“There’s something lost in translation of the choices of using the comparison of bread and the board because bread-making is a difficult task,” she said. “You have a larger appreciation for the derivation of the expression if you know the literal meaning as well as what the expression figuratively means.”

Another example of a phrase that loses its richness when translated is the Vietnamese saying “lá lành dùm lá rách,” which translates to “good leaf shelters torn leaf.” The expression has become a resounding message of empathy and solidarity among Vietnamese people, according to Vietnamese Culture Club Vice President sophomore Chilton Chau.

“The actual meaning of this is that good people will support and protect those who are vulnerable or in need,” he said. “The more fortunate people should try to help everybody else out, especially those less fortunate.”

Vietnam’s largely agricultural and rice-dependent culture imbues this saying with additional meaning, since popular rice dishes consumed during holidays like T?t are wrapped in tree leaves and steamed. When torn leaves are reinforced with whole leaves, the rice cakes inside will not crack. This imagery advises people to lend a compassionate helping hand, an aspect those unfamiliar with Vietnamese culture may not catch.

Chau also believes that a reliance on nature most distinguishes Vietnamese sayings from English ones.

“If you see Vietnam, there’s a lot of trees, and it’s tropical and warm,” Chau said. “Because Vietnamese people have always been surrounded by nature and trees, I think that’s where these phrases come from — living as one with the environment.”

Meanings lost in translation also pose an issue when it comes to internationally best-selling novels that have found their way into the Western market, including Fyodor Dostoevsky’s “Crime and Punishment.” Cultural differences can sometimes be muddled in pursuit of a “pure” translation, challenging not only translators of these texts but also their readers.

For instance, when English teacher Diane Ichikawa tried to describe protagonist Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov’s giddy nature to a Russian-speaking friend, she found that a one-word characterization in Russian took at least a sentence or two in English.

“Culture and language are intertwined inextricably,” Ichikawa said. “There’s no way to be able to translate from one very different culture to another different culture with ease and facility.”

That said, Ichikawa believes that technological advancements have weakened, if not removed, the barrier of cultural differences.

“In the 1970s and 80s, there was this explosion of multicultural literature,” she said. “You had people who were trying to write about their cultural experiences in English but they would do this thing where they would say something in, for example, Chinese and then in parentheses next to it, translate it into English. Now, I think the trend is that — especially because we have search engines at the tips of our fingers — if we read something in another language and we don’t quite get it, if we are that invested in it, we have the ability to look it up.”

Estrada Nakamatsu’s parents first introduced her to the Marinera to help her and her sister connect to their culture. Although Nakamatsu sometimes disliked attending practices, she eventually grew to love expressing her emotions and culture through dance.

“I was the only Peruvian at my elementary school for around four years, which made me feel very isolated and scared to represent my own culture,” Estrada Nakamatsu said. “It was kind of hard to try to accept my culture and be proud of it (because of) the really deep seated fear of being judged. As I got older, I definitely started to become more proud of my culture. Now, I’m very open. I love to show it off.”

Through the Marinera Nortena community, Estrada Nakamatsu surrounds herself with people who share her Peruvian culture, giving her a sense of belonging. The excitement that comes with dancing gives her an opportunity to cherish her culture.

“Sometimes, I’m so focused on the excitement of the dance that I block out the cheers of my family and I’m completely in a state of happiness,” she said.

Estrada Nakamatsu participates in several competitions during the year, though schoolwork and parent availability limit the number of practices and competitions she can attend.

“I was really happy to be (at the Marinera Siempre Juntos competition in January) because I hadn’t competed in such a long time,” she said. “I got a lot of compliments, and it felt really good to be in traditional wear.”

Competitions usually consist of three pairs dancing while four to six judges watch, with multiple rounds if necessary. Pairs are judged based on the spontaneity (the personality of the dance), grace, coordination and zapateo (the footwork). Through these competitions, however, she’s had to face the hard truth that certain dancers pay to win, even at the major national championship in Peru.

