Bio
My name is Cianna Platt. I was adopted from China when I was one. I am currently eighteen and a junior at High Tech High International. Previous high schools I have attended include Francis Parker and Coronado School of the Arts. What I miss most about my former high school experience is cheer. This past year, I was able to hold an internship with NBC 7 News. During my time there, I was able to cut pieces that aired across all of San Diego County. This coming summer, I have an internship with Pacific Arts Movement, which is a program that will teach me how to make a documentary and help me create a short film that will be submitted to film festivals. I also got hired by the Jewish Community Center Preschool. I volunteered there for the past four summers, so I am glad that I will be making money by spending time with adorable children. I currently play the trombone and drums. I have been in local symphonies, USD's pep band, and was in the pit orchestra of the CYC's production of Les Miserables.
AMERICAN LITERATURE
Short Story Adaptation (29 October 2015)
This is an adaptation of the Snow White story which was originally written by the Grimm brothers. Our assignment was to create an adaptation to present to a class at one of the High Tech elementary schools. This project was assigned by Colleen, the American Literature teacher at High Tech High International.
This is an adaptation of the Snow White story which was originally written by the Grimm brothers. Our assignment was to create an adaptation to present to a class at one of the High Tech elementary schools. This project was assigned by Colleen, the American Literature teacher at High Tech High International.
Ethnography (16 October 2015)
Culture, as defined by dictionary.com, is the “characteristics of a particular social, ethnic, or age group.” Culture gives people a sense of belonging which is why I am grateful to be part of the Jewish subculture, or more specifically, their preschool’s subculture. It is my gratitude of this culture that prompts me to study it for this project.
Community is an important aspect of this preschool’s subculture. As stated in their mission statement, “Nierman Preschool develops the social, emotional, physical, and intellectual well-being of each child through [their] developmental milestone curriculum. [They] have created a safe, nurturing environment that offers opportunities for exploration and discovery, and are committed to providing access to programs for children with disabilities.”
I have been a member of this subculture before I was even potty trained. Even though I am only culturally jewish, the preschool still accepted me as part of their community. It has been over a decade, and I am still an active member of the community. I started volunteering there when I was 14 years old, and I am glad I did.
Since Nierman preschool is a jewish preschool, everyone who attends are asked to at least observe the rituals, regardless of their religious preferences. Jewish people commemorate Friday as the holy day of rest which is called Shabbat. According to the bible, God created the Earth in six days, and on Friday, the seventh day, He rested.
Shabbat itself begins with the lighting of two candles. This is typically done by a woman at sunset, to bring peace to the house. The prayer that goes along with this, thanks God and commands people “to kindle the light of Shabbat,” which welcomes the day and brings light. This is followed by the Kiddush prayer and drinking of wine or grape juice. The goal of the Kiddush is to thank God for “the fruit of the vine.” This is done to declare that the meal is important. The final prayer before the meal, over the bread, is called HaMozi which translates to “Our praise to You, Eternal our God, Sovereign of the universe, Who brings forth bread from the Earth.” Although the children do not always know exactly what it is they are celebrating, it is always a happy event.
Once all of the children arrive on a Friday, everyone goes to the theater for music. The first song always welcomes everyone to the celebration. After everyone is wished a good day of rest, we all sing songs depicting the specific rituals of the day, candle lighting, wine drinking, and bread eating. These songs are very effective at engaging the students in the Jewish culture because of the way that the staff incorporates the blessings into songs that explain the significance of each aspect of the overall tradition.
In an attempt to gain more insight, I conducted an interview with Judi Sofer, a teacher at Nierman, who has been working there for the past 26 years. Prior to this, she worked with children on a Kibbutz, or communal settlement in Israel. I chose to interview Judi because she is the person who recommended that I volunteer at Nierman Preschool. After shadowing her for a day and interviewing her, I learned a lot more about the place where I once attended and continue to work at.
