Victoria Zavala Carvajal
ARTWORK & PHOTOGRAPHY Victoria Zavala Carvajal..................................................................2 Thando Mlambo.............................................................................4 “Time Dancer 2” by Sara Samuel....................................................5 “Strike” by Angela Qiao................................................................12 Avery Ponce..................................................................................27 “Tinder Games” by Maria Rosales................................................29 “Spring 4” by Angela Qiao............................................................37 “Concentration Time” by Sara Samuel.........................................44
WRITING New York City — Human Too by Lily Whiteman............................1 Timing by Allison Costa..................................................................3 Iz you blak enuf by Thando Mlambo.................................................4 Drumline by Eliana Fisher...............................................................5 Grandma by Mikayla Katelyn Petchell............................................6 Sitting Low(ly) by Madeline Grace.................................................9 Inti(MTA)cy by Madeline Grace.....................................................9 Springtime by Allison Costa..........................................................10 The Cosmonaut by Millie Christie-Dervaux...................................11 Black Magic by A...........................................................................13 A Day’s Work by Camille Baptista..................................................15 Ariel by Sandy Gooen....................................................................25 Mazurka by Kyra Spence...............................................................28 Tess by Isabel Lasker.......................................................................30 Spring by Michelle Ming Xu........................................................38 Azucar by Carolina Dalia Gonzalez...............................................39 Everything is Funnier When You Have Your Mother’s Laugh by Paula Francis.............................................................................44 (Your Name Here) by Ava Reid......................................................45
New York City October 18, 2015 Subways, coffee, pretty people, how instantly we can identify with a city that doesn’t even know we exist. Let alone our names. But we all want our names known. The names we take. And the faces that go with them. And all the faces, buses trains, plains, parks, classrooms, showrooms, bedrooms. So many bedrooms at 1 in the morning and 4 am and all the sex behind all the windows in all five boroughs with or without the shades pulled down, but always with the yellow light from behind and the bed that isn’t big enough but is still too big because we want to be together so that we can be whole, be joined and united with that which will make us what we need to be, that which will give us some chance of understanding something, anything. A little bit more. And the music and the booze and the fact that no one has Triple Sec or Kahlua or even some goddamn lemon juice! Because all that is superfluous to the act and bare necessity of getting drunk. Because Baudelaire told us to and we obey because that is the only thing that’s left when sex and drugs fail as they always will, in the end. But the wine will stop flowing one day too and then what’s left? Entropy? Is that the finality we are all awaiting. Maybe Baudelaire was right all along; all we can do is get drunk. That is the great imperative: to get drunk and stay that way. But he said it better. Maybe he was drunk at the time.
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The hangover wakes you up on Sunday morning, if you’re (un?) lucky enough to wake up. To drag yourself out of your stiflingly oversized bed (which even filled with all the love and lovely women of the world is no match for the entropy that is inevitable). To stagger-dance to the mirror in the bathroom and see nothing but your fathomless humanity staring back at you, as it stares back at you from the subways and the sidewalks and the coffee lines. The searching, desperate, awful, wonderful, gaping humanity, hundreds of years of humanity in the entropy of a wrinkle on your forehead. And you smile and sob and can’t make any sound at all and you go back to bed to the love that you know could be there even though it isn’t but it still comforts you because it is human too. LILY WHITEMAN
Victoria Zavala Carvajal
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our lines cut not quite perpendicular pathways through trajectories on separate planes of flight or fall but when your fierce cries flow from my silent open mouth and charged particles find form and light between us i know our intersection is inevitable ALLISON COSTA
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Iz you blak enuf ? Is you black yu blK R bck enuph you blck Are you BLACK enough? Are you black enough?
THANDO MLAMBO
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“TIME DANCER 2” Sara Samuel
I will listen to my heart and the way each beat builds up a faster rhythm worthy of a thousand drumlines. I hear the beating, it’s deafeningly loud and I wonder if you hear the pulsing bass caused by your pres -ence and the sil -ence now heard in your abs -ence, and all the lack of palpitations. Make my heart collapse. 5
ELIANA FISHER
last summer I bleached my hair for the first time my father says it suits me but when I hug him his hands hover above my scalp hesitant to touch the graveyard where his mother once lived
1.
My first grandmother died 7 years before I was born 3 days after my parents announced their engagement not that she was trying to make a point. we share (shared?) a Welsh nose and a jackal laugh light brown hair and a general distaste for men a distaste that saved neither of us but a distaste that we hold dear she was a woman on fire until her last child failed to live for even a month and her husband left on a permanent business trip planned while my 5 year old father ate cereal in the next room and she burned right up her death is almost 3 decades old now, but
2.
My second grandmother died 2 months before my 8th birthday 12 days before her 87th 6th months after her 2nd favorite husband memories of her revolve around bingo and cornbread muffins that were always burnt at the top but never at the bottom my favorite picture of her was taken when she was 17 as she started to fall in love for the first time just like me her shoulder is pressed against some boy with dark hair and dark eyes the tortured artist type, except he was a mechanic, I think By the end of that year she would be pregnant, and then 6
married something I thought about a lot when the condom broke and I took that pregnancy test in a Wal-Mart bathroom When she was 21 that dark eyed boy got ideas his new girlfriend rattled the phone off the wall and my grandmother borrowed her baby sister’s car and left lightning out of Thunderbolt, Georgia settled like pollen on a missouri farm married a man with wandering hands then his cousin with a stiff spine and a wide smile raised chickens and prize-winning tomatoes 3 little girls with red hair the dark haired boy-dark eyed man wrote to her one time all about long nights in thick aired southern cemeteries the smell of saltwater and skin the way her amber eyes caught the sun fingered thin the letter crumbles at the edges 7
3.
My third grandmother died three days before my 19th birthday one month after I sobbed on the subway at 2 in the afternoon the two aren’t related but they should be She had these hands that were knobby hard and thin twisting in a hundred different directions 80 years of pulling a sewing needle back and forth trapped her knuckles in perpetual motion She didn’t really belong to me I was told But she smelled like yellow soap and pattern chalk and the mothballs of her clapboard church where I tried so hard to love God and failed because I only loved man the night before I moved away to the big city we sat in her living room and she told me that I had
the whole world in my hands like the song the ringing in her head was just a headache On Sunday I tacked pictures onto concrete walls and tried to be likable she hit the high note and fainted
4.
