Week 1 — Sept 4

What haunts me is the weight of unfinished words- the conversation I never had, the apologies I
never spoke, the things that slipped away while I hesitated. I wonder what might have been
different if I had been braver in those moments.
Time hunts me. It chases everything I love forward—my childhood courtyard, my
great-grandmother’s voice, even my younger self. I can feel time’s breath behind my shoulders
whenever I hesitate, reminding me that nothing waits forever.
I’m hunting for meaning. Not the kind that comes in grand revelations, I’m searching for the
thread that ties all my scattered efforts together, something that tells me: this is why you are here,
this is enough.

Week 2 — Sept 9

1. Carolyn Forche – “The Colonel”

Reaction:
This prose poem struck me like a quiet explosion. The tone is conversational at first—almost
casual—but the ending image of human ears spilled onto the floor shatters any sense of distance
between art and violence.

Analysis:
Forche’s language transforms documentary realism into moral witness. She doesn’t describe the
violence as spectacle but as evidence, implicating both reader and writer. The poem challenges
the idea of aesthetic distance, forcing us to see beauty and brutality entangled.

Question:
How does Forché’s decision to maintain a detached tone intensify the reader’s emotional
response rather than dull it?

2. Lucille Clifton – “Blessing the Boats”

Reaction:
This poem feels like a whispered benediction, gentle yet commanding. The repetition of “may
you” creates a rhythm of compassion that feels both personal and universal. Clifton’s language is
spare but luminous; every word carries spiritual weight.

Analysis:
Clifton redefines the concept of blessing. It is not divine authority but shared humanity—her
wish for courage and release extends beyond the self to anyone who reads it. The metaphor of
boats leaving harbor becomes a symbol of life’s passage, of trusting the water even when it is
uncertain. Her simplicity is not minimalism but clarity born of deep empathy.

Question:
In what ways does Clifton’s use of direct address (“may you…”) transform the poem from
private prayer into communal healing?

3. Linh Dinh – “Prisoner with a Dictionary”

Reaction:
The piece feels fragmented yet urgent, blending dark humor with despair. Dinh’s voice is both
cynical and self-aware, a prisoner trying to reclaim freedom through words. Each line feels like a
struggle between expression and confinement.

Analysis:
By juxtaposing the mundane (a dictionary, definitions) with the claustrophobia of imprisonment,
Dinh explores language as both liberation and cage. The fragmented syntax mirrors the
disjointed mental state of a person whose voice has been systemically silenced.

Question:
Can language truly liberate us when it is built from the same structures of power that confine us?

Week 3 — Sept 16

One pervasive story that I strongly disagree with is the belief that success is measured only by
visible achievement—grades, titles, salaries, or prestige. From childhood, we are told that the
people who matter most are those who “make it” in a socially approved way: getting into elite
schools, climbing corporate ladders, owning big houses, or collecting followers online. This
narrative creates a narrow definition of worth that leaves little room for the quiet, meaningful
lives that actually sustain the world. Teachers, caregivers, janitors, artists, and those who simply
live kindly are rarely celebrated, even though their contributions form the unseen backbone of
society.
This story not only diminishes those who don’t fit its criteria, but also isolates those who do. It
pressures people to define themselves through comparison and productivity rather than humanity.
Many students, for example, learn to equate their GPA with their value. Workers define
themselves by how busy they are. Social media reinforces this by turning personal growth into
public performance. The result is exhaustion and disconnection: people striving endlessly
without asking why, unable to recognize success in the act of living well.
I would rewrite this story to include a broader, more compassionate definition of success—one
that measures fulfillment, curiosity, and contribution to others, not just external validation. In my
version, success would be a mosaic of moments: the courage to start again after failure, the
patience to care for a parent, the kindness to listen, the creativity to imagine new solutions. It
would honor growth as a process, not an outcome.
An inclusive story of success would also acknowledge how privilege shapes opportunity. It
would celebrate resilience not as heroic suffering but as everyday perseverance. Most
importantly, it would make space for stillness—for the idea that a person’s worth is inherent, not
conditional. The story we tell about success should teach us to see humanity, not hierarchy.
When we free ourselves from the single story of achievement, we make room for all the invisible
victories that define being alive.

Adichie’s TED Talk

Reaction:
What stays with me from Adichie’s talk is her calm yet firm insistence that “the problem with
stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete.” That sentence feels like a
quiet thunderclap—so simple, yet it exposes the root of misunderstanding. Her voice carries the
authority of lived experience, reminding us that stories have moral weight.

