La Vida Magazine | Fall 2013 by La Vida Penn

COVER STORY | Ni aquí, ni allá…¿Entonces dondé?

La Vida

Letter from the Editor Dear Reader,

Table of contents

Fall 2013 4

Just a Bit of Everything

Editor-in-Chief

TIFFANY GOMEZ Acquisitions Editor

CAROLINA ANGEL Business Manager

monica castillo

SHEILA QUINTANA

Staff Editors:

Athena Buell Diana Cabrera Emanuel Cordova Gabriela Coya Yessenia Gutierrez Melissa Jimenez Vanessa Lizarraga Nanette Nunu Andrés De Los Ríos Gleeson Ryan Johan Zambrano Special thanks to:

La casa latina THE latino Coalition STUDENT ACTIVITIES COUNCIL Art Communications Systems, Inc. Penn Publications Cooperative Cover Pictures Courtesy of:

By Yessenia Gutierrez

Un Ensayo de opinion

By Dia Sotiropoulou By Rafael E. Dilones

skip peru

By Kareli Lizarraga

A nation united by constitution

By Gerardo Cedillo-Servin

Un color indeciso

By Divya Ramesh

The untaught lesson

By Carolina Angel and Lucero Batista

Glassware Aisles

By Nanette Nunu

Pensando en una vida ya hecha

By Luis Vargas

Ni aquí, ni allá…¿Entonces dondé? By Contributing Writers Hispanic choice awards

By Yessenia Gutierrez

By Gleeson Ryan

By Giovanna Pineda

“¡Si Se Puede!”

日本語

incarceration

La luna

Javier Garcia

-ense

Web Design Editor

By Hope MacKenzie

Despicable Me 2 is Despicable

Layout Editor

ADAN JUAREZ

A Passerby

By Andrés De Los Ríos

By Justine Lee By Kevin Kelly

Where’s my liberation gone?

untitled

nosotros en la luna

By Arielle Panitch

This semester, the issue you are holding is a little bit different from any La Vida you may have encountered before. We decided, in a leap of faith, to bring La Vida to life in full color, on glossy paper and with an additional eight pages. Carolina’s theme for our last week of editing was to “GO BIG OR GO HOME!” and it was only right that I follow in our Acquisitions Editor footsteps and ensure that our last issue together would be extraordinary. In this case, our theme of distancia resonates with our newly renovated magazine because we have indeed, pushed our boundaries and gone the distance. However, through several long editor and board meetings, and our influx of submissions, I quickly learned distancia does not trigger the same thoughts in every individual. During the past two months, I myself have been wondering what distance means to me. Does it refer to the disconnect I feel between being a “grown-up” but still wanting to crawl into my mom’s bed and watch movies when I feel sick? Is it the physical distance I feel because I am the usual absentee when my scattered family is creating new memories in New York, Texas and Colombia? Or is it, the psychological distance my brain and myself are having because it’s hard to fathom that in only six months, I will be graduating college, forced to become a “real person” but somehow I still sometimes forget to sign my name when I write a check? (My landlords are not my biggest fans, sorry!) I guess distance has different implications for different people, but as I finish my second issue of La Vida, the most pertinent distance that I’m thinking about is the one that will happen once this issue has been printed, sealed and delivered. I have mixed feelings about stepping down as Editor-in-Chief. On one hand, I am lucky to have been given the chance to record just a miniscule part of Penn’s history through this wonderful publication. I have had the chance to work with an incredible board without whom this issue would not have come into fruition. I have led pitching meetings in which voices that aren’t mine passionately and enthusiastically fill a room with ideas for what our publication should represent and every time remind me why I chose to become a part of La Vida in the first place. The overwhelming talent that has crowded our email over the last year with essays, vignettes, short stories, poems, photographs and artwork made my job both incredibly easy and

incredibly hard. Ironically, I do not do well with making final decisions. However, my last issue of La Vida means that sure enough there will be more even more appropriate thoughts that echo in the word distancia. All the people that have supported the La Vida staff over the last year will no longer be within a 10-block radius from me. La Casa, where my worries about submissions and Adan’s exasperated outbursts about my doubts occupied the rooms more times than I’d like to admit, will now be the main recipient of my alumni donations. Most of all, I will have to face my biggest fear as a micromanager and self-proclaimed control freak and actually hand over the reigns of our magazine to the next editor-in chief. Being Editor-In-Chief has shaped my Penn experience in more ways than one. I have become a better creator, writer, editor, leader, listener and even friend through all of my experiences with the people I have encountered because of this magazine. More importantly, being part of La Vida has only reaffirmed things that I felt about students at Penn: we are a multifaceted, skilled, driven and ardent people who will surely be the movers and shakers of the world through all the different and future mediums of information. I’m lucky that so many of you chose to house your work in our pages of La Vida over the last year; when you’re all making the big bucks through your art, don’t forget where you were first published! Lastly, to all our readers, supporters and overall lovers of La Vida, thank you for giving our staff and I the chance to showcase the array of experiences, thoughts, worries, wonders, and talents of Penn—the place that I have learned to call home and that has been both the reason and relief for some of the distancia.

Tiffany Gomez editor-in-chief

By Emanuel Martinez

By Gionni Ponce

Photograph by Andrés De Los Ríos

A Passerby

Just a Bit of Everything

BY hope mackenzie Phantom breezes chill my empty arms where I once felt your heat. As the sun sets in the summer sky, a shadow trails my feet. With a firm grasp on my ankles, it helps navigate the street, But a passerby would say that I’m alone. Buried flavors sting the air, but when detected they will leave. And my hands feel something missing, so beside my hips they grieve. Mourn a loss of gravestone kisses that my mind can still retrieve, But a passerby would say that I’m alone.

BY Andrés De Los Ríos

If I look from side to side, I know I will not find you there, But the last words that you uttered are still frozen in the air. Words that wait to thaw from red hot love that you and I will share, But a passerby would say that I’m alone.

s early as 10 a.m. on a Saturday, different cultures begin to pour themselves into my home, taking the shape of various characters standing on the stage that is my living room. Around the coffee table, my Colombian parents are checking their laptops for emails from relatives in Cali or Bogotá. Mexican me, instead, is sitting on the couch reading an American novel. All the while in the background of the scene, a Chilean “trio” sings regional folklore. Through the windows of the apartment lies Mexico City, deep inside the valley of Tenochtitlan, crowned by the“marriage”of volcanoes: female Iztcachihuatl and male Popocatepetl. Even on a normal Saturday morning, cultures congregate under my roof. They fit together as pieces from a jigsaw puzzle made up from dozens of colors, ranging from one edge of the spectrum to the other. Cultures have somehow played a prominent part throughout my whole life. Whether in the shape of a meal, an idiom, or a tradition, life has been feeding me culture ever since I was born a Mexican to a pair of Colombians. As if such conundrum weren’t enough, I have lived my life in several stages, moving from place to place for one reason or the other. My father’s job has taken my family to Chile, Colombia, and Mexico. Our personal enjoyment has guided us to ruins deep within the Yucatan Peninsula and overseas to delightful villas extended over the Tuscan Valley. My habit of reading, preferably in English, has shown me different ideas, events, and personas, which transcend time and place. My own education has led me to the United States, to the point of leaving home so that I may experience one full year as an independent, international student at an American school. Regardless of the situation, my cultures have always been separated into two different worlds. Sometimes, I have to go along an American-Hispanic way of life, other times my day-to-day experience turns into a Colombian-Mexican chain of events. At first, living in a cultural blender made my life a mess. There always seemed to be a reason to mock the foreign kid: his accent is funny, his clothes don’t match ours, his family acts weird, etc. But time has been a patient teacher, because now I have learned to embrace all that I am and have been, wherever life takes me. My “Stranger in a Strange Land” persona has become that of a “Citizen of the World.” And so, I’ve gotten to know cities as intimate friends who await my return just so that they may show more of themselves. I have tasted all sorts of ethnic meals just for the sake of the experience. I have grasped and taken away bits of civilizations in order to feed the cultural drive inside me that keeps asking for more of the new, as well as more of the old. I no longer see the world through the eyes of a Mexican or a Colombian, but as an individual eager to learn from each human being, each country, each culture.