My fourth grandmother died during a snowstorm while I was doing shots to celebrate cancelled classes
I was going to visit her this summer drive to Texas, dry air, windows down she was going to cook fried chicken and okra and call me sugar sugar sugar sugar that old woman mix of gravel and candy MIKAYLA KATELYN PETCHELL
She liked to draw on her eyebrows (a family trait apparently) but she never filled in the middle more dramatic that way Ran away at 16 for a boy who’d be dead by 40 never touched another My mother called her when the first boy said he didn’t love me anymore said I was crying my guts out blood vessels burst in my eyes and she just sighed into the phone “that sounds about right” 8
Stones and pillars; pillars and stones. Absorb sun and knowledge with the eager pitter-patter of toes off to class. Fear not the falling of foot as it races by with pack on back and elation in its eyes. Step, step, step, step. Murmurs of the future manifest themselves in each and every nervous step.
Time is measured by the number of breaths between each quick subway stop. Six, Seven, Eight, Nine. Intimacy. It's all a fraud; what is intimate versus what is not. I've been more intimate with people three thousand miles away than I am with the distant humans on the train who breathe down my neck and remain just moments away from (accidentally) touching my hand. Pressing my back against their beating chest doesn't make for intimacy. Constant motion makes me think. Effortless movement releases my endorphins. Jolt now. Stop completely. Jolt again. Back in motion. MADELINE GRACE 9
The days skipped by Like skimming stones on water Sunlight and moonlight bleeding together Laughter chorusing in symphony And kisses like dandelions in a field— Plentiful messengers of innocent wishes— The constant butterfly dance Of hands brushing and eyes catching Life blooming brighter with rich color— Effervescent. Crown me queen of careless times Watch me walk by wearing pink shaded glasses For half fairy tales are possible When the sun’s dust, like magic, spots the air And we gulp it in With each inhale. ALLISON COSTA
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MILLIE CHRISTIE-DERVAUX
AT 12:37 AM on Friday night, Willa found a universe
trembling beneath her stove. At first, all she saw was a fuzzy dust bunny sitting between crumbs and bits of dried up rice, and she bent her shoulder to reach the duster as far as she could into the darkness. As she swept the dirt back out into the light, the small nebula tumbled forward weightlessly, landing quietly at her feet. Willa had never seen a universe in real life. It rippled gently in a breeze she could not feel. She put the dustpan gently down, and settled into a crouch. Gingerly, she outstretched a finger, trembling in the effort to keep her hand as still as possible, and tried to touch its hazy outline. She moved slowly, hoping not to disturb it until she felt a faint tickle on her index and all of a sudden it rose into the air again, and fell softly a few centimeters away. Willa retreated. Without taking her eyes off the dense little cloud on the ground, she lowered herself until she was lying on her stomach, and rested her chin on her hands so that she could see it up close. It looked exactly like her favorite marble from the second grade, thick and black, peppered with coarse whitish dots. It was her biggest marble, more threatening than the rest of the small, glassy spheres and heavier. She’s won most of the marbles in her collection with it. But the thing on her floor wasn’t a solid—maybe it was a gas, like Venus. Or maybe it was just a bunch of dust gravitating around one center, like the rings of Saturn. Willa blinked, and thought she could almost see the microscopic galaxies swirling around, pulsating like tiny storms of powdered glass. As a kid, she’d been obsessed with black sand. When her parents would take her to the beach, she’d look for the shimmering strips of obsidian that sometimes covered the grey sand. She’d squat over it and gather as much as she could into a jar, and stare at 11
its purplish color glittering with fragments of basalt and iron and magnetite. Her eyelids were heavy, but she fought to keep them open, determined to keep this phenomenal piece of space in sight as long as possible. When she woke, a light new sky was peeking through the blinds. Her stomach dropped when she realized she’d fallen asleep. She turned her head and felt the crick in her neck shoot into her shoulder. All that was left of the universe was a dark scorch mark where it had exploded.
“STRIKE” Angela Qiao
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Skin crawling discomfort, Suffocate them with Truth. Truth. Truth will set me free, From bitter white Reality. Right? Wrong. Internalized the hate, the cruelty, the microaggressive, passive-aggressive, perfectly pressed and neatly folded fate of my Night-skinned days. My Mother Earth-toned ways. But still, at a young age, I learned to curse my charred amber skin 13
That could not be changed. “Oh look, we have the cutest little black girl in our class!” Gabriella shouted with glee, For all to hear and gawk at me, Me, Like I was a mad woman, spewing curses and spitting profanities, writhing on the ground like a fish dumped from its bowl and dying slowly for their delight, their revelry. When the hot tears of shame seared across my cheeks, I couldn’t understand why. At 8 years old, I couldn’t understand— Couldn’t understand why. I couldn’t. Why? Words aren’t supposed to hurt this much— Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words, They’ll never hurt me. Right? Wrong. They hurt worst of all. Sweltering fire burning in my veins, blood boiling and engulfing me. Threatening to melt me. Melt me into a pile of charred ash atop blackened bones, forgotten And no one mourning me.
Just like every other black body in this country. That cloudy humiliation I must face every time I face another, Eyes forced to the ground as I apologize for myself. My breath. The space I rudely take up. My skin. On my knees and palms to the graveled, rough ground, I beg Forgiveness for my Existence. A slave to America. Sending even children at me like frenzied dogs to rip at my Achilles. I understand my ancestors. Back broken, feet aching and I’m tired Of running. Of bowing out politely. I won’t any longer. Took that hellish fire in me and taught myself to glow, shine even. My purpose assured — My melanin as my gift. Rather, I have been gifted with, With tones of the galaxy, the stars, the ink of all things written. I pour my beautiful skin onto this page In order to say,
I understand now. I’ll allow them to stare, gawk and look on me Because their only goal is to deter me, Trick me. For if I discover the black magic within myself, They no longer have their Noose around my neck. My black magic becomes my wealth. That is to say, My means of prospering. I may be darkened with slashes and scars, new wounds a Fresh well of blood and tears, But I will still smile, even speak “too” loudly Because I’m free from my chains. And I’m Thrilled to make you uncomfortable, America, Because this is black reality. A
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CAMILLE BAPTISTA
JULIO SAYS HE HAS a job for us.