Analysis:
I remember that particular line because it transforms the concept of bias from moral failing to
structural blindness. Adichie makes the reader aware of how power shapes narrative—who gets
to tell the story, and whose version becomes universal truth. Her use of personal anecdotes about
literature, childhood, and Western media reveals how easily compassion can be distorted by
imbalance. The talk reshapes my understanding of storytelling itself: it’s not just art, but an act of
justice.

Question:
How can we, as readers and creators, actively expand the range of stories told without speaking
for others or reducing their experiences to symbols of diversity?

Kara Walker – Art 21, Season Two: Implicating the Viewer

Reaction:
Kara Walker’s silhouettes are beautiful and horrifying at once. The contrast between their
elegance and the violence they depict forces me to confront how aesthetics can mask brutality.
Her calm, analytical tone when discussing her art only deepens its impact—she exposes history
without apology or comfort.

Analysis:
Walker’s process implicates the viewer by making them complicit in the act of looking. Her use
of cut-paper silhouettes—an art form associated with domesticity and refinement—becomes a
deliberate weapon against the sanitized narratives of American history. She doesn’t simply
represent racial trauma; she reenacts the visual power dynamics that created it, demanding
self-awareness from her audience. Her art reveals that spectatorship itself can perpetuate harm if
it is unexamined.

Inquiry:
How can a writer similarly “implicate” readers—drawing them into moral discomfort without
alienating them completely?

Week 4 — Sept 23

Ross Gay – The Book of Delights

Reaction
Ross Gay’s essays radiate warmth and gratitude in a world that often rewards cynicism. His
language feels conversational yet musical, and each small noticing—a smile from a stranger, a
blooming flower, a shared joke—becomes an act of defiance against despair. What strikes me
most is his ability to write joy without denying pain.

Analysis
Gay constructs delight as an ethical practice rather than a fleeting emotion. By recording daily
pleasures, he trains both writer and reader to attend to the overlooked. His syntax mimics
thought—cascading, curious, unhurried—mirroring how appreciation unfolds in real time. The
effect is cumulative: by the end, delight feels radical because it insists that tenderness matters.

Inquiry
How might deliberate attention to small joys serve as resistance in times of collective anxiety or
injustice?

What Do I Find Delight In

Last week, I had a long phone call with a friend I’ve known for thirteen years. At first, we
just caught up on the little things, but soon the conversation turned deeper, and we began
sharing some of the worries and frustrations we’ve been carrying. What struck me was
how natural it felt—how even after all these years, the comfort of being understood by
someone who knows me so well came back instantly. After talking, we decided to play a
game together, just like we used to when we were younger. Between laughter and
lighthearted competition, I realized that companionship doesn’t always require being in the
same place. Sometimes, it’s simply the feeling of someone being on the other side of the
screen, listening, laughing, and reminding me that I’m not alone. That simple mix of
honesty and play was enough to brighten the entire week.

Value Exercise

Value 1: Self-Expression

Behavior in alignment: I express myself through writing, music, and open conversation, even
when my opinions differ from others’.

Behavior out of alignment: I sometimes silence myself to avoid conflict or the fear of judgment.

Example of full alignment: When I shared a personal essay in class despite nervousness, I felt
both vulnerable and free—it reminded me that honesty is a bridge, not a weakness.

Reflection

Self-expression defines how I move through the world. It is not about speaking the loudest but
about remaining truthful to my inner voice. Through writing, I translate emotion into language
and chaos into form. When I express myself authentically, I feel most alive because I am not
performing; I am revealing. Yet self-expression requires courage. The temptation to conform, to
shrink or soften my truth, is constant.
What makes this value essential is that it connects creativity with integrity. When I articulate
what I believe or feel, I invite others to do the same. Expression becomes dialogue. It transforms
isolation into understanding. At my best, I use self-expression to build empathy—not just to tell
my story, but to listen to others’.
However, living this value also means confronting discomfort. Genuine expression sometimes
disturbs expectations, but silence costs more. Writing, performing, or even speaking up in
discussion teaches me that vulnerability and strength coexist. To practice self-expression daily is
to trust that my perspective, however small, adds to the world’s chorus.

Value 2: Family

Behavior in alignment: I prioritize time with loved ones, offering support and affection even
during busy weeks.