Photograph by Gionni Ponce

You are sun and moon and stars to me, and by your watch I’ve grown. You are future, past, and present - in my whole life you are sewn. A passerby sees empty arms and thinks you’ve gone and flown, But inside I know I’ll never be alone.

日本語

BY yessenia gutierrez I’d rather learn Japanese. My grandmother keeps telling me I have to get better at Spanish, that that’s our language. But, I’d rather learn Japanese. She gets really mad when she sees me studying it. “Deberías estar estudiando español en vez.” My aunt tries telling her that there’s no reason I can’t study both. But I’d rather learn Japanese. My aunt tries speaking to me only in Spanish, but her English sneaks out. She’d rather speak in English too, I think, but she makes an effort not to. She buys us Spanish books and reads them to us, plays us Spanish music. She also listens to J-rock, and watches anime. And she’s learning Japanese in school. I ask her to teach me more Japanese, but she says for every Japanese phrase I have to speak in only Spanish for five minutes. I’m a lot better at Spanish than my siblings. My youngest sister can’t really roll her r’s. And, I can spell it. I don’t really get tildes though. My aunt says if I read more in Spanish I will. But reading in Spanish is hard, and it takes so much time. Instead, I watch anime. My aunt tells me Spanish is important to us because “Tu abuela solo sabe español. Y tu bisabuela. Y tus primos.” I get that. I really like visiting them in Guatemala, but I don’t like that I can’t speak English there. “Es peligroso,” they say. I want to be able to speak any language I want.

Despicable Me 2 is DESPICABLE: How Your Summertime Movie Favorite Has Set Latin@s Back BY Giovanna Pineda

must admit, I think the minions are insanely funny. I enjoy Agnes’ obsession with unicorns, and I love how Gru was able to change from a self-serving villain to a loving father. What I don’t love...is racism. Sorry if that escalated too quickly. While several viewers loved the sequel to one of 2010’s biggest blockbusters, Despicable Me, I was trying my hardest to look past the blatant stereotypes against Latin@s that were created by writers who probably thought they were contributing to comedic value. Before I go on, I’d like to establish that I loved the first film. I found the concept original, the plot refreshing, the characters profoundly developed, and its animation absolutely beautiful. But this time around, I think something went sour for me. As the Ivy League daughter of two successful Mexican American parents who have been fighting several pervasive stereotypes since they entered the professional world in this country seventeen years ago, I believe it’s safe to say that I was less than pleased with Pierre Coffin and Chris Renaud’s despicable follow-up to their feel-good film of 2010, which portrays a Mexican-American man by the name of Eduardo Perez, A.K.A. “El Macho,” in a very reductive way. El Macho comes into Gru’s life when he enters his cupcake shop to order “Cinco de Mayo” cupcakes. Afterwards, Margo becomes interested in his devil-maycare son, Antonio, and Gru then pins him as a suspect for a very serious crime. While I am not upset about the fact that the villain is Mexican, I am upset at his

portrayal. To elucidate, here are a few observations: • He orders some cupcakes and gives out chip sombreros at his “Cinco de Mayo” celebration (even though most Mexicans do not actually celebrate this occasion). • He has a sizable belly, a thick beard, a HUGE nose, a hairy chest, and a balding head. • He wears a red satin shirt, and speaks of love in wistful clichés. • He is a former “luchador.” • He has a gold chain and a tattoo of the Mexican flag. • He owns a “Mexican” restaurant known for its salsa dancing and margaritas. • He has a suave, yet ultimately apathetic son who plans on becoming “a professional video gamer,” and who is apparently inca- pable of staying faithful in a relationship. • He and his son are, of course, good at dancing.. • He owns a pet chicken named “Pollito.” They’ve got it all wrong. Why did they think this wasn’t offensive? Interestingly enough, I’m not the only one who’s been offended; in fact, various writers have acknowledged the film’s prolongation of racist stereotypes – along with other issues, like sexism and masculinity. Several articles, with titles like “Despicable Microaggressions: Sexism, Racism & More in Despicable Me 2,” and “Despicable Me 2 Lives Up to the Title in All the Worst Ways,” have shown me that I am not alone.

It is well known that “Hollywood racism” is not a new concept, and that it has assaulted the progress of several ethnic groups for decades. But with the continuous releases of other racially charged, yet thought-provoking movies like Django Unchained, and, recently, Twelve Years a Slave, why is it that the writers of Despicable Me 2 didn’t think twice before they released their film? Dr. Parthenia Grant of CRN Digital Radio states that, “In spite of some progress, the unsettling reality today remains that when Asian, Chicano, Native American or African American children… see their race depicted very little, if at all… a subliminal message is sent and received.” And this is why Despicable Me 2 worries me.

“

What did the young Latino viewers think about when they left the theater? Did they think about becoming a professional gamer or breaking some girl’s heart? Did they think that they’re destined to be nothing more than slackers in leather jackets without real dreams? Or did they just laugh along like their friends did?

mains. And while people like Guillermo Del Toro, Alfonso Cuarón, Antonio Banderas, Salma Hayek, Penélope Cruz, and many more have increased the presence of Latin@s in the media, I feel that there’s still a lot of work to be done – especially now that stereotypes like these have been prolonged through the mainstream. Are we capable of ridding ourselves of the seemingly indelible damage made by this film, and several others? Well, we must start by demonstrating that we are hardworking, talented, intelligent human beings who deserve to be portrayed as such. That we are a beautiful amalgamation of languages, traditions, and stories, and that we are all essential cogs in the machine who serve as Supreme Court Justices, teach children, cure illnesses, design buildings, and contribute, and will continue to contribute, to the nation and the world every single day. We must show the media that we are so much more than a pathetic caricature; we always have been, and we always will be.

Several articles, with titles like ‘Despicable Microaggressions: Sexism, Racism & More in Despicable Me 2,’ and “Despicable Me 2 Lives Up to the Title in All the Worst Ways,” have shown me that I am not alone.”

For a long time, I thought that real progress had been made for Latin@s in the media, and that shows like Taina, The Brothers García, The George Lopez Show, Ugly Betty, and even Dora the Explorer and Maya and Miguel provided us with an unprecedented contribution to the media and a promising future. But only one of those shows re-

We must prove them all wrong. After all, if we don’t, who will?

Incarceration

-ense

BY gleeson ryan Something compels me to say that dark skin and mariachi move me that a blue-eyed paraguayo reminds me of my irish self and that adjectives ending in –ense are hard to make myself pronounce. Sometimes I forget that the poster of Guanajuato on my wall was a gift and is not from home. Sometimes I forget to call home. Sometimes I forget my place.

You can change your history but you can’t change the history that happened before you got here and that got you here.

We’ve all got secrets but mine don’t make sense. I am not from here even though I pretend to be. I got it backwards again.

I try to believe that language is more important than content but I am not always sure how to express my love.