“It’s clear when someone who wins first place only won because they paid or because the judges weren’t good at deciding,” she said. “Sometimes it gets super frustrating that you just want to cry, because you’ve worked so hard and you have so much experience just to lose against someone that isn’t as experienced as you are.”

Despite this challenge, Estrada Nakamatsu continues to dance at competitions and for her own enjoyment.

“I basically just want to have fun,” she said. “I love to represent my culture. One day, I want to maybe even go to Gunn in my traditional clothing that I dance with to be able to show it off and be able to see other people wear (their) traditional wear.”

“I was around 7 or 8 at the family reunion,” Knudson said. “I knew that protective hairstyles like braids came from the African American side of me, but I hadn’t been able to see it a lot, so seeing them on my (family) was really cool.”

Growing up in a predominantly white and Asian community, Knudson rarely saw hair like hers. Because her mom wasn’t educated on how to care for Black hair, either, Knudson didn’t have guidance on how to maintain her hair. She ended up following her peers’ routines, though they didn’t suit her hair type.

“I washed my hair every other day, which you’re not supposed to do,” she said. “That’s far too often for hair like mine. Most of the time, I put it in a singular braid because that’s what I saw a lot of other people my age doing.”

Knudson’s experience isn’t anomalous: Many students have struggled to maintain hair that doesn’t adhere to Eurocentric norms. Sophomore Elijah Williams, for example, described never having advice on how to take care of his naturally curly hair. Worried that he would be stereotyped, his grandmother urged him to keep his locks short.

“My grandma was really big on taking care of how people perceived me,” he said. “Growing up, she didn’t want me to look like a ‘thug,’ so she usually made me buzz my hair.”

Raised in an Indian community in Spain, senior Angelina Rosh’s self-image was shaped by cultural biases.

“In the Indian communities (in Spain) that I grew up in, everybody brushed out their curly hair to make it frizzy — nobody knew how to take care of their hair,” Rosh said. “The standards in Indian culture are Eurocentric, so straight hair is considered prettier. I always internalized it as (me) having really ugly hair. I hated my hair.”

When Rosh moved to the U.S., she encountered more diverse hair types but still felt restrained by the beauty standards in her Indian community.

“I go to an Indian church,” she said. “That’s where it proliferated. The Indian community I was in maintained the same values that the mainland does, which is that straight hair is prettier. All the aunties would make passes at my hair.”

Still, students like Rosh have carved out their own methods of self-care over the years. While Knudson didn’t dedicate much attention or care to her hair at first, she reevaluated her routine after seeing her grandmother’s hair at the reunion, experimenting with new hairstyles to restore her hair’s health. Her go-to during this time was straight down — no up-dos — because pulling her hair back into tight ponytails and braids like her peers’ had damaged it.

Similarly, Williams experienced a perspective shift at the beginning of eighth grade, when he got a haircut that didn’t suit his hair. Wanting to be able to feel good about himself and look his best, he believed that growing out and learning more about his hair was essential.

“I didn’t want (my hair) to be really unhealthy,” he said. “I just didn’t know how to fix it. I resorted to social media, and then my brothers also helped me a lot. I just kind of experimented.”

Rosh also gave herself time to explore new hairstyles during the pandemic. Through TikTok and other online posts, she curated a hair-care routine that restored not just her curly hair, but her self-image.

“The pivotal point was walking into church again, and an auntie that had made fun of my hair before (asked) me, ‘Oh my goodness, how do you do your hair?’” Rosh said. “I told her, and then I told her daughter. Now, her daughter has healthy curly hair and she knows how to take care of it.”

After instructing some other church members on how to take care of their curly hair, she began to teach her mom as well.

“I held so much judgment against her for not knowing how to do my hair, but then doing my mom’s hair and teaching her how to do it really felt like a generational breaking point,” Rosh said.

Rosh has enjoyed being an educator and advocate for those with curly hair. Now, both she and her mother embrace their culture through their hair maintenance.

“Putting energy (into) and prioritizing taking care of my hair makes me feel more connected to my culture — whether it’s oiling my hair or having my mom oil my hair — which is a big love language for us,” she said.

