Dinner at a Second Glance (SUPA)

The chatter of news softly echoed underneath my blankets. The speaker of my phone vibrated against the skin of my palm. The same messages flashed across my eyes: ACAB, BLM, Justice for George Floyd and Breonna Taylor… There was so much injustice in the world. I threw the phone away on the bed and rolled away. My outstretched body curled into a ball. I shut my eyes.

I went to school and saw the little boy scrunching his nose, muttering “ew” under his breath when an Asian girl brought out her bento box for lunch. I felt it. I remembered it. Pulling a packet of beef jerky with Chinese lettering on the packaging just to be confronted by a boy a year older than me; “Is that dog meat?” 

Ashamed, the packet would be tucked back into the pocket of my coat. I smothered the sides, flattening it so it wasn’t visible. An audible crinkle shattered the silence, yet somehow it was nothing in comparison to the volume of the question before. 

In fourth grade, there was an African American girl named Juliana. She walked into school one day, her usually curly hair tied into box braids. She wore it with pride. The other girls hid behind her back and whispered. They tugged at the ends when she wasn’t looking and ran away as soon she looked back. Their giggles etch into the crevices of my memory. 

A few years later, one of the same girls went to vacation in Jamaica. She came back with tight braids in her blonde hair. She wore it with pride. The other girls caressed the dipping edges of each braid and whispered their oo’s and a’s. 

It all came together in my head as I laid curled up underneath my autumn blankets. It stayed when I got called down to dinner. I spread my frustrations across the spotted wooden table. The members of the BLM movement had the right to go out and protest. In fact, it bothered me that there had to be a second movement as a sequel to the Civil Rights Movement before people saw things. It bothered me that people had to loot big businesses in order for the people at the top of our social hierarchy to notice. Our problems were miniscule, we were tiny action toy figures in their big world. I ranted to my parents over the table in between bites, chews, and swallows. My chopsticks flew in the air and my hands motioned crazily. My sister agreed, but my parents stayed silent. They simply stated that they did not agree with the riots. They thought that no matter what, protest should not resort to violence. I saw the look of disapproval upon their faces. My face settled into a frown. Their disappointment prompted me to speak. 

“Do you not understand the intensity of the situation? They riot because they are sick of being silenced. I don’t agree with it either, but don’t you think it’s kind of upsetting that it has reached that point where they feel the need to break the law in order to be heard?”

My mother diverted her gaze and my father simply shook his head curtly. His fingers curled into the shade of his palm. I wasn’t satisfied with their reaction.

“Do you really think it will all go away with peaceful protesting? That’s what Martin Luther King Jr. did, but look at us, still fighting for our rights. I’m not saying I agree with it, but don’t you agree that there lies some reason in their actions?”

I felt the questions zip out of my mouth before I could stop it. My parents, the gentle people who graduated top of their class in China and graduated with an MD and Ph.D… My parents, the ones who raised me. They rose above and beyond to excel in a new country. Yet here they sit, silent.  

I stared at them. My eyes prodded them for a response. Disappointment lingered in my chest, threatening to drop at any moment. 

They looked away. 

-

The 1960s lived forever as a hard time. You lived with chains around your wrists and a pebble constantly stuck in your throat, threatening to drop at any given moment if you uttered the wrong thing. 

You would walk to school in uniformity, across the street from your gender counterparts. Both sides neither touched nor shared a look with one another, as to do so would suffer serious consequences. You came home and listened to silence ringing through the courtyards. You read the books assigned again and again. You did not know of the outside life. You only existed within the confines of your own room. There was no box to think out of. Only void. 

You come to America to escape the vacuum you were brought up in. You heard classical music for the first time. It is associated with the airy breeze and petrichor of spring. Another day, you hear The Beatles for the first time. From then on, you listen to it every morning as the sunlight of the patio graces the pages of your book. 

You talk about how you wished you had this when you were younger. The ability to explore and find new things. You talked of how envious of an American child’s opportunities to create music through the violin and piano. You would always wave an imaginary baton in the air whenever your daughter played, whether it was scales or Mozart. The blissful look upon your face gave power to the strings of her bow. 

In 2020, you remember the communist riots when you watch the riots of the BLM movement on TV screen. You see the glass of business windows breaking and police taking control. It sends you back to your bare childhood. You saw police brutality and thought of the army tanks raiding Tiananmen Square. You saw the heightened senses to racism and misinterpreted it as propaganda. 