I don’t know why I would want to. Something compels me to fake the words to the songs I feel like I should know but have never heard. My heart is backwards and sometimes I am afraid that I am ignorant. Later I am comforted because I know I am.

e live in a country that holds just 5 percent of the global population, but 25 percent of its prison population, according to a recent Al Jazeera article. This disproportionate rate of imprisonment is not just an embarrassment; it’s an indicator that we need to re-examine our prison system. Florida, for example, is increasingly turning to prison privatization in an effort to save money. Private companies now hold all of Florida’s 3,300 juvenile prison beds, despite federal investigators uncovering complaints of these companies failing to report everything from assault cases, to riots, to sexual abuse in their juvenile prisons. It also has an over 40 percent one-year reoffending rate, one of the worst in the country. Compare this to the state of New York’s 25 percent reoffending rate, where there is little history of private juvenile facilities. Such issues are not limited to a single state or region. Just this year, Philadelphia made national headlines after passing massive cuts to their education budget, closing over 20 schools and laying off the majority of non-teacher staff, while simultaneously building a new $400-million prison. The cost of keeping their school system operating as before: $300 million. The justification for this decision, according to a Forbes article, arises from the state’s prison system operating at 105 percent capacity — housing 2,705 more prisoners than it’s suppose to. Philadelphia, however, is not alone. U.S. prisoner numbers began swelling in the 1980s, with the passage of “tough on crime” laws, the war on drugs, and minimum sentencing, which have pushed more people into the prison system, and for longer periods. Today, the U.S. is seeing falling crime rates. More people are voicing their opposition to the war on drugs, resulting in less severe punishments. As a result, there is an increasing criminalization of other populations, in an effort to keep prisoner level sufficiently high enough for private prisons to turn a profit. One of the new most targeted groups are immigrants.

Photograph by Gionni Ponce

A 2011 Huffington Post article reported that the amount earned from immigrant detention and removal proceedings doubled between 2005 and 2010 to $2.5 billion—spelling large profits for private prison companies, which now house almost half of immigrants detained by the federal government. Mirroring their actions in the 1980s for increased drug offense sentences, these companies justify lob-

By yessenia gutierrez

bying for harsher immigration laws under the guise of public safety. However, this is harder to believe when you realize that between 2005 and 2009 the majority of immigration violation detainees had no criminal records. A related strategy is the implementation of occupancy agreements, sometimes referred to as “prison quotas,” which set certain occupancy levels for operation. If the private prison population drops below this level, state governments must pay the difference, or “lost profits.” As a result, states like Colorado would rather divert prisoners to private prisons, even when their state prisons remain unfilled. This, coupled with the higher rates of re-offences associated with private facilities, calls into question the money-saving argument in favor of private prisons. Many critics argue that these practices create a disincentive for states to lower their prison populations, to avoid paying these companies the difference in operating cost. But even if private prisons could save money for the government, a claim that is questionable at best, is that the sole measure by which we should be measuring their success? We are allowing our state governments to hand off their responsibilities to companies with no greater interest than maximizing returns on investments. Why have we given a social imperative like rehabilitation to an industry motivated by profits? The prison system wasn’t designed to generate profits—it is fundamentally a public good. It’s easy to forget that services like these don’t just benefit those in the system. They are traditionally under control of the government because ultimately these services help the entirety of society. Just as the public education system is meant to create a well-educated and prepared workforce, so too, the criminal justice system is meant to provide rehabilitation and training for those that have fallen into crime, producing a stronger workforce and increased safety. Our prison system is a social responsibility, and as such its current problems should be granted more attention. The conversation on prison reform is complex, but it is one of the most important and far-reaching social justice issues today. Through increased awareness and organizing, it is within our power to amplify this conversation, creating a callto-action that state and federal legislators can’t ignore.

“Si Se Puede!” A Mantra for Action BY Luis vargas

Un ensayo de opinión:

La Mujer y el sartén en la cocina no están bien BY Nanette Nunu

his year’s programming celebrating Latin@ Heritage Month at the University of Pennsylvania was by far the most impressive I’ve seen during my time here at Penn. Latin@ Heritage Month is the nationally recognized period from September 15 to October 15 to reflect on and celebrate the contributions of Latin@s to the United States. As expected, The Center for Hispanic Excellence: La Casa Latina worked hard to put together a series of events throughout Latin@ Heritage Month to bring awareness of Latin@ culture on campus and educate attendees on the great impact Latin@s have had on the United States. The highlight of this series of events was the Annual “Dolores Huerta” Lecture featuring the namesake herself: Dolores Huerta. If you don’t know who Dolores Huerta is or have heard of her but don’t know why she’s so important--take a seat and get comfortable. Here’s a history lesson for you: Dolores Huerta was born in Dawson, New Mexico in 1930. After her parents’ divorce, she moved with her mother and siblings to Stockton, California. However, she still kept in touch with her father and admired his tenacity to push the boundaries of expected success. She went on to graduate from Stockton College and found her passion in helping farmworkers win fair working conditions. She recognized the fundamental power behind legislation and used her employment at her local chapter of the Community Service Organization (CSO) to lobby California state legislators to enact progressive legislation like old-age pensions for noncitizens. Cesar Chavez was a CSO official who shared her same passion. Huerta and Chavez joined forces, eventually leaving CSO and founding the National Farm Workers

Association under the United Farm Workers (UFW) union. Huerta and Chavez were movers and shakers in the labor space, creating a national context requiring the passage of the 1975 Agricultural Labor Relations Act through nationwide boycotts of lettuce, grape, and Gallo wine. Huerta’s most recent efforts include co-founding the UFW’s radio station and serving on the U.S. Commission on Agricultural Workers from 1988 to 1993. She continues to speak in various venues and raises funds for immigration policy and farmworker quality of life. Dolores Huerta is an icon for social justice; she coined a phrase that quintessentially describes her humanitarian efforts: “¡Si Se Puede!” In 2008, this would become the phrase adopted by the Obama campaign to capture the hopes and dreams of Americans in three simple words. In English, the phrase is: “Yes We Can!” When chanted, this phrase has a riveting effect that drives one to realize how individual efforts can mobilize groups to reach common goals for the benefit of mankind. This was the feeling I left Houston Hall’s Hall of Flags with on October 1st. Dolores Huerta’s lecture was one that focused on how we could mobilize our peers to fight for human rights. Our cause could be about anything, but she inspired us to use our voices and growing education to make an impact. She left me feeling proud not only to be Latino, but also a citizen of the world capable of contributing to society. “¡Si Se Puede!” we chanted. Yes we can. And we will.

oy una mujer moderna. En toda mi vida, nunca hubo obstáculos que me impidieran hacer lo que quiero solo porque soy mujer. Pero, yo sé que en la historia no siempre fue así y que ahora, hay gente quien cree que debemos volver a un tiempo cuando la mujer solo debía estar en casa, cuidando a los niños y cocinando comida para su familia. En mi opinión, esto es ridículo. No creo que la mujer deba ser tan restringida en su vida. Opino que la mujer debe tener la libertad de hacer cualquier cosa que ella quiera. No comprendo por qué alguien le gustaría vivir en el pasado en una época cuando toda la gente no tenia los mismos derechos. La mujer y el sartén en la cocina significa que la mujer no debería hacer otras cosas , como trabajar en oficinas, tener su propio dinero, hacer la mili, obtener su educación y otras cosas que aumentan el poder y la calidad de vida de mujeres. Personalmente, sin la libertad de hacer cualquier cosa que yo quiero es como si yo fuera una esclava, oprimida y sin derechos. Una esclava de la población masculina. A lo largo de la historia, los hombres han tenido el poder de hacer todo lo que quieren. Lo más importante de la vida de un hombre es ejecutar su poder y demostrar que es fuerte y que es el jefe de su casa, el que mantiene a su familia. Tiene poder sobre sus niños y sobre su mujer. Tradicionalmente, la mujer es la segunda en una casa. Yo no creo que esto sea bueno. Pero los tiempos están cambiando. Ahora, la mayoría de mujeres, si están casadas, no son dependientes de sus maridos , y muchas mujeres también tienen familias sin un padre y son solteras. En mi opinión, estas mujeres son los más fuertes. Han asumido el papel de “jefa de la casa.” Me parece que es un movimiento social que muchas mujeres han tomado sus vidas en sus manos y quieren ser individuales e independientes. Mucha gente opina el opuesto, pero yo no considero que sea una falta de respeto a la estructura familiar tradicional, creo que es un paso en la dirección correcta. Para mi generación, hay un esfuerzo fuerte a ser independiente en un mundo que quiere poner obstáculos en nuestro camino. Nuestras madres nos han dicho que tenemos el poder de cambiar y afectar el mundo. No podemos hacerlo desde la cocina. Yo nunca estaré de acuerdo de que la mujer y el sartén estén bien en la cocina. Para mi, es como decir, los negros están bien en los campos, no es ni posible ni aceptable.

