作者： chenchen

Crumbl Cookies is more marketing phenomenon than cookie. As a culinary experience, it’s a manufactured sugar rush that borrows much from the playbook of Krispy Kreme’s early 2000s stampedes. It offers a Disney-esque round-the-block queue that draws cookie pilgrims into a small pink and white Easy-Bake-Oven-inspired open-concept kitchen. Eggs crack, frosting is piped, and everything smells of sugar and butter — even through an N95 mask. The cookie-baking experience, as much as the nearly 700-calorie cookies themselves, is what’s for sale.

Yet unlike Crumbl’s glazed doughnut predecessor, the main event happens online after customers leave the store to post their Crumbl Reviews. It is a cookie engineered for the influencer age. Actually eating cookies takes a back seat to food photography and online ranking. Patrons snap staged photos of their four to 12 selected cookies, rating each 1 to 10. The company celebrates the “totally Instagrammable!” cuteness of its product, a claim more or less confirmed by the 8.6 million views of #CrumblCookieReview and the 287.3 million views of #CrumblReview on TikTok.

Entering Crumbl feels like a distinctly Apple-store experience of minimalistic white with the addition of millennial pink accents. A contactless iPad ordering counter completes the aesthetic. After 20 minutes in line, in a haze of cookie dough aroma, I approached the tablet with my long-considered order: two Churros, a Double Trouble, a Turtle, an Orange Roll and a Milk Chocolate Chip (their only nonrotating selection). Then more waiting, this time in a roped-off area for observing a performance that combines cookie-spewing modern baking machines with a meticulous assembly-line of frosting and boxing. Every Monday, five new flavors drop. Cookies are almost never repeated, and Crumbl boasts over 170 recipes. Saturday at midnight is particularly busy, offering one final chance to sample limited-edition selections before they disappear, possibly forever.

Yet beneath all of this ingenious manufactured hype, I couldn’t quite look past one glaring contradiction. While my six cookies were indeed a contrast of crisp exterior and gooey interior, they were also easily divisible and revealed no signs of crumbling. Bert might even approve of Ernie eating them in bed. One outcome of this doughy underbake is that beneath each cookie lay a grease ring, grease which clung to my hands and my lips, as well. My #CrumblReview? The only cookie I fully consumed was the satisfyingly melty Milk Chocolate Chip. I’d give it an 8. The Churros’ sugar was overpowering (5), Double Trouble was basically a chocolaty-er chocolate chip (8), Turtle suffered from NutraSweet-like artificiality (3), and Orange Roll was overwhelmed by a sweet cream cheese frosting more Safeway cake than cookie (2).

While these too-big caloric Mack Trucks may refuse to crumble themselves, it is only a matter of time before the online novelty that fuels their flavor-of-the-week mania does.

Almost no one could have dreamed up a world where Steve Martin, Martin Short and Selena Gomez would be working together. But, place the unlikely trio in the thick of a New York-set murder mystery, and their palpably wholesome chemistry will unfold as the laughs roll in. The Hulu original comedy series follows three neighbors podcasting their own investigation of the death of a resident in their apartment. Rooted in its twisty plot and playful humor, “Only Murders in the Building” strikes comic relief gold.

At first glance, the murder mystery comedy feels “Knives Out”-ish with its premise and sleek visuals. We quickly learn, though, that the series is in a lane of its own, revamping the tried and true whodunit for the age of the podcast. Keeping me at the edge of my seat until the very end, the trio leads viewers through a miscellaneous group of murder suspects, one of whom is Police frontman Sting?

For consumers of true crime content like myself, the amateur sleuths’ adventures deliver the same nail-biting twists, but with a humorous dose of the less climatic. Capturing the ill-timed sponsor breaks and pesky voice-over retakes, viewers get the behind-the-scenes reel of a murder mystery podcast. We are even granted access to co-hosts Oliver and Charles’s recording sessions from a cramped closet where the “acoustics are better.” Completely merging comedy and the murder mystery is an endeavor most writers wouldn’t touch with a 10-foot pole, but the series manages to find its voice without losing sensibility.