“It’s a job for the boys, maybe,” he says in Spanish. He’s a short balding man with a round face and a sense of humor that’s both sarcastic and warm, a lovable combination. I look up when he comes into the compact kitchen where we’re sitting at the table, having tea and eating our breakfast of bread and butter and orange-peel jam. “I can help,” I say. He doesn’t argue or mind either way; I’m welcome as an extra hand. He lets me follow him out to the backyard alongside Tyler and Frederic, who are objectively taller and stronger than I am. I’ve been on the farm for three weeks now and it’s beginning to get cold. Cloudy days are becoming more common than sunny ones, a change that seems to reveal a whole new side of life: the farm looks and feels entirely different under a sky of gray and white. The colors of the speckled eucalyptus trunks and the dark-wood cabin and the neighbor’s far-reaching corn fields are now flatter, humbler, but perhaps more real, than they were under a shimmering sun. The grasses where the horses roam are still a dry yellow from summer, but they’ve lost their gleam and are chewed to a short bristle. Since I started working on the farm, my primary responsibilities, along with Tyler’s and Frederic’s, have been only to feed the animals everyday—chickens, two pigs, two goats, one dog; the horses fed themselves—and to water the little fruit trees that were planted a few weeks before. We do other odd jobs in 15
the afternoons, turning the compost or stuffing steel wool into the holes in the cabin walls to keep rodents out. But tending to the animals and trees occupies our mornings, filling the hours between breakfast and lunch. I fell into the routine easily; since the start of my second week, the pigs have been my first thought in the morning, the first idea that awakens me. I look forward to seeing them each morning because our interactions are always gracious and conversational; I find they have a majesty, a deepness in their eyes, a friendliness that the other animals don’t have. Julio was quick and indifferent when he first showed me how to feed them—fill the bucket up with food from the barrel, about halfway or a little more, toss it into the tray, move on to the chickens—but I’ve come to feel that the ritual holds more weight than that, for me and for the pigs. They perk up at the sound of my approach and lift their large bodies off the ground with their strong and stumpy pink legs, sturdy hooves kneading the soil so it’s loose and damp and smelling like a new garden. They are women like me, and somehow glamorously feminine in their closeness to the earth. The first day I met them, they called to my mind a phrase I’d read once in a PETA pamphlet: Contrary to stereotype, pigs are clean and hygienic animals. Each morning since then, as I lift the lid of the barrel and begin scooping food into the bucket, the pigs look up at me with their small, sweet eyes fringed with clean pink lashes, a single large wrinkle spread across their upturned snouts, and something silent that I can’t transcribe passes between us. They always seem to nod in appreciation before ducking down when I toss in their breakfast. But today as we follow Julio outside, he says Carla will feed the animals. “I’ve got something else we need to do,” he says. “Might take a while. I need some extra hands.” He leads us past the chicken coop and the pig pens to the galpón, the little tool shed, where we follow his instructions to lift the ladder from its spot against the back wall and carry it outside. Dingo the German shepherd mutt, tied by a long leash to a birch tree nearby, barks at us curiously. After a minute Julio emerges 16
holding an orange chainsaw. “Come,” he says, then gestures again to the ladder. “Bring that. Actually, get yourselves some gloves first, and maybe some clippers or a handsaw. Tyler knows where they are.” A few minutes later, now equipped as suggested, we find Julio in the eucalyptus grove behind the galpón, perched in a tree, ten or twelve feet up. Calling down from his perch, he assigns us— his three unskilled foreigners, all working in exchange for meals and beds—the first truly physical task I’ve encountered on the farm. “Clear away the branches as they fall, alright?” he says. “Careful. Don’t stand too close to the tree. Back up, Tyler. Drag the branches over to the lawn in front of the shed and chop them up. Someone will need to use the saw for the bigger branches, but the rest you can break up with your hands or the clippers. See the firewood pile near the house? Put the mid-sized pieces over there. And just sort the rest in piles by their size.” We nod, understanding our task but not its purpose. Julio doesn’t wait for questions. With a splitting, sputtering sound that grows into a rasping but commanding rumble, the chainsaw starts up, and he begins hacking away at branches. When he’s cut off all the branches and the tree remains only a thick stake in the ground, he moves on to the next tree. There are six in a line. As I go to work with the others, hauling branches like giant frozen serpents away from where they fall in the grove, I keep looking up at where Julio has propped himself up in the trees, his feet always balanced carefully on two branches. He wears a pair of dark sunglasses with black plastic rims, the kind that curve fully around his eye sockets to protect them from flying splinters. It’s strange to see him hold the chainsaw so expertly, to see him slice through the living wood with such precision and unwavering focus. Over the preceding weeks I’ve formed an impression of him based only on his gray shoe-brush mustache and the faded green sweatshirt he always wears over his large round stomach; his gently sarcastic back-and-forths with Carla and his youthful laugh when he teases me; the way he asks me each morning how I slept, and his daily insistence that I eat a second 17
helping at dinner. Sometimes I watch out the window in the early evenings when he goes out to the south field to say hello to his seven horses, which he keeps loose and unbridled in their own field. I know that one of them, the only one he ever saddles up and rides, is called Sara. Regularly he takes her out in loops around the sprawling front yard or rides a mile down the dirt road and back, for no other reason, as far as I know, than to spend time with her. I realize that morning, watching Julio work purposefully in the eucalyptus trees until they’re stripped bare, his chainsaw grinding and growling through cracking wood, that he is at his core a man of the farm; a business man who knows how to get things done. Down on the ground, I break the twigs off of bigger branches and sort them into three piles, my hands protected with leather gloves. The wood is supple and young, white when it splinters open, with a bright-green vein at its center; the leaves are long and skinny like those of a willow, soft and bending easily, still full of water, sliding between my fingers as if they’re covered in butter. Each time I look up at Julio I hope he’ll look back at me, to confirm to me, even silently, that I’m doing the right thing by snapping apart these young and healthy branches. But he never does, and I never see anything in his face except stern concentration. Feeling as if I’m skinning a rabbit, I go on snapping and ripping, pulling the leaves off the smallest branches and tossing them into their own pile; they’ll be composted to help some other plant grow. When Julio has stripped the third tree and the four of us head inside for lunch, I try to ask him why the trees need to come down. He says something about making space for the greenhouse they’re going to build for the spring. I nod in reply as I walk next to him, thinking of spring and new crops, maybe herbs, maybe basil and thyme and mint, but unable, also, to rid myself of the unsettling feeling that came with ripping apart each branch of eucalyptus, each bendy twig and buttery leaf. I want to ask Julio why we can’t put the greenhouse in the other field near the chicken coop, where there are no trees, but I’m not confident enough in my Spanish to avoid sounding critical. I want anything but to sound critical. Perhaps something about the sunlight in that field next to the pig pens is different from the sunlight near the chickens, 18
