I love everything about sailing. I love it when the wind whips my hair towards my face, when it’s January in Rhode Island and my fingers get numb from the cold, and when salt water gets in my eyes during the first leg of a race, exactly when my vision is most important.

Just over a year ago, I began writing letters to my great grandfather as often as I could. An ample vessel of knowledge, my 95 year old great-grandfather has lived through war, political turmoil, economic instability, civil rights movements, and other infamous chapters of US history textbooks.

Ever since I was a young girl, I was a grinch. My green claws scratched against the Mariah Carey vinyl records until they shrieked. My furry-green-fluff laced the cookies laid out for Santa. I don’t come from the type of family that rises before the sun on Christmas Day to tear apart trinkets from the man who slides down the chimney to lay presents out for each good little kid.

As a junior in high school, I am taking AP Art History this school year. In the cozy confines of my first period classroom, we probe art pieces from 3500 BCE- modern day works through lively discussion, thoughtful written analysis and precise note taking.

Following in my mother’s footsteps, my favorite book is The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood. This isn’t a book report so I will not summarize it, although Atwood’s seemingly fantastical depiction of sexism should be noted. Gilead seemed widely improbable for years.