Photograph by thatgirlfrommars

Ni aquí, ni allá… ¿Entonces dondé? Intro BY Vanessa Lizarraga Belonging is something we strive for everyday. Being a part of something and fitting in is in an essential part of our lives, is it not? Yet, what happens when you don’t seem to fit in? What then? Gender, literally referring to the state of being male or female, is one of those topics that is often pushed aside. In our society, we are often limited to two choices: male or female. Simple, right? What is there to talk about? The reality is that gender is a highly controversial topic that can be perceived differently among individuals. Gender perception varies from place to place, person to person. Unfortunately, it is those perceptions that factor into our ability to “fit” in or belong. How then do we live with certain perceptions of gender that are labeled onto us? How do they change us? Or, do they make us stronger, strive for more?

Luis Escarzaga Honestamente pienso que no tengo hogar. I was born in Mexico and I lived there until I was eight. In Mexico, I was surrounded by dozens of people who loved and cared for me. Since my family and I moved to California, I’ve never felt at home again. I’ve had conversations with my mom about what home is, and she agrees she hasn’t felt at home either since our move. My mother understands “home” as a state of being, not a physical location. As I grew up in California, I became more aware of my queer identity. I tried telling my parents I was queer and it did not go very well. My parents are very active church leaders and to them, I was being “tricked” into a “life of sin.” They had me fast and pray for hours, until I decided I had no choice but to lie and say I had indeed “prayed the gay away.” I came to realize that being with my family did not mean I was home; I was no longer comfortable and safe. California was not home because I was too queer. I purposely applied to schools on the east coast because I wanted to get away from my parents, explore my identity and find a place I could feel comfortable and safe again. For the entirety of my freshman year, however, Penn didn’t feel like home. At first, it was fascinating to interact with members of the queer community because I never had queer friends. I only knew of one other “out” male in my high school, and no one in my family, to my knowledge, is queer. I guess you could say I had no clue what being queer meant or entitled. At the time, it meant not being (strictly) heterosexual. I eventually realized that being queer at Penn was exhausting and that going to a university with such a large queer community was not as fun as I thought it would be. I struggled to be as eloquent and well-versed in all queer issues when inter-

acting with other members of the queer community. I realized I was not queer enough. I eventually had the opportunity to educate myself on queer culture and think about my identity, but I still did not feel comfortable or safe. (To be clear, I have never been directly physically or verbally attacked, so Penn is a very safe space in that sense.) I am slowly learning to make peace with the idea that some people in my life will never truly see me for who I am (they’ll only see what they want to see). At the end of the day, all I can be and all I have to offer is simply me. Eventually, I embraced the idea that home really was ni aqui, ni alla. Penn will never truly be home—no, it’s just a pit stop along my journey of selfdiscovery to that state-of-being in which I can find happiness in being exactly who I am.

Harlin Lee One summer evening after my second year of boarding school, I grabbed some ice cream from the freezer and sat down on the floor next to my mom. She was grimacing, but without turning away from the television. “Ew, that’s disgusting.” Expecting from her facial expression to see nothing less weird than a monkey having sex with cheese, I followed her gaze, and saw two men sitting across the table, debating what soup would go well with the rice they were having. Before I could ask if I was missing something, my mom beat me to it. “Harlin, do you think it’s possible for two men to ‘love’ each other?” She pronounced “love” in a weird way, as if she had forgot-

ten to take off the quotation marks before saying it. Oh. This must be the show that my loving Christian brothers and sisters across Korea have been threatening to shut down for the past two months. “Yea,” I pulled up the face I use whenever one of my dorm faculty asks me if I had finished my homework before playing cards. Thankfully, mother was too busy observing the two fictional gay men chat their way to hell with their black rice. But with her eyes saying America ruins good kids, she did turn around to ask her second question: “Harlin, are there ‘gays’ in your school too?” I could tell from her tone that only the lack of articles in Korean language prevented her from saying “the gays.” I quickly glanced at the screen: the fictional gay couple, my only ally in this household, had switched to an older man cheating on his wife. Dammit, why is my heart beating so fast? I shoved a spoonful of ice cream down my throat. It was as if one day God got bored from being benevolent all the time, thought Hey, let’s make her gay just to spice things up a bit! and pushed me into the world with a hearty Okay, kiddo, now good luck with your super conservative Korean parents!

Jara Krys Just be yourself, don’t worry about what anyone thinks – you will be much happier… A phrase most of us hear, and yet the narrator is typically ignorant of our troubles; for them it is just a sentence, for us it is a treacherous journey. Being myself was not possible, lying to myself was my only hope. In a Hispanic family stuck with expectations for their children, gender roles to be filled, being a feminine boy was a mistake followed by punishment, not an acceptable form of self-exploration. I began to belittle myself, feel unworthy of being brought into this world, with so few role models for transgender individuals, I had no prospects for the future. Too many thoughts went through my mind: disappointment, confusion, hurt, and loneliness – far too many times was it unbearable. The face is feminine, Yet I can’t claim a sex, For such a distinct code, My body is too complex.

Really, how does one smoothly lead into to a yes, and speaking of, there’s one right here? Maybe I should start with the day I watched Pride and Prejudice and fell in love with Elizabeth instead of Mr. Darcy; or the day I noticed how no one else in my dorm found the kiss between the hot jewelry thief and the secret agent as attractive as I did; or the day I saw a girl in math class and felt so nervous and happy and new and weird around her for the following two weeks…

As I started high school, I had more opportunities to understand who I was, and to try to be myself. Of course this was simply outside of my home life, and it was almost as if I was an entirely different person. My friends accepted me without doubt, and I finally had a place to call home. Yet this did not happen without complications, as my new life path brought too many issues with my living situation, I left my house never to return. This made me a poor high school student, living on my own, having little to no money for food as I struggled to pay for bills I had never thought of before, but I was just being myself – a difficult reality to face.

To my mother, gays and lesbians dwell in the 6th dimension with dragons and unicorns and single moms and multi-racial babies. If this part of me does not exist in her world, who is me that she sees— am I even here at all?

The words never come out, And my representation is faded, With such a judgmental planet, My identity seems wasted.

Defeated, I broke off my gaze first. “Of course!” I put just enough annoyance in my voice to prevent her from asking me further questions about who “those gays” might be. The heterosexual couple on the television screen was kissing passionately while the camera went around them in a full circle: the show was coming to an end. As soon as I saw the credits roll up the screen, I abruptly stood up, picked up the ice cream from the floor, and stormed into my room.