“Only Murders in the Building” also makes a point of zeroing in on the muddled ethics of true crime entertainment. We are forced to examine the exploitation of it all when we see Oliver focused on producing riveting content instead of finding the killer. “I’m looking for motive; I’m looking for means; but most of all, I’m looking for moxie,” he says in an overview of the suspects, epitomizing the issue of sensationalism in the genre. The series pushes viewers to consider their place in true crime media’s moral gray area.

While its star-studded leading cast may have been the show’s greatest attraction, we get an intimate look at other characters’ perspectives too. “The Boy From 6B,” an entirely nonverbal episode — save for the final line — centers on a deaf resident, Theo Dimas. Well-executed and narratively effective, viewers are put in his point of view for 30 minutes in this standout installment of the series.

Hulu’s most watched original comedy “Only Murders in the Building” establishes itself not just as an innovator of the murder mystery, but of the modern television show, distinguishing its title on the list of must-see TV.

Off-kilter drum sequencing, bizarre inflections amplified with ingenious uses of Auto-Tune, ridiculous lines about “diabetes in a jar,” and haunting chants over ethereal chords — all actors forming the mesmerizing cacophony that is California rapper Hykeem Jamaal Carter Jr.’s debut album “The Melodic Blue.” More often recognized as Kendrick Lamar’s cousin, Baby Keem has nonetheless carved his own path combining the potent delivery and the budding lyrical chops of his elder cousin with experimental trap beats and an eccentricity that reflects the eclectic and wild spirit of Gen Z. This album is a pivotal leap from Keem simply making social media hits to becoming a more fully-fledged creative, and he sticks the landing.

“Trademark USA” begins with a poignant verse pondering success and a distant relationship over a spacey instrumental, and then abruptly switches to Keem unwaveringly delivering bar after bar over a whining, warbling trap beat — an invigorating start emblematic of the album to come. On this track, as well as the incensed “Vent” and the jarring “Cocoa,” Keem’s yelps, veering flows and instrumental experiments come to fruition in a wonderfully energetic form. His manipulated vocals — contorting, straining as a synthesizer of their own — are refreshing in an often homogeneous hip-hop landscape, and simply make for a fun listen.

Keem’s unique compositions and sometimes unhinged rapping may turn off so-called “hip-hop purists,” but they are what gives this album character. “Range Brothers” features three beat switches, with each leg of the track as beautifully absurd as the last. Punchy drums feel offbeat with pauses punctuated by Keem’s staccato delivery, and intertwined vocal and string samples construct a grandiose stage. Keem’s Auto-Tune-drenched droning that he “needs a girlfriend” is ludicrous, but such moments make the album memorable in all of its confusing glory.

Even with these idiosyncrasies, Keem is capable of writing the melancholy, introspective tracks that the name “The Melodic Blue” implies. “Issues” is a somber reflection on family life torn apart by poverty and addiction over sleepy chimes, and “Scars” is a pulsating anthem with a truly heart-wrenching refrain: “I ask God / Why this life you gave so hard? / Why all the choices that I make leave me with scars?” The modulating synths and crooning vocals on “16” are similarly evocative.

With a clashing musical menagerie just a track away from atmospheric pianos that leave listeners contemplating life, this album is a variety of dissonant shades, yet they all gleam blue on Keem’s canvas. Yes, some of the production is rough around the edges, some of the lyrics are outright nonsensical (perhaps lovably so), and some of the album feels disorienting, but Baby Keem’s eccentric and unbridled creativity ultimately triumphs in the vivid sonic journey that is “The Melodic Blue.”

A vibrant collection of vlogs gushes over New York City’s newest attraction, the “floating oasis” Little Island. An artificial skerry at the once fatigued Pier 55 right in the middle of the Hudson River, it’s new, it’s unique and it’s definitely eye-catching. It’s home to evergreen gardens, families of lush trees and even a festive amphitheater that are sure to glow up Instagram feeds. Nevertheless, it’s the exact opposite of what it’s supposed to represent. Parks are for families, for experiencing the peace and cohesion that our planet organically gifts us, values that are nowhere to be seen within the bulky belly of Little Island.