Behavior out of alignment: I sometimes let stress or ambition make me impatient or distant.
Example of full alignment: When I helped organize a reunion dinner for my family, I realized
that care is expressed not just in words but in time and attention.
Reflection

Family, to me, is both anchor and compass. It grounds me in belonging and teaches me the
language of care. My definition of family extends beyond blood—it includes the people who
show up, who listen, who remind me who I am when I forget.
Living by this value means understanding interdependence. In a culture that glorifies
independence, family reminds me that strength also lives in connection. Acts of
kindness—cooking a meal, helping with chores, checking in after a long day—become quiet
rituals of love. They are the daily, unrecorded gestures that sustain relationships.
At times, balancing personal goals with family obligations feels difficult. Yet I have learned that
time spent nurturing relationships is never wasted. Family teaches patience and humility; it
makes self-expression meaningful because it gives me an audience that forgives mistakes and
celebrates growth.
To embody this value is to remember that no success matters if it isolates me from the people
who love me. Family, ultimately, is the practice of showing up—consistently, tenderly, without
condition.

Week 5 — Sept 30

Bhanu Kapil – Vertical Interrogation of Strangers

Reaction

Reading Bhanu Kapil feels like stepping into a mirror that doesn’t reflect the body but the soul
behind it. Her work refuses to follow any familiar narrative logic—it’s made of questions,
fragments, and silences that echo long after the page ends. Each question seems to reach toward
something unspoken, as though language itself were trembling under the weight of experience. I
was struck by how intimate her writing feels, even without answers. The voice is both tender and
raw, like confession disguised as inquiry.

Analysis

Kapil transforms interrogation into communion. Her questions do not seek information; they
expose vulnerability. The structure of her book—a series of inquiries posed to women from
India, England, and America—reveals how identity, memory, and geography intertwine. By
stripping away conventional storytelling, she allows emotion to exist without explanation. The
reader becomes part of the dialogue, implicated in the act of witnessing. This experimental form
challenges the Western idea that stories must resolve; instead, it honors uncertainty as a truth of
its own.

Question

Can questioning itself be a form of healing?

A Series of Questions to My Specific Audience

When you read someone’s story, do you imagine their face or your own?
What do you fear will happen if you are truly seen?
What memory do you carry but never tell because no one has asked the right question yet?
When you say you are “fine,” who taught you that word?
What part of yourself have you left untranslated?
If silence could speak, what would it say about you?
What do you hope your absence feels like to others?

Teju Cole – A Time for Refusal

Reaction

Teju Cole’s essay is quiet but piercing. He doesn’t shout his convictions; he whispers them,
trusting that truth carries its own gravity. His writing feels like a steady pulse of conscience,
asking what it means to act ethically as an artist in a world that rewards compromise. I was most
struck by his calm defiance—the idea that refusal itself can be an act of creation.

Analysis

Cole argues that the artist’s duty is not only to create but to discern when not to participate. His
prose blends moral clarity with humility; he rejects performance for integrity. Stylistically, his
precision mirrors his ethical stance—each sentence deliberate, stripped of ornament. Cole
reminds us that silence, when chosen with intention, can speak louder than participation. The
essay challenges our cultural obsession with visibility and teaches that saying “no” can also be a
form of care—for one’s values, for truth, and for others.

Question

In a society that equates presence with success, how do we protect the quiet spaces necessary for
integrity and reflection?
Week 6 — Oct 7

Library Seminar

Reaction:
The library seminar made me realize how powerful research tools are when used with intention.
Before today, I often searched randomly online. Now, I understand that databases like JSTOR
and Artstor hold not only facts but also perspectives — each source another voice in the
conversation of knowledge.

Analysis:
Research feels like building a map for discovery. I learned that citation isn’t just a rule—it’s an
act of respect for the minds that came before us. The librarian’s examples of narrowing keywords
reminded me that writing is like sculpting—shaping chaos into meaning.

Question:
How do professional writers balance between gathering information and preserving their own
creative voice?

Letter to Art piece

Dear We Will Control the Vertical,

At first glance, you look like a structure that is still deciding whether to rise or dissolve. The
lines climb and drip at the same time—half-architecture, half-melting memory. I kept tracing the
columns that seemed to collapse into smoke, wondering if you were trying to tell me that
progress and ruin are just two moments of the same gesture.

Your title sounds almost like a threat—We Will Control the Vertical—yet in your body, nothing is
truly controlled. Gravity wins in streaks of paint that slide downward; precision blurs into
accident. You reminded me of how fragile all our systems are—cities, beliefs, even identities.
Maybe “vertical” isn’t only a direction, but a measure of how far we try to rise before we bend.

Standing before you, I thought of my own migrations—how belonging sometimes feels like
scaffolding without walls. You made me realize that falling can be another kind of architecture:
the design of surrender, drawn in slow descent.

Thank you for showing me that instability can be beautiful.

