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We tried 50 free summer meals across the country, here’s what we found.

By Clara T., Claire B., Zahra A., JaeHa (Justin) K., Bryan R.V., & Mai E.L., with the staff of the Princeton Summer Journal

SUN Meals, a federal program that provides no-cost meals for kids during the summer, are inconsistent across the country. Are they truly meeting food security needs?

Layers of stacked frozen leftovers saved from dining halls—mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, and salads—in Ziplocs. School lunch plates filled with tan and brown foods, with little to no green in sight. Scrambling to figure out the latest EBT eligibility. Staring at an empty fridge on a hot summer day. Students of all ages, whether K-12 or college, continue to face hunger and a lack of accessible nutritious food, these are just some of the many ways that food insecurity manifests for students and families.

“The issue goes beyond just someone [having] enough food to meet their calorie needs, fill their stomachs, to ‘are we meeting the nutritional needs of a person?’” said Dr. Lauren Dinour, faculty member at Montclair State University with the Nutrition and Food Studies department.

Having access to nutritional food helps children develop healthy habits so when they become adults with greater freedom, they have those skills established. As Mykaila Shannon, the Health Promotions Manager at Princeton University said, “when it gets in early, it gets in deep.”

A Princeton Summer Journal investigation reveals how SUN Meals—a federal program that provides meals and snacks at no cost at various neighborhood locations—fails to provide nutritious food for children on a nationwide scale. This presents concerns not just for young people during the summer, but is indicative of systemic failures to provide all people easy access to proper nutrition.

The investigation sampled 65 sites and 50 meals across the United States. For each site reporters visited or contacted the organization and recorded the meals being offered and the state of the site. The Journal found great inconsistencies in the sites and meals across the country.

A majority of the sites were visited in-person. 51 percent of those served elementary school students, 40 percent families, 20 percent middle school students, and 9 percent high school students. In 20 percent of cases, the sites were empty other than the reporter.

The large portion of elementary and middle school students could be attributed to the summer camps who often used SUN sites for their programs. In some cases, the presence of only young kids and camps led investigators to experience cautious and confused staff when they tried to access the meals. 14 percent of sites visited had some type of cautious staff, 11 percent appeared understaffed, and 4 percent appeared to have inattentive staff.

While searching for sites, reporters often found the federal SUN database to be inaccurate and out of date. 10 sites had inaccurate contact information online, or were not contactable for other reasons (such as not including a phone number or email on their website), and even more were excluded from the investigation because the site had closed or didn’t exist.

While 60% of the sites were “easy to find” in-person, 29 percent of sites had no signage to locate them outside, with 11 percent of them described as “hard to find.” The lack of accurate information and difficulty to access sites, shows how unpredictable SUN sites are, making them an unreliable solution to food security.

To understand the nutrition of the meals provided at SUN sites, Shannon provides a simple solution—colors. Shannon describes how beige colors often reflect some lack of nutrition. She recommends that students, “throw some things in there that are colorful because colors often, you know, represent some nutrition.”

As she puts it, colors are an easy, gamified way for kids to be able to say: “oh, I ate four colors today at lunch. That means I had a good meal.”

To explore this for SUN sites, the Summer Journal tracked the colors of food items given by summer meal programs: Grain forward items were categorized as tan, meat categorized as brown, mixed fruit cups and juice mixes were categorized as multicolor, milk and chocolate milk were categorized as white and brown respectively, cheese and egg as yellow, and vegetables and fruits were categorized by type into red, orange, green, blue, and violet categories.

Across all 65 sites, 94% of the meals served had tan foods, meanwhile, only 18% of meals had green foods in them. Moreover, 42% of the summer meals do not contain four colors or more.

The Summer Journal also analyzed how the colors in summer meals changed depending on the demographics of the population, including, poverty rate, population size, and racial breakdown.

Findings showed that areas with 20 percent or more of the population under the federal poverty line had no green items, compared to 3 percent green foods in lower poverty areas. Zip codes with more than 50,000 people, provided 32 percent of tan meals, while small zip codes only recorded 28 percent. No significant difference was found between majority white and majority non-white areas, but the five sites sampled in high poverty, majority non-white, large zipcodes only had orange, tan and white foods.

While some SUN summer meal program sites are successfully providing meals, many have failed to provide proper nutritious food. On a nationwide scale this unreliability presents concerns for kids without food security.

The inconsistencies among summer meal sites extend beyond the SUN meal program. Summer EBT and SUN Bucks give low income families $120 per eligible school-age child monthly for grocery benefits. However, as of August 2025, according to USDA, 13 states remain without federal money for the Summer EBT or SUN bucks after rejecting them, effectively leaving millions of eligible children without the benefits.