The edifice is supported by an array of plump concrete foundations the designers call “tulips.” These poles are shaped in an inorganically rigid way, drawing an odd contrast with the authentic flora on the island itself, and they ultimately juggle with visual instability by precariously cramming all their mass toward their peaks. There are over a hundred of these pillars, each of which holds a unique height, a haphazard collection composing a complexly unbalanced arrangement. It is difficult to see that such visual clutter was designed with visitors in mind, contrary to the claims of Barry Diller, the developer, who hoped to “see people being really happy.” Whilst the novel structure may capture attention at first, it simply doesn’t fit with the aesthetic of a “park,” in which familiar comfort should embrace each and every passing family. In the colorful district dubbed the “Playground,” no swings, seesaws nor jungle gyms are in sight, and no dogs skip around the designer furniture.

The ironic juxtaposition of a man-made structure that roots off the natural landscape demonstrates how Little Island accomplishes its goal in the least organic way possible. Even the Ancient Greeks warned us not to mess with nature: They passed down the stories of Phaethon, who grabbed the sun chariot from the gods, then proceeded to nearly burn and freeze the Earth simultaneously. Like Phaethon’s disorderly driving routes did to our planet, Little Island intrudes into the scenery of our Hudson River with a dizzying assortment of man-made tourist attractions. The pavement pushes us through predetermined pathways and separates us from freely exploring the greenery. It’s all very jarring: The image of the mega-rich throwing around obscene sums of money to lure in the blindly joyous masses with a contrived projection of “nature” could have been pulled straight from a dystopian screenplay.

Little Island, much like an untouchable contemporary art piece at the nearby Whitney Museum, is the most alluring from afar. Up close, it’s an unfriendly extrapolation of the ideas of its self-conscious creators, not a resort for New York City and its families.

Musical theater is, at its best, exhilarating and immersive. The catchy tunes, dynamic choreography and live environment form an experience that cannot be replicated anywhere else. No wonder film adaptations of musicals frequently fall flat.

“West Side Story” provides an interesting exception to the rule. The musical and its 1961 film adaptation are both notorious for their inauthentic depictions of Puerto Ricans, but they remain cultural touchstones. In an age of remakes, another adaptation of a semi-problematic work could very easily fall flat.

This one, thankfully, does not.

Director Steven Spielberg and screenwriter Tony Kushner made several wise adjustments, like casting Latinx actors as Latinx characters and adding dialogue that mixes English and unsubtitled Spanish. These changes do not erase the original’s issues, but they do help reimagine “West Side Story” for a new era.

The famous score from Leonard Bernstein and the recently-passed Stephen Sondheim remains, and the Shakespeare-inspired premise still revolves around two star-crossed lovers (the white Tony and the Puerto Rican Maria) associated with rival gangs (the Jets and the Sharks, respectively) in 1950s Manhattan. While Ansel Elgort is merely serviceable as Tony, newcomer Rachel Zegler is graceful in Maria’s softer scenes and achingly vulnerable amid her heartbreaks. The supporting performers, many of whom are Broadway veterans, are all commanding presences: Mike Faist and David Alvarez bring edge as Riff and Bernardo (the leaders of the Jets and Sharks, respectively), and Ariana DeBose’s lively portrayal of Bernardo’s girlfriend, Anita, lives up to Rita Moreno’s Oscar-winning performance in the same role.

Spielberg combines these performances with Janusz Kaminski’s arresting cinematography and Justin Peck’s sharp choreography to create musical sequences that are in themselves exhilarating and immersive, especially when viewed in a big theater. Some numbers, like the vibrant “America,” could have come from a classic Technicolor extravaganza; others, like the toe-tapping “Cool,” are inventive in using their environments, be they platforms hanging over the water or displays in a department store. One reprise of “Tonight” encapsulates this film’s strengths, using overlapping voices and quick cuts to crescendo both musically and emotionally in the buildup to a climactic fight.

In Spielberg’s hands, “West Side Story” is both a glorious throwback and a grittier update. It’s also a poignant tribute to the living legend Rita Moreno and the late legend Stephen Sondheim. Fittingly, Moreno appears as a wise mentor, bridging the gap between past and present in a film that purports to bridge the gap between stage and screen. She even gets one of the show’s most iconic (and heartbreaking) numbers, singing, “There’s a place for us / Somewhere, a place for us.”