Now, you look at your daughter and see a mind infatuated with the Little Red Book, just in the format of social media. Your nonexistent opportunities, presented to her perfectly on a silver platter, was only possible through your own hard work, yet here she sat, eyeing you with disapproval. Did she even know what life would be like to have music taken from your very ears? 

I saw my parents’ expressions and mistook them for racism or indifference, or maybe even both. I forgot about the life they had lived, about how they worked hard to leave it just to see parallels in their refuge. The situation is different now. But seeing it through my parents’ perspectives humbled me. 

I want to tell them, “Thank you for your perspective. It gave your daughter insight.” But instead, my mind came up empty. Their eyes prodded mine for a response.

I looked away.

October 2020

Summer Ride (SUPA)

My bike swoops up and over the rolling hills of Williamsville. My head bobs up and down the cracks in the sidewalks and the potholes on the road. I purse my lips apologetically whenever a car must pass around me. Still, I grip the handlebars harder and lower my head like a stallion readying for a race. My helmet shifts forward, objective in mind. I pedal faster.

This was my midnight ride.

At the peak of the American Revolution, or the war to freedom as known by modern day residents of the United States, a gallant man strode on his horse in the dead of night. It was a still April night in 1775 when Paul Revere shouted upon his galloping horse, “The British are coming!” at the top of his lungs. He shouted like his life depended on it, and for many, it did. His cries of alarm awoke the farmers and militia resting at home and gave them the precious minutes needed to prepare for battle. His cries of alarm ensured the colonial wins in subsequent battles needed for the overall outcome of the war. His message spread across the town’s apparatus loud and clear. His voice was heard.

The sun turned his head and sunk below the ground faster than I could bike. Night greeted me. I ran into the store and grabbed what I needed, breath coming out of my mouth in pants. Quickly, I paid and took the bag, strapping it to the handlebar of my bike. My fingers fumbled for my phone and directions to get home. My legs ached. My stead whined of lack of air, tires deflating. The lampposts of the busy road began to light up, one by one. 

I swung my body back and forth to gain more speed. It was the greatest test of endurance my body ever had to withstand. I glanced side to side to make sure no unknowing cars would speed past, hoping the neon orange shirt I wore from my summer camp would help, as well as the unattractive blue track shorts. My hair was matted from sweat, but the goosebumps on my arms said otherwise. My calves strained, yet I shivered. I missed calls from my father and sister. It was late. It was dark. They worried about my whereabouts. 

Finally, I arrived home, pulling my bike to a squeaking halt in the garage. I ran inside, my face covered in grime and my hands calloused. With triumph, I brought out the bag I had procured from the midnight ride and placed a cup of its contents into a boiling pot of water. 

It was the first time I made bubble tea. I knew my parents had a long day and that they loved the familiar taste of their home country. I pedaled on my bike like Revere on his horse. The roads of Sheridan became the dirt paths of the village. My voice rang out through the plastic bag clutched in my hand. I galloped, my hands gripped the reins, just to show my family the one thing that mattered the most; my love for them. 

October 2020

Reflection about Rain

The rain is the villain in every story. It foreshadows the conflict, kneels with every death, and masks the hero’s tears. But in my life, my story, the rain waters and nourishes me. It brings with it good memories and a sense of cleansing. My deepest thoughts and states of greatest content have occurred to the soft pitter patter rhythm of Mother Nature’s flowering pot. 

The first memory I have of the rain was from a hot summer in middle school. Hunger Games had just released and, as a book fanatic, the lives of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark were no exception. That day was a particularly lethargic one for no reason; I did nothing but watch Minecraft YouTube videos the entire day, maybe take a few photos for Instagram I increased saturation and vignette on. I laid in my bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the lullaby of the outside. I started playing a song from the movie soundtrack and listened to the artist sing. Suddenly, it wasn’t someone singing from far away, but instead a forcefield of safety and comfort, shielding me from the outside world. The soft noise of droplets colliding with my window amplified. 

It isn’t always a monumental event that must take place in order for you to find appreciation in things. For me, all that mattered in that moment was the carefreeness of a little kid. It was the ability to do nothing at all and not feel bad for it. It was the vacancy of my mind, of everything else going on in the world. It was the innocence, the naivety we take for granted. In that moment, I was simply a child curled up on her bed, eyes fluttering close. 

The rain is my companion. It assists me in solitude and helps me realize that being alone sometimes isn’t all that bad.