“So if we have states that are saying that they’re not going to participate, they’re not going to pay into these programs, then we’re going to have huge disparities in who has access to them across the country,” said Dinour, “and if we make some of these programs like SNAP, for example, have more strict eligibility requirements, then we’re going to have even less people participating”

Dinour explained that when benefits go up, food insecurity goes down. Giving people more money and food means they will have more food to eat. She says food insecurity has had an uptick in 2022 and 2023 and imagines it’s going up as a result of tightening eligibility.

The solution to these problems begins with destigmatizing food insecurity in our everyday lives. Ricardo Kairos, a faculty member at Rutgers University specializing in Nutrition says that destigmatization encourages people to seek out resources rather than facing it alone.

Many Kairos interviewed for his work helping people get benefits, felt they weren’t entitled to get food assistance.They felt the food wasn’t for them and that they shouldn’t take resources from other people.

On some occasions, a singular word could change a stigma entirely. Mark Dinglasan, the Executive Director of the New Jersey Office of the Food Security Advocate (OFSA), believes that when it comes to mitigating the food insecurity crisis, it is imperative to accurately differentiate between “food security” and “food insecurity.”

When he first came to his office two years ago, Dinglasan commented that his first focus was on “picking the most holistic and comprehensive definition for food security that I could find.” At the time, his office was titled the Office of Food Insecurity — which Dinglasan was not a fan of. Eventually, Dinglasan chose to follow the definition of food security followed by the United Nations, and renamed his office to be the Office of Food Security.

Dinglasan believes that food security can only be truly achieved by focusing on helping people, rather than treating them merely as numbers. “Ending hunger has nothing to do with food,” he said. Rather, he believes, the focus should be on helping communities as much as possible.

Similarly, Chilton rejects the term “food deserts” because it falsely suggests that no food exists in certain areas. Chilton argues that the term “food apartheid” is more fitting because the limited access to healthy, affordable options in grocery stores isn’t an accident, but rather a result of an intentional decision shaped by food systems, zoning laws, public policies, and systematic disparities. Others argue the term “food swamps” for areas that simply have an abundance of non-nutritious food options.

The failure of distributed meals to meet the dietary restrictions, cultural preferences, and nutritional needs of people is why programs like SNAP and SUN bucks are beneficial, because giving people the money to choose what foods to purchase for themselves and their families can lead to meals better tailored to their needs, unlike school meals and SUN meals.

Still, Chilton argues that rather than relying only on programs like SNAP, which exist because wages are too low, we should raise wages instead. She suggests implementing a universal basic income (UBI) regardless of employment status would ensure nobody goes hungry, everyone has shelter, and people can afford necessities.

Another part of the solution is finding and supporting initiatives that ensure food gets to those who need it. There are many existing resources and initiatives that remain obscure to many. Free community supported agriculture (CSA) programs offer fresh food to lower income people and are often cheaper than grocery stores. Public insurance provides free nutritionists. Tiaa.org, provides a customized guide explaining what people’s co-pays, deductibles, and insurance particulars are. Planned Parenthood has a teen group that aids nutrition. Schools often have reimbursement programs to provide money for lunch or breakfast.

One initiative, the Food Recovery Network, is a nonprofit led by students with the dual mission of recovering surplus food and ending hunger, repurposing it and providing it to individuals who are food insecure.

Dinour is the faculty advisor for a chapter on Montclair’s campus, one of few New Jersey schools with a chapter. Initially, it was a class project by her students intended to address food waste then they began the chapter in 2017. Students essentially repackage safe, edible excess food that would’ve otherwise been thrown away, and place it in a fridge on campus.

According to Dinour, around hundreds of thousands of pounds of food have been recovered on Montclair’s campus and the number of visits to their fridges increased by around 1,500 visits over the course of the last year, adding up to almost 8,000 visits to the pantry from September to June.

“We’re doing a lot, we can do much more,” Dinour said. “But I don’t know that we’ll ever get to a place where we are eliminating the need for all of our students. And that’s hard to sit with.”

Methodology

METHODOLOGY

Princeton Summer Journalists selected sites nearby their hometowns to sample. For each site they either visited in-person, or contacted them virtually. For each site the reporters recorded qualitative observations and if possible the content of a meal.

The Princeton Summer Journal Data Team then compiled all the data reported and tracked qualitative patterns, like how busy the site was, who it served, and how easy it was to find.

Reporters then looked at meal descriptions and photos to determine the colors provided in each meal. Colors were grouped into: blue & violet, brown, multicolor, tan, red, orange, yellow, and green. Site demographics data such as the site’s zip code, population size, poverty rate, and population diversity—was joined with the color counts to uncover how the colors of food in each SUN Meal varied between towns with similar populations.

The Future for a Meritocracy is Unsure

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By Jace L. and Tahia F.

