{m}aganda magazine issue 29
Sinigang for the Soul
Conversations
on
Mental Health
WHAT IS SINIGANG? Sinigang is a sour-based soup. Rich in its tamarind broth. With savory meats, spinach, onions, and tomatoes. Served with rice, it is a meal of solace.
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Sinigang is nourishment.
For those who’ve been turned away by strangers, friends, families, and loved ones for suffering from a mental illness. Patronized with comments that go like this: “Why are you like this? Calm down, it’s all in your head.” It is a source of support when none is given.
Sinigang for the Soul is a space for healing.
Not just for the body, but also the spirit. For those who’ve been left to fight their battles alone. Invalidated for not being able to show real pain embedded in the mind. Shamed into feeling weak, unworthy, undeserving. It is affirmation that they remain whole in their beings.
Sinigang for the Soul is acknowledgement.
When 450 million people in the world experience a mental disorder. When suicide is the fifth leading cause of death among Asian-Americans. When communities of color continue to be disadvantaged in accessible mental health care. It is advocacy for a change.
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Sinigang for the Soul is a room for roundtable discussion.
Offered to those who are hungry for support. Hungry for validation. Hungry for a voice to be heard against this systemic, one-way dialogue. It is a conversation for YOU to take part in.
{m}aganda magazine invites you for your food for thought. In the struggles that accompany mental health and illness, how will you raise awareness? How will you end the silence? How will you break against the stigma that continues to dominate our society?
watch: https://youtu.be/eibyR5eq05c
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Letter from the Editors Dear Community, On behalf of {m}aganda magazine’s staff and interns, we are pleased to present our 29th issue, Sinigang for the Soul: Conversations on Mental Health. This year, we decided to focus our magazine on the theme of mental health as it was a topic {m} staff collectively related to, but didn’t know how to approach or address. We also took note that mental health has not been directly discussed in past issues. This is possibly with reason: Asian Americans are statistically less likely to seek help for mental health issues than other demographics due largely to social stigma. For Pilipinxs*, this stigma manifests in the cultural concept of hiya which goes beyond its literal definition of “shame” to invoke issues of personal pride, familial honor, and community representation. Hiya mixes with fear and confusion to make addressing the taboo topic of mental health extremely difficult. According to a study by Gong et. al. (2003), 75% of their Pilipinx-American participants “have never used any type of mental health service” and another 17% prefer to seek help “from their friends, relatives, priests, ministers, herbalists, spiritualists, or fortune-tellers only.” Even though there is a growing body of clinical research for Pilipinx-American psychology, there still remains a scarcity of accessible and culturally competent resources. Misconceptions and lack of knowledge about mental health concerns also permeates US society. Popular media continues to perpetuate stereotypes about mental disorders, or worse yet, it fails to address mental health at all. In reality, dealing with mental health is not limited to those who have disorders. Maintaining a healthy state of mind is something that we must all work for. It is not something we should take for granted, but unfortunately many of us are simply not taught how to address our mental health. We know how to nurse a bruise or put a bandage on a cut, but when are we shown how to practice self-care or personal reflection? In light of these concerns, we have chosen to provide a list of mental health resources within this magazine. The list is not exhaustive, but we hope that it can be a beneficial starting point for our readers. iv
Above all, we offer Sinigang for the Soul as a space for healing and understanding. Some pieces in this issue may deal with sensitive and often troubling topics, including but not limited to: domestic violence, sexual assault, and suicide, but it is our hope that you will be able to engage productively and compassionately with our community’s narratives. We want to thank our staff, interns, and community for making this issue possible. Their support and dedication gave us the strength to approach such a challenging topic. Destigmatizing mental health will take all of us, so together we invite you to join the conversation. Isang Bagsak,
Sarah Bernardo and Marian Cordon {m}29 Co Editors-in-Chief
*Pilipinx refers to people of all gender identities who have roots in the Philippines. Citation: Gong, F., Gage, S. L., & Tacata, L. A. (2003). Help- seeking behavior among Filipino Americans: A cultural analysis of face and language. Journal of Community Psychology, 31, 469–488.
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Special Thanks Pilipinx Community at Cal, including: Pilipinx Community 2015-2016 Senator, Benedicto Llave Pilipinx Community Council Chair, Jensine Carreon Asian Pacific American Student Development Pil Community Advocate, Bradley Afroilan Pilipino American Alliance (PAA) kapwa Pilipino Association of Architects, Scientists, and Engineers (PASAE) Pilipino Academic Student Services (PASS) Partnership for Pre-Professional Pilipinos (P4) Pilipino Association for Health Careers (PAHC) Pilipino Basketball Assocation at Cal (PBA) Contributors to Sinigang for the Soul Fall 2015 {m}aganda Staff and Interns Eileen Tabios hardboiled APA newsmagazine Asian Pacific American Systemwide Alliance Advisor, Michelle Bautista LEAD Center Publications Advisor, Jennifer McNulty vi
{m} Mission Statement {m}aganda magazine is a student-run academic publication based at the University of California, Berkeley. Founded in 1989 , it has evolved from its beginnings as a bi-annual magazine and is now a diverse anthology of submitted work that is published once a year. We serve as a vital forum for the presentation of diverse experiences and opinions through all platforms for creativity–including art, prose, poetry, film, music, journalism and scholarly writing. We record our lives as “cultural historians,� not forgetting that our forefathers and foremothers have blazed this path for us, making publications like {m}aganda possible. We come from a strong tradition of Pilipinx and Pilipinx-American writers, a tradition which includes Dr. Jose Rizal, Paz Marquez Benitez, Estrella Alfon, Jose Garcia Villa, Nick Joaquin, Carlos Bulosan, Bienvenido Santos, N.V.M. Gonzales, Renato Constantino, Jose Maria Sison, Ninotchka Rosca, Jessica Hagedorn, and the Kearny Street Workshop Writers. Because of them, and for the future, we proudly give our community {m}aganda. {m}aganda aims to foster critical dialogue within and across our communities through arts, literature, and education. We come from a heritage of Pilipinx-American artists, writers, and cultural historians, but we extend our hands and voices to any and all who own truths that need to be spoken. We believe in the necessity of art as a means of influencing social change. We attempt to accomplish this by providing integral spaces and opportunities for all of us to develop ourselves as creatively conscious individuals in our communities.
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table of contents
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call for submissions: what is sinigang? letter from the editors special thanks mission statement nothing was quite by Brea Weinreb Don’t Get Sad, Get Angry by Maria Stabio Push Through by Bradley Afroilan One Day No More Strings by Clarisse Pastor-Medina Therapy By Liza Rangel Restlessness Stillness Still Restlessness by Clarisse Pastor-Medina Change is Beautiful by Clarisse Pastor-Medina Self-Affirmation for the Survivor by Aleli Janine Balaguer Poem About My Rights as a Brown Survivor by Aleli Janine Balaguer Unraveling Touch by Elissa S. Lee Life and death by Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi believe me by Anonymous defect by Aleli Janine Balaguer your daughter, alone by Aleli Janine Balaguer Out of the Darkness by Sarah Bernardo From Tha Soul by Tony Daquipa The Dark Side by Clarisse Pastor-Medina Circles by Noemi Seranno Fetters by Krisha Mae Cabrera Hindi Kita Tuturuang Bumitaw by Elizabeth Ruth Deyro
i iv vi vii 3-4 5 5 6 6 7 8 9 10 11 13 14 15 16 17 19 20 21 23 25
Saudade by Clarisse Pastor-Medina How Else? by Eril Morales The Window to the World by Advaita Patel A Confession by Joseph John Asprer Beltran Catch-22 by Dana Lynn Lansigan I Buy My Lexapro at Costco by Maria Stabio Gold Blooded by Rayanne Velayo Piaña Memory by Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi Hide and Seek by Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi Kilig by Anonymous Queen Different by Clarisse Pastor-Medina Utang Na Loob by Anonymous First Saudi Syndrome by Sean Labrador y Manzano Way Out by Miles Large everything was Indigo (short story) by Brea Weinreb Portrait d’un Femme by Brea Weinreb everything was Indigo (painting) by Brea Weinreb wBe Free Now by Joanna La Torre Ocean Abyss by Eva Malis I Left by Wayne Jopanda Self-Love by Lizzy Klingen Be Easy by Eva Malis if you can’t see you can’t see, can’t you see (a visual series) by Kristina Estell What Not To Do When Someone is Having an Anxiety Attack by Nicole Arca resources author & artist biographies m{29} staff & interns
27 27 28 29 31 32 33 35 35 35 37 38 39 40 41 41 42 43 45 47 47 48 49 51 55 57 61
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(nothing was quite alright)
Brea Weinreb
I. Ever since I read Petrarch I romanticized the notion of falling into the water, A sea so deep it would swallow you whole, And so dark blue you lose sight of all air. Then I read DH Lawrence, and he told me Your love drowns with you, In fact, she is the one who drowns you Because the ocean is a female, Brimming with sexual energy and a mind of her own. Yet you cannot hold her, you may only skim the surface, for her depths are immeasurable. She’ll flow through your hands like butterscotch, And leave your bed empty in her wake. I believe Lawrence is right; the female body is an ocean, male hands Flowing across curves of skin like waves ebb and flow. (We let them do that) But even if we are an object to be felt and enjoyed you can never get to our center, you can never touch our deepest depths, For if you try to go too deep you’ll get tangled in seaweed, and we will drown you. Note: (my own body is more like a lagoon, pretty to look at, but small and contained, for risk of infecting the land.)