My hard work finally paid off, as I was accepted into Penn with a full scholarship, temporarily easing my financial struggles. Still the prospects of transitioning waned heavily over my shoulders, with no wealth or family support, I attempted suicide. That day I went to a therapist and my life changed forever, as I learned about the possibility of my transition covered by Penn’s insurance. Until that point I questioned the notion of life getting better, because trying to live as a man was increasingly torturous. Now I have new hope, and I have never felt happier: my transition to freedom has begun.

Crap. Terrified, I whispered to myself behind the closed doors. I could almost hear my mother’s confusion through the wall. And I felt like crying.

But as I consider my misdirection, I find a new acceptation, My life is everything but typical, It’s the imperfections that make me beautiful.

Pensando en una vida ya hecha

10th Annual

Hispanic Choice Awards

BY Divya Ramesh Caminaba junto a la calle rumbo al domicilio, Me sentía avergonzada de mi vestido andrajoso. Miraba de reojo la gente que me rodeaba, Con sus trajes planchados, me amenazaban.

BY carolina Ángel and lucero batista

he tenth annual Hispanic Choice Awards (HCA) opened with a performance by the cast of In the Heights, a Broadway musical that celebrates the vivacity of the Washington Heights community in New York City, a neighborhood mostly known for its poverty and crime rates. This performance was the perfect way to launch an awards show like no other, one that celebrates the accomplishments of the Hispanic community in the Delaware Valley area. The Hispanic Choice Awards tells the story of Hispanic leaders in politics, business, education and the arts, a story that is seldom told and little known. Statistically, given our low socioeconomic background, Hispanic heritage and gender, we should not be where we now stand. We look to our peers and see that there are many people around us who share our story, but little did we know that there were many more people, just like us, who have already made it to places we have only ever dreamed of. HCA gave us the opportunity to learn about these successful community leaders. Their lives and accomplishments paint a picture much different from what we usually see in the media; instead of poverty and crime ridden narratives of the Hispanic community, HCA narrates and celebrates its activism, entrepreneurship, creativity, and expansive presence across all professional sectors. Ten years ago, Javier Suarez founded the first ever Hispanic Choice Awards with only 23 people in attendance. He did not give up and as a result of the hard work and countless hours put towards planning the event every year it has since grown exponentially. On October 5, 2013 Suarez and Executive Producer Ce-

cilia Ramirez opened the Tenth Annual Hispanic Choice Awards with a guest list of over 1000 professionals at the historical Merriam Theater in Philadelphia.

Limpiaba las calles como una barrendera, Esperando encontrar algunas monedas. Guardaba cada tesoro de mi búsqueda, Una vez hallé un reloj de pulsera

No decision was ever made lightly and that is something we, as interns, came to realize rather quickly. For example, the American Heart Association of Southeastern Pennsylvania was chosen as the philanthropic partner because of their work dedicated to bettering the lives of minority women at risk of heart disease. Likewise, every single logistical detail, from the table clothes to the timing of the performances, was meticulously mapped out by Ramirez and assisting in the realization of her vision was a rewarding experience. Even more rewarding was the thought that what we were doing was much more than just an internship.

Cortando por la muchedumbre, Me sorprendía mi propia mansedumbre. Una mendiga, una ladrona, entre gentilhombres, Es mejor que no hablen los inferiores. La vergüenza y las etiquetas que sufría, Pensaba que serían la humillación eterna. Habría evitado la policía si pudiera, Pero de vivir no sabía otra manera. Contribuía a la subsistencia de mi familia, Trayendo mis ofrendas a la sucia choza, Oraba que mi afán dejara en la mesa, Para Mamá un bocado extra. La miseria nos abofeteaba. El alquiler nos daba pesadillas. Veía la vida de lujo que disfrutaban los demás Y quería esconderme bajo un antifaz.

The Hispanic Choice Awards challenges the perceptions of the community at large, and does so in a fun and engaging way. From the glamorous red carpet entrance, to the electrifying after party, we witnessed the warm interactions between strangers connected by their interest in promoting the success story of the Hispanic community. We shook hands with political figures and danced along side the cast of our favorite musical, needless to say that the experience was surreal! We laud the Hispanic Choice Awards for bringing together people from all walks of life to support and celebrate the presence, contributions and achievements of the Hispanic community in Philadelphia!

Los ingresos de mi padre nunca eran suficientes. En el colegio, no pude matricularme, Apoyaba la casa aunque quería aprender, La pobreza no me permitía crecer y saber La despensa en mi casa siempre estaba vacía. Atacaba los estantes para la comida que no había. Hecho de piel y huesos frágiles, era una calavera Que llegó hasta la madurez de alguna manera. Deseos y esperanzas que ya han fallecido. Apenas, ahora, puedo postularme en un trabajo. Recuerdo, de mi infancia, los hombres caballerescos, Y odio no tener lo que tienen ellos. Las manecillas de mi reloj ya han hecho un círculo. Las oportunidades para volver a empezas se han volado. Veo la calle, aún limpia, por mis esfuerzos, Hasta que muera vivirá mi hábito diario. Hacer sacrificios en cada etapa de la vida Para tener éxito en este mundo, no basta. A los que tienen los recursos y la riqueza, Llega la recompensa de bonanza

To learn more about the Hispanic Choice Awards visit hcaphilly.com. Photography Courtesy of Adalberto Boyer, Simon Bolivar, Ritmos Unidos, Contigo Photography, and El Sol Newspaper

Art by Terrill Warrenburg

The Untaught Lesson

Glassware Aisle: Sección de cristalería By Gerardo Cedillo-Servin Inspired by Popol Vuh (the Mayan creation myth) and a collection of Mayan objects, Glassware Aisle employs alternated episodes of illusion and reality to present a schizophrenic view of life. It is an experimental attempt to recontextualize Aztec and Mayan thought into the alienation of an overpopulated Mexican city. Tiraste la copa con vodka sobre el azulejo de goethita. Pesado, levantas el brazo para lavar el piso. Duele, piensas. Una vez limpiado, una vez límpido, tomas una ducha. Ves las gotas caer mientras el agua se calienta. Las gotas de lluvia que ayer viste caer sobre el parabrisas de tu coche parecían atentar contra ti mientras acelerabas. Explotaban al chocar, manchaban el vidrio con diáfana tinta. Después, avergonzadas, se retraían y escurrían. Escurren ahora por tu cristal, tu espejo empañado. Lo frotas con la toalla y escuchas el chillido de su risa burlona, escuchas el rechinar de sus filosos dientes, un sonido agudo que parece de máquina. Sigue doliendo, piensas. Listo para salir, abres la puerta. Se abre la puerta automática y entras al tren. Uno de la multitud se levanta y te dice, Señor, siéntate. Obedeces mientras observas la puerta, que te muestra extraños dibujos de líneas que bailan por fuera y luces que pasan de largo. Fausto. Finalmente la puerta hambrienta abre sus fauces y traga más gente, hasta saciarse. Sabes que no quiere comer más porque chilla como máquina. Tanetti. Pero las delicias no caben. La puerta empieza a masticar: abre y cierra, abre y cierra con sus colmillos afilados. Fausto. Los suculentos ceden y las fauces se cierran, entrecruzando los sables dentales. Tanetti. Fausto Tanetti, ¿me escuchas? Fausto Tanetti. Oyes por fin con claridad el desesperado llamado de la secretaria del doctor. Por favor, pasa al cuarto, te dice ella. Fractura conminuta cerrada de húmero, te dice el otro. ¿Cómo es que estás aquí? Debiste ir directo a emergencias, continúa diciendo él. No entiendo cómo puedes seguir moviendo el brazo cuando… Los rayos de oro entran y te iluminan. Sientes la calidez llegar a tu piel, cruzarla. La luz perfora tus huesos, los sana y los renueva. Los rayos atraviesan tu brazo y la placa de rayos x queda terminada. Ahora el doctor logra que sobre la fractura crezca una capa de blanco puro, de dureza indudable. Cirugía acordada, te dicen al final de la consulta. Regresas a tu casa, a tu cama blanca que con los años se pone más dura. Duermes bajo el ta-

pete colgado del techo que te recuerda a tu padre y abuelo. Caes al sueño imaginando sus aventuras: las imaginas grabadas en el tapete.