On the first day of Princeton’s Summer Journalism Program, reporters were set loose to answer a question: Is the United States a meritocracy? Or could it ever be one? With each answer, it became increasingly clear: The future of our government has never been as unpredictable as it is now, according to the people of downtown Princeton.

The common opinion was that the U.S. was not a meritocracy, and many added that it would be impossible to go down that path. The question also opened the door to the disparities that plague American society, from nepotism to unqualified politicians.

“We have a lot of nepotism,” says Jolita Auguste, 38. “We’ve had that since the founding. I don’t think we’re going to get rid of that because most people, even when you ask them, what are you working so hard for? It’s so that my kids can have a better life.” She raised a point that others also communicated: In many ways, the U.S. is based on connections.

Grace O’Donnell, 23, offered an alternative system for elections. “I think there would have to be qualifications for certain positions within the government,” she says. “Right now, I feel it’s more like who can command a room, who can get votes… But I think certain people should be excluded. There should be certain barriers to even run for positions.”

Networking is a major part of American society—in corporate jobs, in internships, and in the government. “In the government, especially in the United States system, I think a lot of it is who you know,” says Sejal Joshi, 22. “It is a game, and I don’t know if the people who have the correct and the most beneficial skill sets that the country needs are often the elected ones.”

Despite the current situation, Auguste stressed that the idea of a meritocracy is worth pursuing.

“There’s always a level of bias that happens in all interactions, but we do know that there are huge disparities,” she says. “So when you see such wide gaps, I do think that it’s important to at least acknowledge those and try and even them out in the meantime.”

Is the American Dream Still Achievable?

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By Brianna A. and Grace S.

For years, Americans have held the “American Dream” as a classic ideal of success, believing that through hard work and determination, anyone can climb the social ladder.

But some believe that the battle for equality and the American dream has waned and that hard work has taken a back seat to privilege, where race, gender, and economic background determine success. Can a meritocracy—the idea that rewards are earned by talent and effort—even work in the modern United States?

Residents of Princeton, New Jersey, had lots to say on that.

“I found that until I worked hard, I couldn’t achieve anything,” says Jyoti, 46. Her belief in the value of persistence is rooted in personal growth, she says.

The idea of hard work is a major factor among those who believe in a meritocracy.

“If you work hard and have the talent, you can make a decent living,” Sunil Suri, 54, says.

He says he strongly believes that no matter where one comes from, they can succeed in the U.S., remembering classmates from his university in India who immigrated.

“Some of them are actually billionaires now. So coming from nothing, literally, they walked in,” Suri says.

But others in Princeton challenged the idea of a meritocracy, arguing that while hard work matters, it’s not the only factor and often not even the most important one.

Tim Quinn, a 67-year-old former journalist from a working-class background, doesn’t believe America functions as a true meritocracy.

“The meritocracy as it exists now is kind of a fraud,” he says. “We have an education system that favors kids who are really good at school…. If you’re good at taking tests… then you will go on to a better college. And a lot of that is based on your ZIP code.”

Reflecting on his own experience, Quinn says, “as a white man, I was born on first base. Even though I came from a working class family…it’s only because my father had got a union job that I was the first in my family to be able to go to college.”

Allegra Brennan, 19, a Princeton native, believes that it is harder for women and minorities to succeed, especially in the current political environment.

“I think to be successful, especially as a woman, or as a person of color, especially now in Trump’s America, you have to jump through ten more hoops,” Brennan said.

Is America on a path to success based on background or a meritocracy?

“I know now that there was some Black woman somewhere who was as smart as I was and who could have written what I wrote and edited papers that I wrote,” Quinn said, reflecting on the advantages he had as a white male. “She was just getting in the batter’s box.”

Meritocracy: Ideal vs. Reality

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By Gabrielle B. and Alya M.

If knowledge, skills, and talent determined an individual’s power and influence in society, would a meritocracy result in a fair system for the United States? For Princeton residents, this question revealed a common understanding: meritocracy is the ideal, but not always a reality.

Most explained that it is complicated to define meritocracy and the role it plays in the U.S., as everyone has different experiences that shaped their perspectives.

In today’s society, success can be determined by one’s connections, wealth, and privilege, from college admissions to education to social capital. Yet, meritocracy is supposed to award ability over affluence, but who would really benefit?

“Will [merit] open doors to certain conversations about you going far? Yes. Will you go far? I don’t know about that one. That’s a bit iffy,” said 28-year-old product analyst Kasheif Harrison.

While he understood the dictionary definition of meritocracy, he believed that merit alone can’t ensure success, instead it’s the people you meet, the connections you form, and the impressions you make that will help you flourish.