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II. Many have swam the lengths of my body, Drowning in hair and coming up for air upon each soft curve. I let them, one by one, traverse me as they pleased, Raw human form cutting through violent blue waves. A tangled bed of trampled seaweed and broken shells, They left me polluted in their wake, The oyster lustrous no more. III. Why do we as women feel it is okay, To let men take power, to give them All we have with no boundaries For protection, left unguarded, Unsafe, and in the end, Deflated, never to be enjoyed in the same way again. IV. Did it give you power, when you forced yourself into Me without so much as a thought As to how I was feeling Used, abused, disrespected? That I was uncomfortable, and in the end Your Humbert Humbert prowess left me By someone who may have actually cared. Unsuitable for future use Note: Even the memory made me cry.
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Don’t Get Sad, Get Angry By Maria Stabio
Push Through By Bradley Afroilan almost every year during school i hear “you just got to push through.” but push through to what? an early death? an early tomb? to having more pills to consume? to having more drinks so that I don’t go off the brink? when I hear “push through” what are you trying to say? 5
ONE DAY NO MORE STRINGS By Clarisse Pastor-Medina
Therapy By Liza Rangel
Where you go to hear you missed the boat during the expansion of your little numbskull 6
Clarisse Pastor-Medina
Restlessness Stillness
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Still Restlessness
Clarisse Pastor-Medina
CHANGE IS BEAUTIFUL
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Self-Affirmation for the Survivor by Aleli Janine Balaguer I’ve found strength in surviving a conquest even when I became the lucky one who lost my battle scars prove resilience even when a rape so recent can sway me to tears un/predictable like the sky I convince myself strive for skin like the sun’s these rays have a right to exude heat my distress fuels fire sun burning brilliance but floods do swell between my eyes I wonder when again/these storms will pass when my sky will clear and rain will cease their free flow 9
until my scars become a/part of me build me into someone I can begin to recognize convincing me more that my strength builds me to survive that scheduling to see someone fires/only my first/shot of triumph in this internal battle for cloudless skies every single breath by the day claiming victorious my skin/beaming brilliance my sun surviving everything
Poem About My Rights as a Brown Survivor
by
Aleli Janine Balaguer
(Emulation of June Jordan’s Poem About My Rights) Even tonight as I walk off the need to rid my head about this poem about why I can’t walk off the memory of you changing my clothes changing me my outlook that my conquered body my stolen identity my age my status as a brown woman alone at night alone in those sheets/alone not scratching the point the point screaming that I can’t live how I want to live in my own body own mind in my own environment because I lived the wrong sex the wrong ripe age the wrong subordinate skin-tone and suppose it was not/alone in some stranger’s apartment but in the eerie silent evenings of studio spaces belonging to bustling students at daybreak or in spaces I now scan as scathing and unfamiliar that I wish to feel safe again/by myself/thinking about God or otherworldly beings who wouldn’t allow for this to happen who wouldn’t allow for me to disclose myself in silence: that I can not breathe can not smile can not close my eyes or open my mouth without seeing you thinking about you what you did to me alone and I can’t live how I want to live alone without thinking about/who in the hell set this up/like this if I didn’t say no did not scream scratch screech in opposition then I consented and there was no rape because finally/no one understands/finally you fucked me/over/ because I behaved wrong I acted wrong/again/me living as I did/alive as I tried you colonized me exactly as the Spaniards colonized my brown people on islands never belonging to us so that all of my Philippine nanays and tatays belonged to
were owned by identified by dogtag foreign last names of continuing colonization I mean/we must have consented if all of the evidence looks like roll calls of Alcazar Aquino Bautista Balaguer Dela Cruz Garcia Mendoza Ortiz Villanueva etcetera etcetera like the roll calls before bloodied Bataan Death Marches my grandmother fleeing from bodies bayoneted beaten for weakness and after that my mother fleeing from this Third World future for her family as I should have fled should have clung to my future should have screamed scratched screeched for my strength my rights to be/alone at night before they were taken away from me/beaten out of me I should have done something/sooner I should have fought back fought for my safety my rights my solitude my self as my father fought for our futures our selves our safety our rights for this country/that never wanted him I should have fought back because I never wanted this never wanted that bastard/dictating my future never wanted to live like this never wanted to live the history of my people’s colonization the rapings of my country my body my land This is my life My life is my own is my own is my own is my own 10
Unraveling Touch | photo & prose by Elissa S. Lee WARNING: Some of the following descriptions are graphic
Speaking out about sexual trauma is hard. Sex itself is a tricky
in nature and may be disturbing to some readers.
topic to maneuver.
A naked neck. One thumb-sized bruise on my left clavicle, the
It’s so prevalent and yet so hushed up - all of these quotes happened
other on my ass.
in the last four weeks. I can’t remember my first encounter. I’ve had people take photos of my body, say cruder things I wouldn’t
“Hey pretty, how much do you cost?”
post on Facebook, reach out and grope me. Use the hook of an
“Look at them tits bouncing! Keep running girl, keep running!”
umbrella to lift my skirt. Try cruder things.
“Don’t move, don’t wriggle so much. Shhhh, it’s okay.” “Is your name delicious?”
Asking for it? I thought I was, for the longest time.
“Will you go out with me?”
Friends, trying to be helpful: “Take it as a compliment!”
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“You should be flattered, it means you have a nice body.”
I shut off my bubbly, open, outgoing personality for a while, but
“It’s what you wear, or how you carry yourself. You’re being too
that didn’t seem to work either. Romantic partners would get
flirtatious/nice/friendly.”
impatient, frustrated - I didn’t blame them. I blamed myself.
“Other people have it worse, boys won’t even look at them.” Thankfully, I now have friends and family who are patient and Others, trying to make sense of the situation, were trying to be
understanding, romantic partners who respect my need for taking
less helpful:
things slow. It takes time to build trust. It takes time to forgive
“She think she’s so pretty/hot/etc.”
yourself and others. This is what my body looks like. This is what I
“She’s really just thirsty/asking for it.”
like to wear. This is how I carry myself. This is how I love myself.
“Attention seeker.” “Whore.”
In light of more recent news, I believe the systems we have in place must be altered and implemented to protect ALL individuals. How
With a low self-esteem, I took many of this to heart. I internalized
do we do this for women? How do we reach out to the masses
it - there has to be something wrong with me, because it’s
without simplifying the argument, without making it seem one
happening so much. I started wearing sweatpants, baggier shirts. I
way or another?
would cognitively tell myself to calm but my body would tense up every time someone passed me or if I heard a sound coming from
How can we come together to solve these issues? Amendments
behind me. If friends or strangers asked me out or made a move, I
have been made to the constitution, but are they fully
would imagine all the worst possible scenarios. I couldn’t do duets
implemented? I am still trying to make sense of the power of
in dance nor contact improv properly, I was too stiff, too awkward,
protest, and the power of the Internet, and how it all fits together.
too uncomfortable. I do not need to be pitied or sympathized with or fixed. I do need Touch is a natural human thing that had been fractured
a community of love, of women and men and others telling their
and distorted and warped for me. I would mistake affection
stories - speak out. Because this particular anecdote is mine,
and love for taking advantage of me, and that messed up a
but sexual trauma is not just my story. Sexual assault happens
lot of relationships as well as myself. Was there something
everyday, everywhere. Awareness is the first step in the right
fundamentally wrong with me?
direction. Because you know something’s wrong when you’re thirteen, trapped at the end of a pool with a stranger’s hand
The big shirts didn’t work. Pushing people away didn’t help either.