August 2020

Taken for Granted: Grandparents (SUPA)

Ba Ba:

A man leaves his home in Binhai, China, for America in hopes of a better life. He was a child who left the arms of his family to go to the promised land, or so they call it, in search of economic and social prosperity. The American Dream. 

It is a fitting name. It is and will always stay a dream. 

He leaves his family and starts his own. Generations upon generations left behind, the only contact by letter that must travel across an ocean and more. 

But today, he wakes up at exactly 7:30am. He lets the alarm ring once before shutting it off with the palm of his hand. The fabric of the duvet rustles underneath him as he swings his body out of bed, ready to start the day. 

His torn slippers shuffle against the hardwood floor of his bedroom before reaching the carpet of his daughter’s room. Tentatively, he opens the door. He is met with a blast of warm air from the heater inside the room and a mound of blankets thrown together over a resting figure. 

“Anna, it’s time to wake up. Time for school.” 

He waits until the figure turns in their sleep before closing the door. His slippers continue to shuffle. His robe sweeps the floor. 

In the kitchen, he makes himself a humble bowl of cereal. His fingers pluck two gummy vitamins from its container to place on top of the lid. They wait for his daughter to wake up and take them one by one. 

He drives thirty minutes to work. He drives thirty minutes back. Only, his tie is a little disheveled and his hair is ruffled at the very back. His nose bridge has indents from where his glasses pressed against the skin and window of the microscope. He listens to the news radio station the entire way there and back. 

The man finally arrives home. He shuffles his keys and places them on the counter in the entryway. 

“I’m home!”

Sometimes he is met with a response. Otherwise, he is greeted by silence. 

He immediately sets to work, cooking dinner for the family with little to no break. He cuts the vegetables with the same hands that grip his tennis racquet. Calluses grace the thumb that curls around the handle. His hands, covered with scratches from a day’s yard work, slice through the body of an onion in a single motion. He cuts with dry eyes.

Lao Ba:

My mother’s dad I have no stories of. He passed when I was still a small child. I had no relationship with him. 

I saw my mother cry in China once. My six year old self laughed. Why is she making that face? Who is this man in that wooden frame? And what is this box next to me? 

We visited the Tiananmen Square. I pointed at the picture of Mao ZeDong hanging in the center, eyes pointed towards the sky. 

“Is that Lao Ba, your dad?” I asked my mom. She shakes her head solemnly and takes my hand in hers. We walk side by side. She gets me a jar of yogurt, reminiscent of street food in China. I forget about the incident. 

I think back to the funeral. “Why was she crying for a stranger?” is what I thought. I did not, and still do not know his name.

Nu Er:

The first time I saw my father cry was when he was brought with news of his grandfather passing away. It was a strangulated sob, like a noise made by an animal. I wanted to laugh when I heard it. 

Dad. What was that?

In America, I feel the wrath of those annoyed by the elderly, ready to shut them in an institution to fend for themselves. I see them go back and pay them a visit every weekend, as if that were to justify crushing all that they owed by abandoning them. We, as America, turn our backs on them. And yet we blame them for all the trouble they cause us, needing help with their old and rusting bones and their temperamental behavior. 

I have never seen my grandparents long enough to feel that way. And I can’t imagine doing the same with my parents, the very people who have raised me. I cry now, when my grandma leaves for China. I don’t know when she will come back. I don’t know if this will be the last time I see her, and if I am ever able to feel her in my hands again. If she disappeared, it would be a phenomenon that happened across the world. 

It’s everyday that I see kids walking with their grandparents on the sidewalks, or helping them carry their purse to church. It’s everyday that I feel a pain in the empty space within me that begs for a similar relationship. I always wished after school, I could bike to my grandmother’s house and enjoy a bowl of steaming dumplings, or simply enjoy her presence as she knitted a pair of socks for us. I wanted the forcefield of love and protection the eldest generation gave us, the hot soup they would carefully coax down your throat when you were sick, the softness of their fragile hands as they tucked you in at night. I wish I could have felt my grandparents’ gentle caress. 

Nai Nai and Ye Ye:

In elementary school one day, I came home and saw my small grandma from my dad’s side standing in the rain with an ornamentary sun umbrella bought from China. The ink dripped down the sides; it was not meant to be used in the rain. It was one of the only times I have had someone wait for me by the bus stop, and of the only times there was a pair of arms open and ready for me to run into. 