Since the preschool is family oriented, everyone is always on the same page in regards to what the kids need. Every day, children learn to ask for things politely, put their toys away, and be kind to everyone, regardless of gender, religion, or race. Children with special needs are not separated from the other students, but they often have a staff that is specifically there for them.
Being a preschool teacher can be emotionally and physically draining. Despite this, Judi wakes up every weekday to go to work. The reason is because she enjoys seeing special needs kids succeed and the diversity of the place. She recalls a time where she overheard two students conversing about their parents. One of them had homosexual parents, and the other student did not react negatively. Judi was so pleased by this and is proud of this all-inclusive environment.
A common question from parents is, “Does my child have to be Jewish to attend here?” The answer to that is always no. No one has to believe in the jewish religion, but they must at least participate in the rituals.
Even though this is a great job, it also has drawbacks. According to Judi, one of the biggest challenges is the commute because she lives really far from the preschool. Something else that bothers her is when parents do not accept that their children are different. Some of the students that come through the school are not where they should be emotionally. For example, there are children who are not using verbal communication despite their age. It is particularly difficult for Judi when parents do not understand the help that their kids need. Some parents do not see that the way they approach certain situations is not helping the child grow, and because these are not Judi’s children, she can only strongly suggest approaches.
When I asked if she ever considered going to work at a preschool closer to her house, Judi replied no. She has had offers to go work at other schools, but she is set on staying at Nierman Preschool because she loves the place and everyone in it. She is grateful to be a part of this community and hopes to continue this for as long as possible.
Since I have been a part of Nierman Preschool for almost two decades, stepping out of this subculture was slightly difficult. I am glad to be able to continue to be a part of the Nierman Family.
Culture, as defined by dictionary.com, is the “characteristics of a particular social, ethnic, or age group.” Culture gives people a sense of belonging which is why I am grateful to be part of the Jewish subculture, or more specifically, their preschool’s subculture. It is my gratitude of this culture that prompts me to study it for this project.
Community is an important aspect of this preschool’s subculture. As stated in their mission statement, “Nierman Preschool develops the social, emotional, physical, and intellectual well-being of each child through [their] developmental milestone curriculum. [They] have created a safe, nurturing environment that offers opportunities for exploration and discovery, and are committed to providing access to programs for children with disabilities.”
I have been a member of this subculture before I was even potty trained. Even though I am only culturally jewish, the preschool still accepted me as part of their community. It has been over a decade, and I am still an active member of the community. I started volunteering there when I was 14 years old, and I am glad I did.
Since Nierman preschool is a jewish preschool, everyone who attends are asked to at least observe the rituals, regardless of their religious preferences. Jewish people commemorate Friday as the holy day of rest which is called Shabbat. According to the bible, God created the Earth in six days, and on Friday, the seventh day, He rested.
Shabbat itself begins with the lighting of two candles. This is typically done by a woman at sunset, to bring peace to the house. The prayer that goes along with this, thanks God and commands people “to kindle the light of Shabbat,” which welcomes the day and brings light. This is followed by the Kiddush prayer and drinking of wine or grape juice. The goal of the Kiddush is to thank God for “the fruit of the vine.” This is done to declare that the meal is important. The final prayer before the meal, over the bread, is called HaMozi which translates to “Our praise to You, Eternal our God, Sovereign of the universe, Who brings forth bread from the Earth.” Although the children do not always know exactly what it is they are celebrating, it is always a happy event.
Once all of the children arrive on a Friday, everyone goes to the theater for music. The first song always welcomes everyone to the celebration. After everyone is wished a good day of rest, we all sing songs depicting the specific rituals of the day, candle lighting, wine drinking, and bread eating. These songs are very effective at engaging the students in the Jewish culture because of the way that the staff incorporates the blessings into songs that explain the significance of each aspect of the overall tradition.