pressed over your neck, and something hard pressed down
I love people, talking, dancing, hugs, cheek and forehead kisses.
somewhere else. 12
Life and death Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi
Life and death “Is death boring or life?� An old dilemma stretched my life. Now it spreads on a lounge every morning. I wanted an answer without picking up any. I wanted to play safe, and thus I lived for so many years. Without any reason, and without any answer, I lived without death though that was not what I desired. But as all desires cannot reach to fruition, My resignation to life also postponed. And I lived perpetually without any reason. Now, I am old and equally feeble. I cannot think of death as my beloved. It seems to me as my daughter, Who will inherit everything when I will be gone. She will dispose the unwanted rags and bury that stinky soul. But still I am not sure of what makes me live so long. May be I think too much, or I am a coward. Perhaps my hamlet-mind tosses in between life and death. May be I am living no more and dying each day. Whatever it would be: life boring or death is still unsolved? 13
believe me Anonymous
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Aleli Janine Balaguer
tcefeddefect 15
focused full-time Berkeley student with a vision to drive herself beyond superhuman capacity exert all ability exceed her existence hyper-survive by whatever means necessary no sleep don’t eat consume only caffeine/nicotine/addy health set aside / not prioritized whatever means necessary remain / focused / on top schedule/list/organize take on one task more keep busy distract myself from‌ this mental handicap this psychological limit to my human capacity the disability of a survivor plagued with the stress of a trauma this fresh-cut wound flesh open to infection parasites/like my assaulter passing me by on campus penetrating my Berkeley bubble busy can’t protect me from these sudden unpredictable uncontrollable
triggers like the shock in staring face-to-face chain-smoking in a stairwell or standing / cornered in a closed / moving elevator isolated with him / forever my eyes unable to un-see demons my assaulter smiling flooding me with memory can send me to bed in a restless wake or bring me to tears in a safe space this defect in my vision controls me forces me to navigate detours around this roadblock so I overcompensate switch to / over-control mode / to feel whole again but on the days I feel most depleted I just try to sleep it off disabled but never defeated
Ale li J an ine
Ba lag ue r
you
r d aug hte r,
alone
I wish I could read this poem to you like a bedtime story share with you my survival the real reason you should smile when I walk across the graduation stage your daughter survives all alone / I teach myself how to be wholesome my delicate brown body / my tree-limb scars / my grown-into curves learned to breathe move dance /prideful/ under the sun not by the covered-it-up shame you taught me years of forced Catholic chastity but by /natural/ self unearthed past ravenous eyes of blank canvas men my body moves But I wish you taught me how to dance how to care for this/my body / this/my mind how to balance present with future prioritize self among schooling because / today my physical capacity / my mental health struggles on a richter scale tiptoes on a tightrope between superhuman exertion and a stable mind your daughter struggles / to heal herself / without you/r holding hand silent survivor / I’ve learned to walk across my stage alone
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OUT OF THE DARKNESS By Sarah Bernardo The following piece is a letter I shared online through social media. It marks a seminal moment in my life—coming out about my long struggle with mental illness. This letter has become the first page in a new chapter in my life. In giving it to you, I invite everyone who has ever valiantly fought against mental illness or anyone who wishes to support those who do to join the discussion. Only together can we create a better dialogue around mental health.
Dear family and friends, Coming public about something so personal is terrifying. Yet despite the enormous vulnerability this open letter requires, the importance of what I have to say has given me the courage to finally take this step. For those of you who know me, you might describe me as talkative and opinionated. I am the daughter of amazingly loving parents, and my best friend in the world is my twin sister, Nicole. I dream of being a lawyer, and I genuinely want to change the world. I am also someone living with mental illness. In high school, I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder and hypomania. I still don’t feel that I fit neatly under either of these labels, but the diagnosis allowed me to better understand the emotional turmoil I’ve gone through for so long. I remember that the first time I told my mom I was thinking of killing myself, I was in the fifth grade. Over the years, I have attempted suicide several times. It is only because of my family that I am still here today.
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My mental health was one side of me that I was deeply ashamed of. I learned to hide it so completely that I essentially became two people: the Sarah that everyone in the outside world knew and the Sarah that only my family understood. At 21 years old, I am done living two lives. I share my story with you today so that I can live freely and authentically, but the reason I do so publicly is because I want to bring awareness to mental illness and suicide. There are too many people who struggle in silence because of the stigma surrounding mental illness. As part of the first step to breaking my own silence, I am participating in a Suicide Prevention Walk that supports the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. I am walking for my loved ones who have lost someone to suicide, for my friends who have ever had suicidal thoughts or attempted suicide, and for everyone who did not win their own battles. My mental health is only one aspect of who I am. It does not define me, and more than anything I do not want it to define how you see me, love me, or interact with me. I am still Sarah, and I always will be. I still have some bad days, but slowly I have been learning what it means to be truly happy. And isn’t that all anyone asks for? Much love,
Sarah 18
from
Tha Soul
We could even be our own inspiration
In a dysfunctional world, only the insane feel normal
But that takes maturity to understand
Tony Daquipa
If the dysfunction is by design, then the people in touch with reality Absolutely must be marginalized Lest the status quos be exposed for the lies that they really are Our current reality is so far removed from nature Most people’s only hope of escaping to natural settings Is through peaceful-looking pictures on computers
If our dreams were realistic and grounded Then we could live our dreams We could even be our own idols
Maturity is getting in touch with the real you Because pretending to be someone else is not healthy I never used to dress up for Halloween or any other occasion But in my old age, I have found the appeal in getting dressed up Because I now know the difference Between a costume and a PR campaign
If even that The truth is, nature is struggle So I don’t ask for an easy life I work hard to build the strength to endure a difficult one Magic pills lack fiber and nutrients And experience is the best teacher anyway Life is plenty stressful though We don’t need to add any additional drama If we were in touch with reality, we wouldn’t need fiction Because we have plenty of real-life reasons to laugh, cry, fear 19
And be inspired
Claiming to be pro-life While calling for the death penalty Supporting the prison industrial complex And beating the drums of war and hatred That is insane
THE DARK SIDE Clarisse Pastor-Medina
And by the exact same token Pretending to be a warrior in a battle that is an ocean away While sitting on the sidelines of the war that is raging across town That is also just as insane If you want to fight something Fight your own demons first Own up to and confront your real fears And only then will you find the strength To accept the fact that other people’s opinions of you don’t matter
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Circles by Noemi Serrano In the end, we search for beginnings. We look back over [the] years and puzzles pieces spilled across the floor, wondering whether there were always parts missing or if we lost them along the way. Was this tragic juxtaposition inevitable, or did we just fail ourselves and each other in a thousand little ways over the years? In the beginning there was a boy, who had no father and no explanation. He grew up in a world inside his head without questions and answers, a world of bright colors and invented deceptions so beautiful he never knew them as such. In time, he loved a girl with what he thought was his whole self. But as the years collected she learned that he was not whole; th at somewhere inside him was a little boy painting pictures with his words of the man he wanted to be. And she loved him back in the beginning because of who he wanted desperately to be. In 21
the end, she loved him out of obligation because she knew he would never understand himself the way she did. But her beginning was not her own either. Her beginning was a boy whose parents brought him to America when he was six years old. A boy whose mother’s mind followed when his father left them. A boy who dragged a tree from the church down city blocks and up [the] apartment stairs so that he could give himself Christmas; a boy who pleaded with his mother to open the door as she lit that apartment on fire. A boy who begged for love and got nothing. A boy who never stopped begging. A boy who in time had a daughter he loved as much as he could with a heart as broken as his, although his love turned to anger and the girl learned that feeling nothing was better than being hurt. That girl learned to build
her own worlds, like walls around herself where she could turn off her heart. And in time she met a boy who loved her in the same broken and selfish way her father had, and they had two sons who they tried desperately to love without scarring. Their beginning worked because they existed in their own worlds, his where the lies and betrayal dissolved into softer images, and hers where her heart grew colder with every deception until she felt nothing. They drifted like this for a lifetime until one day the girl got tired of it. She wanted to shatter the walls of ice that had hardened around her world and feel the sun against her skin; she wanted to plant enough mirrors in the corners of his world for him to finally see himself, but she knew he never would. And this was the beginning of the end, the day
she realized that he would never know himself enough to fix his broken pieces, that he was too busy inventing love to understand it. On that same day she decided she could love him still, but from far away, because as long as he was broken he would always need the parts of her that were whole. And the boy is trapped in his invented world where he can’t bare to face what went wrong. He stares sadly at the pictures of happiness he has painted over all the ugliness, and he is comforted by the questions he doesn’t ask because he can’t face the answers. She sees him weep in confusion for all he has lost and her heart breaks for him, but she can’t go back. So she lets their hearts break, both of them, every day, because she knows that in the end there are always beginnings.