by kareli lizarraga

Cuando es oportuno, sales a buscar el hospital. Pides indicaciones y una persona cualquiera te dice, Es ahí derechito, toca el timbre de la puerta bajo el mascarón. Entonces ves que, sobre una puerta, una viga chueca sobresale de la pared. Viendo más de cerca, identificas ojos, nariz, dientes chirriantes, burlones. Entras y te encuentras en una sala enorme llena de pilares. No hay techo. El doctor te llama, Señor, ven por aquí. Te recuestan sobre una cama blanca. Al mismo tiempo, ves el cielo rojo. Escuchas que se acercan más personas. Todas parecen doctores, pero un brillo en sus ojos no te deja en paz. Sin palabras, sin ruido, te quedas acostado mientras todos te ven fijamente. Ahora no puedes moverte, pero parece que ellos se van alejando. Ni siquiera intentan correr, pero ya están a veinte pasos de ti. Se mueven cinco centímetros cada año, piensas. Y sí, ya van cincuenta años, ya van cuatrocientos años y los primeros hombres, los hombres de madera con que soñaron los mayas , te ven. Ya van mil y las ciudades se abandonan; ya van dos mil y los pueblos nacen y caen en un instante. Ahora todos te ven desde la cima de un edificio cercano. Con ojos de obsidiana, te ven mientras forman una fila, hombro con hombro. Una mirada que hiere, que incrusta pequeños fragmentos en la herida. Ellos se convierten en piedra, vigilando la entrada, y tú recuperas la capacidad de movimiento, aunque con dificultad te levantas de la cama de tezontle. Antes de irte escuchas un chirrido de obsidianas, una voz: No sanarás. Regresas a tu calli , al espejo. Desde la puerta, te contoneas lentamente. Mientras caminas junto a la silla, se rompe tu brazo derecho y cae por donde alguna mañana recogiste la taza de barro que se quebró y limpiaste la mancha color café. Un pedazo de tu cuerpo cae junto al dintel de la puerta de tu aposento. Otro bajo la puerta dentada, bajo las grecas, bajo el mascarón del gran Chaac , quien te vigila. Finalmente, te acuestas sobre la cama. De repente, el tapete de piedra basáltica con inscripciones cae sobre ti, listo en tu caja mortuoria. Descansas por fin. Las condiciones de presión y temperatura son propicias para la cristalización de tu rostro. Poco a poco, las piezas se forman. Cuatrocientas placas de brillante jade crecen sobre tus huesos traslúcidos. El canto florido ya no puede ayudarte, ni la inundación te salvará. La obra está lista. Estás listo. Sólo debes esperar a que alguien te encuentre.

Courtesy of Justine Lee

I set the bar low for the first day of school; as long as I did not cry or throw up in front of the 24 twelve yearolds in front of me, I would consider it a success. Three weeks into the school year, I was proud of myself because not only had I stayed true to my original goal, but it seemed that my students were actually learning from me. As a first year Teach For America Corp Member, there are few moments where I have felt like I am good at what I am doing so I savored the moment.

my students will have to face. I remember the uncertainty and even shame I felt while growing up, from being unable to open a bank account or get a license like the rest of my friends. From the constant threat of deportation to the crushingly limited access to higher education, Jorge and I have faced the consequences of our parents attempting to forge a better future for us.

In the middle of my breakdown, however, I remembered Ms. Aquina, my second grade teacher who would My rude awakening arrived in the middle of my first patiently go over English vocabulary with me until I period class. Feeling a tap on my shoulder, I turned finally learned the difference between “yellow” and and saw the Dean of students and a terrified boy by “Jell-O”. And Mrs. Howell and Mrs. Garcia, who durhis side. Jorge had left Guadalajara, Mexico and joined ing my senior year of high school helped me navigate his parents in Denver a month earlier. Needless to say, through the maze of applying to college as an undochis English was nonexistent umented student. It was beand he spent the rest of the pecause of their unwavering grit riod staring at his classmates and belief in my potential that I owe it to my students I was able to attain a worldas I apologetically smiled and translated the lesson as best I education. While having a and to these educators class could for him. green card was not within my to work just as tireless- means, it did not mean that an After class, Jorge and I talkLeague education would ly so that stories like Ivy ed for a few minutes about not be either. I owe it to my his life in Mexico. He missed mine are not consid- students and to these educators his friends, his home, and the to work just as tirelessly so that ered miraculous anom- stories like mine are not congrandmother that up until now had been his guardian. And it alies but rather, like my sidered miraculous anomalies was then that I tossed aside my but rather, like my boss says, a boss says, a testament testament of what can be. “no tears” rule; my stoic façade was replaced my deep sobs as of what can be.” I realized the challenges that It would be a blatant lie if I faced my student. For the rest said that I have figured it out of that day, the challenges I faced felt insurmountable. and feel confident as I finish my first trimester as a How could I, a first year and totally inexperienced teacher. In fact, there are days where I still ask myself teacher, even begin to prepare Jorge to succeed in a if it is even worth it. On those particularly trying days, society where his mere presence in this country was however, I like to remind myself of the small victories, considered criminal? like when Jorge was able to read his first book in English. It is those particular moments where I completely As someone that has been an undocumented immi- forget about my “no tears” rule and shed happy tears grant in the United States for the past 18 years, I am that reflect the progress that both my students and I acutely aware of the obstacles that Jorge and many of have started to make.

“

Un Color Indeciso C

ruzaba la calle un día intolerable en Nueva York. El semáforo apenas había cambiado y ya cada cuerpo impaciente ya se había tirado al río hostil de taxis. Parar por un momento en Times Square es esperar tu matanza segura; una cosa sangrienta que aprenden cada día montones de turistas siguiendo la delicia sádica de los veteranos que navegan con aire despreocupado. La danza provoca frustración y orgullo profundo en los locales, y los iniciados se adaptan ansiosamente para sentirse versados. Había puesto una bota en la calle cuando un tipo con un sombrero barato me agarró del brazo. Trate escaparme, pero el metiche me siguió hasta una esquina casi cerrada. Nos quedamos respirando profundamente. “Véte!”, le dije entonces. - ¡No, no! Me dijo con entusiasmo. Solo quería preguntarte qué eres. - ¿Qué soy? - Si. ¿Eres libanesa? ¡Porque tengo una sobrina que se parece exactamente a ti! Los mismos ojos hermosos, y la cinturita pequeña. Por Dios. Cuantas veces había ya encontrado la misma cosa. Para este punto no me molestaban las intenciones completamente transparentes sino la respuesta en si; una que aún no había establecido ni siquiera para mí misma. - “Debes ser árabe, amor. No puedo concebir otra posibilidad”, dijo mientras exponía sus dientes, como cebolletas. - “Eh…no, señor. Gracias. Así me dicen todos. Soy…soy filipina”. La moneda había sido lanzada. - “Filipina? No puede ser. No lo habría dicho jamás”. - “Pero así es la cosa, señor. Que tenga un buen día”. Siempre pienso en estas situaciones, sobre si hubiera sido mejor decirle – a él, o al turco que me abordó la semana antes, o a la madre hondureña que decidió sin duda que soy latina porque hablo “perfectamente” el español – que era griega, o simplemente mentirle para hacer las cosas mas fáciles.