Years later, my grandfather told me to move to Shanghai. He kept trying to convince me of its growing prosperity and the potential it had, the immediate success that would embrace me if I moved there. He said that I could move to Shanghai. He added that I could take the train to take care of them on the weekends. And that I would always have a hot meal waiting for me if I were to come back. 

But it is too late. He passed away the following month. Just a phenomenon that happened across the world. 

October 2020

Salutations from a Hill (SUPA)

It was a side street off of a side street. Wide asphalt interrupted the otherwise rolling hills. A large cul de sac separated six or so recently built houses. The houses towered high, a stark contrast to the flat lands surrounding it. A large gate separated the developing neighborhood with the old one behind it. 

Before the cul de sac sat a mound of dirt. One could call it a hill, but even that would be exaggerated. It grew like a swollen bump from the ground. Patches of grass grew towards the bottom. Wildflowers blossomed at the top. Stepping onto the dirt was a disturbing experience; the mulch sunk and squelched around your sneakers, giving you the fleeting effect of quicksand. It was a mess in the middle of the new complex. 

But it was my summer. 

My friend discovered it at the beginning of quarantine. She enjoyed biking to listen to music and feel the wind blow at the tips of her ears. It became the location for us to watch the sun and its patterns. We would meet there every morning at 5:30am and climb up, carefully placing our feet in the same places we left the day before. Sometimes, on a dry day, we would fling a towel upon the tall grass and sit there, reading a book or talking amongst ourselves. Someone always played music in the background. The nostalgic notes whispered to us, singing a lullaby. Together, we would watch the sun rise. 

“Wow…”

The hill felt the palms of our hands dig into the dirt through the towel as we leaned back, craning our necks to watch the stars disappear one by one, retiring for the day. It felt the soles of our sneakers, leaving indents on its back. It tasted the drops of our popsicles as they melted into the soil. It heard our giggles and guffaws, our loud exclamations and the quietest secrets. 

We slipped and skidded down the sides as we stumbled back down. 

“Bye Hill!” 

The fishing line in our bicycles started, then diminished as our bodies retreated backwards into the light. In the distance, you could hear our chatter. Maybe we would return on the weekends when school let out. 

The first weekend of school, we visited our dear friend yet again. In its place sat the framework of a new house. We saw its fate in the bulldozer sitting beside the road. 

Bye Hill. 

October 2020

Character Sketch: Grandma (SUPA)

My grandmother is one of the best friends I have. She’s a stout but sturdy woman with short hair and a brisk walk. She does everything with meaning and a certain umpf. If you were to tell her to jump off a bridge (which would take more effort than hauling a herd of elephants up a narrow staircase), she would do so promptly and with purpose. I remember the days she would braid my hair. She would sit me down at the kitchen table and sit on a stool behind me. I could hear her labored breathing grace my neck and the tug and pull as her fingers worked nimbly to assure the perfect French braids - not a single strand of hair out of place. At night, I would go up the stairs to her room to bring her hot water. She took her medicine day and night, but liked to swallow her pills with hot tea. I always needed an extra tea cloth to hold the hot container, but her calloused hands always took it with ease. Those nights, I would stay a little longer. I would sit by her side on her bed and watch as she took her medicine. I saw her Adam's apple bob as she swallowed and her eyes scanning the outline of the other pills in her container. Afterwards, she would always bring her next sewing project to her lap. 

My grandmother was no seamstress, however she was the person we all went to for holes in our socks, alterations, and missing buttons. I loved to lie down by her side and watch the needle pass through the thread. She had poor eyesight, so I would often have to thread the needle for her and tie it before she began. I watched how my grandma, a usually crass woman, maneuvered a tiny sliver of metal skillfully through fabric. It astounded me to watch a scrappy piece of linen turn into a hat, or a scarf, or a shirt. She saved pieces we would throw away and turned them into functional pieces of art. Eyeing my grandmother, I found a new wave of appreciation in her. 

She only visits for half the year once every other year. Traveling from China to the United States is taxing on any human being, and especially on her eighty year old arthritis ridden bones. But, sturdy as she was, she got on the plane and navigated her way through a foreign world. She only understood basic phrases like “thank you” and “where is the bathroom”. Yet she continued to visit for the warm embrace of her second family in the United States. 