There is, indeed, a place for another “West Side Story”: right here.

Maeva Andriamanamihaja, age 16, Battlefield High School, Haymarket, Va. : “‘Only Murders in the Building’: An Ingeniously Comedic Take on True Crime Podcasting”

Carolyn Considine, age 17, Acalanes Center for Independent Study, Walnut Creek, Calif.: “This Cookie Will Crumbl”

Edward Simon Cruz, age 16, West Windsor-Plainsboro High School North, Plainsboro, N.J. : “Tonight, Tonight, ‘West Side Story’ Is Full of Light”

Yiyun Hu, age 16, Shanghai Qibao Dwight High School, Shanghai: “Gunpowder: A Symbol of Violence or a Beautiful Ritual for Humankind?”

Colin Kim, age 16, Groton School, Groton, Mass.: “A Little Island With a Not-So-Little Ego”

Brian Li, age 17, West Windsor-Plainsboro High School North, Plainsboro, N.J.: “‘The Melodic Blue’: The Absurd Hues of Baby Keem”

Tina Mai, age 16, St. Margaret’s Episcopal School, San Juan Capistrano, Calif.: “‘Dickinson’: Drunk on Imagination and Unapologetically Feminist”

Jacob Mulliken, age 16, Milton Academy, Milton, Mass.: “‘Entangled’ Trades Activism for Honesty”

Salma Reda, age 16, Jumeirah College, Dubai: “‘My Year of Rest and Relaxation’: Ottessa Moshfegh Reckons with Privilege, Beauty, and Ambien”

亚军

Ananya Balaji, age 15, American High School, Fremont, Calif.: “Why Women Can Win: Netflix’s ‘The Baby-Sitters Club’”

Carson Crays, age 16, Carroll Senior High School, Southlake, Texas: “‘Squid Game’: An Exciting Storyline With a Mediocre Ending”

Aryav Desai, age 16, Crystal Springs Uplands School, Hillsborough, Calif.: “‘Bo Burnham: Inside’: No One Laughing in the Background”

Eric: “Blonde: A Modern Masterpiece”

Michael Gan, age 15, Dulwich College Shanghai Pudong, Shanghai: “Ruishilou: Beauty Born Out of Necessity”

Siya Gupta, age 15, Herricks High School, New Hyde Park, N.Y.: “Requiem for a Still Needed Dream”

Momo Horii, age 16, American School in Japan, Tokyo: “Losing Your Voice Through Grammarly”

Sonja Jugo, age 16, Sunset High School, Portland, Ore.: “‘Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings’”: Trope or Trailblazer?”

Yaejoon (Jay) Jung, age 14, North London Collegiate School Jeju, Seogwipo, South Korea: “There Are Bad Shoes and Terrible Shoes. Then You Have the Kobe 4 Protro”

Justin Khim, age 16, Great Neck South High School, Great Neck, N.Y.: “Goodbye, Graphite!”

Angela Ya Xin Lu, age 16, University Hill Secondary School, Vancouver, British Columbia: “‘Never Have I Ever’ … Actually, Yes. I Have.”

Malini Sampath, age 16, Carroll Senior High School, Southlake, Texas: “A Window Into Another World”

Lakshmi Sunder, age 16, Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts, Houston: “‘The Jasmine Throne’ by Tasha Suri Changed My Perception of What an Indian Woman Can Be”

Zi Wang, age 17, Shanghai Qibao Dwight High School, Shanghai: “‘Blüht und Lügt’: Lost in Colors”

Melody Zhang, age 17, Fremont Christian School, Fremont, Calif.: “‘Wandavision’: A Study in Scarlet”

荣誉奖

Ava Anderson, age 17, Ames High School, Ames, Iowa: “‘On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous’: A Quintessential Work of American Literature”

Matthew Belcrest, age 18, University Liggett School, Grosse Pointe Woods, Mich.: “Pearl Jam’s ‘Ten,’ 30 years Later”

