Corey Streat, a member of the Class of 2026, passed away in his sleep on Oct. 23. As UPrep mourns the loss, the English department established an annual op-ed contest to preserve his legacy.
The description and guidelines were written by the English department.
“Corey Streat was deeply committed to personal expression and using writing as a tool to inform and persuade. An avid reader beginning at age 3 and a devoted writer not long after, Corey ardently believed in the power of words to inspire and effect positive change in his communities. His peers described him as ‘thoughtful, in a particularly investigative way,’ whether advocating for the respect of fan fiction authors (of which he was one himself) within the literary community, shedding light on the injustices of subtle but profound anti-LGBTQ+ policies, or confronting complex issues like AI usage in school. Corey was a devoted debater throughout his academic career, merging creativity with rigorous analysis to adeptly present often conflicting sides of complicated, important issues. When he served as coach of the UPrep middle school debate team throughout his high school years, leading the team to several tournament victories, Corey came to appreciate above all else the importance of helping others find their voices. After all, it takes a village to create broad and lasting societal change.
To honor Corey’s dedication to amplifying the voices of his peers, University Prep has established an annual op-ed contest in his name.
An op-ed piece (originally named for appearing “opposite the editorial page” in a newspaper) is typically written to convey to a targeted audience the writer’s specific opinion on a particular area of concern. It is usually short, featuring a clearly defined point of view and the unique, authentic voice of the writer. “
Participants in the contest were tasked with writing about an issue that they care about. The winning piece that follows, along with every submission, reflects Streat’s same drive and desire to make the world a better place.
The Achievement of Exhaustion
By Carmen Karpoff
“I got three hours of sleep last night.”
“I have two tests, a lab, and an in-class essay tomorrow.”
“This week is actually killing me.”
I hear this every day in the halls at UPrep. I say it myself.
Somewhere along the way, being overwhelmed stopped being a red flag and started to become a flex. At UPrep, exhaustion has become proof that you’re doing it right—that you’re capable and ambitious. And if you’re not constantly drowning in work, the quiet feeling that you should be involved in leadership roles, varsity practices, club meetings, rehearsals, community service hours and college prep can feel like you’re doing UPrep wrong. (Or maybe that’s just me when I realize I don’t have a packed summer plan… Am I behind right now?)
I’ve watched friends compare their workloads like they’re comparing battle scars. All-nighters, stacked weeks and impossible schedules presented as evidence of toughness instead of warning signs. And the scary part is that it works. We admire and normalize this.
Research from Stanford University found that students from high-performing private schools like ours regularly spend more than three hours on homework each night, on top of extracurricular activities and responsibilities. The result is more than just stress. It’s physical symptoms like “headaches, exhaustion, sleep deprivation, weight loss and stomach problems,” as well as declining mental health and less time to see friends or family.
Yet we still show up to class. We turn in the assignment. We smile in the hallways. From the outside, we look fine.
But I can’t count the number of times I’ve fought to stay awake during class or heard classmates debate how much sleep is the minimum to function. When everyone is exhausted, it stops feeling like a problem. Honestly, it feels normal.
The issue is that right now, UPrep has an unspoken belief that an “A student” is one willing to work overtime, sacrificing life balance to prove they care the most. But what if we change that definition? What if excellence meant depth and curiosity, not endurance?
Rigor can stay, but maybe it should be more intentional. If workloads became more about thinking than volume, and if students were praised for curiosity rather than completion, learning becomes challenging in the right way. Because learning shouldn’t be something students dread—it should be exciting!
And most importantly, we need to create a culture that stops rewarding burnout in ourselves and each other. Ideally, the habits that lead to success should also make us healthier: discipline, time management, curiosity and balance. Notice how exhaustion isn’t on that list?
Achievement and well-being are not opposites if we stop acting like they are.
If UPrep is preparing us to be “intellectually courageous, socially responsible citizens of the world,” then we should be able to accomplish extraordinary things without burning ourselves out to do it. So next time we hear someone say, “I got three hours of sleep,” we should treat that as a problem worth fixing.
