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A Community Built on Stories 

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By Alya M.

Sonder is the abstract feeling and realization that each person walks around with their own life just as complex and vivid as your own. Through Voices of Princeton, this abstract becomes real. Each story plays as a reminder of how deeply interconnected we really are even as we walk silently past each other. 

The oral history initiative was a result of collaborations between the Princeton Public Library, the Historical Society of Princeton, the Arts Council of Princeton, and the Witherspoon-Jackson Historical and Cultural Society. The goal of the initiative is to collect, save, and store the stories of Princetonians. Princeton is a small town with a population of roughly 30,000, but it is made up of a diverse community with over 50 languages spoken. With the help of Voices of Princeton, all these different people are able to combine their experiences to create culture within the town, strengthening the community.

“When populations from really different backgrounds, different cultural histories, talk together, we become solidly supportive of each other,” said Pamela Wakefield, the inspiration behind Voices of Princeton. Wakefield went on to explain the importance of storytelling when it comes to building a more solid community by allowing people to see each other, not just for who they currently are, but also for who they’ve been and what they’ve experienced. Stories, she emphasized, help uncover the shared humanity beneath our differences, making space for empathy and deeper understanding. In a town like Princeton storytelling becomes not just a form of preservation, but a bridge that connects generations, cultures, and individuals who might otherwise remain strangers. Through Voices of Princeton, that bridge is being built one story at a time.

“I would say that if like in 20 years you have little kids and they say what would it have been like to live here, you can say, let’s listen,” Wakefield said. To her, storytelling is more than memory; it’s a gift we pass on.

Stephanie Schwartz, Curator of Collections and Research at the Historical Society of Princeton, also shared her thoughts on what oral history makes possible. “We’re collecting today for what will become the historic record tomorrow,” she said. Schwartz explained that these stories are valuable not just because of the content, but because of who is telling them and when: “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.”

Not everyone feels their voice matters in the bigger picture. “Not everyone thinks their story belongs in history,” Schwartz added. “It’s our job to say: yes, it does.” Voices of Princeton makes that message clear. No one is too new, too quiet, or too ordinary to be remembered.

Cliff Robinson, Public Humanities Specialist at Princeton Public library, reflected that idea. “Just because you’ve been here for a short time doesn’t mean this isn’t your community or that you’re not responsible for it in some way,” he said. In a place like Princeton, where people move in and out often, that reminder matters. Everyone has a place. Everyone contributes to the larger story.

Robinson also spoke about how special it is that the stories are recorded in audio form. “I’ve always been enchanted by the fact that they’re just audio. It requires a different kind of attention—you can close your eyes and just listen.” That kind of listening, quiet and focused, builds a kind of connection. 

Kim Dorman, Community Engagement Coordinator at the Princeton Public Library, added that accessibility is an important part of the project’s mission. “As a public library, we’re making these stories publicly available in a way that’s much more accessible than most oral history projects,” she said. That means anyone in the community or even outside of it can listen to it, learn and reflect. 

Through Voices of Princeton, stories are no longer just something people keep to themselves untold, they become part of something stronger. The initiative is a reminder that history is not made only by the powerful and famous. It’s made by the same people we see everyday. Every person carries a story that matters.

In a town where diversity lives on every block, storytelling becomes not just a form of preservation but a bridge that connects generations, cultures and individuals who might otherwise remain strangers. Through Voices of Princeton, that bridge is built one story at a time.

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.”