I haven’t seen her since the start of the coronavirus, but I often think of her. When the panic hit and the virus was mostly contained in Wuhan, I worried for her. I remembered her last words to me before she left for China the previous summer. She told me in Chinese, “Study hard and I’ll be back when you graduate! I know you will make me proud.” I remember her beaming smile, and how her stern facial expression melted into soft happiness. I imagined her on the plane ride back, one small but solid old woman rumbling through the terminals, a look of determination set upon her aged skin. I told myself that she would come back next year; she promised. And she is a woman who would never break her promises. 

I rarely see my grandmother anymore, and I can barely speak to her - I always communicated with her through my hand gestures and eyes. The language barrier was too deep for me to break through it. Yet I know my grandmother more than I know most of my friends, and I know she can see more about me than I can even recognize in myself. She is a woman of resilience and intelligence I could never understand myself. I know she will come back someday. And I know that day will be one of great joy.

September 2020

Chinese Club of Western New York makes sure everyone can take part in the New Year's fun

(Originally published in Buffalo News NeXt in March 2018)

In America, a big celebration is held for January 1st - the day that begins the new year. But in China, they celebrate their own new year. 

Chinese New Year, also known as Spring Festival or the start of the New Lunar Year, is a festival that happens usually in the month of February, this year being February 16th. Celebrations start the night before and last throughout the day. It’s typical to hear the pop of firecrackers whizzing through the air, the mouthwatering aroma of dumplings and the spreading of red envelopes, often from parent to child. These red envelopes are called “hong bao”, meaning red pouch when directly translated. They contain a certain amount of money and often a message proposing a healthy and fortunate start to a new year. 

During Chinese New Year, most doors would adorn a red square cloth with golden characters written. This was called a “fai chun”, which was a traditional decoration used to help convey happiness and prosperity in the coming lunar year. This is a few of the many traditions used to celebrate the Lunar New Year.

Another tradition of the Chinese New Year is their huge celebration. It is broadcasted on television globally, and for good reason - there are thousands of traditional Chinese dances, talented singers with their own dance sequence and “xiang sheng”, which is a kind of Chinese comedy used very frequently.

Although a celebration of that scale is hard to replicate, the Chinese Club of Western New York (CCWNY) has tried, and done a good job of doing it, for the past years. Located at the UB Center of Arts building, this celebration has been our version of celebrating. In fact, in many ways some think it is better.

Emily Sheng, former president of CCWNY, believed it to be better than the original celebration in a way because not only did it celebrate the Lunar New Year and traditional Chinese culture, it also shared it with others. She said, “We put on a big show every year that’s not just for the Chinese community, but also for any community who loves Chinese culture.” 

And indeed, it is a big show - in fact it is a celebration just as grand as the one in China - the only thing it lacks is some of the overwhelming propaganda. 

The Chinese New Year performance usually lasts around two hours long. Performers practice months before - usually rehearsals start in the mid to late summer time. Dancers practice formations all the way up to exiting the stage. The chorus gets together at least once a week with the piano. After all, it is the biggest event of the year.

Backstage, performers get ready - they change and powder on makeup while engaging in conversation with their friends. Sometimes they go out and get food from the Student Union since the performance is located on the UB campus. They get ready a few numbers before their act and once they are done, a great round of applause awaits them with several hoots and whistles. 

At the end of the performance, the announcers welcome children up to the stage as they pass out hong bao, containing one dollar in each pouch. Children jump out of their seats as the announcers wave the hong bao - needless to say, this is one of the most beloved traditions of the Chinese New Year. 

Most years there is a banquet that follows - last year it was at the Congregation Shir Shalom and Eastern Pearl catered to the event. The banquet that follows the performance is also considered a part of tradition. There are many round tables in a single room and at the front is a stage that people would go up on and engage in xiang sheng. There would be raffles and games on the stage as well, including both adults and children. All the while people watch at the tables below, eating their food while socializing with their friends and family. 

Although the actual performances lasts about two hours, the celebration lasts a day, and the festive spirit lasts the whole year. 

The Chinese Club of Western New York (CCWNY) is the mastermind behind this recreation. They are a non-profit organization whose main goal is to bring Chinese culture from China and spread it to the United States one step at a time. Right now, they have reached all of Western New York (Buffalo) and some parts of Ohio as well. 

Their officers are primarily professionals and/or small business owners. They are usually the ones to sponsor the event although Confucius Institute is a major sponsor as well. 