In an attempt to gain more insight, I conducted an interview with Judi Sofer, a teacher at Nierman, who has been working there for the past 26 years. Prior to this, she worked with children on a Kibbutz, or communal settlement in Israel. I chose to interview Judi because she is the person who recommended that I volunteer at Nierman Preschool. After shadowing her for a day and interviewing her, I learned a lot more about the place where I once attended and continue to work at.
Since the preschool is family oriented, everyone is always on the same page in regards to what the kids need. Every day, children learn to ask for things politely, put their toys away, and be kind to everyone, regardless of gender, religion, or race. Children with special needs are not separated from the other students, but they often have a staff that is specifically there for them.
Being a preschool teacher can be emotionally and physically draining. Despite this, Judi wakes up every weekday to go to work. The reason is because she enjoys seeing special needs kids succeed and the diversity of the place. She recalls a time where she overheard two students conversing about their parents. One of them had homosexual parents, and the other student did not react negatively. Judi was so pleased by this and is proud of this all-inclusive environment.
A common question from parents is, “Does my child have to be Jewish to attend here?” The answer to that is always no. No one has to believe in the jewish religion, but they must at least participate in the rituals.
Even though this is a great job, it also has drawbacks. According to Judi, one of the biggest challenges is the commute because she lives really far from the preschool. Something else that bothers her is when parents do not accept that their children are different. Some of the students that come through the school are not where they should be emotionally. For example, there are children who are not using verbal communication despite their age. It is particularly difficult for Judi when parents do not understand the help that their kids need. Some parents do not see that the way they approach certain situations is not helping the child grow, and because these are not Judi’s children, she can only strongly suggest approaches.
When I asked if she ever considered going to work at a preschool closer to her house, Judi replied no. She has had offers to go work at other schools, but she is set on staying at Nierman Preschool because she loves the place and everyone in it. She is grateful to be a part of this community and hopes to continue this for as long as possible.
Since I have been a part of Nierman Preschool for almost two decades, stepping out of this subculture was slightly difficult. I am glad to be able to continue to be a part of the Nierman Family.
Keeping Up With The Cliftons (17 December 2015)
My earliest memory was from 2015, when I was almost seven years old. I was sitting on the floor playing with the carpet, while my mother sat on the couch with the lit cigarette that always stayed plastered to her lips. She turned on the TV, and an anchorman was speaking. “One of the alpacas responsible for The San Diego Massacre has just been sentenced to the death penalty. It makes me wonder, Steve, if these acts of terror seen by alpaca groups around the world will be the end of the world as we know it.”
Uninterested in what the man was saying, mom changed the channel. Her favorite show, Keeping Up With the Kardashians, appeared on the screen. “Kendall, you promised you’d watch Nori this weekend! You don’t want to be known as flaky, do you?” Kim asked.
Before Kendall could respond, our doorbell rang. Angrily, mom turned off the television and walked towards the door with me at her heels. When the door opened, a man was standing there. I looked up at my mom who was as pale as a porcelain doll. “Scott,” she said, barely audible.
The man at the door noticed me standing there. “Come here, son. You’re so big!” The giant man swooped down to hug me. He smelled like he hadn’t showered in a decade. I tried to escape his grasp. Besides, how was I supposed to know he was my father? The last time he was home was when I was conceived.
That night, we ate dinner as a family for the first time. Dad sat at the head of the table with me on his lap. He was telling us about his adventures in the navy. Mother sat at the other end, distant. Noticing this, my dad whispered in my ear, saying, “Son, go hug your mommy.”
His assertive voice gave me chills. I crawled off his lap and tried to approach mom. When I opened my arms to hug her, she got up and walked out of the room, silent. My mother was never the warm and fuzzy type, but this was a new type of low. My brother, Jem, didn’t notice any of this, for he was off in his own world, playing with his food. He didn’t know our father, but my brother didn’t seem interested in building a relationship with anyone. Jem was only a year older, but he was a full head taller than I was and never let me forget it. Discouraged by my mom’s rejection, I went to bed.