Rhetorical Analysis of Civil Disobedience Means Nothing if You Cannot Practice It
By Zoe Mirchandani
We were assigned to read “Civil Disobedience” by Henry Thoreau on Feb. 9. I came into our Socratic seminar enthusiastic to see what perspectives my classmates had. Instead, what I was met with was disappointment. It was striking how, despite my peers’ apparent understanding of Thoreau’s writing, very few seemed to be living by it. Their words, in essence, were powerful, but to me felt empty. I believe that UPrep students, as a collective, are far too obedient in the face of injustice. Meaning, as a community, we often cannot practice what we preach.
When ICE is arresting 2,000 people in Washington, and only 30% have a criminal record, when students from Garfield are being detained, when 5-year-olds are being taken from daycare, you should be disobedient, according to an article in the Washington State Standard. The problem is that we stop our analysis in the classroom. At UPrep, we remain in a bubble, safe under the belief that the most important thing is a grade or an essay. A bubble that allows us to believe it is worse to miss a calculus exam than to get an unexcused absence.
On Feb. 5, Seattle students banded together to walk out to City Hall to protest against allowing Immigration Customs Enforcement (ICE) in our schools. Hundreds of students from nearly 20 schools, public and private, showed up, according to KUOW. UPrep’s attendance was minimal. I do believe my peers are outraged about the injustice in our country. Yet, when faced with a decision to leave school, they fell silent. I was met with excuses of exams or too many absences, and ironically, that they had attended the previous week’s walkout. I poke holes in the justification that attending a singular walkout excuses you from further action. Change does not happen when we stop on NE 75th Street. It happens when we step outside of our comfort zone, even if that means challenging administration.
Every student at UPrep cannot be expected to attend protests. However, what can be expected is for students to practice the lessons they learn in class. We read about history so we do not repeat it. The only way to create a better future is through acts of resistance. This can be as simple as calling your representatives, demanding policy changes, or as big as organizing and leading rallies. But do not think that once you leave your Socratic seminar, you are done thinking about civil disobedience. We are at a turning point as a nation, and as Nobel Peace Prize winner Desmond Tutu said, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” Frankly, it does not matter if you can articulate how Thoreau establishes his ethos if you cannot employ kairos in your actions.
So next time you sit in your Socratic seminar waiting to share your analysis, stop and analyze yourself: What side of history am I on? If the answer upsets you, then maybe it’s time to be a bit more disobedient.
See Something, Say Something
By Chloe Kung
“You are a small, Asian woman in society. You’re going to have to be bolder and louder than everyone else if you want to be heard.”
My mom has always told me this, ever since I was in elementary school. And so, that message has always been rooted in me: don’t be afraid to use your voice.
To me, it’s always been the obvious choice. To speak up when something isn’t right. But through my four years in high school, I have come to the unfortunate realization that that is not the case for everyone else. In fact, according to the National Institute of Justice, a study of 57,000+ students found that most adolescents rarely intervene in bullying situations. Silence isn’t just common, it’s normalized.
Countless numbers of times I’ve seen far too many jokes crossing lines, met with knowing eye contact, realizing what is wrong, yet no one utters a word. A stereotype left challenged. A comment everyone hears, everyone sees, and everyone feels, yet goes unaddressed.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized this concept isn’t just about speaking up for myself. It’s about using my voice to stand up for others in positions of injustice. Because injustice doesn’t always look dramatic. More often than not, it shows up in small, everyday moments.
At UPrep, we pride ourselves on being a strong, supportive community. We’re taught to face injustice head-on– speak up for those being bullied, to advocate for ourselves and hold each other accountable. But too often, we don’t. Too often, we choose silence.
These past four years, I’ve worked to become someone unafraid to use her voice. I’ve learned to trust my instincts and speak up. To push past the labels of being “too loud” or “too confrontational.”