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It was a little after midnight when he realized his
hand had begun to lose feeling. He had been resting it on the slope of her back as she fell asleep. He clicked the lamp off and put aside the book he hadn’t been reading. Sinking into the bed, he felt the motions of her frame as she breathed. He couldn’t sleep. He stared into the darkness that must’ve been the wall.
Fetters
He remembered her in the autumn. Her hair had fallen by her face like a swinging shadow. He’d whisked it behind her ears, away from the lovely face that uncovered a smile only when she saw him. A smile that soon faded when the realities she’d momentarily forgotten came spilling back like icy waves returning to her waiting feet.
by Krisha Mae Cabrera
Sometimes she’d hum to draw out the day’s nagging song, and he’d brush his lips against her neck, tuning his kisses to her melodies, to her final decrescendos before her voice would trail off into the solitude of familiar silence. 23
He had watched her breaking, her heart eroding from the acrid memories she’d attempted to stow away. He’d felt her words whispered into his chest as he held her, and, very briefly, he’d felt how they pierced themselves stuck into her thoughts. She had shuddered as she sobbed. He had tugged out laughs from from a face stiffened by the salt of drying tears. He felt blood rush back into his hand as it regained feeling. She turned in her sleep, swayed by a dream she’d tell him tomorrow. He felt her nose on his shoulder, the soft heat of her breath. He’d seen her torn apart and doubled over, ragged from the indiscriminate beatings of her every day. And yet he’d still see her in the summer sunlight, standing whole, holding his hand, bearing his broken pieces as she wrinkled her nose in concentration to put them back together.
It was a little after seven and she kicked back
the covers that had tangled around her feet like fetters. She blinked at him, smiling, and at the gray light that streamed through the window. Together they stayed stationary, except to pull the blanket over their shoulders as they clung to the warmth of their dreams.
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Hindi kita tuturuang bumitaw dahil batid kong nalalapit na ang pagkalaskalas ng kadenang matagal ka nang sinasakal kinukulong sa hawlang gawa sa bawat sandaling hindi mo magawang lumuha dahil kailangan mong magpakatatag para sa mga taong hindi kayang intindihing mahina ka at ayaw mo na Mga kadenang untiunti nang nilalamon ng kalawang kamandag na mismong lalason sa ahas na walang habas sa pagtuka pagkagat sa balat mong matagal nang pinapasa sugat-sugat Ngunit sana sa iyong paglisan ay ang pagtahan na ng mga ulap na walang tigil sa pag-iyak habang 25
kinakanta mo ang awit ng mga mandirigmang hindi maaaring mapagod walang karapatang masaktan Hindi ka isang bayani at walang sasalubong sa iyo na mga kababayang hahanga sa katapangan mong suungin ang buhay nang walang kasiguraduhan kung dapat pa nga bang ipagpatuloy ang paglaban Walang magpapatayo ng rebulto para sa iyo bilang paggunita sa gabi-gabi mong pakikipaglaban sa mga bangungot na pilit kang nilulunod sa pait ng realidad na walang tutulong sa iyo tuwing tatagas ang iyong dugo walang gagamot ng sugat na iginawad mo sa sarili mo Ngunit sana sa nalalabi mong mga sandali sa piling ng mga kadenang ito ay unti-unti mo ring ipunin ang mga alaalang bumuo sa iyo ang pait ang sakit mga pagkakataong ika’y nadehado at napaisip kung kaya mo pa ba kung
gusto mo pa ba sa mga pagkakataong hindi na ang sagot mo sa mga tanong na ito pero hindi ka sumuko Sana sa nalalapit mong pagbitaw ay piliin mong gamitin ang bugbog mo nang mga pakpak umalpas ka lumipad tungo sa alapaap
Maghihilom rin ang iyong mga sugat
Hindi Kita Tuturuang Bumitaw Elizabeth Ruth Deyro
I will not teach you to let go because I knew that the time was nearing for the dismantling of the chains that have been suffocating you imprisoning you in the cage made of every moment you couldn’t cry because you needed to be strong for the people that couldn’t understand
I Will Not Teach You To Let Go
that you were weak and you wanted to give up The chains were slowly being devoured by the rusting venom that will also poison the snake that unnervingly pecks bites your skin that has been already bruised and wounded However hopefully your departure will lead to the unity of the clouds that continuously cry while you are singing the song of the fighters Being tired is not allowed No right to hurt You are not a hero and No one will greet you Not a fellow citizen who admires your strength to withstand the life without certainty of
knowing whether or not to continue to the fight No one will create a statue for you in commemoration of your nightly battles against the nightmares that forcefully try to drown you in the bitterness of reality that no one will help you every time your blood thickens no one will heal the wound that you inflicted upon yourself However, hopefully in these short moments you have left in these chains you will slowly recollect the memories that made you whole the bitterness the hurt the moments you were feeling disadvantaged and made you think whether or not you can still do it if you still wanted to do it in the moments no was the answer to these questions but you did not give up Hopefully, as the time you let go nears you will choose to use your already damaged wings you will fly towards the cloud
Your wounds will eventually heal 26
How Else? Eril Morales Wholeheartedly scared She reached out to her demons And asked them, “Why me?” An intense heartbeat Responded back to her with “It’s all in your head” Time in slow motion Repeating the same mistakes Felt worse than living Her expectations Were answers she did not know Yet she kept asking Her demons watched her Suffer and scream while begging “Please, someone help me.”
Saudade 27
clarisse pastor-medina
28
The Window to the World
No one could help her Instead she helped herself breathe One step at a time Her strength was profound Something she doubted before Because she felt lost Explaining herself Was not an easy task with Such a heavy heart She’s vulnerable Open, exposed and fragile But happier now
by Advaita Patel
a confession Joseph John Asprer Beltran I don’t know why I’m putting this out there or if I’ll regret it later on. Yes, this may come across as a verbose attention-seeking post clogging your News Feed, and I am posting this rather impulsively. But I’d like to issue an apology to a lot of people I know, both in Berkeley and in London, for reasons I’m not exactly sure how to articulate. All I do know is that I have not been myself lately, I have been a mess emotionally, my ability to make decisions has been severely impaired, I have been dealing with suicidal thoughts, I have been sleeping to hours of excess, I have not received a proper diagnosis as to what is going on, and I have been trying my best to get the help that I need, but as of now, I have yet to receive it. I am frustrated because I want more than anything to be the kind of person others have perceived me to be, and the kind of person I myself desire to be; as a son, a friend, a student, a choreographer, a mentor - not so much as a matter of pride, but as a matter of fear. I’m terrified at how incapable I’ve become at taking care of myself, and I worry about how long I’ve deluded myself into thinking I’ll be okay if I just ignore the symptoms and pretend that everything’s alright. This has involved trying to remain silent as much as I possibly can, but I know that I shouldn’t do this any further. Not only because I’ve reached my limit and would like to break my own internalized stigma of being mentally ill, but because I’ve been unfair to a lot of people. And for this reason, I’d like to offer the following words. To the people who have been somewhat aware about my situation and have tried to reach out: I’m sorry that for the most part, that I’ve been shutting you out. I know that you all mean the best, and you should know that regardless of my lack of responsiveness; your love, care, and concern are all things I desperately need at this time. I am just as at a loss to know what to do to make things better, yet I remain deathly afraid of being a burden to you. At the same time, to those I’ve accepted help from, somewhere along the line I realized the error of relying on your words and actions as substitutes for the professional care that I actually need - not to discredit what you have been trying to do for me, but to explain some of the possible inconsistencies I’ve been displaying in my interactions and conversations with you. I can sense your frustration in wanting to help me but not knowing how. I can also sense your frustration with how careful and wary you have to be with your words and actions so as not to provoke, trigger, or hurt me. I do hope for your patience and understanding because I do appreciate and want to keep you all in my life if you’ll let me. I wish I didn’t have to be so fragile or difficult or unpredictable to you. Regardless of my immediate reactions to your efforts, know that deep inside, I’m thankful that you continue to try and care. 29
To the people who have not been aware: I’m sorry for pretending that I’ve been “normal” and “okay” when I honestly haven’t been. I’m sorry I’m only telling you now. The strange thing about mental illnesses is how incredibly debilitating yet physically unnoticeable it can be - such that when one experiences it, to express this pain out loud somehow feels very selfish, proud, and needy. But much like with any other physical pains and injuries, it remains necessary to let the world know what you may or may not be capable of given your current circumstances otherwise, you risk hurting yourself, as well as others, even more. So I’m letting you all know now. Not to gain your sympathy or concern, but purely for the explanatory purposes of it. I’ve been unstable emotionally, explaining the possible coldness or distance you might have, may currently, or will receive from me. I’ve been feeling physically exhausted all the time and finding it hard to get out of bed explaining my missed appointments and late arrivals to events. I’ve lost so much of my motivation and capacity to make decisions explaining my erratic and inconsistent behaviors and commitments. I’ve been feeling increasingly overwhelmed and desired to escape reality by any means possible through avoiding social contact and spending much of my time away from uni and central London as much as possible. I’ve cycled quite frequently and quickly through phases of feeling infinitely strong and ambitious, to utterly weak and incompetent. This strange internal struggle has led to some really stupid and rash decisions on my part. I’m sorry for having accepted positions of responsibilities and leadership I acknowledge now, I was never ready to assume. I’m sorry for the resulting subpar work I’ve submitted, meetings I’ve missed, promises I’ve broken, messages I’ve neglected, conversations I’ve ended. I humbly ask that you do not expect much more from me, other than my honest efforts to get back up on my two feet again and regain some sense of normalcy and independence back in my life. Until then, I remain at a loss to contribute, to help, to serve, to lead, to provide, to create, to offer - in the same capacity that you might had grown accustomed to seeing from me in the past. Please try to understand. And in return, I promise that I will do my best to refrain from acting otherwise until I can show you that I have received the necessary diagnosis, help, and treatment that I need. This is as far as I’ve determined I’m willing to share publicly, which knowing me, has probably been near-infinitely more than necessary. But this is roughly where things stand for me something I’ve been wanting to tell the world for a long time now. And something which, I do hope, others who may be going through similar situations, may be able to express as well, so that they too can receive the necessary help, attention, care, and treatment they need. - Joseph 30
Catch-22 You must be sane to know you’re not, so just change the way you think. A simple catch-22 engraved on bitter pills washed down my throat with misunderstanding. They fill my bowl with pity and prayers to heal me, but the pit in my stomach widens to welcome
Sometimes I can’t breathe but you just tell me to forget. It would be nice
the emptiness.