They even have a smaller branch - the Chinese Youth Club (CYC) - for the children and teenagers. The CYC officers arrange smaller events, often for the little kids. For an example, they set up the Easter Egg Hunt, Halloween festivities and sometimes trivia nights. Each event ensures that the children of CCWNY have as much fun as possible. They also help the CCWNY officers with setting up the Chinese New Year performance and the like. 

The hardest part of the performance process is, to Mrs. Emily Shen, “... we only have a certain amount of spots. We had to pick and choose, we had to let some people disappointed - and we didn’t want to!” There is also the process of having to reserve the stage in which the show was to take place on, getting everything organized and making sure everything was foolproof… there was a lot of effort that went into this performance. 

However, in order for something that great to happen, there will always be cons - that’s something that’s bound to happen. However there are pros too. A lot of them. 

In the end, she said,“...the round of applause, the children laughing… that’s actually rewarding.” Not to mention the successful enlightenment of Chinese culture; that’s plenty rewarding to me too.

At Zafron Home, teen parents learn skills they need to take care of their babies ... and themselves

(Originally published in Buffalo News NeXt in January 2018)

Anna Lin

NeXt Correspondent

In America, the idea of being a teenager and pregnant is not very widely accepted. People turn their backs on these young parents, talking of how they are incapable of achieving success, as if having a child has suddenly handicapped them. 

Theresa Thomas is of the many teen parents that came out of Zafron Home. But most importantly, she was of the many teen parents who proved these people wrong, and that teen parents were in fact capable of whatever they chose to do. 

She is now a successful business entrepreneur. She runs the business “Once Upon a Sleepover” which helps organize and run specular and unique sleepovers, and also bakes creative and delicate cakes. 

But how did she grow into her success? It was part willpower, part determination but also part traits learned from Zafron Home. 

Zafron Home is a home for pregnant and parenting teenagers. It’s a place that takes in young parents or soon-to-be young parents who can be as young as 14, and gives them a place to sleep, an education, advice and encouragement to be great. It teaches them how to take care of their children, how to raise them, but also how to raise and develop themselves. As a result, fine parents have graduated from Zafron Home.

Teen parents demonstrate commitment immediately when they decide to keep their baby and raise him/her as their own. Zafron Home doesn’t make the choice of what happens to the baby, but instead teaches the teens who have already made the choice themselves (and the choice of keeping the baby) how to raise it. Through this comes very valuable lessons, however.

For instance, the second Theresa Thomas arrived at Zafron Home, she “...hated it. It was far, it was in the country, there was nothing around.” As a young girl who had to stay in a home separate from her own, it was only natural to not like Zafron Home at first. Zafron Home provides a home for about 3-4 teen parents and their child. And with the infants’ irregular sleep schedule and shushing and cooing of staff and parents, there was noise. Being a teen parent meant having to skip over some sleep to wake up and nurture their child. Sometimes, staff will help out but the parents also learn the skills of being patient and level-minded. The home also sends the parents to a nearby school so that they can continue their education - on school nights, staff would sometimes help nurture the baby. But going through even hearing the wails and sounds of a young child everyday can be very endearing. Yet these parents adapt and learn to situate themselves better so that the environment would work better for them. Later Mrs. Thomas says, “...It had some good points, I just didn’t see it at first.” 

Zafron Home also gives the parents structure. Everyday there is a schedule, and a chore sheet and an amount of time to get things done. For an example, there is homework time and there is nurturing time, when some of the children bond and play with their parents as well as the other children. Everyone gets their turn cooking for the rest and doing simple chores around the house. This raises the parent in the teen parent and accustoms them slowly to the lifestyle of living by themselves, and raising a child at the same time. 

Mrs. Kathy DiLallo, director of Zafron Home gave me some information on how Zafron Home is run. She was one of the original people who came to the building and made it a home. She tells the girls who are discharged that just because they’re discharged doesn’t mean that they can’t keep in contact. If they ever need help with running the house, or advice and etc. that Zafron Home was their home and still is, just as the staff members are almost like their surrogate family members as well. She basically means that even away from Zafron Home, they will still continue to be supportive and helpful, which provides a firm base to their masterpiece. “We’re always there for them no matter what,” she says firmly. 

A teen parent’s schedule is rather busy for a weekday. She wakes up at about 5-5:30am and gets ready. She will then tend to her baby, like change his/her diapers, feed them, and the like. They get to the bus at around 7:00am. Before school, they have to fill out a care sheet, which is basically a sheet that tells the staff when the baby was last changed and other things concerning the care of the baby. The staff already mostly knows, but this helps get the girls in the habit of doing care sheets for daycares. The school day is long but their day is still even longer. The moment they come back from school, they go and care for their baby. They find the care sheet and based on that, figure out whether to change the baby or leave the diaper where it is. 