By the time Knudson graduated from middle school, she had also decided to change the way she styled her hair to better reflect her cultural background and artistic desires.

“I started to care (more) about my appearance, not only because other people saw me, but because I wanted to look the best for myself,” she said. “I planned to show a different side of me when I got to high school. I wanted to express and experiment with myself in artistic ways, and my hair was one of them.”

Knudson’s first protective hairstyle entering high school was braids, inspired and done by her grandmother. When 2024 began, however, she tried a new style: two-strand twists called passion twists, which she currently wears.

According to Knudson, getting her hair done was a time-intensive process: Cornrowing, looping in extensions, crocheting and twisting took two to three hours. Still, it was worth it — after the passion twists were finished, Knudson returned to school with yet another part of her culture that she could share with others at school. “In (Gunn), you don’t see as many people with protective hairstyles,” she said. “(My hair) helped me expose myself and have people see different sides of me.”

Embracing her unique hair — alive in her grandmother and embedded in her ancestry — has given Knudson a profound appreciation for her identity.

“Learning about my hair and being able to express myself through it (has) helped me be closer to my Black roots,” she said. “I can see a different side of me that I haven’t been able to before.”

Likewise, Williams expresses his pride in his Black culture and carries this pride with him through his hair.

“I like to represent being Black, especially in areas where we’re a minority,” he said. “I feel like through my hair, I can do this.”

Morales’ grandfather has played a crucial role in introducing him to the indigenous community. “I’m glad that my grandfather introduced the culture to me because now I see life differently,” he said. “I feel that if I didn’t have those teachings from him, I wouldn’t be the person I am today because his words of wisdom took me to another level of accepting what death is. I learned to appreciate who I am, who I can become and whom I can offer that same energy to.”

In one word, Morales described the indigenous community as a family. “We’re not biologically related, but it’s the form of ‘tequio’ (‘trabajo communal’ in Nahuatl), which is communal work where we gather together to share our love, energy and culture,” he said. “We’re all united.”

Being a part of the indigenous community also comes with a lot of responsibility. “As an indigenous, you’re representing your legacy,” Morales said. “You’re representing your ancestors because at one point, they couldn’t historically.”

In addition to the responsibilities that come with being indigenous, Morales is faced with cultural appropriation. For example, Morales wears macaw feathers because they resonate with him, but he has seen nonindigenous people wear them unknowingly. “Macaw feathers are colorful,” he said. “I’m pretty colorful, but I’m also natural. I only use natural colored feathers, but a lot of people will dye chicken feathers to make it seem like they’re part of something that they’re not.”

Seeing people disrespect his culture leaves Morales feeling disheartened. “I feel that I have failed the dreams that my ancestors had intended for me,” he said. “They wanted me to preserve the culture, but that can’t happen if people are just trying to copy how it’s done.”

As an indigenous person, Morales also recognizes the stereotypes that come with his identity. “As someone who is darker-skinned, my skin color plays a huge component in being indigenous,” he said. “We’re considered ‘savages and animals,’ in terms of colonizers or Spaniards. In some terms, I’m representing those stereotypes. But instead of taking the negativity, I’m taking the positive out of it. I’m proud of it.”

Morales wears jewelry such as jade and jaguar necklaces, which contain medicine, as part of his indigenous culture. “At school, at work and in public, I always carry around my medicine,” he said. “The medicine is not something physical, but it’s my energy that I place within my jewelry.” Animals such as hawks, deer and jaguars are symbols of his ancestors and indigenous community. “Sometimes just walking to school, I see those animals, which takes me to another level of feeling more centered,” Morales said. “Deep down, either my ancestors, my creator or even just a certain energy is protecting me. I know who is going to be there even if I’m not 100% ready to start the day.”

Morales’ grandfather introduced him to traditional indigenous dancing at a time when he didn’t have a connection to the community. Aztec dancing became an important aspect of his life two years ago when he joined Calpulli Tonalehqueh, a dance group that performs at ceremonies throughout California. “Dancing centers me,” he said. “It reminds me how precious and sacred I am but also honors my body and limits.” His dance costume consists of a long fancy headdress (“copilli” in Nahuatl), instruments made from wood and rattles (“ayoyotes” in Nahuatl). “The ayoyotes are a key instrument that we wrap around our ankles,” Morales said. “Without saying a prayer with our mouth or our words, we use it with our dance and our steps.”