Sincerely,
Chunyu

Letter for artpiece

Reaction:

I felt both awe and unease. The artwork’s dripping geometry made me sense time
physically—like something built and decayed in one breath.

Analysis:

Al-Hadid’s piece blurs boundaries between construction and collapse, echoing her own identity
between cultures. The “vertical” could symbolize ambition, modernity, or faith, while its
distortion suggests the impossibility of total control. The mix of engineering precision and
organic flow captures the tension between order and chaos—between the rational and the
emotional self.

Question:

If we can never truly “control the vertical,” what does it mean to build—art, identity, or a
life—on foundations that are always shifting?

My Metaphor:

If my life were a bridge made of glass, each step would leave a faint print—proof that I’ve
crossed, even if the light later erases it. I build forward, seeing both the sky above and the water
below—possibility and uncertainty reflected in every direction.

The bridge doesn’t promise safety. It trembles with wind and time. But it also gleams—because
fragility lets the sun through.

To me, this bridge represents the act of living with awareness: transparent, breakable, but still
willing to span from who I was to who I might become. Every friendship, every risk, every
silence becomes part of its structure.

Like art, life is not a fixed monument—it’s a crossing, one shimmering step at a time.
Week 7 — Oct 14

The Red Balloon

Reaction:

Watching The Red Balloon felt like watching childhood itself drift through a gray world that has
forgotten how to play. The balloon wasn’t just a toy, it was the boy’s unspoken heart, his only
companion that listened without judgment. When it followed him through the narrow streets, I
felt how imagination resists confinement.

Analysis:

The film is a metaphor for freedom and innocence. The balloon defies gravity and rules like
creativity that refuses to be tied down. It reminds me that art and empathy both require defiance:
to see color where others see routine. In the end, when all the balloons rise together, it’s as if
imagination can lift grief itself.

Question:

Can growing up coexist with holding on to imagination?

Notebook Writing Prompt — Metaphor Poem

If my life were a bridge of glass,

Reaction for each Letter：

This opening series of questions slows the reader down by inviting reflection rather than
delivering information. The rhythm of the questions creates pauses; we can almost hear the
silence between them. This gives the sense of a conversation where the speaker is searching for
permission or forgiveness from her own body. The gentle, hesitant tone makes us read slowly,
allowing us to feel the tension between self-control and self-compassion.

In these final paragraphs of “Dear C,” the repetition of “My mother died” slows the letter’s
rhythm and captures how grief loops endlessly in the mind. The short, simple sentences create
pauses that feel like silence, as if the writer is breathing between each thought. Her calm, almost
numb tone makes the pain even more powerful. When she ends by saying, “I think the night
rises. I think the bright falls,” time seems to stop—the letter turns from mourning into
meditation. This stillness lets the reader absorb the full weight of loss rather than rush past it.

In “Dear T,” the writer slows time through repetition and small details to expose the quiet
violence of assimilation.
Every description of jewelry, pearls, jade, fake diamonds becomes a way to question what is
“real.”
The narrator’s longing to be accepted by the white colleague, her lie about the necklace, and her
later rediscovery of her mother’s jade all reveal how identity is tested through imitation.
By the end, when she wears a fake ring and calls it “both luminous and real,” the slowness of her
tone turns shame into acceptance.
The letter is not angry but meditative, showing how one can reclaim meaning from what others
call “fake.”

In “Dear Daughter,” the tone shifts from confession to instruction, yet remains uncertain and
searching.
The mother figure writes as both guide and doubter — she questions intelligence, culture, and
the limits of being American.
By slowing the rhythm and layering reflections, the letter becomes a dialogue across generations
rather than a speech of authority.
The pauses, the repetition of “I wonder” and “I agree,” reveal that love and teaching can coexist
with doubt.
Through this slow, reflective language, the writer transforms guilt and cultural pressure into
wisdom, showing that understanding is never final — it is a lifelong act of re-seeing.

Analysis:
Chang’s style blurs poetry and memory, suggesting that remembering is itself an art form. Her
letters show that loss doesn’t end with absence; it reshapes language. The white space on the
page is as expressive as the text — what’s unsaid becomes as powerful as what’s spoken.

Question:
If memory keeps changing each time we recall it, are we remembering the truth — or writing
new versions of it to survive?

Week 7 — Oct 21

Ai Weiwei: Dissent and the Power of Protest

Reaction:
Ai Weiwei’s art startled me not with noise, but with courage. His installations made silence feel
loud. I was especially struck by how he turns ordinary materials, like seeds or bicycles, into
collective statements of resilience.