I wasn’t exactly sure what time it was, but when I woke up, I heard a concoction of noises coming from the other side of the door. It must have been night time because it was still dark outside. I opened the door just a crack to see what was going on. My dad was sitting on the couch while my mom was pacing in front of him. She seemed angry, while my dad seemed worried.
“Why are you really here?” Mom yelled over the sound of the TV.
“I told you. It’s because I love you, and I want to be with you and the kids.” The light of the screen illuminated his conflicted face.
“You’re a goddamn liar! Since the time that you ran off to play soldier, you’ve been home exactly once, and it wasn’t even to be with us! It was ‘cause your mommy was dying. If that wasn’t bad enough, you knocked me up again, and you left me to raise your child again. You never cared about us before, so why now?!”
“Please. Not now,” he begged. “Let us be at peace if only for a few days.” Even with the bad lighting, I could see the sadness in his eyes. The argument ended with my mom storming out of the room, so I went back to bed and fell asleep.
The next day, everything changed. My father took me and Jem to the park. I loved how my feet barely touched the blades of damp grass as I sat on the swings and how I felt as if I could soar over the trees that started to shed their leaves for the winter. The beauty of it all was almost magical. In that moment, nothing else mattered.
By the time we left the park, the sun was setting over the mountains. When Jem opened the front door, there was a man in a military uniform like my father’s who carried a semi-automatic assault rifle. My mother was sitting on the couch sobbing, uncontrollably. Dad told me and Jem to go to our rooms and close the door so that “the grownups could talk.”
Both my brother and I pressed our ears against the door. The muffled sounds of my mother’s cries almost drowned out the sound of my father yelling at the strange man. Almost.
“You promised we had a week!” My dad screamed.
“Private Clifton, you have to quiet down! You don’t want to startle your kids.” The door vibrated slightly from the boom of the strange man’s voice.
I looked up at Jem, scared. “A week for what?”
Jem smacked the side of my head, saying, “Shut up Ben! I’m trying to listen!” I always wondered why he hated me so much, but I was always too scared to ask.
The stranger spoke again, but with a softer voice. He said, “Times are changing. They can become slaves as early as tomorrow if the alpacas so please it.” After that, all of the voices dropped to a level that even a mouse would have had a hard time hearing.
Less than ten minutes later, the door to our room opened. In a calm yet firm voice, the man talked to me and my brother. “Hello boys. I’m Sergeant Riley Manger. President Obama has just declared war against ‘The Alpacalypse,’ a terrorist group made up of alpacas from around the world. Those filthy ruminants threaten to destroy the human race. They are primarily targeting young boys who they can corrupt to do God-knows-what. We need to take you both to the refugee school for your protection. Your mother will get military protection and your father will go back to commanding his fleet. When the war is over, you will be reunited with your parents. We have to leave now though, okay?”
Before waiting for a response, he herded me and my brother outside to a black SUV. As we walked through the living room, I saw my dad comforting a distraught lady who looked only vaguely like my mother. I barely recognized her because of all the tears and running makeup. The only thing about her appearance that was recognizable was the lit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. I didn’t know it then, but that would be the last time I saw my parents.
. . .
A bump in the road forces me awake. I try to look around, but all I see is darkness.
Think, Ben, think. Start with the basics. I am Private Ben Clifton. I am 17 years old. It’s July 4, 2025. I have a brother- No. I had a brother, but he’s dead now. Just like the rest of my family.
I notice that my eyes are tearing up at the thought of my dead family. Days after Jem and I were hauled off to the refugee school, the filthy alpacas bombed my hometown, leaving both of our parents dead. I was told that they died fast, unlike Jem who was stabbed about a dozen times by “The Alpacalypse.” Maybe if people treated animals better in the past, the alpacas wouldn’t have decided to wipe out the human race.