I tell myself, or perhaps Carla and Julio have different plans for that field. Either way, I trust Julio to have a good reason for every decision he makes. I trust him because he’s older and infinitely more experienced than I; because he’s doing what he needs to do to make his farm profitable so that he won’t have to sell it and move to the city; because he agreed to feed and house me in exchange for my nominal work; because he knows how to sling a saddle and replace a gas tank and aliment the chicken feed so that more eggs appear in the mornings. At dinner that evening, Julio praises my and Frederic’s and Tyler’s sawing and clipping and hauling skills to everyone at the table, and I warm up inside. There’s something curiously powerful about being praised by a person who’s well-loved by others. When we finish eating, he excuses himself to check on the horses and make sure their water trough has been filled to the very top. Sometime later, after the dishes are washed and the kittens fed, and we’re all sitting inside drinking our second daily cup of tea on the little green-felt couches that have lost their fluff, Eugenia, the oldest daughter, asks if anyone will accompany her outside while she smokes a cigarette. Frederic wants to take a shower but Tyler and I agree to join her, and she brings her guitar. It’s colder out now, and although the new air is refreshing the world seems to exist as if underwater, our bodies moving slowly and fluidly, everything underlain by a calm silence. Without talking we take up the white plastic chairs that are scattered around the patio and settle into them, facing away from the house. Eugenia, a very large woman of twenty-five who likes to sing Jason Mraz songs in accented English, pulls her enormous dark-red cardigan tightly around her. We’re all still for a moment, looking out at the total darkness that has swallowed up the fields. Sitting on the horizon far out in front of us is a sliver of light-blue sky, indicating where the sun has set, and above this the sky rises in steadily darker and darker shades of navy until, directly over our heads, it ends in blackness once again. When the sky is cloudy you can look out across the dark fields and see a faint orb of light reflected onto the clouds from below, miles and miles away, and you know that 19
that light is the closest city, which gives you a sense of where you are in relation to bigger things. But tonight the sky is clear; the moonlight and stars lend a faint, just-perceptible edge to the shape of the cabin and the avocado tree near the front gate. Eugenia lights a cigarette and strums her guitar lazily, humming out a few bars in between drags. Tyler requests something and she settles into a calm, pretty song. Her long straight hair is pulled back in a loose braid, but a few strands fall in front of her face when she bends over the guitar to see her fingers. As I’m staring at the fields and listening to her play I see a four-legged animal make its way out of the darkness toward the house. Something about its light-colored fur makes it less frightening than it might have been otherwise, perhaps because I can more easily make out its whole shape. Maybe it’s also because the animal is ambling so slowly, almost tentatively, and it’s looking at me. Tyler and Eugenia have seen the dog, too, I realize after a moment—it’s becoming clear that it’s a dog—but we all silently agree to do nothing and to keep watching, and Eugenia keeps playing even though she is singing more softly now and not looking at her guitar. To my amazement the dog continues to come closer. It’s painfully cautious, taking a few shaky steps forward, waiting, and then coming a bit closer. When the animal is brave enough to step into the porch light we see that it’s a little mutt, golden Lab and something else, probably many other breeds. Stray dogs are so common in Argentina that it’s not at all strange to see them walking along a road, particularly in a city or a town. It is more strange, however, to watch one crawl up in the darkness to a house that is at least a mile away from any other house and look at you forlornly, with large questioning eyes, as if imploring you to reveal whether you will be good, whether you will be kind. We all continue to follow it with our three sets of eyes as it approaches the little concrete patio, where an unoccupied plastic chair stands off to the side. To my further amazement—not only at the dog’s behavior but at my total stillness, and Tyler’s and Eugenia’s stillness, and everyone’s confused but passive silence—it 20
carefully makes its way under the chair, still looking at us with large uncertain eyes, and lies down. After another moment it lowers its head to rest on its paws. Eugenia seems to realize she has stopped playing, and takes up her strumming again. Suddenly Julio comes out of the cottage and onto the patio. Before I’ve even registered his presence he’s yelling at the dog, which he must have seen just now through the window— “OUT! OUT!” His eyes blaze authoritatively, his brows firm. He shakes his arms out in front of him with each iteration of the word “AFUERA.” I am so taken by surprise that I say nothing, but Eugenia is protesting with her father in rapid Spanish, saying he’s being cruel and that the dog isn’t bothering us, that we should help him instead of scaring him away. I’ve never seen Julio so stern and adamant—not toward Eugenia, whom he is largely ignoring, but toward the frightened little mutt, which is trying to scoot away now without getting any closer to Julio, its eyes darting, looking for the best way out. This is probably exactly what the animal feared might result from approaching unknown humans. Surely now it regrets taking the risk. Julio succeeds in driving the dog to the perimeter of the yard. When he turns to walk back to the house, the dog pauses and waits, and after a minute—again, to my amazement—it begins trying to crawl back to the house, carefully, as if sneaking behind Julio. Julio notices and scares it further away this time. I wonder if the dog is gone for real now; it has disappeared into the dark mass of fields. “Dad!” Eugenia is livid. “Why did you need to do that?” “We can’t have dogs wandering loose around here.” Without thinking I’m on Eugenia’s side. It’s immediately clear to me that the dog and I came to the farm for similar reasons—as outsiders looking for a safe place to stay. I want to ask why we couldn’t take in the dog, at least for the night, give him some of Dingo’s food, maybe let him sleep in the little cabin. But I don’t dare—I stay silent. I glance at Tyler, who’s also silent and watching Eugenia with a sort of plaintively encouraging look. “He wasn’t causing any trouble before you came out here,” 21
she’s saying to Julio. “You know what would happen. He’d get comfortable here, and…” “And? “He’d be a problem.” “Why?” “We have other animals to worry about. This is a farm, Eugenia, not an animal sanctuary. Animals mean work. We can’t afford to take care of everything that comes along.” He stares at her for a second, his dark eyebrows thick and pulled together over his eyes. Then he turns back inside and closes the front door behind him. Eugenia isn’t satisfied, but she lets him leave without arguing further. For a moment I stare absently at the closed front door, thinking of all of Julio’s animals and what they are and what they do, and I wonder if for him they all serve practical purposes, if they really do all exist as part of an economical plan. On my short walk back to the cabin that night, trailing Tyler who walks a few yards ahead, I pass the south field. Even in the darkness I can sense the horses gathered there, not far from the fence that keeps them from roaming into the garden. They’re standing right up near the fence, as close to the main house as they can be. With only the moonlight as a guide I can make out of a few of their giant muscled shapes, a shaft of light on a long wheat-brown neck, the sharp and majestic angles of their joints. I pass Dingo’s doghouse, which is quiet, and I’m careful not to wake him. I remember, suddenly, the day a few weeks ago when someone tied him to a tree too close to the horse field—often we move his leash around between trees during the day, to give him a change of scenery—and he scared the horses by getting too close to their fence, barking and jumping up. Julio was so angry at dinner that night that no one ever fessed up to the mistake. The following morning he wasn’t at breakfast, and we all wondered for some time where he had gone, until when it was almost lunchtime he trotted up from the road, returning from a long ride with Sara. The time Dingo scared them is the only time I’ve seen the horses distressed; otherwise they always seem at ease on the farm, 22
