Second place winners, 2026 Arts Unlimited District 214/Daily Herald Community Arts and Writing Contest

Visual art: “Reflect” by Alyssa Okulitch

Poetry: “Eyes of Ocean with Fire Wings” by Ashtin Icarus Sagerer

Judge’s comment: I enjoyed (this) poem very much.

People tell me, I am someone who has eyes that are loud,

like oceans

crashing even when I'm quiet.

A glare can't hurt, but they say I could Drown.

That I’ll burn for it someday.

That my eyes scare them make them want to hide.

So they, tell me to hide instead,

close my eyes, lower my head.

told me to be quiet so I did.

17 years, long and Quiet,

looking down instead of up,

letting them control how bright my eyes shine;

letting them clip my beautiful wings

and letting me believe I can't fly,

That still makes me cry.

I can't lie here any more

pretending it’s fine.

I need to climb,

yet they told me not to reach too high.

I'm already in the sky.

Their warning is like ash in the winds.

Climbing higher and higher, daring the sky to stop me.

“Icarus burned-,”

“Watch me. I’m already on fire and still flying.”

Prose: “Born a Princess” by Olivia Depcik

Judge’s comment: In this coming-of-age story, a teenager asks about signs that might reveal who she really is. She holds in her hands a mirror, a reflection which she is willing to share with the world. She is young. She is brave. She is honest.

I want to be a princess … I always have.

In preschool, when I would play dress up in the corner alone (which did end in my being banned from the costumes because I peed all over them).

In elementary school, when I insisted to my mom that I didn’t care what clothes I wore because I wasn’t like that, because I wasn't a stereotype, because I was above “typical girl things.”

In middle school when I wore that crusty, baggy blue hoodie every day, too ashamed to humor my deepest, darkest desires of dressing in pretty, lacy tank tops, fluffy skirts, and cutesy accessories.

And now, in high school … I want to be a princess.

I love pretty things. I love things that draw the eye: glitter, soft colors, gems, and ruffles. My parents tell me that even in my earliest years, I’ve always gravitated toward glam. But as I grew older, learned more about gender roles, more about the stereotypes surrounding boys and girls, the less in touch I felt with myself. I lost something.

The pressure to be different, to not blend in, to not be a stereotype, haunted me for years. I didn’t want to be like other girls. Ten-year-old me wanted to single-handedly pick apart the patriarchal building blocks that encompassed girlhood and recreate it — And how? By forcing myself to be everything a girl wasn’t supposed to be, obviously. Surely this would mark a milestone in the historical journey to gender equality. I was pulling out all the stops by wearing jorts and kicking a soccer ball around during recess.

But it wasn’t until very recently, my junior year at Prospect, that I began to let myself realize that I am a stereotype, as depressing as that might sound at first read. I like all the things girls should: I like doing makeup, coordinating outfits, shopping, decorating my room. Pro-feminist messages preach that girls don’t have to conform to social expectations, and of course I agree.

But what about the girls who do? Not because they have to, but because they want to. No one ever talks about them.

I wasted a decade of my life believing all things associated with a typical girl are shallow. Instead of trying to cram myself into feminine stereotypes, I tried to cram myself into masculine ones; I tried to make myself something I’m not for society’s sake. And what was the point? When, in my mind, did femininity become synonymous with superficiality?

I love being a girl. I love girly things. I love girls — period. I’m comfortable with who I am, my interests and my personality. I’m done feeling guilty and stressing about setting the feminist movement back a decade because I wore a short skirt in public. I’m done worrying about boxes and whether I’m fitting in them or not fitting in them. I’m done suppressing my identity for fear of being a cliche. And on the days where I receive an off-handed comment about how I’m dressed sometimes, I do think maybe it would be easier to filter myself — to dial back the hyperfeminity and not draw so much attention.

But then, my mind wanders back to toddler me. The me in preschool who was a year behind everyone else, with no idea how to socialize, feeling out of place with my peers. The me who had the only thing that brought her any amount of security during the school day — playing dress-up — stripped away because she kept peeing in the princess outfits.

I think about how happy she would be if she saw me now. If she saw me wearing pink lace and sparkles and makeup and bows and everything she always loved.

I think about how I finally feel like myself again.