Art by Dona Ardiana

Debería ser algo sencillo, algo cargado con orgullo compartido. Dominicana soy. Yo irlandesa. Yo americana, ya no soy de donde vengo, soy mil y una cosas. Tener herencia mezclada como

by Dia Sotiropoulou

resultado de una historia innecesariamente complicada te pone en un lugar que no está ni aquí ni allá. Para mi es especialmente difícil escaparlo, porque se refleja en cada aspecto – mi cutis mediterránea, pero que se broncea como la piel filipina de mi madre; mis ojos de mi abuela griega, colorados con un negro que solo se podría llamar oriental. Mis caderas han sido mi mayor problema. El culo filipino se podría comparar al latino - se dice que son los mexicanos de Asia. Por eso cuando camino por Brooklyn me convierto en “mami,” “mamacita”, además del ubicuo “shawty.” Mi padre y mi madre nacieron en países distintos, y se conocieron en Stony Brook. Desde aquel momento existirá la complicación de explicarles a mis primos respectivos que mi otra mitad estaría siempre en otra parte, y por eso parezco mestiza (para ellos, “extraña.”). Entonces mamá y “Babá” se mudaron a Inglaterra y decidieron tener su primer bebé. No me dieron papeles los ingleses – “yijoputas,” dirá mi abuela griega después – y Babá me trajo a Grecia por la ciudadanía. No sé cómo, pero mi madre logró conseguirme un pasaporte Filipino también, aunque legalmente fuese imposible. Regresaron aquí. Me crié en Brooklyn, un lugar lleno de cada tipo de etnicidad. Una confusión tremenda resultó en mi cabeza de niña. - “¿De donde eres?”, me preguntó una mocosa con nariz pequeña en la clase. - “Griega”, respondí; aunque lo dije más como pregunta. - “Pero no lo pareces”. - “Es porque mi madre es filipina”. - “¿Qué?” - “Las Filipinas están en Asia.” - “Entonces eres americana. Porque vives aquí.” - “Pues…” - “¿Naciste aquí?” - “Pues, no… en Inglaterra.” - “¿Qué?” Cuando era mayor usé el griego para aprender el español rápidamente. A la vez me hice mujer. Y las implicaciones no me gustaron para nada. - “¿Eres dominicana?”, me dijo un día un pendejo de barba corta. Estábamos esperando el autobús, ahora juntos, desafortunadamente.

- “No. No soy”, respondí en español, como él me había hablado. - “Ah. Entonces… qué? mexicana? cubana?” - “No”, lo consideré. “Soy filipina.” - “Filipina? Entonces cómo… Espera. Sí, ya lo sé. ¿Hablan español en las Filipinas, no? ¡Porque los jodidos españoles las conquistaron también!” - “… Sí. Por eso.” - “No importa… ¿Quieres salir? No se van a dar cuenta.” Vino mi bus - mi salvador! - que no era el suyo. Después del encuentro original con el caballero libanés, estaba en el metro y pensé que quizás podría inventar una nacionalidad sucinta con mi español. Aprovechar la abundancia de latinos en Nueva York no sería algo difícil. Había aprendido hablando con los caribeños alegres que encontraba en cada esquina. Mi acento salió tan incomprensible que no podía pretender ser chilena o colombiana. Me lo imaginé. “Soy cubana, señora”, digo. Sólo de mi acento no va a detectar la mentira. Pero si siquiera está ciega y no puede mirar mi cara incongruente, me va entonces preguntar de dónde. “A, chica, jho tambié’ de Santiago, tú, de don’ viene?”. “De… de la Habana”. “¿Qué parte?” ¡Pero qué te puedo decir, mujer, yo no soy cubana! En aquel momento iba hasta la escuela. ASPIRA me había reclutado sin su calificación implícita porque hablaba español, y porque me encantaba bailar – cosas que la mayoría del grupo no compartía. Quizás los nerds habían venido a una escuela pública y muy selectiva, con población microscópica de latinos para escaparse del color y ruido chabacano de sus familias. De repente me bajé del tren y allí estaba: en una esquina en la cantina, representándolos con una presentación de cumbias colombianas, envuelta en flores hechas de papel de colores artificiales. La asociación lo hacía cada año para la “Hispanic Heritage Week.”. Brava, me decían profesores. Nuestro orgullo. Habla el español perfectamente, decía el uno a otro mientras hacían palmas. Y allí me quedé en una falda como pradera florida, mirando a las banderas baratas que habían colgado en las paredes sin encontrar la mía, sin saber de qué colores era.

dd gun powder. Load single lead ball. Add more gun powder. Shoot. Repeat. Clearly, a meticulous task for an 18th-century gun owner. However, for the gun owners of today, the simple pull of a trigger not only causes a round to be ejected, but simultaneously loads another round into the gun’s chamber, thus allowing for a much more rapid rate of fire. Evidently, the firearms that the founding fathers used to rebel against Great Britain have evolved, immensely, into the weapons that we see used by the world’s armed forces today. Such advancement in technology, and the high rate of gun violence in the United States, begs to raise the question: what did the founding fathers intend when amending the Bill of Rights? Most of history, if not all, is subject to interpretation. Due to the many different interpretations Americans have of the Constitution, the Bill of Rights is not exempt from further analysis, especially with regards to the second amendment. Let us, then, interpret history. During the Revolution, the Continental Army was stretched thin across the nation and, as a result, could not defend every colony against the oppressive British crown. Consequently, minutemen (militia) assumed the roles of “soldiers” at a minute’s notice and defended the colonies wherever the Continental Army could not, or when they needed assistance. During post-Revolution America, the role of the militia came under question after Shays’ Rebellion—a rebellion in Massachusetts that was suppressed by the local, privately funded militia. Due to the lack of response as an institution, many officials, including George Washington, sought for a revision of the Articles of Confederation. Shays’ Rebellion worried many that this lack of regulation of the militia would lead to haphazard rebellions across the states. In essence, the reevaluation of the Articles of Confederation leads to the forming of the Union and passing of the current U.S. Constitution and Bill of Rights. Arguably the most controversial amendment today is Amendment II. Amendment II of the Bill of Rights states: A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed. With all the talk of strict gun laws, such as a possible ban on assault rifles, many have resorted to immediately claiming their constitutional right to “bear arms.”

A nation united by constitution—divided by interpretation by Rafael E. Dilones *originally published in the villanovan January 31, 2013

Nevertheless, many Americans disregard what the Founding Fathers meant by “militia” and “arms.” In other words, put yourself in the shoes of the Founding Fathers.You have just broken free from an oppressive British crown and wish for history to not repeat itself; therefore, you create the Constitution and allow for amendments, in order to protect the people from another tyrannical government—foreign or domestic. For example, the Militia Act of 1792 (later modified to form the National Guard) basically regards the militia as an organization of disciplined, able bodies, within a certain age group, armed and ready to defend the Constitution, by order of the President, if a state were to obstruct the Constitution’s execution. It also describes the arms that the militia is allowed. According to the act, flintlocks, muskets and swords are the arms of the U.S. militia. Clearly, that is out of date, but raises the question—how do we decide who can bear arms (militia) and what arms can we bear? Essentially, I can own an atomic bomb or house a missile depot in my back yard. They are “arms,” are they not? Confiscate my atom bomb and I will evoke my Constitutional right to bear arms! I am of age! I am able-bodied! I am obviously being facetious by writing that I have the right to own an atom bomb. Missiles and atom bombs are clearly weapons of mass destruction, but I will pose this question. How would the Founding Fathers perceive the AR-15—an assault rifle that can kill 20 people in less than a minute?