as they appear to be tonight. Nothing is expected of them and they have all the time in the world to do as they please. They spend their days chewing on weeds in the unused fields, free of saddles and ties, tossing their heads back now and then to settle their manes. They’re beautiful and ethereal, almost existing separately from the farm, a group of docile spirits. Sometimes while I’m outside watering the plants, near the fence that separates the horse field from the orchard, I’ll look up as suddenly a current of excitement and energy runs through all of them at once, and they’ll start prancing around each other and running incredibly fast, looking like wild horses in movies, around and around, manes flying, hoofs beating the ground, until like dust in a windstorm they settle down again, standing still and distinct from one another a few moments later, calmly grinding grass to paste between their teeth. The next morning I begin as usual with the pigs, except today it occurs to me for the first time that I can feed them quickly before breakfast and have one less thing to do afterward, so I head directly to their pen instead of going first to the main house. There they are, two ladies sprawled serenely against the far side of the fence, furry ears twitching now and then to dispel flies or to follow a sound. They’re no longer asleep at this hour, though their eyes are closed, and indeed I have a feeling they’re quite alert to the way the bees are buzzing in circles around the Meyer lemon blossoms, and the squirrels are gripping their little claws around the birth-marked branches of the sycamores overhead, and the quail are bobbing methodically through the wet grass, and the robins perched somewhere high above are calling out to their friends across the skies. The pigs stir and rise when they hear me coming, a closer and more telling sound. They hurry over as I fill the small bucket with their food, and I don’t check this time to see if it’s halfway full or a little more or a little less. I toss the contents into their tray like clothes into a laundry pile, and immediately the pigs dig in. But although the chore is done I don’t want to leave just yet—another moment, I tell myself, then I’ll head inside to join the others—because for that brief moment I feel stuck there as if 23
planted in cement. One of the pigs pauses and looks up at me, taking a moment to chew an ambitious mouthful. Her eyes are perfectly black except for glints of light from the east. Looking at her I wonder if the two of them know that another animal wandered onto the farm last night, if they picked up its canine scent and knew it wasn’t Dingo but something new, something unfamiliar. And in spite of what Julio said I have to wonder, too, if the pigs and I have a connection, a human-animal bond; a sisterly bond, maybe. I wonder if they’ve ever thought of me at other times of day, like I’ve thought of them—if they recognize me from a few yards away when I water the fruit trees, and if they wonder what I’m doing or where the water in my watering can comes from. And as I stand there watching them eat I become aware again of the rest of the world as it exists against this rhythmic backdrop of porcine jowls opening and closing: the scuttle of squirrel claws, and the cloud of bees around the lemons, and the three different avian conversations sounding at once from several sources over my head, and, underneath the scent of freshly turned soil, the faint smell of fallen eucalyptus leaves plastered to the ground at the base of the shaven trees. The late-autumn morning with its many activities and sounds and organisms seems to centralize in the pigs and me and this moment and this question, in the indefinite and unprovable mammalian understanding that maybe, maybe, exists between us. Then our momentary eye contact is over; she blinks and tilts her head in an upward nod, sniffs the air, ducks down and sniffs the ground, grunts, and resumes eating. Satisfied, I turn away too, wanting now to leave them both to enjoy the rest of their meal in peace. I head back toward the house, turning my thoughts to tea and hot soft bread and orange-peel jam.
24
But it isn’t for lack of trying To break through the surface of the sea Up to the neurotypical shore It seems like a big deal that I want more Than what was expected of me Straight out of the water I am gasping for air And grasping on to the little comfort I know When I repeat myself When I repeat myself And do my best not to shut down completely.
Sometimes it’s hard trying to be part of your world. My voice goes away not because of some trade I made with a witch for legs It’s something I’ve always had That’s gotten better But hasn’t gone away. I know what I want to say. But some days, I can’t. 25
People find it funny When I trip on my words Each time it feels like I just got new legs And for the first time I’m trying them out And I’m almost walking So they resent I have trouble talking. They act like I am stupid because I am dumb. I wouldn’t trade a part of myself away for something else But I wanted to Until I accepted who I am— Because Apart from the different I am the same.
We are all unfortunate souls somehow. Which is why I don’t hear anyone calling Ariel The disabled Disney princess No one pities her for her inability to communicate Because they see what she gains By losing something
And you have people to show you the way You can get there If you survive Their abled world SANDY GOOEN
They admit She is special And she is beautiful And she communicates Just like anyone else But not like everyone else Because it’s a difference in strengths and weaknesses We are all strong And we are all weak And what you see as a weakness I call a challenge to fight Disney taught me— Wringing your hands you don’t get too far You are required to work twice as hard To get half the respect That a neurotypical does So if you know what you want done 26
Avery Ponce
27
The piano jumps to tune, Martha pounding the keys, pumping her fingers as the old thing sings and strains in a flash the dancers spring from first position, off kilter, sliding, spinning, pointing, swaying— toes and heels like wild birds, all clasped in hot muscle, brows sweating, backs smarting, and leaning, looking, alive, the dancers flash glass eyes at the shining mirror— but Martha, eyes closed, Martha feels the music. KYRA SPENCE
28
“TINDER GAMES” Maria Rosales
29
ISABEL LASKER
A
T THE TIME I would have given anything for novelty. I’d begun to resign myself to the monotony of life as a thirteen year old whose only vices were Adult Swim and drinking my mother’s half & half because I thought the fat would make my breasts grow. Hating my mother had become an exhausting new hobby and devising ways in which I could prove my independence all at once began to seem futile. The truth was I didn’t want independence. Childhood had been secure, it had kept me safe. My parents had proudly referred to me as their late bloomer, the pubescent daughter who still played with her baby-dolls. It is, to this day, a deeply shameful fact of my childhood that parting with my dolls, at the ripe age of thirteen, was perhaps my first heartbreak. But parting, that horrible sorrow, had not been anyone else’s idea but my own. I’d simply decided it was time. That was, however, until I watched my beloved friends hauled off in a loud, leaking garbage truck, the very one I had chucked them in. I wept, sporadically, for weeks. And then one day she was there. Standing in the yellowwalled hallway, a plum-colored Kiplinger backpack over her bare shoulders, its attached monkey keychain dangling below her hip. I’d found these backpacks tasteless, absurd even. What kind of self30