to see, one day, my bowl full of, say, warm soup. Is that greedy of me?
I tell you I’m not fit, I’m not fit to fight these wars— you don’t know the battles I already fight, the scars I hide.
Because you tell me every day, this is good, this is enough for the soul as you fill my bowl with prayers and pity.
But still, you declare me sane.
This is enough. You have everything you need.
So once every morning and once every night, 31
I take my prescribed medicine, slow cough syrup manufactured from token phrases on an assembly line of catch-22’s.
Maybe I don’t need everything. Maybe I don’t need cough syrup or pills or pity. Pity is misunderstanding.
I Buy My Lexapro at Costco Maria Stabio
So fill my bowl with understanding, the understanding that you don’t understand. Fill my bowl with warmth, with a bubbling broth, something to close the gap. Let it overflow because enough is not enough. Let the aroma of your from-scratch recipe lead me home from the battlefield and remind me how to
breathe again.
There’s no catch. Just change the way you think.
- Dana Lynn Lansigan 32
GOLD BLOODED
by Rayanne Velayo PiaĂąa
13 March 2016 1:54 AM A bold, but true statement: I am happy (today). I got a package in the mail earlier this afternoon. I tucked the box underneath my arm until I reached my apartment. I sat on my bedroom floor and looked around for something to cut open the packing tape and I picked up a sharp
cutting blade (my keys were too far away).
I opened my box and then looked at the tool in my hand. As I examined it, I thought about how all I saw was just a piece of metal. Five years ago, I would have held the same object and seen something else entirely. I used to look at the shiny silver surface, the unforgiving edge and see routine. I saw a painful punishment, one I thought I deserved so I inflicted it on myself. Weekly, then weakly, then daily. Back then, my knife was about as attractive as all the bad-decision guys I ended up with –
intimidating, guilt-screaming but so tempting and oddly comforting.
As I pressed the cold, sharp metal to my skin, I felt a sick satisfaction from the scarlet droplets that rose up from my skin as I sunk deeper into myself. It was an escape, an illusion of release.
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I remember being asked why I would do that to myself, why anyone would. There were a number of reasons. A reminder of the value I thought I lacked. A way to transfer intangible torment to physical pain. But beyond all that, it was a side effect of sadness. Five years later, the scars are fading and my disposition is brightening. You wouldn’t know who I used to be, how I used to hurt, or how I used to handle it. You’d look at me and see the smile, hear the laugh, feel the happy. But the truth is, Happy people can be sad and Sad people can be happy. And even though I say I’m happy,
I am b r o k e n But I’m okay with that. My sickness and my brokenness are a part of me, but they are not who I am. I’ve discovered in myself and in the life and love around me the strength and serendipity I needed to take my broken pieces and melt them together with gold. If you or anyone you know is broken, don’t go trying to fix them like they’re a faulty machine. You can’t fix people. You just have to be there for them. You have to listen, and learn, and love until all the cuts and cracks are filled with gold. A bold, but true statement: even Broken can be
golden.
RVP
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Memory by Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi I remember as I cannot forgetThe goodness of your heart, That burned my old memories. Like snake you crawled in my mind. The hissing flames; That poisonous venom Took my breath away. I forgot as I could not rememberYour love bereft of your smile Often kept its pace with new schemes. Now no memory-neither to remember Nor to forget anythingOnly forgetfulness prevails.
Hide and Seek By Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi The continuous flow of words As different masks on the same soul Always shroud the truth-the old dusty stuff Flow seems clear as the semblance of any crystal Soul deceives the absolute and our eyes perceive Nothing but always our truth So many truths are born The flow of lie remains intact We do not change But crowd our faces with the new born infant With so many faces With so many souls 35
Kilig When I think about you I wonder about me. How the claws that drip the blood of my desire filled your aching heart. I think back at those moments when I laid in your arms and felt your heart beat, your nails digging into flesh so ready to be unearthed. You were magical you were a trick- the main act and I was the rabbit foot you grabbed from a sack of rusty trinkets left behind under a forgotten Christmas tree of a future we once hoped. You wanted me to stitch the same fabric you wore to hide the noose with which you flossed your perfect grin. I can still feel that cinder block scrape against my thigh and the hot rush of pain you surged within me.
anonymous
I long for the comatose from a good laugh- the dull, painful die down of a magnificent joke you told me once or twice. You cloaked me with so much hope and pride and faith in myself. I never knew what it would Overthink, overthink, overkill. Desperate. Lonesome. How can she be fed with such brevity, such blatant insincerity of a life fleeting and unfulfilled. Maybe you were my mirror.. My moment of reflection.. My way out. Every moment I talk about you I talk about me and that hurts.. Because she’s watching.. Remember? She has her legs crossed and her lips pursed in that sinful smile- waiting for me to slip. She’s waiting for me to nub my toe once more and to feel the world spill over. She knows how much I crave your arms and neck and the love you fed my broken soul. She knows how absolutely pathetic I am and how the only hope I ever could receive came from fairy tales - the books you opened and forced me to read. And reread.
Trapped in the bubble of all or nothing, as if this isn’t new. Flying to heaven or collapsing into hell.. We were never in purgatory. But I wish I could purge you. The ambrosia that came from your assurance.. The way you stroked each strand of hair in a way that reminded me of my Lola..How did you become my home? Why did my heart long for you so painfully yet soothingly.. As if I had accepted I was nothing without you. How could I have let my independence fade for you. Why am I avoiding her Gaze.. Why do I blame you for being my optometrist on a life burdened with guilt. If I face you I face myself. Maybe you’ll make me weak again.. Maybe you’ll make me care again and it won’t ever be enough. Maybe I just want to feel again but the numbness is so inviting. Slipping away.. Forgotten.. Maybe this is where I should be. Maybe life is pain.. But why am I so caught on innocence. Innocence of my inevitable doom.. My inevitable failure and the failure of finding love in you?