George Cohen, 66, a former New Jersey Deputy Attorney General, said that meritocracy correlates to work ethic: “If you’re the fastest runner, you win, you study the hardest, and you do the best, you’re the smartest.”

Nevertheless, he added, success and equal access to opportunities are also determined by privilege. Not everyone starts on an “equal playing field,” he said.

Many people also shared a similar sentiment, that while meritocracy is fair in theory it does not account for barriers such as gender, race, class, as well as unequal access to resources, education, and opportunities.

Cohen believed he had an upper hand compared to his high school classmates, because everyone did not have the same opportunity and time to dedicate to activities that could build merit.

“That’s why SATs ought to come back, because as much as they may be biased, everyone was taking the same test.”

On the other hand, Harrison believed that it’s the people you know that matters, and that merit alone will not help you succeed.

Hungtang Ko explained that merit did help him to an extent, but there were other factors involved. “I was lucky enough to get into Princeton and they thought I got in through merit, —which is probably true—for a certain part, but there’s a lot of luck involved. Just like anything,” he said.

While most Princeton residents agreed that meritocracy exists in the U.S., they said it does not operate effectively in society to promote fairness.

Harrison said the main problem with meritocracy is that it “oversimpli[fies] how the world really works.”

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Hearing Stories from the Voices of Princeton

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By Ipichiesimhe I.

Pam Wakefield, a longtime community member of Princeton, describes what the moments following the devastating terrorist attack on September 11, 2001 felt like. “Everyone gravitated towards Princeton University,” says Wakefield. “Hearing the church bells, funeral after funeral after funeral of people who had died.”

In that moment, people felt isolated; families were torn apart, businesses closed, and community morale was at an all-time low. Then, more than ever, people needed a means to share how they felt. This feeling of isolation and uncertainty loomed over the busy streets of Princeton, filled with citizens going in and out from work.

Many years later, an initiative was born to capture stories from the community like what unfolded after 9/11. Voices of Princeton stands as a medium for people to share the intimate details to the world that they were too afraid to share with their family.

The journey of creating Voices of Princeton was not a linear one. Wakefield previously proposed the idea to the staff of the Princeton Public Library in 2004, when the library was just being built; however, it did not work out. Still, Wakefield is considered the inspiration: “a part of the Voices of Princeton since before it was born,” says Cliff Robinson, the Princeton Public Library’s Public Humanities Specialist. Originally, Wakefield suggested the idea as a means of expression amongst the various individuals who lived and worked in Princeton. She was previously heavily involved in religious organizations, including as a member of her church community, along with contributing to churches surrounding hers.

It is apparent that Wakefield cares deeply about the program. She cares about her community, the people living in it, and the progress it has made over the years. But she also has a relationship with the city’s main attraction. When asked how the community has affected her life, Wakefield first lists the fact that she “[worked] for the university” and says that her former employer changed her life.

Voices of Princeton is one thing that Wakefield is proud about. She sees how much it’s impacted the lives of the many people around her. Even as the interview was coming to a close, Wakefield urged us to explore the library and the many resources available for us throughout it.

But Wakefield isn’t the only one who cares deeply. Library staff, including the program’s organizers, were interviewed: Cliff Robinson; Kim Dorman, the library’s community engagement coordinator; and Stephanie Schwartz, the Historical Society of Princeton’s curator of collections and research.

Over the years, each organizer contributed to the project in different ways. Their expertise ranged from areas of history to human connection. Schwartz talked about why she appreciated Voices of Princeton so much, stating that she was “really fascinated by the creation of history and what we choose to remember, and how the historical narrative is written.” She also says that “it tells us as much about the person at the time they’re telling the story as it does about the stories they are telling.”

Even though Voices of Princeton is a relatively new program, its effects are still being felt by those sharing their stories, those listening to stories, or those doing the work behind the scenes to ensure that the legacy of the people last.

Community and Clothes at The Nearly New Shop

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By Rania S.

I made my way down an alleyway that I might’ve missed without the help of Google Maps and climbed up the black staircase of the New Jersey thrift shop. I couldn’t help but think how creepy this all was. It almost felt like a kidnapping scheme of a ‘90s serial killer. I hesitantly creaked open the door.

Almost instantly, my eyes were drawn to the display at the very front. Three fabric mannequins dressed in Y2K-style clothing, antique teabag tins, a poster of an old Apple ad featuring an image of Albert Einstein, and a coffee table piled high with vintage magazines. This scenery was a complete turn-around in comparison with what I’d previously walked through, and I was compelled to find out more.

“Hi!” said a woman in a faux-denim dress at the cashier register. We were greeted enthusiastically by Toni Maher, who wore a bright smile on her face.

Maher, owner of The Nearly New Shop in Princeton, reflected on where thrifting was ten years ago. She recalled middle and high school students “turning their noses up” when walking into the store, fearful of the unwritten social consequences that came with being caught shopping at a second-hand clothing store.