respecting girl liked a backpack that came accompanied with a stuffed monkey? But on her it was perfect. I almost wanted one myself. That was the effect she would have on me. Everything she had I wanted; everything she did I wanted to do. Tess transferred into our seventh grade class in the middle of the school year after she’d been expelled from the elite private school down the street. It was a small town, to say the least, and everyone knew everything about everyone. We were only given a day’s notice before her arrival, in which time so many rumors circulated about why she’d been expelled it was like we already knew her. Some heard she’d written the answers to a test on her thighs, using her stockings to conceal the ink. Others, that she had tried to poison a teacher by breaking the contents of a silica packet into their coffee. But the most popular story, the one that years later I would learn to be true, was that she’d been caught in the boys’ bathroom, kneeled between two 9th graders, their pants hanging around their ankles. I couldn’t picture her on her knees like that. I still can’t. But I can distinctly imagine the sound of their belt buckles as they pulled their slacks up; Tess squeezing the nape of her neck the way she did when she was put on the spot. Her entrance into our lives was so invigorating it was like coming up for air. Maybe we’d just become bored by familiarity; the shininess of our new toy excited us. It was something that remains to me inexplicable. She was intoxicating. By some miracle she’d been placed in the seat next to me in Pre-Algebra, the one that would have been Joey Davanzo’s had he not been sick with strep. I’d never prayed for someone to be sick before—in fact I’d never prayed at all—but every night that week I went to bed praying Joey Davanzo would wake up sick the next morning. I tried not to stare at her but it was almost impossible not to. It wasn’t that she was extraordinarily beautiful—though she was certainly something—it was more that she radiated an air of desire. 31
She exuded sex. I’d never felt this way about a person before. I knew what it had felt like to be attracted to someone; this wasn’t it. It was infatuation that extended beyond Tess herself. Perhaps it was simply the infatuation with femininity; with sex; with a body that represented everything mine was not. Her shiny black hair clung in loose waves around her collarbones; it was curly, but the refined type of curly, not like mine, frizzy and unmanageable. She was tan but the skin around her face was paler than the rest of her body, her cheeks and nose spotted with dainty little freckles. I could have spent the entire class period counting them. I was overcome by the desire to understand every part of her. I exhausted the better half of Pre-Algebra deciding if, when class let out, I should introduce myself. The need to know her and the fear of rejection were both so overwhelming I couldn’t even imagine what I would say if I did open my mouth to speak to her. But the need trumped the fear, and, as class was dismissed, I said softly, in a voice that I did not recognize as my own: Hey. I’m Grace. I’d been called Gracie since I was a child. To her I would be Grace. Hey. She smiled, showing her smooth white teeth. I’m Tess. And then, by some miracle of the same category as Joey Davanzo’s strep throat, she asked me if I wanted to sit with her at lunch. Lunch was so exhilarating I hardly touched my sandwich. I could feel the stares from the other 7th graders, the jealousy of my friends who wouldn’t dare sit with us; I could sense their confusion as to why she had chosen me. It was the first time I felt desirable. It was the first time I felt important. After a few minutes we were joined by a group of boys, the fast boys who listened to Daft Punk and smoked pot on the weekends, boys I had not once interacted with. To say they were obsessed with her would not be going too far. It was incredible, something I’d never seen in my life, like hyenas waiting for a gazelle to die. But she was no gazelle. She was strong; she was intense.
32
They talked fast, tripping over each other’s words. I was completely invisible and had never been more okay with it. She would occasionally turn to me with a look that said she was accustomed to this. If anything, this was normal. She hardly responded to them, just a few small head nods and strained, annoyed laughs. She was quiet. She was powerful. And perhaps what was most dangerous about her was that she knew this. That Friday she asked me if I’d wanted to see the second installment of the HOSTEL films, what would have been my first horror movie. She said we could get dinner at the food court after. We were becoming friends, close friends, even. I was thrilled. I was terrified. When we got to the theater to buy our tickets and were asked for our student IDs, I pretended to have left mine behind so I wouldn’t have to see the movie. I’d choked in the face of panic. It was less the fear of seeing my first horror movie, more that she would see my fear at all. I wouldn’t allow myself to be a child in front of her. It felt pertinent, both to my sense of dignity and to our budding friendship, that I rival her stoicism. I still cannot decide if her eyes were green or hazel or brown, or perhaps all three at once. But I remember them as awake, constantly alert. Every time she’d laugh they’d get so small they almost disappeared into her eyelids. I was keenly aware that her laugh, breathy and fragile, was fake; I loved it all the more. But when she really did find something funny she would laugh from her gut, a full, uninhibited roar of happiness. When she laughed like this she would cover her nose with her hand to hide her nostrils as they flared, a mannerism I would eventually pick up myself. Though she was anything but nervous, she bit her nails down to the skin. Her fingers were so raw they resembled little pink worms for bait. I wanted to be disgusted by this but I couldn’t. In my mind she had soft skin, even though, when her arm had once grazed mine, I’d learned it was coarse. This was, as I would later put 33
together, because she shaved her arms. The next weekend she invited me over to go swimming in her pool. Her house, a tall, salmon-colored hunk of a thing, had felt remarkably cold despite its attempts to seem welcoming. I looked around for her parents, accustomed to at least one adult present whenever I went to a friend’s house; my mother had preferred it this way. They’re not home, she’d said matter-of- factly. My mom’s getting a massage and my dad’s at the doctor for his hands. They’ve been shaking a bunch. A breath. Let’s go upstairs. It felt wrong to be in that big house just two young girls, children with no parents to protect us. I loved it. We went upstairs, my finger tracing along the cold iron banister, my eyes following her lithe figure, shaping the curvature of her waist; wishing mine curved like that too. Her room smelled like old wood and strawberry perfume. The decor was minimal; a white bedside table; a white dresser with a few painted birds; a soft-blue beanbag in the corner next to the window; a framed poster of KILL BILL over her bed because her father had done the sound mixing. I sat on the beanbag as she picked up clothes off the floor and shoved them into her dresser. She told me about her older brother’s new girlfriend; a tart, she’d called her. I laughed and pretended to know what a tart was. She finished cleaning her room and took off her shirt, unclasping her black bra to change into her bathing suit. I’d seen other women’s breasts before—enough time in the YMCA locker rooms will condition you to the sight of any pair—but this had felt different, like she was exposing herself to me. The moment she’d done so I turned away, almost out of instinct, for I felt that by looking I was violating her somehow. We laid by the pool on our backs, our bare bellies looking out at the sun. We ate grapes; grapes were her favorite fruit. She’d said eating grapes gave you the same satisfaction as popping a pimple. She hadn’t wanted to go swimming because the chlorine would flatten her hair, so we lay like that on the hot pavement until we 34