Aztec dancing, however, is more than just specific movements: Each step and move has significance. “Every step that we take is a word,” Morales said. “Every move that we do is essentially a phrase to tell a story.” For Morales, Aztec dancing is not only a hobby, but also a way to tell stories. “Our culture is something that should be appreciated and honored,” he said. “There’s so much beauty in the Mexica and Totonaca cultures, but so much hardship has led us here.”

Eventually, Morales would like to share his indigenous culture and energy with the Gunn community. Since his cultures and traditions are sacred to him, though, he has mixed feelings about showcasing them. “It’s scary because I’m going to be vulnerable,” Morales said. “I’d love to spread my medicine to people, but I hope they can accept it, too, rather than ignore it.”

Disney made a name for itself creating classic movies such as “Dumbo,” “Peter Pan,” “Aristocats,” “Lady and the Tramp,” “Song of the South” and “Jungle Book.” Each of these movies captured Disney’s magic of storytelling, connecting kids to a world of childhood fantasy. Many critics, however, have argued that these movies were racially insensitive and exploited the cultures of Native Americans, Asians and Blacks.

In the 1990s, Disney produced more culturally diverse movies, launching releases like the animated “Aladdin” and “Mulan.” Although Disney took a leap with “Aladdin” as one of the first well-known positive representations of Middle Eastern/Arab characters, it generalized their cultures. Many characters had exaggerated facial expressions, and while the main characters were lighter skinned, the villain, Jafar, was darker skinned. This implied to children that a lighter skin color is more accepted in society. Disney’s animated “Mulan” came at a time when many Asians were not represented in film, but critics believed that it was overly westernized through its depiction of Mushu—a Chinese dragon that breathes fire—and historically inaccurate, as tea drinking didn’t take place until a later dynasty. Similar to Disney’s “Aladdin,” “Mulan” repeatedly depicted the enemy, the Huns, with darker skin tones.

Disney attempted to fix their wrongdoings in their recent live action films of “Aladdin” and “Mulan” by providing a more diversified outlook on these stories. In “Aladdin,” they improved some of the stereotypes by hiring the majority of the actors with Middle Eastern descent, and in “Mulan,” Disney made the story plot more historically accurate. In “Aladdin,” the documents capture an accurate Arabic translation. In “Mulan,” the Huns are changed to Rourans, the Great Wall is changed to the Silk Road and Mulan’s family name, Fa, is changed to Hua, making these minor differences accurate to the original “Ballad of Mulan.”

While Disney has made progress with racial identity, many opponents argue that progress has not been quick enough. With “Aladdin,” reviews were mixed. Naomi Scott, who played the main character Jasmine, received backlash for being an Indian British actress instead of a Middle Eastern or Arab actress, who some believed would have delivered a more accurate protrayal. The live action of “Mulan” also received mixed reviews for shooting in Xinjiang Province, where the Chinese government has been alleged to be religiously persecuting the Uyghurs, a minority group.

Disney has also made progress with its portrayals of Black community. Disney garnered rave reviews when creating a Black princess named Tiana in “The Princess in the Frog.” Many viewers, however, were frustrated that Tiana spent most of her time in the movie as a frog. Similarly, Pixar’s “Soul” was also groundbreaking for featuring a Black male lead. Critics, however, charged that the main character in “Soul” was only Black for 20 minutes in the film before turning into a blue-green character. As a result, critics felt that Disney missed two opportunities to portray Black identity appropriately.

Some critics also believe that recent films like “Moana” and “Coco” have not progressed in representing more cultures. For example, some believe that Maui, the demigod in “Moana,” negatively depicted Polynesian men as overweight. While Disney has been far from perfect, these critics have also missed the importance of incrementalism, or the gradual belief in or advocacy of change. Disney has adapted in response to changes in society’s approach to race, slowly addressing issues like racial identity and cultural promotion to better fit the times.