Today, thrifting is among the most popular fashion trends, skyrocketing by a whopping 117 percent since 2018 according to Capital One Shopping. Social media has successfully rebranded second-hand shopping as chic and ethical.

The Nearly New Shop has seen substantial growth since second-hand shopping arose as a trend among young people, namely, Gen Z. When COVID-19 hit, the internet came to life as people stuck at home shared their concerns regarding sustainability and began pushing people to switch from fast fashion to second-hand. Thrift stores across the United States saw a significant increase in retail sales and just like that, the store was back in the game.

I decided to discuss the sudden shift in the fashion industry with none other than the owner of The Nearly New Shop. Maher began telling me about what separates her store from the 25,000 other thrift stores in the country. “The store has been here for eighty years,” she says. Considering the mass bankruptcy of small businesses and even large corporations during COVID-19, surviving the apocalypse-like years of the 2020s is impressive.

Maher went on to describe the changes the store had undergone alongside the shift in trends in order to maintain its success. “My husband’s a contractor, so all the wood that you see, he custom made,” she says, pointing to the renovated wooden floors. She added that her children started up a social media account for the store and posted consistently on popular platforms like Instagram, Snapchat, and Facebook. It was a family effort to advance their marketing technique as the world around them rapidly grew.

The local thrift shop in itself was like one large family. There was a sense of close friendship — a dynamic you don’t see often in the retail world — between Maher and her co-worker Emily, who was attending to a customer. Local customers seemed to agree. “We came here before we even lived here,” says Kristin Mossinghoff, a long-time shopper at The Newly New Shop who was there with her daughter. The unique collection of items and kindness of the staff kept them coming back.

Joeleen Corrales, another customer who has been coming for a year, says that the constant “refresh of clothing and organization” of the thrift shop was quite impressive to her. Notable brands like La Perla, J.Crew, Cole Haan, and even Chanel could be seen on the racks. She discussed how after her transformative weight loss journey, instead of replacing her entire wardrobe, she decided to go thrifting and was pleased with what she found.

For others, what makes the little store so special is the comfort of familiarity among a rapidly changing world.

Princeton, being among one of the wealthiest towns in the U.S., is home to expensive brands like J Crew, Rolex, Urban Outfitters, and more. The prices at The Nearly New Shop, however, have remained remarkably low, especially considering the increasingly common trend of nationwide gentrification among upper-class neighborhoods. Special discount days highlight the thrift store’s generosity; twice a year, they host something called “Bag Day” where customers can grab a large shopping bag and stuff it with whatever they want, the entire thing costing just $20. On another major discount day, the store offers half off all items.

In a world filled with uncertainty and chaos, The Nearly New Shop offers a sense of calm and collectedness, tight-knit community, and most importantly, flashy deals.

Nearly New Knows Their History, but They Aren’t Afraid of the Future

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By Diego G.

When faced with that narrow alley off of Nassau Street, I knew I could only go forward. Walking down the dingy path, bordered by a shady fence of pines and a rust-stained brick wall with protruding window AC units, I could only hope a brighter future would lie ahead. And it did. Mecca was the cyan sign and cartoony butterfly icon that read in white serifed letters: Nearly New Shop.

The chic restaurants, designer boutiques, and the cozy liberal arts institution down the road vanished as I climbed a set of rustic black stairs into the charm of Toni Maher’s fashion haven. A fluorescent orange door opened with a ring, and Princeton itself took a sigh of relief.

“Thrifting” is somewhat of a recent development, according to Maher. She states–in subtle Jersey twang, complete with a large brunette blow-out and beaming white smile–that fifteen years ago, many teens would just “turn their nose up at thrifting”. Things were obviously different now as I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the checkout line.

Long before then, however, adversity was a cornerstone of Nearly New’s identity. It was previously owned by the Princeton Day School to fund scholarships for low income students. Maher, whose 4 children attended PDS, combatted the thought of it closing twelve years ago. In 2012, she assumed ownership with the mission to serve her community and ensure that–while adding a few disco balls herself–Nearly New was still ultimately Princeton’s.

With the wisdom of 80 years under her belt, Maher likely wasn’t used to explaining her business model in a curated world of color-coded tags and regulars–all of whom she knew by name–but did so gladly: “We start from scratch twice a year. Saturday, our $20 bag day, it empties the store. I can show you pictures.”

I struggled to imagine the torso-height racks behind me–now teeming with an explosion of color-coded suits, jackets, and t-shirts–desolate. But every February and August, Princeton showed up for Maher the same way she did for them year-round. In a city where the average home price borders one million dollars, Maher’s devotion to low prices and local charities (who receive excess clothing) is nothing short of admirable.