SKIP Peru by Justine Lee

enn SKIP is the first chapter in the United States of a non-profit named SKIP Peru, which strives to alleviate poverty in the underdeveloped areas of Trujillo, Peru. By offering holistic support to families in need, SKIP Peru is able to address some of the educational and economic issues in Peru. The country has one of the lowest ranked education systems in Latin America and 53% of the population is living below the poverty line. Many children in Trujillo miss school to peddle goods on the streets, and 72% of people are without a stable source of income. SKIP believes that quality education is an important and sustainable route towards development. The organization provides families with funds for uniforms, shoes, school supplies, and fees, and hosts several academic programs to teach Math, English, and Reading. In addition to academic support, SKIP also believes in facilitating child development by working with the community to promote a healthy and safe home environment. To do this, SKIP partners with families to foster economic stability and emotional well-being. The Economic Development Team provides access to microloans to help families start or supplement their own businesses, and hosts production workshops for mothers to engage in meaningful work and learn important business skills. The Social Work Department at SKIP works with families to address issues such as health insurance registration and parenting techniques; psychologists also offer group and individual counseling sessions. Throughout the families’ involvement in the program, SKIP stresses the way families are the principal agent of change, who have the capacity to shape their own lives as well as those of other community members. Lauren Wang, a sophomore in the Wharton school, worked with SKIP Peru this past summer as a consulting intern through Penn International Business Volunteers (PIBV). After witnessing the close relationships forged between volunteers and families,

she wanted to better support SKIP Peru’s mission. Although SKIP Peru’s mission goes beyond making donations to families in poverty, being a non-profit, donations are very important to the everyday workings of the organization. In order to help SKIP continue to provide these services to the local community, Lauren founded the first chapter in the United States of SKIP here at Penn, with the help of another College sophomore, Justine Lee. Penn SKIP seeks to provide an additional source of income for SKIP Peru, as well as serve as a link between the Penn community and SKIP Peru headquarters. By raising awareness about the issues in Trujillo on campus, Penn SKIP hopes to attract similar-minded individuals who empathize with the cause and wish to get involved. Penn SKIP is also scouting interested individuals to go on-site to Trujillo and work alongside SKIP staff as volunteer interns. As a new club, Penn SKIP is looking for passionate individuals who share SKIP’s vision and want to contribute to SKIP’s cause. Currently, there are three committees and six chair positions in the club, ranging from finance, fundraising, intern recruitment, to marketing, outreach, and internal development. We are now recruiting volunteer interns to send to Trujillo during the winter break, and in the spring semester, we are hoping to fundraise via a mid-to-large scale charity event. Anyone interested in helping Penn SKIP with any of these aspects is welcome to join, as we are striving to increase our presence on Penn’s campus. Because Penn SKIP was founded earlier this semester, there will be plenty of room for spearheading initiatives and taking on leadership opportunities, as well as participating in social impact initiatives. Join us in making a tangible and active difference in the lives of children in poverty! To learn more about SKIP Peru, visit http://www. skipperu.org or contact pennskip@gmail.com.

The right to bear arms is a Constitutional right; therefore, it should be exercised. Nevertheless, it should be exercised with extreme caution and scrutiny. In my opinion, the arms of today’s world would cause the Founding Fathers to reassess the second amendment by strongly considering its original intention. Consequently, we should too.

Art by Layna

La luna by Kevin Kelly

We are the people without license…no legitimate place, in the periphery…outside the margins…a threat to the safety of societies Always the other, never part of “we” within discourses

La Luna puede mirar el mundo Pero no puede tocarlo Y no puede vivir

We are the black slaves In your blood and heritage Caribbean children Your negation of us has been your ploy to secure your servitude to white supremacy in exchange for your economic stability.

La luna tiene una posición única Puede llorar pero no puede vivir. La luna llora por los humanos y la destrucción del mundo. Llora por el ambiente y sus problemas Solamente puede verlo. La luna tiene una posición única Y sabe que será siguiente.

Nosotros, en la luna

by Arielle Panitch

El mundo se expandió hasta el infinito y más allá era el orgullo de América que cambió para siempre el universo. El 20 de julio, 1969 un sueño un gol una victoria en las guerras de espacio. Por un momento corto, durante dos y media horas, (que, en el corazón de América duró por lo menos una década) cada ciudadano de América fue allí, en la luna, con Armstrong y Aldrin. Cuando Apollo 11 despegó el patriotismo americano se disparó. “Un pequeño paso para el hombre, un salto gigante para la humanidad,” dijo Armstrong. En este momento nos convertimos pequeños y nuestra perspectiva se agrandó.

am a child, of the children, of the masses… Rising from Latin America Of the and in alliance with...the oppressed of the world

We are the indigenous that harvested and nurtured these beautiful Americas Pests of conquest, you exploited our black brethren because we were not suitable for your exploitation. Instead you massacred us. Ever since confusing us with your mestizaje fodder. We are the peasants, the servants, the broken families, the broken communities, the displaced peoples, we are the casualties, we are the un-

mitigated collateral damage: Of revolutions, of wars, of conquests, of western civilization, of capitalism, of profit, of misanthropy We are Trayvon Martin, we are the 25 million families affected by Texas decision on abortion, we are the masses being left out by the recent reversal of the Voting Rights Act of 1965, we are the LGBT bi-national couples fighting for our rights, we are the undocumented community in solidarity asking TO BRING THEM HOME, we are the Brazilians demanding to be heard over the government's preoccupation with the preparations for the world cup, we are the everyday poor and homeless, from our peripheral places we are the ones that resist because otherwise we will die We are the ones that cannot afford to oppress anyone, because we are the most oppressed Living in a system that pushes even those who are the most oppressed to mimic the system's usage of oppression When there's no one else to oppress, still being unaware of ourselves, we try My Latin American and Caribbean brethren stop negating your blood, culture, history...Don't

Where’s My Liberation Gone? by Emanuel Martinez

you see it has been deliberately silenced so that you cannot understand yourself? Because to understand yourself, is to love yourself, is to realize the potential of you, is to resist anything that doesn't allow you to be you African, and indigenous historical actors laid down their lives so that we could exist The puddle that formed out of the rivers of indigenous and black blood is all red. Isn't that enough for you to understand that our oppression is tied, that we must defend each other

oppression of any human being We are the ones that cannot afford to rely on ourselves, we are the vulnerable ones, we are the ones with targets on our backs, we are the ones in constant threat, we are the beautiful middle eastern peoples being targeted as terrorists and extremists, we are the poor with undiagnosed PTSD, we are the undocumented parents and adults with lost dreams, we are the inner city kids who have been lost to drugs, crime, and STDS, we are the ones that let others decide our rights

Our histories are powerful, granting us consciousness, giving us bravery Dispelling lies and shattering the silencing of our power

We are the hopes and the dreams that have faded from our parents, and grandparents, we are the revolutions that never came for the slaves, the servants, and the peasants of our heritage

Let us nurture our colored children to love their histories…that they may understand the common experience of oppression of the masses the world over That they will be ready and able and accountable…To the continued act of resistance of the

We are the ones that must create the revolution through the power of our minds, not the wars, tool of the oppressors We are the most dangerous obstacle to oppression, dormant in us is the promise of the liberation I've lost

Untitled by gionni ponce

Art by Terrill Warrenburg

Frustrated, she cries, “I don’t belong anywhere.” And then, she knows.