For “Moana,” Disney took a step in the right direction by hiring a group of Polynesian cultural experts to ensure that their story was accurately represented. Others reject the argument for Maui’s negative depiction and believe that he is portrayed to look masculine and powerful as they believe a demigod should look. Following the success of “Moana” was “Coco,” a film that focused on Día de los Muertos. According to the Los Angeles Times, many Latinx leaders felt that Disney accurately demonstrated Latinx traditions. Additionally, Spanish songs and phrases were used to make the film more authentic.

In 2020, Disney also made a monumental decision to address racial controversy in their classic movies. Now, a disclaimer appears before some old movies, reading “[T]his [movie] includes negative depictions and/or mistreatment of people or cultures. These stereotypes were wrong then and are wrong now.” Disney used their past films to spark conversation so that children can understand their mistakes. “Song of the South,” for instance, was deemed so blatantly racist that Disney has made the movie completely inaccessible for viewing.

Recently, Disney took a step in the right direction in attempting to teach younger generations on Disney Junior about the concepts of race, culture and community through their animated series, “Rise Up, Sing Out.” This series highlights real-world situations to teach kids how important representation is and how to deal with hurtful comments about race. This is an important step for Disney in ensuring that younger kids think about these concepts at an early age. “Rise Up, Sing Out” uses engaging music to promote acceptance and love for other races and also discusses experiences relevant to young Black people. The series is a crucial tool for both parents and young kids to discuss how to respect everyone.

Disney is continuing to progress with new films like “Turning Red” and a live-action adaptation of “The Little Mermaid,” in which Ariel will be played by Halle Bailey, a Black woman. Although Disney is making gradual changes, they should continue to set high standards in ensuring that everyone feels represented so that future generations can learn positive ideas about different races. Disney needs to continue to listen to the critics and improve their portrayal of races so that children can feel Disney’s magic of true representation.

For Qiu, playing the guzheng—a 21-stringed traditional Chinese instrument—isn’t solely about mastering the technique, but about connecting with her Chinese culture and understanding the story behind the mu-
sic. Qiu believes that the tradition and stories make the guzheng unique. “The instrument carries the story of Chinese history and how Chinese culture has evolved,” she said.

Qiu is fortunate to have the opportunity to play the guzheng, but as a second-generation Chinese American, she thinks she experiences some disadvantages compared to other native Chinese players who are more exposed to Chinese culture. Since the guzheng is more popular in China, Qiu has found it difficult to find a community for Chinese music and a sense of belonging here in America. “[When] living here, it’s a little bit difficult to get other opportunities to learn more about Chinese culture,” she said.

The hardest part about mastering this instrument, according to Qiu, is being able to comprehend the story or emotions that the composer is trying to convey. Many of the songs that Qiu plays are traditional pieces based on Chinese idioms, landscapes and stories. “Every time I learn a piece, I really have to understand the story behind it,” she said. “Oftentimes, I’ll spend hours with a teacher trying to go over the meaning and the emotions behind a piece.” Qiu notes that it can often be easy to accidentally convey a different meaning by adding an American twist.

Qiu’s dedication to learning about Chinese culture and practicing her instrument for several hours a week finally paid off when she earned third place in an international competition against some of the best guzheng players in the world. “It took a lot of work to win because as a Chinese American, I’ve undergone very different training compared to some people who go to professional music schools in China,” she said.

Although connecting to the story is a challenge, the guzheng has bridged the gap between Qiu and her Chinese heritage. She has come to a better understanding of what each Chinese tradition means, and her instrument has helped her feel closer to older generations. Qiu will often send videos of her playing the guzheng to her relatives in China to connect with them during the holidays.

In the future, Qiu plans to continue to improve, compete and perform as much as she can to share her culture with the world. “Music is a conduit for my emotions and a way to express myself,” she said. “No matter what happens in the future, I can always rely on the guzheng.”