She extends most of the credit to her support-system, which includes her husband, who had handcrafted wooden shelves and installed a custom floor, and her daughter, Alexis, who was responsible for their formidable social media presence. (I’d never seen a small business with a Snapchat profile before that day.) Her sons helped set up Square Space, upon noticing the rise of contactless payment. Say what you want, they were with the times!

That day, customers flooded in and out, gawking at the $5 deal that applied to everything save furs and fine jewelry (the week before, everything was half off, Maher explained). Even for locals, these sales fostered an infinite sense of excitement. One regular beamed over a pink pair of peep-toe pumps. Another perused the aisles with a burgeoning basketful of clothes, which Maher had specifically reserved for her.

But the only person who benefited more than these women, their wallets, and the newly adopted pieces that day was Emily Battle. Maher’s right hand woman worked in silence for the duration of our interview, except for the moments when her boss was particularly stumped. “What’s the most unique thing we sell, hmm…Emily?” The rugged woman jumped in, her quick, baritone speech bouncing off the walls while recalling memorable days at work and the function of what was apparently an antique lamb chop holder. Her strong posture was framed by a layer of straight dirty-blonde hair; her tough demeanor concealed a certain kindness I struggled to pinpoint. And while initially reserved, Battle revealed herself to be much more than just an eager, passionate salesperson. She credits her job for having, quite literally, changed her life.

She hopes to serve her community similarly. Battle recalls a particularly vibrant day when a customer really needed something with a parrot on it. Luckily, they had just that. The parrot dress hiding somewhere in Nearly New’s infinite vault had fed them both: the customer with her niche request and Emily, who gained a story and a smile from the experience.

“It’s just a good scene. I’m in the right place,” she stated decisively.

And that’s what keeps people coming back. Emily Battle was not the kind of woman with a subscription to Vogue. Toni Maher did not know that the back-aisle La Perla nightgown was probably worth more than the Chanel shopping bags and 2010 Michael Kors glasses in the display. People like Maher and Battle aren’t in it for the Gucci watch in the big glass case. They aren’t glued to their history, however many stories a near century of business may bring. Their ultimate devotion is to the future of their community, whether that entails new friends or new shop improvements like fresh oak wood floors and Square Space; but they’ll never be without window ACs and your mother’s low-rise jeans. It was a masterclass in modernization. Beyond the physical realm, Nearly New is a place of community and kindness in its greatest form: from strangers. However, beware that purchases may lead to membership in Maher and Battle’s thrifting family.

Before I left, I hesitantly checked out a fashion photography book. Where I’m from, the unique cover–adorned with a giant, risque leg and blunt description reading LEG–would have never made its way to my local thrift store. Then also, in my small central California town, buying such a suggestive book might be more embarrassing than buying a 30-pack of adult diapers.

“You got the ‘Leg’ book?” Emily beamed. “That’s so cool!”

As I re-entered the real world of downtown Princeton, my hand slowly let down to proudly display the provocative cover: boldly charismatic, old but new, and quirky. Just like the Nearly New Shop. I smiled. Their work was done.

The Potential Project: A Space for Mourning and Imagination

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By Brianna A.

The board in Bentrice Jusu’s studio room is covered in faces, some smiling, some impassive, but all still in time. Every photograph on the wall has its own story that was cut short. Each of a person lost to gun violence, their potential never reached. Yet for Bentrice Jusu, their stories haven’t ended, instead taking a new form, as she spins tragedy into something beautiful and inspiring.

Bentrice Jusu, a Trenton-based artist, educator, and firefighter, is working on her latest endeavor, The Potential Project, a mixed-media memorial that transforms grief into public art and interactive digital storytelling. Her mission is simple: to acknowledge the stories and lives of those who have been lost to violence and to heal the community.

Back in 2016, Jusu survived the mass shooting at Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida, the deadliest attack on LGBTQ+ people in U.S. history. It was her birthday. She was supposed to be celebrating. Instead, 49 people were murdered that night. Jusu lived, but the experience stayed inside her.

“That was one of the main reasons this whole thing started,” Jusu says.

Three months later, back home in Trenton, one of her students, 16-year-old Jahday Twisdae, was shot and killed. Another life cut short. Another future and potential unrealized.

“From love and existence to the actual state of Trenton, New Jersey, the amount of deaths that were faced,” Jusu says. “So you’ll see Jahday is the start of this work.”

Today, a yellow portrait of Jahday Twisdae sits outside Jusu’s studio room door to be visualized with the new app Artivive. Twisdae’s image is joined by many others. Yellow squares with faces reveal videos, audio clips, photos, and memories recorded—making the once two-dimensional art more alive and personal.