Omar Elbadawy, age 13, Birchwood School of Hawken, Cleveland: “Searching for Italy”

Izzy Fruehauf, age 16, University Liggett School, Grosse Pointe Woods, Mich.: “A Restaurant Worth Its Weight in Gold”

Wanqing Gao, age 16, Tabor Academy, Marion, Mass.: “Art Basel 2021 Representing the ‘Miami Movement’: A Modern Renaissance”

Maya Gest, age 13, Cedarbrook Middle School, Wyncote, Pa.: “‘1984’: Outdated in Every Way”

Fiona Gu, age 16, YK Pao School, Shanghai: “‘Speak of Me as I Am’: The Way ‘Othello’ Was Meant to Be Seen”

Gage Huff, age 17, West Shore Junior/Senior High School, Melbourne, Fla.: “‘Spencer’: An Intricate Portrait of a Real Woman Seen Only as an Icon”

Ashrita Kollipara, age 16, West Windsor-Plainsboro High School South, West Windsor, N.J.: “Ravishing: The Rose in Fashion: A Creative and Historical Awakening”

Shangqi (Peter) Lin, age 12, United Nations International School, New York, N.Y.: “Minecraft’s 1.18 Update Is the Ultimate Middle School Stress Reliever”

Serena Liu, age 15, Parkway West High School, Ballwin, Mo.: “Mars House: Not Quite Out of This World”

Maya Menon, age 15, Sunset High School, Portland, Maine: “Lana Del Rey’s Verses Versus the Critics: ‘Norman F——— Rockwell!’”

Zach Nish, age 15, Clark Magnet High School, La Crescenta, Calif.: “Long Live the Skate Shoe”

Enya Pinjani, age 17, Carroll Senior High School, Southlake, Texas: “‘Sour’: A Different Take on America’s ‘Teenage Dream’”

Heather Qin, age 15, Ridge High School, Basking Ridge, N.J.: “Daring, Hilarious and Hearty: ‘Gintama,’ a Master Class Deconstruction of Mainstream Anime”

Erin Rasmussen, age 15, St. Mark’s School, Southborough, Mass.: “The Corn Muffins That Changed My Life”

Madison Nicole Rojas, age 17, Mayfield Senior School, Pasadena, Calif.: “Harry Styles in Concert: Spreading Acceptance and Love on Tour”

Poorvi Sarkar, age 17, Glen Ridge High School, Glen Ridge, N.J.: “Never Will I Ever: Toying With Representation”

Nathan Shan, age 16, Montgomery Blair High School, Silver Spring, Md.: “‘Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings’: A Modern Take on the Disappointed Dad”

Simon Sidney, age 16, Waynflete School, Portland, Maine: “‘Say That You Were Born Here’: A Review of an Eight-Year-Old ‘Illegal’ Immigrant’s Tale of American Poverty”

Ella Siebentritt-Clark, age 17, Foxcroft School School, Middleburg, Va.: “‘Good Days’: A Reflection on Hope and Happiness”

Caroline Song, age 14, Boston Latin School, Boston: “‘The Untamed’: A Story of Adventure, Defiance and Love”

Sanya Tinaikar, age 16, University Scholars Program — PALCS, Chester County, Penn.: “‘Loving Vincent’: A Fusion of Unparalleled Artwork and Emotion”

Jiarui Wu, age 19, Hwa Chong Institution, Singapore: “‘The Battle at Lake Changjin’: Mere Propaganda?”

Maggie Yao, age 17, Canyon Crest Academy, San Diego: “‘Cats & Soup’ a.k.a. Purr-fection”

感谢所有比赛的评委

Kirsten Akens, Erica Ayisi, Julia Carmel, Amanda Christy Brown, Nancy Coleman, Kathryn Curto, Nicole Daniels, Dana Davis, Shannon Doyne, Jeremy Engle, Caroline Gilpin, Michael Gonchar, Annissa Hambouz, Kari Haskell, Callie Holtermann, Jeremy Hyler, Susan Josephs, Tina Kafka, Shira Katz, Stephanie Kim, Megan Leder, Phoebe Lett, Sue Mermelstein, Amelia Nierenberg, John Otis, Ken Paul, Natalie Proulx, Katherine Schulten, Ana Sosa, Tanya Wadhwani and Kimberly Wiedmeyer