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37
by Clarisse Pastor-Medina
Queen Different
Utang Na Loob by Anonymous
If you ever ask me why I don’t reach out For help, I would say it is because I do not know How to think or realize when I need it. I am in debt. How do you expect me to be inclined To complain about hardship When my mother as a child only ate one meal a day And walked to school with but one slipper And raised herself and her four other siblings At the nimble age of three or When my father built himself his own toys From other children’s scraps and was able To get an education by reading his brother’s hand-me-downs And doing other people’s laundry? How do you expect me to have the audacity To complain about anything in my life When my dear parents basically clawed their way here For me, with the hopes of a better chance at life In this promised land of opportunity? How do you expect me to live freely When I clearly have a duty, an obligation To make it full circle for my family To make them proud To show them that their hardships weren’t for nothing? To do otherwise feels like betrayal. They are the reason why I have This privilege, this education, this life And I have gotten so far as to making them think that I am loving something I sometimes hate So why stop now? Why stop now when I only Sometimes feel like ripping out my throat When it is only sometimes that I feel Like my heart has burst out of my chest and has dropped To the core of the earth When it is only sometimes that I think That I live in a generation that is pushed to obsess Over who has more to bleed and Who is more willing to break without screaming? So when you see me doing it is probably For my resume, never my eulogy And when you see me smiling it is probably Because I do not want to think of myself For now please let me pretend that I am doing The right thing for now even if I’m not breathing. Because somehow it is the only thing that lets me feel like I am worth their sacrifice.
38
First Saudi Syndrome
Sean Labrador y Manzano OFW: Overseas Filipina Worker 39
I’ve been searching for a new way out Way out History gives me much doubt Way out Years of earnest waiting Led to irony All my bagged belongings For all the world to see Way out
Way
He can help me to my impending doom Way out, way out Broken bottles and a tab for two Way out (or three or four or five or six) Watch me as I fall here Elegance and all When you’re getting angry You happen to enthrall Way out
LISTEN:
Out
Written and Sung by Miles Large
“I knew it, I knew that I could not have gotten through that on my own” “It’s really frustrating to try to explain what this has been about” “-earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth. This made man an extension of our life” “-the most amazing things that I’ve ever seen, um, that a small idea, what appeared to be a small idea, has become total” “In this moment forever...” “God specifically tells us-” “-Let’s do it, let’s do it, ‘cause I got a feeling...”
http://tinyurl.com/WayOutMilesLarge
Years of careful reasoning Led from harmony All my nervous nothings For all the world to see Way out…… 40
everything was Indigo Brea Weinreb Dedicated to Oliver Sacks
My whole body feels electric, kind of like when the doctor presses the stethoscope against your chest and shivers shoot up your spine, except the shivers don’t stop. They start at the top of my neck and move downward, pirouetting with each vertebrae of my spine until my entire body is dancing with vibrations like it does every time I dance with Suzanne. We’re in the kitchen, Coltrane playing on vinyl in the background, dinner baking in the oven. Suzanne’s arms are clasped around my neck while my arms take pilgrimage around her waist. Just like every night. “My one and only love,” I sing with Coltrane. “His blood type is B positive. He’s on Apixaban and Lovastatin. He’s allergic to latex,” Suzanne says quickly. “What are you talking about, sweetheart?” I bury my nose in her great mass of gray hair. “He’s had two strokes in the past month,” Suzanne continues. It’s as if I never spoke. One of those hospital soap operas must be playing on the TV in the other room – so much for romance. “Come on baby, ignore the TV. Listen to the music.” I crane my neck to see what show she’s so enraptured by but I’m distracted by the odd blue shape that’s slowly been amassing on the kitchen wall. It looks as if a puddle of water the color of the ocean floor is permeating through the cracks in the wall. Suzanne’s voice cuts through my indigo-tinted haze. “Please oh please don’t die on me!” She begins to weep uncontrollably. It sounds just like all those times I caught her locked in the bathroom in the middle of the night looking at pictures of Polly and sobbing, the running faucet always failing to mask her suffocating sorrow. “Please sweetheart, shut off the
Portrait d’un Femme Brea Weinreb 41
everything was Indigo Brea Weinreb
television,” I beg her. “I don’t want you to be sad.” Suzanne doesn’t answer. The sound of her tears cuts like shards of glass through my chest, puncturing my heart over and over until it feels like I’m having a heart attack. I wish she didn’t get so invested in those television programs. Coltrane’s sax still roars in the background but I can’t hear it anymore over Suzanne’s tears. The glittering blob of blue bliss on the wall has grown larger. As it bleeds into my direct field of vision I realize its color is far more magnificent than the bottom of the ocean floor. It looks like the inside of an abalone shell, with pigments of pthalo blue and French ultramarine and alizarin crimson tumbling into one another to form the most beautiful shade of indigo I have ever seen. “You see that, Suzanne? It’s almost as beautiful as you, darlin’.” You fill my eager heart with such desire. Coltrane’s still singing. Suzanne continues to beg for her beloved character not to die. “Give me more time, just a little more time!” More sobs. Every kiss you give sets my soul on fire. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” The sobs start to slow down. I give myself in sweet surrender, my one and only love. As the sobs finally come to a close I close my eyes and let the color bleed into the backs of my eyelids until time and space stops and everything is indigo.
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Dear Uncle, Please be free. We witnessed your walk. We loved you, dear uncle.
You complete us. Imperfectly. Beautifully. WE HATED WATCHING YOUR CANDLE BURN DOWN.
Be free now, for us.
Had we known what to do, WE WOULD HAVE DONE IT.
We struggled with you.
You, of our blood. You, of our body. You, of our breathe. You, of us.
We would have done anything!
Forgive this world. for not receiving you. for not holding you. for not holding you up. Forgive us. please for give us. and be free. We wished we could be the thing that helped you. We wished to save you, support you.
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We saw the beauty. Your beauty. Reflected in us.
would have done it.
Anything to ease the pain. Anything to comfort you. Anything for you. And in lieu of the thing, the one thing that could have helped. We did everything. Everything we could think of: we loved you, we set boundaries, we fed you, we witnessed you, we loved you, we prayed, we gave gifts, we offered, we loved you, we were angry We Hated This. we argued, we cried, we loved you, we stayed, we left, we fought for you
We gave up. We forgive you. We loved you. We loved you hard and with our whole hearts. Loved you. You Fabulous, magnificent, gorgeous,
We
gay.
You.
You tortured. You loving. You doting. You anxious.
forgive
be free now
joanna la torre
You. It was complicated,
loving you.
And we did it. And we do.
see your true heart.