I try to move my head to get a better look at my surroundings, but it hurts too much. I know I’m moving, but I’m not exactly sure where I’m going. The last thing I remember from before I blacked out was two alpacas dragging me out of the school. Everything in my head is foggy, and it’s hard to focus on any one thing. Consumed with panic, I thrash around, only to find that I’m tied up. I scream as loud as I can, but the only sound that makes it past the gag in my mouth is drowned out by the tires of the vehicle on rocky terrain. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and focus on the cold feeling underneath my bare body.
My thoughts are interrupted by the high pitched squeal of the brakes, making my ears hurt. My breathing becomes labored. Panic returns and I start screaming again. I hear a lock click. The door opens. After my eyes adjust, I see an alpaca holding a knife in his mouth staring down at my naked body. Prior to having the chance to fully process anything, the alpaca takes his foot and strokes my long, tangled hair. Then, with one swift motion of the head, he slices my throat. Thick red blood begins to flow out of my neck as if a dam had just been broken. Before I lose consciousness, I see the alpaca drop the sword and lay down next to me in a sympathetic manner, as if to comfort me. The last thing I feel as I die is the warmth of the alpaca’s body next to mine.
My earliest memory was from 2015, when I was almost seven years old. I was sitting on the floor playing with the carpet, while my mother sat on the couch with the lit cigarette that always stayed plastered to her lips. She turned on the TV, and an anchorman was speaking. “One of the alpacas responsible for The San Diego Massacre has just been sentenced to the death penalty. It makes me wonder, Steve, if these acts of terror seen by alpaca groups around the world will be the end of the world as we know it.”
Uninterested in what the man was saying, mom changed the channel. Her favorite show, Keeping Up With the Kardashians, appeared on the screen. “Kendall, you promised you’d watch Nori this weekend! You don’t want to be known as flaky, do you?” Kim asked.
Before Kendall could respond, our doorbell rang. Angrily, mom turned off the television and walked towards the door with me at her heels. When the door opened, a man was standing there. I looked up at my mom who was as pale as a porcelain doll. “Scott,” she said, barely audible.
The man at the door noticed me standing there. “Come here, son. You’re so big!” The giant man swooped down to hug me. He smelled like he hadn’t showered in a decade. I tried to escape his grasp. Besides, how was I supposed to know he was my father? The last time he was home was when I was conceived.
That night, we ate dinner as a family for the first time. Dad sat at the head of the table with me on his lap. He was telling us about his adventures in the navy. Mother sat at the other end, distant. Noticing this, my dad whispered in my ear, saying, “Son, go hug your mommy.”
His assertive voice gave me chills. I crawled off his lap and tried to approach mom. When I opened my arms to hug her, she got up and walked out of the room, silent. My mother was never the warm and fuzzy type, but this was a new type of low. My brother, Jem, didn’t notice any of this, for he was off in his own world, playing with his food. He didn’t know our father, but my brother didn’t seem interested in building a relationship with anyone. Jem was only a year older, but he was a full head taller than I was and never let me forget it. Discouraged by my mom’s rejection, I went to bed.
I wasn’t exactly sure what time it was, but when I woke up, I heard a concoction of noises coming from the other side of the door. It must have been night time because it was still dark outside. I opened the door just a crack to see what was going on. My dad was sitting on the couch while my mom was pacing in front of him. She seemed angry, while my dad seemed worried.
“Why are you really here?” Mom yelled over the sound of the TV.
“I told you. It’s because I love you, and I want to be with you and the kids.” The light of the screen illuminated his conflicted face.
“You’re a goddamn liar! Since the time that you ran off to play soldier, you’ve been home exactly once, and it wasn’t even to be with us! It was ‘cause your mommy was dying. If that wasn’t bad enough, you knocked me up again, and you left me to raise your child again. You never cared about us before, so why now?!”
“Please. Not now,” he begged. “Let us be at peace if only for a few days.” Even with the bad lighting, I could see the sadness in his eyes. The argument ended with my mom storming out of the room, so I went back to bed and fell asleep.