Bentrice Jusu’s vision is deeply personal, but it doesn’t stand alone. Artists from the community helped bring it to life, each adding their voice and own personal expression of grief, memory, and potential.

One of those artists is Hana Sabree, a storyteller, writer, and singer, based in Trenton, New Jersey, who has been pursuing her passion of music ever since she was a young girl in grade school.

Sabree recalled her experience in kindergarten, singing a song for the talent show at her school, where she froze in lack of belief in herself. Yet Sabree didn’t give up. She persisted, gaining confidence as she grew. Now she is happy to present something she is enormously proud of.

In the search for other artists, Jusu reached out to Hana Sabree, having known her previously from the art scene in Trenton. Sabree felt excitement and immense pride to be involved in such a project.

In June 2025, Sabree released Just A Lil EP, a three-song offering of tender, soul-healing belief, love, and vulnerability through warm melodies and heartfelt lyrics.

Sabree hopes her work inspires people to believe in themselves. “I think what I want people to feel is the strength that’s within them,” she says. “Continue to have faith.”

Her work, like the exhibit itself, exists in that in-between space: In the questions we ask when we walk through it, how we hold both sorrow and possibility in the same breath.

Through visuals, sound, and writing, The Potential Project becomes more than an art installation. It becomes a mirror for the city’s grief and a gesture of love back to it. With artists like Bentrice Jusu, Hana Sabree, Umar Alim (Big Ooh), Jennet Jusu, Raven George, Aslin Laureano, Terra Applegate, and Dean “RAS” Innocenzi, at its core, the project doesn’t just preserve memory. It transforms it. And it reminds us that healing isn’t about forgetting.

The Potential Project doesn’t shy away from the hardest parts of grief. It asks viewers to confront what we lose when a life is taken. That’s what The Potential Project ultimately offers: Not just remembrance, but space. A space for mourning, imagination, and art. A place for holding up the lives lost to violence not only as tragedies, but as reminders of what could have been, what still can be, and the potential in ourselves if we choose to see it.

Honoring Lives through The Potential Project

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By Kateryna S.

Historically, art has often served as a way to portray the personal experience of the artist or the struggle of a community, whether it’s poetry, music or painting. Art is a reflection of the artist’s mind, their values in society, and their sense of the things that require more attention from the public. For Bentrice Jusu, it is about telling the stories of people whose voices would not otherwise be heard — a serious responsibility she took on when starting the Potential Project, which focuses on remembering homicide victims in Trenton, New Jersey, through the eyes of their loved ones using visual art and photography.

In 2016, Jusu stood close to death as she watched 49 people get killed by a gunman in one of Orlando’s nightclubs. Three months after the incident, Jusu lost one of her students who never had a chance to finish his artwork, leaving a big mark on her heart. Those losses led to something bigger, something that connects hundreds of experiences. As part of the Potential Project, Jusu will place yellow squares in significant locations around the city and passersby will be able to see photos and information about the people who are being honored.

Born and raised in Trenton, Jusu is not only an artist, but also a firefighter, a teacher, a rapper, and a poet. There are many aspects to her talent. I visited one of her main studios where most of the artwork is displayed, which felt like being inside her mind. Unfinished projects, paint, “creative mess,” pictures and music revealed Jusu to be a unique individual from the very first moments. Her love of drawing came from her father who laid the foundation, leading Jusu to where she is today. Jusu is also inspired by many artists and singers, including Carrie Mae Weems, who is a well-known photographer. Through her work, Jusu portrays the experiences of people and engages the local youth, encouraging their talents and potential.

Using her skills and experience, Jusu raises awareness of important issues and tells the stories of people with very different perspectives. In a small city like Trenton, where everyone is connected, the problem of gun violence became a trauma in a community. In 2021 alone, 21 people were killed in Jusu’s hometown. This is not an uncommon occurrence; gun violence has become normalised across the United States because it became very usual to see homicide happen at schools, nightclubs and other public places.

In her studio, Jusu cooperates with other artists to interview the families and friends of people who were murdered. As a founder of the Potential Project, Jusu faced the most daunting pushback — from herself. “I was scared,” she says. “’Cause who am I to take these pictures, take these images, and then, you know, illustrate it and then introduce it to people?” Because the project touches on such a sensitive topic and tells the stories of people who were unfortunate enough to lose their lives — people who had so many dreams, potential, and talent — Jusu finds it very difficult mentally.

Being able to see behind the scenes of the project left me with a lot of emotions and feelings. Each story is unique and different; each individual had something to bring to this world. While the Potential Project’s purpose is to bring attention to the issue and honor the people who died from homicide, putting an end to gun violence is not the responsibility of the artists who engage in the project. One of the participating artists, Hana Sabree, who is also a singer and a close friend of Jusu’s, shared her thoughts about the project and Jusu’s work. “I don’t think it’s Bentrice’s responsibility to bring hope to the city, especially now,” she says. ”Because it could, it continued to happen.”