Zafron home also offers a very good education for the girls. Not only do they have school but a tutor comes in about three to four times a week and help the girls with any issues they had in school (work-wise). 

They all sit down together for dinner. After dinners there’s chores, and after that is time to study. By 9:00 they get ready for lights out (this sometimes differs as it also is based on the mood of the baby). They also do a lot of community activities that help them blossom as a family. 

This whole schedule helped bring structure to Zafron Home - one of the main things Mrs. Thomas appreciates most. The overall teaching of Zafron Home brought about ideal traits for a woman of substance, but the friendships are what made it all count. Mrs. Thomas mentions (as her final statements) that the staff made the difference. The staff were friendly and helped out with the babies, and most importantly were happy to make the girls happy and at home at Zafron Home. She still keeps in contact with some of the staff to this day. 

The atmosphere you grow up in strongly defines the person you become. Zafron Home taught teen parents that they were capable, and taught them valuable life lessons as well. They polished the diamonds and helped them thrive, Theresa Thomas being of remarkable bunch. 

Before we hung up, Mrs. Kathy DiLallo said that she, “...truly believe[d] we make a change.” And needless to say, I truly believe they do.

Four Effective Note Taking Methods

(Originally published in Buffalo News NeXt in Aug 2017)

School is back and we’re… ready as ever? School is often associated with studying, and everyone is itching to improve their grades to show colleges (and most importantly, themselves) what they’re worth. So how do you do it? How do you get better grades? Studying is definitely a big part of it, but the material you’re studying, like your notes, also play a role. 

Taking good notes is like a creating the perfect dessert - can’t add too much yeast or it might collapse, but you can’t add too little otherwise it won’t rise at all - you need something just right. That being said you can certainly find some methods that cater directly to your note taking needs. Even if theses specific methods don’t work, they could inspire a different note taking method that does work for you. I personally like these methods:

1. The Dutch Door Method

Part One:

I discovered this method through a YouTuber named “Haley Cairo”. Now I know that YouTube isn’t the first place people look for for study advice, but her ideas certainly worth taking into consideration. The first part of this method involves a sheet of paper, tape, and your notebook. Turn the paper horizontally and tape it onto the inside part of the back cardboard page of your notebook and fold it in so that it’s not visible when the notebook is closed. This exterior is used as protection for the inside contents. Now, no matter where you are in the notebook, if you have to refer back to say a formula, just open the door-like piece of paper to find it. This saves a lot of time by cutting down on unnecessary page flipping. 

Part Two:

This method can be used in a different way as well. Choose an amount of pages to perform this note taking method on and go to the middle of the page. Then use your scissors to cut it clean down the middle splitting all the pages into two halves. 

This method works best for subjects that require a lot of memorizing. For example, in math there are a lot of formulas required to solve problems. The cut down the middle creates two “doors.” Write all your formulas on the top door and solve all your problems on the bottom. This way, you can flip the top page to get to your desired formula while still staying on the same page of your problems. Haley Cairo can be found at her website: http://maemovement.com/

2. The Cornell Method

For the Cornell Method, you will also need to divide your note taking spread into three sections. Separate the top part into two sections. I usually make the top one longer than the bottom. The column on the left is for keywords and important events while the right column is for notes. The very bottom section (so the third box) is for summarizing the notes taken. I’d typically use this method for subjects with multiple units or to separate specific topics within units.The Cornell method automatically organizes your notes, which is one of many great things about it.

3. The Mapping Method

This method is very similar to a flow chart. You start off with the main topic then you divide this topic into all the subcategories, which are the other circles that surround your initial main topic. Expanding the map allows you to add more details. This method is visual and easy on the eyes which can be helpful in locating information quickly.

4. The Charting Method

Separate your page into several sections - the number of sections you divide the page into all depends on personal preference and topic. An example to use while reading a book divides the paper into four categories - time period, important people, events, and significance.

This method is easy to organize and it helps you isolate the most important facts. 

Once again, these note taking methods are just ones that I personally like - but what works for me may not work for you so experiment with different ways until you find the right fit. Good luck!

Anna Lin is a Freshman at Williamsville East High School.