6. Grey Seals 2026

Last year, I spent 30 minutes writing an email to my former band teacher. While the email was only a few sentences long, I kept rereading it, changing the wording, and worrying over many aspects of my email. I wondered whether something sounded too casual, whether the grammar was perfect, or whether something could be misunderstood. When I finally sent it, I noticed a missing comma and felt a wave of panic over something so insignificant.  Then my teacher responded.  Her response was short, casual, and only two sentences long. Reading it made me realize just how much more careful I had been than the situation required. Compared to that email, I do not spend 30 minutes writing a text to a friend. With my friends, I might leave a typo, forget a period, or send a thought before I have completely figured out how I want to phrase it. When I talk to someone I do not know well, I tend to be quieter and more aware of how I am coming across. Without consciously deciding to, I change th...

  This summer, I went to India to visit my grandparents to celebrate their 50th anniversary. It was honestly a surreal experience. I got to meet those relatives who somehow knew me even though I hadn’t known them, held me when I was a baby, and had countless pictures with me that I had never seen before. I got to see my cousins whom I hadn’t seen in years, and spend time with family I barely got to see. However, as time went on into the party, one thing became especially clear during my visit. Whenever they’d always talk in clear Telugu with that typical Telugu accent, I’d always respond in either English or extremely broken Telugu with an accent I could never develop at home. Occasionally, it felt like my brother and I were on a different planet than everyone else. It felt like conversations they had amongst themselves came much more naturally than the forced slow-spoken conversations that they had with me. Although my relatives were always kind and welcoming to me, I couldn’t hel...

Nature vs. Nurture is one of the most famous topics that people debate. Which matters most: your genetics, or the nature of the people and environment around you? I am a supporter of the latter, and the biggest reason is because of the life I live. All of my writing skills come from the English language class I took from 1st grade all the way up to the end of middle school. Mrs. Margie, the name of my wonderful teacher, taught me everything I know about English, from verbs and adjectives to how to analyze a text. If it weren’t for her, I doubt I would be here typing this blog in an AP English class. Ms. Becker, my 6th grade teacher, taught me perseverance in writing, and how to never give up in writing no matter the circumstances. Mr. Howard, my 10th grade English teacher, taught me to look at literature with the perspective of the whole world rather than just my English classroom.  But English isn’t just about what or how I write, it’s also about how I communicate with people in d...

About a year ago, “6-7” took over the Internet. I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate on its over-usage; all of us have heard the dreaded three syllables repeated over and over again throughout the day ( especially on school days…) My brother’s a Gen Alpha kid, so, naturally, this nonsensical term made it to our dinner table.  I’ll admit it—I’m a little childish—so I made the jokes with him, leaving our parents confused and, understandably, a little annoyed. Somewhere along the line, though, my mom got in on the joke, slipping a bit of Gen Alpha slang into our conversations, and, eventually, even into her work meetings (she did have to explain the joke several times over).  When my mom, and then later, some of my teachers, started saying "six seven," though, it didn’t seem as funny anymore. When I thought about it, I realized—this inane term had only gained prominence and meaning because of the community that gave it meaning. That shared group identity is what allowed this phra...

This year, I had the opportunity to visit my maternal family’s ancestral home in a rural part of Udupi in India. The environment was unlike anything I had ever encountered before. The weather was hot and muggy, and a simple dirt path connected just three or four houses standing in front of a vast sea of grassland that was completely untouched by human hands. What struck me the most, however, was the way the place felt so unfamiliar to me despite its connection to my family. The fact that I could not even understand the language spoken there, which is called Tulu, made this feeling even more apparent. I grew hearing Hindi, which is a very musical language, whereas Tulu sounded much rougher to my ears. Although I can understand Hindi to a certain level, Tulu has always been a complete mystery to me because I was never really exposed to it when I was younger. This meant I could only recognize how the sounds of the language were a part of my heritage without being able to participate in it...