see you. 44
Ocean Abyss Perhaps it was the twentieth try that finally lit. We stacked the three chunks of scavenged driftwood on top of all the crumpled receipts, business cards, and used tissues scoured from the bottoms of our bags and wallets. Vincent leaned forward intently and struck the lighter over and over, patiently, attempting new angles as we crowded around to create a barrier from the wind. Sam declared that she did not believe for a moment that it would light, although she was the one who had planned the beach bonfire in the first place. I did not even think to question it—some silly faith of mine that things always work out revealed itself quietly. But soon the fire was climbing decently, and we had attracted new friends, fellow beach-wanderers, to come and share the fireside with us. I sat in the sand and watched the circle of warm, glowing faces around me. I only really knew two of the twelve people—the rest were strangers. Still I sat comfortably cross-legged and exerted a giggle when necessary, to fill silence or avoid speaking or to force a sense of belonging. But I soon grew distracted. Not that these people were not intriguing, but I was quite preoccupied, struggling for months to be fully present anywhere. There were so many scruples to straighten out in my mind, and that night the echoing voice of the water behind me washed hypnotically over my ears, drowning my broken thoughts. The black hole ocean opened its mouth 45
Eva Malis
wide—yawning at the sky, beckoning at me—and collapsed back down into itself. I turned my head to stare at it for a long time before realizing that in that chaotic mass of darkness may be something that I had been looking for. My feet sunk into the cold sand as I rose and trailed away from the bonfire. The warmth and laughter faded quickly, and I trudged onward through the cold wind towards the dark, sloshing expanse of water. The sand was gray, moonlit, and tidy, and my feet left perfect imprints as I approached the wet stains from the slick tongue of the sea. The roaring waves did not end and the black sky did not begin. Instead, each crash of the relentless water struck terror directly into my center. I could not comprehend the vastness or power stretched indifferently in front of me, and fear of this dynamic abyss permeated my body. Trembling uncontrollably, I succumbed to a desperate peace. Alone. I swallowed the word, and let it fill my bones. The wind creaked around me and my world grew infinitely expansive. Petrified in front of the rolling waves, I tried to comfort myself but no words would come out. If I wanted to cry, I would not have the tears, and the forces of nature around me stripped me of all reason to. Suddenly I could sense a strange freedom within that newfound terror. The leeching weight I had grown accustomed to for months was gone, evaporated. After locking itself tightly to my chest and shoulders, it had been
swept away by force of wind, sky, Ocean. Three days before that night at the beach, Grace tells me she has not seen me smile in a long time. I do not try to force open my lips to reveal unwilling teeth again. But I also do not tell her that I have cried myself to sleep every night for weeks, have scribbled images of broken walls all over my notebooks to represent my own dilapidating self-image. I do not tell her that my world is falling apart slowly, that reality is slipping away from me the way paint slides down walls, and that carrying the weight of the world has left my body hollow and empty instead of as fulfilled as I had intended. She asks me what is wrong. I do not mention how alienated I feel from my own species and planet—how I can’t understand why there are so many buildings and so many homeless, why our eyes dart around to avoid other eyes but are so comfortable glued to screens, or why no one seems to notice the clouds or the hummingbirds or the trees inhabiting our cracked sidewalks. No. I cannot explain what is wrong, when I’m not sure that anything is right. So instead, I thank her for noticing my disturbance, and already feel a misshapen piece of my heart click back into place. And then, confronted by the firm reality that is ocean, I found a new ground to plant my feet on. How could I worry about myself in the face of this mess? Ocean is self-destructive as much as it is self-perpetuating—it is sloppy, uneven, contradicting, imperfect, self-absorbed,
stubborn, and uncaring. The fact that ocean was still thriving while I was letting life slip through my fingers was a reminder of my smallness, but not my insignificance. My aloneness did not seem sad beside those powerful black swirls of foam. Instead, I felt empowered with each fearful wave, absorbing enough strength to crash and roar right back at the swallowing tide. Perhaps that was the night I was able to heave myself out of the bottomless hole that is depression. I did not have to speak to anybody about it, as those commercial therapists insist is necessary. What I needed was something no human could give—a reminder of the beautiful constancy and power of the forces that shape our world. A reminder of what is not human, what cannot end. While we let warfare, corruption, greed consume us, these waves will continue to crash against the shore and wear down our manmade barriers. While our lack of responsibility forms a garbage patch the size of a continent in the center of the Pacific, we will still cower fearfully at the prospect of being swallowed by the ruthless tide. And if the weight that latches onto us ever gets too much to bear, we can walk willingly into the ocean’s open arms and it will swallow us gently if we ask it to. We can never conquer all. We will not win against the forces of nature. There is peace in being only human, the same way that there is wonder in watching the stars. 46
I Left Moved Far From Comfort. To Build One’s Home Takes Heart. To Love Yourself takes Time. -Wayne Jopanda
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Self-Love
-Lizzy Klingen
Be Easy Be Easy, in the l ack of words there is a monster in you, where the opposite of what they think peers through, unaffected. in the shadowed crevice, honesty stares back, hard. in the l ack of words is a disappearance of self, apathetic ghost glows solid. when what makes sense is belittled by self interest. in the l ack of words is the bigot who fight s self hate, the way a hear t can beat speedy for twenty-four hours and steal your sleep. silence isn’ t easy unless you have someone to lose. unless you are tr ying to stay lost so you won’ t have to leave the covers , unless you are star ving yourself because the psychology said to. reaching up, to find that the sweater is still wet, the wall s still too white, and your palm is surrounded by empty air. They’ll never know the right thing to say, so you’ll have to say it to yourself.
Eva Malis
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by kristina estell
if you can’t see you can’t see, can’t you see
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video: tinyurl.com/IfYouCantSee 50
What Not To Do When Someone Number one: you do not tell them to relax
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See, for me the attack comes in phases First, my mind starts racing And my breath can’t keep pace with it Comes out as a sob Or a scream Anything that means ‘I need help’ It is meant to be heard.
The next phase is the comedown. Breath and body run out of time and ground and I am spent. I am numb. I had been running the race And what’s left when it’s done Is nothing. I am scary quiet; almost lifeless.
As for the next phase, They call it hyperventilation Which, to me, is my body’s negotiation Between existence and suffocation And my attempt to station all my thoughts in one place. It is not the end of the race Between my body and my mind it’s me trying to find A way to say I’m tired But the two still want to fight.
The last phase is resetting it all It’s usually sleep. My body and breath Finally meet On equal terms. When you tell me to relax, It sets me one phase back Each time. When you tell me to relax, It is redundant because that Phase will come. I don’t need to be reminded. Anxiety is stubborn. But it isn’t dumb.
is Having an Anxiety Attack by Nicole Arca Number two: you do not tell them to think positive or that it could be a lot worse or that we’re all going through the same shit. And this is not to discredit Your problems, because they are valid But recognize that my body is on the edge – An anxiety attack feels like the end. It is a near-death. What people don’t understand about anxiety Is that it already warrants guilt It is desperation that will build With self-deprecation You do not tell someone That their life is perfect AND WHY THE FUCK ARE THEY CRYING That their problems aren’t worth the tears When all I want to do Is figure out how to breathe. This isn’t about you Nor is it about me It is not about the integrity Of our personal suffering It is about making sure that Nobody, nobody gets hurt. 52
Number three: you do not leave them alone. The last thing that I want to feel Is like you are giving up on me. you don’t need to say anything; Presence is sometimes all it takes. In this moment, I am not brave – But this doesn’t mean that I am not strong – see, in this case, empty space is not a place for healing it is the loneliest freedom and the most bitter fear and I need you.
So here’s what you do. Be with me. If you don’t know what to say, don’t say anything. If you don’t understand, admit that you don’t understand. Remember, this isn’t about you,
nor is it about me. It is making sure that we do not get hurt.
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Resources
UC Berkeley & Larger Berkeley Community Tang Center Counseling and Psychological Services www. uhs.berkeley.edu/counseling • (510) 642-9494 *Satellite offices available throughout campus Tang Center Social Services Counseling www. uhs.berkeley.edu/social-services • (510) 642-6074 Student-to-Student Peer Counseling www.sspc.berkeley.edu • 342 Eshleman API Connect www.uhs.berkeley.edu/apiconnect Gender Equity Resource Center www.geneq.berkeley.edu • (510) 642-4786 • 202 Cesar Chavez #2440 Disabled Students’ Program www.dsp.berkeley.edu • dsp@berkeley.edu • 260 Cesar Chavez #4250 Mental Health Coalition www.mhc.berkeley.edu • uchmch@gmail.com 475 nm: Perceptions on Mental Health 475perceptions@gmail.com You Mean More www.ymm.berkeley.edu Berkeley Free Clinic Peer Counseling Collective www.berkeleyfreeclinic.org/peer-counseling-1 • (510) 548-2570 • Berkeley
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Narika www.narika.org • (510) 444-6068 • Berkeley
Resources Bay Area
Asian Community Mental Health Services www.acmhs.org • (510) 451-6729 • Oakland Mental Health Association of Alameda County www.mhaac.org • (510) 835-5010 • Oakland La Clínica de La Raza • Casa del Sol www.laclinica.org/CasaDelSol • (510) 535-6200 • Oakland Asian Perinatal Advocates Family Support Services www.apafss.org • (415) 617-0061 • San Francisco *Serves families of all ethnicities Filipino Community Center www.filipinocc.org • (415) 333-6267 • San Francisco
National
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (24 hours, 7 days a week) www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org • 1 (800) 273-8255 American Foundation For Suicide Prevention www.afsp.org • 1-888-333-2377 American Psychological Association www.apa.org American Psychiatric Association www.psychiatry.org This list of resources is not exhaustive, as we have primarily listed resources local to UC Berkeley and the surrounding Bay Area. For our international community, we encourage you to seek mental health resources in your area and hope you are able to find the care that you and your communities may need.
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Author & Artist Biographies Bradley Afroilan
Aleli Janine Balaguer
bradley afroilan is a 4th year at UC Berkeley. He loves art because of its healing capabilities and its potential to be a catalyst for institutional change.
Aleli Janine Balaguer is a Filipina-American writer and artist continually searching and currently transitioning. She is always striving to better herself. Her selected literary work originated from the Spring 2014 Poetry for the People course held at UC Berkeley.
bafroilan@berkeley.edu
Nicole Arca
nicolearca@berkeley.edu Nicole is a blogger, media enthusiast, and budding arts administrator with a passion for art as activism. Her hobbies include finessing her dog’s Instagram account, attempting to do yoga, and cooking eggs with pasta.
Joann Atienza
jgbatienza@berkeley.edu Joann has spent her life growing up in the Philippines, Australia and Papua New Guinea. She enjoys singing, drawing, photography, watching dog/cat/baby videos on YouTube, napping and eating. Joann is currently a second-year Civil Engineering student and is adamant about destigmatizing mental health discussions among herself and her peers.