Analysis:
His work proves that art can speak even when words are censored. The “absence of language”
becomes its own language, one that invites viewers to think instead of being told. Ai Weiwei
reminds me that protest isn’t only defiance; it’s also an act of care — a belief that truth deserves
to be seen.

Question:
When the world tries to silence a voice, can art become the echo that refuses to fade?

Reflection on Our Community Building Experience

During this community building project, I was deeply moved by how each of my classmates used
their letters to express honesty and imagination. Some wrote to their younger selves, some to
their siblings, others to AI or even to the environment. Reading their words made me realize that
even though our topics were different, we were all trying to understand the same things of
connection, memory, and identity.
From my classmates, I learned that vulnerability can be powerful. Many of them shared personal
experiences or emotions they had never spoken about before. It showed me that writing is not
only about language, but also about courage—to look inward and to let others see who we are.
Through this process, I discovered that I often hide behind perfection and logic when I write. But
this project reminded me that sincerity matters more than polished words. When I wrote my own
letter, I found that my emotions guided my sentences naturally. I learned to trust my inner voice
and to see writing as a bridge, not just a task.
In the end, our letters formed a kind of mosaic of different voices, yet all part of one shared
human story. It made me feel closer to my classmates, and more confident in my own way of
expressing truth.

Week 8 — Oct 29

Claudia Rankine, Citizen

I kept thinking about moments in my own life where I stayed quiet because I thought speaking
up would make things worse. Her writing shows how silence also hurts—it stays in the body.
Rankine writes in a way that makes small moments feel huge. She’s not yelling. She’s not
dramatic. But the details hit harder than shouting. It makes me realize that writing can carry a
responsibility not to “fix” things, but to name them.

If I could say something to someone who has hurt me but didn’t realize it, what would I choose?
How do I write responsibly without blaming or attacking, but still telling the truth? And is
silence ever the correct choice, or just the easier one?

Audre Lorde, “The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action”

This essay makes my chest feel tight in a good way—like I’m being pushed to grow. Lorde
reminds me that fear doesn’t protect me; it only keeps everything bottled inside. Lorde doesn’t
write to be elegant—she writes to be awake. The power in her piece comes from how directly
she speaks. No hiding. No softening. She treats words like they have a job, and that job is to turn
the private into something shared.

Where do I want my own words to live? On the page?

Week 8 — Nov 4

Martin Luther King Jr., I Have a Dream

Listening to MLK speak is completely different from reading the text. His voice has rhythm,
almost like waves. The repetition pulls you in, and the hope in his tone makes you believe
change is possible—even when the reality is painful.
What surprised me was how much imagination is part of persuasion. He doesn’t just argue; he
paints pictures. A dream, a future, a feeling. It’s persuasive not because it’s logical, but because it
opens a door in your mind to a world that doesn’t exist yet.
How can I use imagination in my own writing without sounding dramatic?

“Fish,” “Woven,” “Poison Apples”

I love how braided essays feel messy but intentional. They let you move between memories,
facts, images, and feelings without forcing everything into one straight line. Reading these three
pieces feels like sitting inside someone’s mind. What makes the braided essay powerful is how
the different threads echo each other. The structure creates meaning without saying it directly.
It’s like the reader is asked to connect the dots. The gaps are part of the writing. I like that it
gives both the writer and the reader space to breathe.

How do I braid my own experiences without making them feel random?

Week 9 — Nov 13

Woven by Lidia Lidavich

Reading Woven felt like being pulled into someone’s inner world without her telling me
everything directly. The mother-daughter relationship hit me the hardest. It wasn’t dramatic, but
it felt true. What’s powerful about this braided essay is how the threads are quietly connected.
The shifts between present, memory, and metaphor don’t feel forced. Her “weaving” metaphor
becomes the structure. She doesn’t explain how everything fits—the essay itself becomes the act
of weaving. It shows how identity isn’t one story but a pattern formed from many small pieces.

Poison Apples by Kim McGowan

This piece feels sharp and glittery at the same time. It’s darker than Woven, but the metaphors
keep pulling me forward. The most effective trait here is how the braid moves between fairy-tale
imagery and real-life experience. The two threads reflect each other: the magical poisoned apple
and the emotional “poisons” people carry. The contrasts are bold, almost jarring, but that’s what
gives the piece its energy. The braid works because each section forces the reader to re-evaluate
what the apple represents.

What is the most effective trait of the braided essay?

For me, the most effective trait is how meaning forms in the spaces between threads. A braided
essay doesn’t need to explain everything. It trusts the reader to feel the connections. The
structure mirrors how memory actually works—fragmented, overlapping, sometimes
contradictory but still belonging to one person.