couldn’t stand it anymore. You’d look good with some mascara, I remember her saying. So I’d let her do my makeup, staring at my face in the mirror. I can still feel the itchiness of the brush as she powdered my cheeks, the metallic smell of her fingertips as she applied my lipstick. She was right; the makeup did look good. I almost didn’t recognize myself. And so the next day I asked my mother to take me to a beauty supply store, where I purchased my very first pencil eyeliner and a tube of lipstick. I didn’t need to buy mascara because Tess had let me keep hers, it had just been a spare. I began to wear makeup every day. And so things went on like this; sitting together at lunch; going to her big, quiet house on the weekends; knowing others coveted my role in her life. It was everything I’d wanted. Of all the things I remember, I’ll never know what we said to each other all those weeks we were best friends. The reality is, Tess and I had almost nothing in common, perhaps only the time we spent together. I’d become painfully aware that I had abandoned my real friends, the ones to whom I could actually confide myself in. This would be, of everything, my greatest source of shame. It was now May. I didn’t know it at the time, but Tess would transfer schools, again, in June, when the year ended. She wouldn’t be expelled like she was from the last school. She would, instead, tell her parents that there was nothing for her at Charter Oaks Middle School. The classes didn’t challenge her; the space was too congested; the boys were gross. But her greatest complaint would be that she hadn’t made any friends, not even one. It was Cinco de Mayo. I remember because there were candied skull decorations everywhere. I waited for her at the table where we always met for lunch. I’d usually waited to unwrap the wax paper around my sandwich until she got there, but, after ten minutes had passed, I was too hungry and started eating. Alone, I finished my sandwich. Still no sign of her. I made a lap around the school through the hallways. Then I made another. 35
And on my third lap, it occurred to me that I hadn’t checked what should have been the most obvious place. I knew she was in there before I even knocked. She’d chosen the handicapped stall in the corner, the largest, the most private. I waited silently outside the door for a few minutes. Occasional, muffled sniffling; periodic toilet flushing to cover the sound of her sobs. I knocked once, lightly. Tess? Another toilet flush. I craned my head down to peak through the stall. I could just make out her calves. Tess, come on. It’s just me. Another toilet flush; a whimper that echoed off the porcelain. That she was capable of crying had never crossed my mind. I made myself small enough to slide under the stall. Get the fuck out! she’d screamed. I was speechless. It was the first time anyone had cussed at me. My face was so hot you could have boiled an egg off my forehead. And then, in the midst of processing my own humiliation, I was struck by the strangest sensation. Pity. Pity for the girl I had painted as perfect. There, on the cold linoleum floor, was my Goddess, exposed in her human form. And as intensely as I wished I could look away, to allow her the privacy of her pain, of that nakedness, all I could do was stare. The next day she asked me if I wanted to come over on Saturday to go swimming in her pool. We can actually swim, if you want. I told her I had to go to a barbecue with my parents. It was a lie, and she knew it. Maybe next weekend, I’d said. She looked at me with sad disbelief. We both knew there would be no next weekend. I started sitting with my old friends at lunch, aware that they were hesitant to let me in again, aware that I had no other choice. I didn’t want Tess anymore. It wasn’t Tess that I’d ever wanted. When I try to understand what happened in those two months I come up short. Perhaps the saddest fact would be the knowledge that I never really knew Tess; I never would. She will forever remain to me a collection of images dominated by 36
colors and smells; of feelings only traceable in brief memories; of memories I’d feign remembering for years to come. She started sitting with another girl, Joni, who would tell you she was named after Joni Mitchell every chance she got, unless, of course, you told her you hated Joni Mitchell. Out of the corner of my eye I would watch them, at the same table that would always be ours. And sometimes, I’d catch her looking over at me too, and for a brief moment we’d hold each other’s gaze, until one of us had the courage to look away. Sometimes I missed her. Sometimes I missed that stupid purple monkey swaying back and forth against her hip. And sometimes I even missed her raw fingers. But what I missed most were the things she made me feel about myself.
“SPRING 4” Angela Qiao
37
Windows open in my bedroom, my foot against your calf, all skin. I can see the dust particles shifting in the cusp of orange light. Remember— the heater bubbling like fried dough? Howl’s Moving Castle, my kinked neck, your skin dewy and your belly relaxed… And I thought of last Tuesday, St. John the Divine red from the inside. Suddenly the heart flips on its back like a gutted fish. Say the door unlocked, no land so true. Say we talked of New York windows— you liked the uniformity but I am not ready yet. Or the trees with knobs for insects to gather…Isn’t that cause enough? The wind moves over, again. We stop and you point to the cross, “it’s a church” and pulled me along, no cars close—nothing was mine. MICHELLE MING XU
38
CAROLINA DALIA GONZALEZ
I.
GOLIATH FICUS TREES and blooming bugambilias cascade over the home of the three Gonzalez sisters, my sisters, me. This two-story, eggshell colored residence built in 2000 remained within the small, predominantly white Miami suburb known as Coral Gables. The Cubans who drove around in leased Mercedes, sent their children to St.Theresa Catholic School, and achieved some form of The American Dream, brought rhythm and life into the cookie cutter neighborhood. My family counted as one of them. It is of utmost importance to remember that this house, my house, was a house of complete replication. The bulky, brown wooden front doors were carved to mimic those that bordered my abuelos’ home in Havana. A Mediterranean courtyard with walls and cracked columns wrapped in tangled green ivy welcomed guests with open arms. A fountain decorated with Cuban tiles and potted gardenias remained as the main centerpiece of this courtyard. Every detail in the architecture emphasized the ever-present Caribbean vibes. Mami prides herself in the fact that the house on 1521 Alegriano Avenue was almost identical to the one her parents resided in. I call this a hereditary nostalgia.
II.
39
Versailles stands dramatically on the infamous Cuban
street “Calle Ocho,” taking up the entire block between 35th and 36th avenue. Its neon sign continuously drips the words “Cuban Cuisine” onto the rows of Toyotas and Mercedes parked along the cracked curb. Since its foundation in 1971, long after the first wave of the Cuban diaspora, Versailles has endured as a small oasis of political thought and damn good croquetas. The faux extravagance of Versailles is a detail no visitor can forget. The cheap interior décor makes a semi-noble effort to resemble its French counterpart. The mirrored walls with frosted, pseudo-elegant designs panel the rooms and chandeliers droop from every inch of the ceiling. Tacky green velvet curtains saturated with Cuban cigar smoke and forty-four years of family memories embellish the stained windows. Yet, this interior décor contributes to a funny juxtaposition against the plain metal tables and chairs that fill the dining rooms. Silver coated metal against fading green velvet creates an almost casual atmosphere, where anything can be said. I sat in one of those flimsy metal chairs, my gaze absorbing the green velvet curtains. Mami took my hand; my blood finally reached a cooling point. Don’t listen to your sister. It doesn’t matter if you don’t like arroz y frijoles. You are the nieta de Rafael Perez and Dalia Morejon. Tu tienes sangre Cubana.