Gottipati transferred at the beginning of his sophomore year after his family moved. Even though changing schools may seem daunting, he found the transition to be uncomplicated. “It was pretty smooth,” he said. “Because of the fact that I transferred at the end of summer, I had to rush to test for class placement. Other than that, transitioning between high schools was pretty straightforward.”

Despite the rigorous academics at Gunn, he found the environment to be more supportive and less competitive than that of his old school. “Monta Vista is more academically inclined, and the courses are a lot more challenging,” he said. “I feel like Gunn does a lot better than Monta Vista in the amount of support that it gives students. There is also a larger breadth of course material that’s available.”

After experiencing the campus culture of both schools, Gottipati prefers Gunn’s culture over that of Monta Vista and is happy about his transfer. “Gunn has a better environment than Monta Vista,” he said. “It’s much more open. A lot of the teachers are super friendly and much more receptive when it comes to helping students out with homework or negotiating a later due date for a project.”

Gottipati has also found a community within Gunn by joining two campus organizations: the Gunn Robotics Team and Speech and Debate club. “My experiences with Gunn clubs have been pretty good so far,” he said. “I enjoy spending time in the machine shop for robotics as well as after school debate practices.”

As for making friends with other students, Gottipati made conscious efforts to reach out and meet people. “I connected with other students by taking more time out of my day to socialize and hang out after school,” he said.

Gottipati has a few words of advice for future transfers or to other students who are transitioning to Gunn. “Take advantage of everything Gunn has to offer, like the tutors and the large number of counselors that Gunn has to serve a relatively small student body,” he said.

From a young age, every movie I saw that had a high school portrayed it with the same stereotypes. The school was always ruled by a jock—generally, a football player—and anyone who prioritized schoolwork was always depicted as a nerd with little to no social life. However, the biggest thing I seemed to notice throughout all these movies was the large emphasis on the high school party culture.

These stereotypes definitely did not apply to my high school experiences. When I came to Gunn, I knew that it would in no way represent the traditional stereotypes of high school. Even before I started my time here, it was rarely advertised as a fun school or a party school. Instead, telling people I was going to Gunn generally elicited a worried face or a reminder of what a high-pressured environment the school would be. I would always hear people rave about the school’s academics rather than its social activities.

The difference in our school’s party culture compared to other schools, such as Menlo-Atherton High School, became obvious to me at the beginning of my sophomore year. While talking to one of my friends who had transferred to Menlo-Atherton, they could not stop boasting about the “elite” parties that people at their school would throw. To be fair, our demographic definitely does not match the party school theme; our school has been dubbed the type of school to flex SAT scores at a basketball game.

However, despite our affiliation with academics, our school certainly has a party culture. I have experienced plenty of kickbacks thrown by all sorts of different people. Kickbacks are generally more toned-down, laid back parties predominantly made up of smaller groups of friends. These kickbacks also tend to be invite-only between close friend groups, causing fewer people to find out about them and come.

This feeds into Gunn’s “clique-like” culture. From my own and many of my friends’ personal experiences, we have witnessed the disunity within classes and disparity with people in other grades. Petty quarrels and unnecessary “beef” have prevented any true unity between groups, which in turn doesn’t allow for big parties. Due to this disparity, it is unlikely that a true “party culture” will develop at Gunn in the foreseeable future.

From what I saw in my freshman year, the upperclassmen always seemed to throw relatively big parties and social gatherings. These parties got less and less common as time went on. The last grade to throw these large social functions was last year’s class of 2019. Again, I noticed that the similarity that all these grades had, at least from an outsider’s perspective, was the unity found within the class. It doesn’t mean that everyone loved each other, like some weird hippie cult, but everyone seemed to be accepting of who was there. No one would let someone they didn’t like get in the way of their having a good time and no one wanted to ruin someone else’s good time.

But division in a grade can’t be the only barrier to unleashing Gunn’s inner party culture. Over time, students could have become less attracted to the illicit behaviors that go with party culture. Maybe parents have become smarter about allowing people to have big groups of friends over. There are endless possible explanations for why the party culture at Gunn isn’t as extravagant as it could be, but for the underclassmen’s sakes, I am excited to see what happens to it.