No one imagines the pinnacle of American literature as a carriage ride with Death, a giant talking bee, a twerking dance-off and a stroll with Nobody. But this is “Dickinson,” Alena Smith’s imaginatively raw, genre-defying retelling of an artist struggling as a marginalized voice. Now in its final season, the Apple TV+ series follows Emily Dickinson (Hailee Steinfeld) as she navigates adolescence in 19th-century society. What ensues is an avant-garde love letter to a Transcendentalist icon, remixed with magical realism and 21st-century pop culture — just as defiant as its heroine, just as rebellious as teenagers today.

As a young female poet, I was nothing short of amazed when I met Smith’s version of Emily: a teenage misfit as characteristically Gen Z as Steinfeld’s previous role in “The Edge of Seventeen.” One moment she’s penning a magnum opus, the next she’s throwing a house party and complaining about getting her period. By fusing history with a coming-of-age dramedy, Smith intentionally makes the show anachronistic (characters drop pickup lines like “You look hella ripe” and share “hot goss” at sewing circles). Historically inaccurate? Who cares — the show’s true accuracy lies in its portrayal of adolescent uncertainty, making it so radically relevant for teens like myself.

Though whimsical interpretations make some scenes feel like a surreal fever dream, “Dickinson” remains earnest by transforming absurdities into lessons on identity. In one episode, Emily hallucinates a shadowy, Daliesque circus before being called “the greatest freak of them all” — it’s a homage to our innate fear of not fitting in, but also a message of embracing our true selves. Meanwhile, the poet’s fight against the control of powerful men unveils Smith’s feminist vision. In the episode “The Daisy follows soft the Sun,” the show delivers its message for women who feel unheard and voiceless: “Refuse to be the daisy and start being the sun.”

Thus, the writers are unapologetic when championing female characters (with L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.+ and minority representation in the spotlight), who rise like witty mavericks in rebel mode. Sue (Ella Hunt), whose relationship with Emily is supported by scholarship on the real Dickinson’s sexuality, delivers a hauntingly honest line: “The minute we [women] get a little bit of fame, or show the slightest amount of ambition, we get slapped with the nastiest comments.” With that, “Dickinson” earns a poignant urgency — like a palimpsest, it embeds our modern third-wave feminism atop the first-wave feminism of Emily’s time.

So here’s to all the women and teens who have been silenced, who are reclaiming their ambition, and who are penning their own identity. “Dickinson” — brilliant, innovative and utterly unforgettable — empowers us to not be daisies following conventional suns, but to be our own sun, unafraid to share our voice and unfettered from expressing our true selves.

When I turned 16, I cut off all my hair. Those long, spiraling locks whose crispy ends fell to my hips represented the days when I hid my face behind a curtain of curls, the days when I had social anxiety (how embarrassing!), something I had decided not to have anymore. My cosmetic transformation proved to be a righteous decision. I arrived at school a changed woman, and that day, the heavens split wide open as an angelic chorus descended from swirling clouds and God Himself smiled on me with the warmth of a thousand suns.

That day, a boy told me he liked my hair.

I immediately understood this boy to be The One. He flirted with me more than he flirted with other girls, and sometimes even looked at me while I spoke. I wrote him love letters in the form of homework questions that could easily have been answered by any sentient rock, and my affections were reciprocated in late night Snapchats of his forehead, or, if he was being particularly bold, his forehead and one eye. Our playful back-and-forth persisted in this manner and maybe even developed into a friendship. Ultimately, I learned that if you ruin your sleep schedule in order to text a boy at night for 10 solid months, he may just ask you out.

In the shimmering light of the summer evening sky, I ate a few bites of overpriced ramen across a tiny table from a real live guy who had actually asked me out on a date. When he reached for the bill to signify that it was, in fact, a date, his hand briefly grazed mine, and I felt my cheeks flush with the distinct rosy tinge of heteronormativity. As we left the restaurant, it began to rain, and we took refuge in an ice cream shop where he once more paid for me to pretend to eat while dutifully sucking in my stomach. Summoning all my skills of seduction, I flaunted sophistication in my sultriest tone:

“This ice cream is so good that I’m, like, literally having an aneurysm,” I observed.