In order for art to express the voices of people, their feelings and struggles, it’s extremely important to show the community from a more intimate perspective. Jusu is one of the artists who brings up an important conversation that is often silenced in society. Art connects people in a lot of ways, but each piece is outlining difficulties, hopes and changes. “Mass media does a great job creating films,” she says. “Art work creates a more intimate conversation.” In a small city like Trenton, everybody can see their friend, neighbor, classmate, coworker, or relative in the project. It is not about personal benefit; it is about feeling the need to share the experience and bring the community together.

The Challenges and Resolve of Undocumented Students

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By Gabriela Q.

Gabriela once imagined what it was like to grow up American. Not, of course, in the sense of the picturesque Fourth of Julys, but through living out what she saw on TV: brightly colored lockers and roaring crowds at basketball games, reminiscent of High School Musical.

She quickly learned that this was only a dream.

For Gabriela, a rising junior at a liberal arts college in Oregon who has chosen to withhold her last name for personal reasons, moving to the United States came with reminders of home.

“I came to a Latino neighborhood that was very ghetto—there’s a lot of crime, and I thought it felt a little bit like home. I saw people from my country,” she says.

Maryland, despite its inclusivity, did not feel like home. Back in Guatemala, being a kid felt simple.

“I used to play on the dirt without shoes on the rocks,” she says. When they played soccer, “we used to mark the goals with rocks and sticks,” she says.

After being told that her family would move to a different country at 13 years old, she left everything she had ever known behind. Her experience isn’t an outlier — it speaks to the challenges undocumented students face in finding community and accessing necessary resources.

Gabriela didn’t enroll in school for over a year upon arriving in the U.S. When she did, she realized there was a blossoming Spanish-speaking community, but she still felt behind. Her English Language Learning (ELL) classes were meant to teach her English, but were taught at a slower pace than most of the other classes at her school.

A.H., a rising junior at the City University of New York, faced a very different challenge after arriving in the U.S. at 16 years old. In Bangladesh, she was taught to speak English at a very high level in school. But after arriving in the U.S., she felt that because she was undocumented, she was expected to know little to no English. “People would say ‘Oh, your English is so good,’” A.H. says. “It’s a microaggression.”

On the other hand, speaking Bangla, her mother tongue, also led to judgment. “There was a lot of stigma in speaking your second language at high school. It seemed like you were fresh off the boat,” she says.

A.H., who used a pseudonym for personal reasons, arrived in the U.S. at 16. Unlike Gabriela, she came without her parents. She was accompanied only by her siblings in 2020, two months before the pandemic.

She explains that her brother and sister struggled to make ends meet after they got laid off from their jobs. Due to their immigration status, they weren’t able to access the unemployment benefits that 1 out of every 4 workers in the U.S. took advantage of during the pandemic.

A.H. and her family weren’t alone. Over 50 percent of the city’s immigrants were unemployed during the pandemic.

Exclusion from resources isn’t rare for undocumented students and families. As states start to revoke in-state tuition waivers meant for undocumented students to cut college costs, many are faced with hurdles to enroll in two- and four-year higher education institutions.

When Gabriela and A.H. began to apply for college, they faced challenges. For Gabriela, studying for standardized exams made her feel behind in the process.

“Many exams, like the SAT, were hard to read. I remember that we were asking for extra hours,” she says. “We needed more time.”

Although A.H. was able to receive a full ride through her honors college, she was unable to apply for internships and work-study programs. Instead, she relied on outside opportunities and wished throughout the process that there were more grassroots support initiatives.

“There is a lack of understanding of how faculty can support students,” she says. “I’m tired of therapy circles; I need actual organizing efforts.”

But what does the American Dream mean if not the opportunity to create a new reality?

For A.H., this came as an opportunity to join local organizing initiatives in New York City, including Desis Rising Up and Moving, a social justice movement centered around providing an outlet for change for South Asian immigrant youth, starting in her junior year of high school. DRUM Beats, the organization’s sister program, was one of various grassroots initiatives leading Zohran Mamdani’s campaign for the city’s democratic mayoral nominee.

Although Gabriela grew up wanting to be a surgeon, she settled on becoming a social worker after being inspired by her own experiences as an immigrant, feeling that stories like hers can be forgotten.

“When you don’t have any legal records or any case open, you could be gone and nobody would know you existed,” she says. “That’s my fear.”

Gabriela’s future may not reflect the imagination of her teenage self, but it embraces the identity she has built along the way and the stories of younger generations of undocumented students.

“I know that I have the potential to help people, I have always helped people, and I want to work with them,” she says. “I know that I [can] be an inspiration to other students.”