III.
The bottles and bottles of Sunny-D Mami stocked in the fridge of the garage were an ever present image in my childhood. Abuela had to drink Sunny-D, the fake orange juice, because of her illness. Her body unable to break down potassium or sugar due to constant dialysis treatments. Sugary luxuries such as flan and café con leche were only given to her in restricted portions. But sometimes, when abuela and I had Sunday breakfast, I would let her finish off my café con leche and Versailles pastelito de guava. As she took each sip, her eyes crinkled and she cooed “mi amor.” Our giggles never gave us away. Mami thought we were being silly, enjoying the Sunday company. Both of you have the same risa. 40
Mami never bought Sunny-D again after abuela passed. I don’t like to laugh in front of mami anymore.
IV.
Abuela Dalia was queen of everything pure and organic. Before the revolution, abuela was a beauty pageant queen in Havana. She won the title “The Most Beautiful Woman in Cuba” in her early twenties. Mami would certainly not let me forget that I came from pseudo-royalty. You even look like her. Your smile is exactly like hers. In America, abuela was an icon of fashion and class. She became a full-time seamstress when the Cuban Revolution forced her family to move to the states. Abuela designed and stitched luxurious dresses for a small boutique in Palm Beach while her husband, abuelo, worked the Fanjul’s sugar cane fields. Abuela’s personal claim to history is that First Lady Jackie Kennedy bought dresses from the Palm Brach boutique and wore them around the White House. In her final days, abuela lived in the backroom of the house on 1521 Alegriano Avenue. Adjacent to her living area was the center of all action, the family room. It was in that family room where I would jump up and down and swing my hips to Celia Cruz’s booming voice on the speakers. Abuela would then croak my name in her thick accent, because even though she could not see me and my moves, she wanted to hear my broken Spanish and feel my baby-soft hands. Wherever abuela went, she left a piece of herself. She left a piece of herself in Cuba. She left a piece of herself in her stitchings. She left a piece of herself in me.
V.
I started taking ballet classes this semester. I want to be more elegant and eloquent. Like a beauty pageant queen. Abuela always moved with grace and precision, even if I only remembered her in bed. She adored ballerinas. She chose Degas as her favorite painter, specifically because of his iconic paint41
ings of these poised and sophisticated dancers. Sometimes, when my schedule allows it, I’ll go to the Met and plop myself in the Degas gallery. I picture myself in those paintings, pirouetting across the dance room floor and landing in first position. I feel something while gazing at the delicate posture of the ballerinas. A hereditary nostalgia.
VI.
Gonzalez girls don’t cry. My father used to tell my sisters and me this when we had tantrums in the backseat. It was his way of instilling a sense of pride to his snotty, teary-eyed daughters. You are the Gonzalez girls and the Gonzalez girls are strong. They do not cry. What if we drew on the wall and mami got mad? Gonzalez girls don’t cry. What if Sophia took our Barbie? Gonzalez girls don’t cry. What if we failed our algebra test? Gonzalez girls don’t cry. What if Robert doesn’t like us back? Gonzalez girls don’t cry. What if abuela died? Gonzalez girls don’t cry. VII. I bleached my hair a sickening yellow. In the third floor bathroom of Reid, I took a bottle of Manic Panic’s Amplified Flash Lightning Bleach and drenched my hair in the solution. My eyes stung and my scalp screamed. But I didn’t wash it off. I let the bleach strip my hair of its color while it burned every inch of my head. If I could, I would have bleached my skin until it was raw too. I would have cracked my clavicles. I would have cut off the fat from my ass and let it bleed onto the already stained bathroom tile. I cried on the phone to mami. Why would you ever bleach your hair and ruin what God gave you? You looked just like abuela. Now that beauty is gone. Que malcriada. That was the point, mami. I am not abuela. I am not pure azucar. 42
VIII.
The honored Cuban-American poet Gustavo Perez-Firmat articulated three stages every immigrant group “passes through.� Substitution. Destitution. Institution. But there is a phenomenon, more specifically a generation, Perez-Firmat does not mention. This generation goes beyond the three stages. American born Cubans (ABCs), as some Miami-Cubans may coin it. A combination between both the substitution and destitution era, they are the redefined Cuban-American. ABCs are direct products of their immigrant predecessors. They are reproductions of what may have lived back in the homeland, a manufactured copy. But they are also a prominent figure of the outcome of destitution, a reminder of the generations who have lost their culture and roots so native to the island. Because of the intertwining of substitution and destitution, ABCs swallow what is fed to them. They become duplicates of their padres and abuelos, unable to create an original identity for themselves. They are stitched together by different pieces of their heritage, only to find out the identity, the body, they inherit is a hereditary body.
43
“CONCENTRATION TIME” Sara Samuel
It’s the sweetest thing, When you have your mother’s laugh. Even when she’s not with you, She’s there every time you have a moment of joy. PAULA FRANCIS 44
AVA REID
29 B.C.
You are a just and fair queen, but this story is not about you. This story is about Rome, which burns half a hundred times but is always – always – raised from the ashes. You are (not) so lucky. He goes to build his empire, and you are left to burn whatever he leaves behind. The flames climb higher, higher— Do you step into the pyre? (YES) (NO)
1600
You go mad one of these days. These things, they just happen (to girls like you). Your father wants your loyalty and your lover wants your love, but you promise yourself that neither of them will have your soul. You didn’t know this before, but madness, you find, is the only way to be free. Do you climb the willow tree? (YES) (NO)
45
1873
The story bears your name, but it’s not (really) about you. You’re practically a parenthetical in your own lengthy tome. The sky is always gray and you’ve been dying for years now, stuffed into satin dresses and hidden away in hotel rooms. Even the man who loves you looks at you with disdain. Do you walk towards the train? (YES) (NO)
1960
But you’re so young, they say—just a child. The old man who lives in your mother’s house is strange, but he looks at you with (something like) love. Old enough to know better, they say, but too young to die. And isn’t this (something like) death, after all? Do you answer the man’s call? (YES) (NO)
Now
You realize one day that you live in a world that doesn’t want you to survive. You are all of these girls at once and every crosswalk is a train track and every strange man on the street is Humbert. But you can write a story that is yours. Yours, and all of theirs—now and then. Do you pick up the pen? (YES) (NO)
46
EDITOR IN CHIEF
EDITOR IN CHIEF
Victoria Campa
Alina Siddiqui
ART EDITOR
LAYOUT AND DESIGN EDITOR
Francesca Butterfield
Aurian Carter
SOCIAL MEDIA CHAIR
WEBMASTER
Nora Foutty
Sara Hassan EVENT CHAIR Aley Longo
Cover Photo by Victoria Zavala Carvajal