“Actually, I think it’s ‘burst’ an aneurysm,” he said.

My heart fluttered. He had such a way with words.

Based on every movie I had ever seen in my life, I anticipated that our intense flirtation would culminate in a kiss good night before I sped away in my dad’s visibly deteriorating 2001 Honda Civic. In our final moments together, I stared deeply into his gleaming, enigmatic gaze and, as I leaned one shoulder toward him, received a one-armed side hug and a “Bye, Leah!” that lingered uncomfortably in the air. Whether the unease in my gut stemmed from this disappointing departure or my severe IBS, I could never know. But one thing was for sure — I had done everything right. Right?

A true gentleman, he ended things a few weeks later in a two-sentence Snapchat. In a response riddled with exclamation points, I let my concern for his feelings eclipse my own. Painfully embarrassed, I dismissed myself as idiotic for believing a boy could ever like me. I knew I was to blame for equating the slightest amount of male approval with the highest standard of human decency.

I couldn’t remember where I learned to do that.

Stuck between guilt and confusion, I once again took scissors to the braid that reached halfway down my back. It’s strange; even though I consider feminism to be the most essential tenet of my existence, the whispers of the patriarchy are sometimes so soft that they sound like my own thoughts.

The familiar smell of garlic, soy sauce, and onion permeated through the air as I opened my lunch bag to see what my mom had packed for me. On any other occasion, I would have been delighted to eat my mom’s braised pan-fried tofu: a Korean dish that I often ate for dinner. But not today, the day a nice girl had invited me, the new girl at school, to sit with her friends during lunch.

“Charis, over here!” My new friend was waving her arms, trying to get my attention.

As I prepared to walk over to the table, memories of elementary and middle school lunch times resurfaced. I remembered my embarrassment as my friends would hold their noses, or not-so-subtly scoot away from me when I brought homemade Korean food. I remembered how my embarrassment shifted to anger when I complained about the smell to my mom.

I had argued with my mom that I wanted “normal” food for lunch. I remembered the look on my mom’s face, a mix between disappointment and confusion. But I was adamant and she relented because she worried about my making new friends every time we moved. So for the remainder of middle school, my mom packed odorless, non-Korean fare like ham and cheese sandwiches. However, that day, she was in a rush to get to her new job and packed me leftovers from dinner.

As soon as I got to my new lunch table, I tried to sneak my bright lunch bag down under my seat before anyone noticed the strong smell. I looked up to see the other girls at the table, opening their normal American lunches. I sat meekly, trying not to be noticed when Katrina, a new acquaintance, asked where my food was.

“I’m not really hungry,” I replied in an insecure voice. But Katrina had already seen me carry my lunch so she spurted out, “Then, I’ll eat it!” The other girls laughed — apparently Katrina was known to be the lunch scavenger.

I didn’t want to be rude to a potentially new friend, so I reluctantly dragged out my lunch bag and unzipped it. The moment I partially lifted the lid, I could practically taste the garlic and soy sauce. The girls, piqued by the smell wafting through the air, all curiously peered at the oval-shaped Pyrex container. I expected an “Ew” or a “What is that?”

I expected them to turn away — and turn me away. What I did not expect was for Katrina to instantly grab a small piece of tofu and eat it ravenously. And I most certainly did not expect for her to encourage the rest of the table to try my lunch.

It took me a second to recognize that my foreign, Korean food was not being rejected; in fact, it had become a source of personal pride. My new friends were going on about how lucky I was that my mom took the time to prepare a cooked meal for me. They were enchanted by the fact that tofu could actually taste good. While I didn’t get to eat any of my mom’s pan-fried tofu, I was full — of pride and gratitude.

When I arrived home, my mom asked how my day went. Answering with a simple “Good,” I pulled out my Pyrex container from my lunch bag.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to buy bread or ham yesterday.” But when she noticed that the container was empty, she hesitated before asking, “How was the food?”

I paused a moment before I replied, “Perfect.”