The next day, everything changed. My father took me and Jem to the park. I loved how my feet barely touched the blades of damp grass as I sat on the swings and how I felt as if I could soar over the trees that started to shed their leaves for the winter. The beauty of it all was almost magical. In that moment, nothing else mattered.
By the time we left the park, the sun was setting over the mountains. When Jem opened the front door, there was a man in a military uniform like my father’s who carried a semi-automatic assault rifle. My mother was sitting on the couch sobbing, uncontrollably. Dad told me and Jem to go to our rooms and close the door so that “the grownups could talk.”
Both my brother and I pressed our ears against the door. The muffled sounds of my mother’s cries almost drowned out the sound of my father yelling at the strange man. Almost.
“You promised we had a week!” My dad screamed.
“Private Clifton, you have to quiet down! You don’t want to startle your kids.” The door vibrated slightly from the boom of the strange man’s voice.
I looked up at Jem, scared. “A week for what?”
Jem smacked the side of my head, saying, “Shut up Ben! I’m trying to listen!” I always wondered why he hated me so much, but I was always too scared to ask.
The stranger spoke again, but with a softer voice. He said, “Times are changing. They can become slaves as early as tomorrow if the alpacas so please it.” After that, all of the voices dropped to a level that even a mouse would have had a hard time hearing.
Less than ten minutes later, the door to our room opened. In a calm yet firm voice, the man talked to me and my brother. “Hello boys. I’m Sergeant Riley Manger. President Obama has just declared war against ‘The Alpacalypse,’ a terrorist group made up of alpacas from around the world. Those filthy ruminants threaten to destroy the human race. They are primarily targeting young boys who they can corrupt to do God-knows-what. We need to take you both to the refugee school for your protection. Your mother will get military protection and your father will go back to commanding his fleet. When the war is over, you will be reunited with your parents. We have to leave now though, okay?”
Before waiting for a response, he herded me and my brother outside to a black SUV. As we walked through the living room, I saw my dad comforting a distraught lady who looked only vaguely like my mother. I barely recognized her because of all the tears and running makeup. The only thing about her appearance that was recognizable was the lit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. I didn’t know it then, but that would be the last time I saw my parents.
. . .
A bump in the road forces me awake. I try to look around, but all I see is darkness.
Think, Ben, think. Start with the basics. I am Private Ben Clifton. I am 17 years old. It’s July 4, 2025. I have a brother- No. I had a brother, but he’s dead now. Just like the rest of my family.
I notice that my eyes are tearing up at the thought of my dead family. Days after Jem and I were hauled off to the refugee school, the filthy alpacas bombed my hometown, leaving both of our parents dead. I was told that they died fast, unlike Jem who was stabbed about a dozen times by “The Alpacalypse.” Maybe if people treated animals better in the past, the alpacas wouldn’t have decided to wipe out the human race.
I try to move my head to get a better look at my surroundings, but it hurts too much. I know I’m moving, but I’m not exactly sure where I’m going. The last thing I remember from before I blacked out was two alpacas dragging me out of the school. Everything in my head is foggy, and it’s hard to focus on any one thing. Consumed with panic, I thrash around, only to find that I’m tied up. I scream as loud as I can, but the only sound that makes it past the gag in my mouth is drowned out by the tires of the vehicle on rocky terrain. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and focus on the cold feeling underneath my bare body.
My thoughts are interrupted by the high pitched squeal of the brakes, making my ears hurt. My breathing becomes labored. Panic returns and I start screaming again. I hear a lock click. The door opens. After my eyes adjust, I see an alpaca holding a knife in his mouth staring down at my naked body. Prior to having the chance to fully process anything, the alpaca takes his foot and strokes my long, tangled hair. Then, with one swift motion of the head, he slices my throat. Thick red blood begins to flow out of my neck as if a dam had just been broken. Before I lose consciousness, I see the alpaca drop the sword and lay down next to me in a sympathetic manner, as if to comfort me. The last thing I feel as I die is the warmth of the alpaca’s body next to mine.