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alelibalaguer@gmail.com
Joseph John Asprer Beltran jbeltran@berkeley.edu
Joseph is a third year undergraduate at UC Berkeley studying psychology. At the time of his submission, he was studying abroad in London while experiencing symptoms of depression. His piece was originally intended to be a Facebook status only, but has also been left unedited for this publication.
Sarah Bernardo sbernardo@berkeley.edu
Sarah Bernardo is a junior at the University of California, Berkeley, double-majoring in English and Legal Studies. A native Texan, Sarah is proud of her Southern roots and her Pilipino heritage. She shares her stories through poetry and writing. Her passions also include social justice, feminism, and Asian American issues.
Krisha Mae Cabrera
Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi
I’m proud to be a product of the Philippine barrio, the beaches of Saipan and Guam, the Sacramento suburbs, and now the constant motion of the Bay Area. I’m enthralled by people and the scattering of passions around me every day. They drive my stories.
Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi is university faculty and assistant professor of linguistics at Shri Mata Vaishno Devi University, India; and author of three books-two on lesser known Indian languages: A Grammar of Hadoti (2012) and A Grammar of Bhadarwahi (2013); and one poetry collection in Hindi titled: “Chinar ka Sukha Patta” (Dried leaves of Chinar), (2015).
krishamae.cabrera@berkeley.edu
Tony Daquipa mrt916@yahoo.com
Tony Daquipa is a father, musician, artist, photographer, maker of dirt/grower of food, urban adventurer, counter of beans, creator of policies and procedures, developer of forms, charming/witty/nice/ safe guy, jump shooting dirty worker, and a grown-ass man. Raider Nation For Life. Oakland Forever.
Elizabeth Ruth Deyro elizabethruthdeyro@gmail.com
Presently stuck in the dreadful pursuit of her first Bachelor’s degree in Communication Arts, Elizabeth Ruth, an ambitious Writing major from the University of the Philippines, continues to welcome as much caffeine as her system permits her to, as well as occasional distractions like How to Get Away with Murder.
Kristy Drutman kdrutman@berkeley.edu
A Filipina passionate for language, connection, and depth. My writing has helped me heal my mental wounds and has allowed me to forgive, love, and learn. I am unlearning my internalized oppression as a womxn of color and working to understand my identity through spoken word.
amitabhvikram@yahoo.co.in
Kristina Estell kjestell@hotmail.com
Kristina Estell is a graduate with distinction of Herron School of Art at Indiana University and holds a Master’s Degree of Fine Art from the University of Minnesota. She has exhibited nationally and internationally as well as attended artist residencies in the US, Japan, Germany and Hungary.
Wayne Jopanda
waynejopanda@gmail.com A child of Filipino immigrants, Wayne hopes to utilize activist scholar methods and community engaged scholarship to build more support for migrant communities and communities of color. Grounded by his pamilya’s love, Wayne hopes to continue working for migrant labor rights through higher education, social justice organizing, and building community.
Lizzy Klingen eklingen@berkeley.edu
Lizzy Klingen is a senior undergraduate student at UC Berkeley studying Cognitive Science with a concentration in cognitive psychology and the Practice of Art with a concentration in drawing. Her current body of artwork focuses on the self, and particularly self perception, motivation, and attention. 58
Joanna La Torre
Elissa S. Lee
Joanna La Torre is a cis-gender, queer, biracial, woman of color from California. She is working on an MSW at CSU Sacramento. Joanna has performed with the Female Hip Hop Alliance, Mixed Messages: Stories by POCs, and Pasajer@s. She is passionate about working towards intergenerational healing for Filipinos.
Elissa S. Lee finds her roots in Austin, Texas and spent her teenage years on the island of Taiwan. A senior at Berkeley, she studies psychology, dance, and disability studies, and hopes to pursue careers in the health field. Aside from reading/writing, you will find her dancing, eating, making soup, people-watching, and making listicles.
latorre.joanna@gmail.com
Sean Labrador y Manzano kahilisun@hotmail.com
Sean Labrador y Manzano lives on the island off the coast of Oakland. He curated the symposium From Trauma to Catharsis: Performing the Asian AvantGarde. He performs as Jose Rizal in the choreopoem, “Das Kapital, Volume 4, Elimination of the Industrial Phase and the Accumulation of Debt.”
Dana Lynn Lansigan dlansigan@berkeley.edu
Dana Lansigan was born in Los Baños, Philippines and is the eldest of three siblings. She attended Irvine High School in Irvine, CA and is currently studying mechanical engineering at the University of California, Berkeley. In her free time, Dana enjoys writing, playing the ukulele, and solving the Rubik’s cube.
Miles Large clubline@att.net
Miles Large, most notable for playing Maganda open mics, his 2013 iTunes release “Defenestration,” and his newer “Circadian Cycle,” an essential song for people who’ve stopped caring, is a solo musician from Merced, CA. Written in 5 minutes, his submission, “Way Out” is about persisting in a world of futility engines. 59
elissa.s.lee@berkeley.edu
Eva Malis
emalis@berkeley.edu Eva is a third year Environmental Science student at UC Berkeley with minors in creative writing and regenerative landscape design. She is deeply involved in the environmental community on campus and strives to frame environmental causes through a social justice lens to build a more livable and just future.
Eril Marie Morales erilmarie@gmail.com
Mental health is a topic I hold close to my heart. I’ve realized that speaking about uncomfortable issues can make situations more comfortable to tackle. This led me to volunteer as a Crisis Intervention Specialist, providing people with a space to talk about issues which bother them, feelings which consume them, and thoughts which won’t leave them alone.
Clarisse Pastor-Medina artist@clarissepastormedina.com
Clarisse is a Filipino born and raised in the Philippines and is now Fil-American by sweet serendipity. She has exhibited her works in San Francisco and Los Angeles California. Coming from a family of artists, Clarisse is mostly self-taught and always quick to say that she is not art-schooled but is proudly “heART-schooled”.
Advaita Patel
Maria Stabio
Advaita Patel is a 1st year undergraduate student at UC Berkeley majoring in computer science and math but also a huge art enthusiast. She draws inspiration from fauvism and naive art as colours appeal to her the most. Recently she had her first solo art exhibition that displayed more than 100 paintings which was very well acclaimed.
Maria Stabio (b. 1985 San Francisco) is a first generation Filipino-American artist and curator. Her current work addresses feelings of loneliness and isolation through comedic text combined with the painted image. She graduated with a BFA in Painting from Boston University and an MFA in Visual Arts from Columbia University. For more information, visit mariastabio.com.
advaita.patel@gmail.com
Rayanne Velayo Piaña rrayannep@gmail.com
Rayanne Velayo Piaña is a 20 year old writer, scholar, and life observer. She was born and raised on the island of Guam, but since the age of 18, has made the bay area become her home, too. She is studying at the University of California, Berkeley, majoring in media studies and minoring in creative writing.
Liza Rangel lr1489@nyu.edu
Liza is an NYU undergraduate studying English Education and minoring in Sociology. Liza is weathering yet another snow storm and teaching 9th grade English.
Noemi Serrano noemisd@aol.com
mstabio@gmail.com
Brea Weinreb bweinreb@me.com
Brea Weinreb is a painter and writer from Long Island, New York. Her work focuses on contemporary gender relations and expressions of sexuality and has been exhibited in several group shows in both Berkeley and San Francisco, including Freedom: Art Indulgence at SOMArts and “I Know What You Did Last Summer” at Worth Ryder Gallery.
Ciantelle Tienzo c.tienzo@gmail.com
Ciantelle is a 20-something year old often in her own head, dreaming or in despair. She hails from Pampanga and currently resides in Berkeley, with her family of plants.
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staff & interns
Marian Cordon EDITOR IN CHIEF, FALL ‘15 COMMUNITY CONSULTANT
Sarah Bernardo EDITOR IN CHIEF, SPRING ‘16 Ciantelle Tienzo & Jaelyn Ordonio EIC INTERNS
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Jerry Cortez LAYOUT EDITOR
Joeminel Docuyanan LITERARY EDITOR
Zhenrong “Jen” Shi & Michelle Cabal LAYOUT INTERNS
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Rayanne Velayo Piaña HUMAN RESOURCES COORDINATOR Abraham Padilla HUMAN RESOURCES INTERN
Jan Izzy Secular PUBLIC RELATIONS INTERN
Anna Grimaldo PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTOR Jalisha Paz PUBLIC RELATIONS INTERN 63