found out that it was a skin condition called keratosis pilaris, a build-up of extra keratin in my skin with nowhere else to go but my arms. I've had these bumps on my arms my entire life, never once seeing anyone else with them. Wearing sleeveless tops and revealing my paint-splatter arms to the world was the most horrifying thought to young me. I was so terrified of what other kids would think of me. Would they look at me like I had a disease? Would they want to stay away from me? The feeling of somebody's arm accidentally brushing mine sent chills down my spine. Did they feel my rough, bumpy skin against their smooth skin? Did they think I was weird? While my skin condition is one of many unique attributes about myself, I feel as though it is the only one I have learned to grow with. I've had keratosis pilaris since I knew what skin was, and it has gotten worse since. From afar, they look like freckles, and up close, you'll realize that some of them, as grotesque as they might seem, have pimple heads. I dealt with feeling repulsed by looking at my own skin for years, with no real cure other than time insight. In those years, I've learned to accept the fact that this is how I am and embrace it. I learned to love how different my skin makes me from others. Questions about the bumps on my arms use to leave me triggered and angry at myself, but now, I am proud to show them off. I have come to embrace the fact that they make me, as an individual unique. My uniqueness makes me noticeable, it makes me different. I've also learned that being different isn't bad, it makes you interesting. It adds a shade of color to the kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that make up who we are. I plan to help kids with not only unique skin conditions but unique attributes embrace themselves and learn to love what sets them apart from everyone else. I know if I had someone as a kid to tell me that my skin was cool and unique, I wouldn't have spent all those years hating it.

From as far back as I could remember, I had always wanted to be a star. Not necessarily in cinema, or celebrity status, but in any profession I could choose. I believed that I could be great, that I could strive, and shine bright on my own through my hard work and dedication. Throughout my life, I had worked myself to the bone for my grades, leading projects on my own, and losing sleep to prove my worth. Do you know what they say about the brightest stars? They always tend to burn out. My whole life there has always been a quiet pinch in my head, echoing back the pressure of getting into college and the debt that would pile over me. Being a second-generation American with immigrant parents added a new depth to this type of pressure, like the weight of a boot stepping on my back. I had started to spiral into anxiety and depression. The anxiety of failing, deeming all the work I had done and my parents had to get us here, worthless. Depression loomed like a shadow, the thought of me failing, and how much my self-worth depended on it engulfed me on a daily basis. I had become obsessed with proving myself, craving validation that never came. I had come to believe that I was worthless, that everything I had worked so hard for was puny and futile. Then, one day, the echo in my head was overcome with a bright, colorful noise. A noise that told me to get up, and stay up. I had no idea where this second wind had come from. I was days deep into another depressive episode, not being able to clean my room in days, and my homework unfinished. However, I felt inspired by this noise to haul myself up from the dark hole I was in, and it wasn't easy. My bed called to me, the very thought of my bed made me want to sink into it. However, opening up about my anxiety and depression helped. I coped by leaning on those who really cared about me. Knowing that in the back of my mind, there was always someone out there to listen was comforting. I spent a lot of time outside, in the sun. The colors were more vibrant outside and the feeling of the sun on my skin brought me mental and physical warmth. Throughout my journey, I've learned that some methods that help others may or may not work for you. You are your own person, and how you cope reflects that. It is never easy, but it gets better. You have to start by accepting that you need help. I am back on track, working hard on achieving my dreams of going to college for Environmental Science, and hopefully Dental School after. I had always wanted to make my own pediatric dentistry practice, and have something to call my own. Hopefully, I can inspire the youth I work with to advocate for their own mental health, and accept the help people want for them.