Visions of Unity
Last word.
For 25 years, Visions of Unity has asked Torrance public high school students to reflect on their roles in resolving critical community issues, to artistically express their unique ideas and ideals in a way that broadens minds and touches hearts, and to take initiative in enhancing unity among diverse groups within society. Lea Ann King generously helped lead this effort, awarding students with scholarships for their essays, short stories, poetry and fine art submissions. Sadly, this will be the last year for the contest, but we’re pleased to share both the fine arts and poetry winners for 2025.
Grandma’s Kitchen
By Leila Yoshida, North Torrance High School
•••
sometimes my mind drifts across an ocean,
where i can see a clear image of an angular house,
and within this little house, there is grandma’s kitchen.
on some days,
grandma’s kitchen is busy.
the sound of socks on wood
beat like raindrops on the floor.
grandma is always in a plaid apron,
greeting guests with a wave of her hand.
her table is a bright sun, and we are planets.
steaming plates of food sit with bowls of soup
everyone has a job, spooning rice or lining mats
meals from grandma’s kitchen join people by string
on others,
the only noise is the soft humming of the refrigerator
the only light is from a singular bulb in the kitchen.
grandma’s features, in the dim glow, mirror mine
our marble pupils hide behind our twin smiles
in these simple moments, i tend to overlook
how grandma’s kitchen is a meeting place.
at the heart of food and company there’s
fragments and reminders of the people
that once ate in this place, long ago.
in this kitchen, i am never alone.
there are times i miss this treasured place,
i long for sudden laughter and human bonds
i dream of soy sauce swimming in raw eggs
my culture is reflected in those white walls,
my family is bound by memories of the past
and good times in grandma’s kitchen.
If I was a Fake Fruit
By Taegyoung Kim
•••
You may call me different things.
My voice tells perfect lies.
It reveals nothing of the sweet flesh inside.
If not for this persimmon’s unique-common look,
you’d think I was just like you.
I am a fruit that fell too early from the tree.
I cannot remember the first time I saw snow.
I cannot remember my old house and the friends I left behind.
I remember not being normal.
I remember how everyone called my things something different.
Perhaps I should’ve hidden myself beneath all that skin and pretended to be a tomato, even if they called me an unripe one.
Maybe I could have passed for something they knew.
But I chose to keep the odd.
And I watch as they laugh trying to pronounce my name.
It doesn’t roll off the tongue like their own.
They misspell it even if they look at how it’s written.
It hurts me, bit by bit.
I wish I were like them.
I could’ve had a name like theirs.
But I am stuck with a piece of the past I desperately want back instead of this new world that doesn’t know who I am.
As this persimmon rotted on the ground, someone picked me up.
They called me what I was.
When I opened my eyes to the sun,
I found someone not like me.
This person spoke in skies while I spoke in seas.
But this person listened to my waves with ears of cloud.
Now, this fruit that was me knew what I wanted to be, truly and deeply.
Instead of trying to be a common unripe thing that I really wasn’t,
I’d stay a persimmon, an odd fruit.
I’d find people who loved me for my oddness.
And the hurt little girl in my heart holds my hand
as I share my persimmons with her.