But I know it’s not always that easy. It’s often easier to turn a blind eye and look away. To ignore the microaggressions from a teacher, laugh off an offensive comment from a teammate or stay quiet when a friend spreads misinformation. It’s easy to think, “This doesn’t affect me, so why should I care? Why should I put myself in those moments of discomfort when I don’t have to?” But what’s harder is living with the consequences.
We often look at our country, the world falling apart right in front of our eyes, and wonder where it all went wrong– how injustice grows so large, so entrenched, so impossible to ignore. Well, it starts here. In our daily choices, when we choose not to speak. It starts when we see something and say nothing.
If we want to be in a world, a community, that truly values justice, we can’t keep choosing silence over courage.
So, I encourage you, in a world where it is normalized to assimilate, put our heads down and look away, to speak up when a joke goes too far. Correct misinformation even when it feels awkward. Stand beside someone being singled out. Embrace the discomfort that comes with speaking up, rather than the discomfort of the gut-twisting guilt that comes with turning a blind eye.
I am not perfect. There are still moments when I hesitate, when I stay quiet when I shouldn’t. But I am trying, and that effort matters.
In a world that constantly pressures us to stay quiet, to fit in, to look away, I challenge you to do the opposite. Be boulder. Be louder.
My mom taught me to use my voice so I could be heard. Now, I am learning that using my voice isn’t just about ensuring I am heard, it’s about making sure others are too.
Because silence is never neutral. Silence is a choice.
First Kristallnacht, Now Car Alarms
By Max Cook
It’s Feb. 8, and I’m at my friend’s house watching the Seahawks win the Super Bowl. We’re in the middle of an ad break, and the screen turns to a little high-school-age kid with curly hair like mine, walking down a hallway surrounded by lockers. He arrives at his locker and takes his backpack off to find a sticky note with the words “Dirty Jew” plastered on his back. The room I’m in erupts in laughter, but I’m not laughing. My eyes are locked on this kid whom I’ve never met, but whose brown eyes, curly hair and defeated expression I inherently recognize. “2 in 3 Jewish teens have experienced antisemitism.” I see it loud and clear in bold white letters on my screen. Guess who doesn’t, all my friends laughing at the sight of another desperate warning. So, I turn to the only other Jew in the room and whisper, “More like 3 in 3.” He whispers back, “Damn right.”
***
In my country, I see oral tradition coming to fruition. I see shootings in the streets. I see division deliberately cultivated to spread hate. I see scapegoats made to dehumanize. I see people reporting their neighbors for simply existing. I see a fear of speaking out. I fear speaking out. And so, as the living legacy of Jewish-German immigrants, I’m transported back. ICE patches blend with the Swastika. Breaking glass morphs into car alarms that never turn off. The visceral history of my family’s stories has become the reality I see today.
No wonder my grandparents still enter from the back of our synagogue. We have long realized the worst part: within every one of us lives that blond-haired, blue-eyed German neighbor who reported my family to the Gestapo. Within every modern U.S. “citizen” is enough hate, jealousy and fear to murder millions.
We’re walking in the footsteps of genocide, grateful only that our combat boots aren’t dirty. So, next time you choose to laugh in the face of antisemitism, hispanophobia, xenophobia and hate, remember that you have the lethal power to repeat history.
Remember yourself in Ms. Hayden’s sixth-grade classroom, guessing 100,000 for how many Jews died in the Holocaust because you couldn’t even imagine the death of millions more. Remember how your jaw dropped. Remember how you questioned why that could ever happen. Well, you’re living that answer, and your laughter, your ignorance, your complacency, ensure another kid will one day learn exactly how history repeats itself.
***
It’s Feb. 8, 2027, and you’re woken up by a shrill whistle. Cold air bites your lungs as you’re shoved outside. Breakfast is a dented tin cup of bitter black liquid and a thumb-sized piece of rye bread. All day, you carry stones to and from camp until your hands split open, your legs give out and the crack of a baton picks you right back up. You fall asleep to the screams of children, surrounded by shaved heads and compulsory tattoos.