In Solidarity Spring 2014 by In Solidarity

in solidarity (com)passion spring 2014

Table of Contents Dyaami D’Orazio Mark Blanchard Sarah Lomax Brannon Rockwell-Charland Modjeska Pleasant Ana Robelo, Ashley Suarez, & Victoria Velasco Krista LaFentres Ana Robelo & Joelle Eliza Lingat Dyeemah Simmons Cuyler Otsuka Belle Espinal Mengchen (Sue) Xu Anthony Moaton Gaby Hurtado-Ramos Anonymous Natalie Villasana Jasmine Adams Richard Tran B. Chris Gould Zach Jamieson Katrina Cortés Lexy Phillips Ale Requena Ruiz Victoria Velasco Joelle Eliza Lingat

1 2 3-5 6-9 10-13 14-18 19-23 24 25 26-29 30-32 33-35 36-37 38-39 40-41 42 43 44-47 48-49 50 51 52-54 55 56 57-59 60-61

in SOLIDARITY STAFF

Joelle Eliza Lingat Victoria Velasco Ale Requena Ruiz kaela sanborn-hum

COVER ART BY Joelle Eliza Lingat THANK YOU: Jan Cooper, advisor Multicultural Resource Center Contributors SFC We would like to express gratitude to the organizations that have redistributed the wealth that is disproportionately kept out of our collective reach year after year. Without their help, this issue would not have been a reality.

From the Editors: Hello, Despite the myriad obstacles we’ve had to overcome throughout the semester, we are excited to release this issue of In Solidarity which features powerful and beautiful manifestos of (com)passion by Oberlin College’s students of Color. As a publication, In Solidarity is committed to providing a space for creative, intellectual, and emotional expressions that explore the intersections of our multiple identities. This issue stands as an example of how cross cultural, racial, and social exchange can occur without the erasure of individuality. We embrace the words and images on the following pages as artworks of liberation, as actions that upset the normative ideals that are violently upheld within the confines of Oberlin College and throughout the nation. The toxic exchanges that we, as students from historically marginalized backgrounds, have with our peers and the administration have proven that In Solidarity—one of the few campus publications that is by and for students of Color—is seen as a threat to the white supremacist liberal mainstream culture that is so cherished here. We are disgusted and furious that in an effort to drown out our voices, the Solarity Finance Committee (SFC) denied our ad hoc request without offering any substantial explanation as to why they failed to allocate even one cent towards our printing expenses this semester. We see this for what it is: an unabashed silencing of our experiences and an attempt to erase our histories. This semester has been unsurprising, but nonetheless disappointing and angering for students grappling with multiple intersections of oppressions. The feigned radicalism of the campus has burnt out its most revolutionary warriors and admittedly emotionally traumatized us into momentary submission. The Oberlin Coalition has continued its underground operations and published an open letter of solidarity for the students at Dartmouth University. Defending Oberlin Financial Accessibility mobilized students during All Roads Lead to Oberlin Debt to educate students—past, present, and future—about the institutional perpetuation of the tenements of capitalism that it claims to combat. Finally, individual students have stood up even when organizations meant to represent us sit down, if not cower. Student Senators Arianna Gil and Kiki Acey have fought valiantly this past year in service to the communities that Student Senate has continually failed to represent. We are humbled by all of these students’ work. Our theme this semester has pushed us to reflect upon the ways that (com)passion plays a vital role in our struggle for liberation. We believe it is imperative that in holding each other accountable for our words and actions, we continue to challenge each other in ways that call each other “in” and not “out.” We have witnessed the edge but have held each other so as not to fall over it. Direct action cannot come at the cost of our communities and our beings. Our arms are linked in anger and in love. Our movements demand (com)passion.

In solidarity, Joelle Eliza Lingat Ale Requena Ruiz

Victoria Velasco kaela sanborn-hum

Part One Dyaami Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Orazio Nightmare. The sun is bright. Blocks my vision. Shielding my eyes, I see the outline of a child. The wisps of hair fly around, Free from one side only.

The pressure to leave is mounting, Like gallons of water placed, Rather quickly, on my chest, Soon we will drown. Please, child, let us go. It is not safe here. They are everywhere, I whisper. She tries to speak.

Somehow I can feel, In my bones, It is my duty to protect her.

As I get closer, she turns to me, I step back with horror. Fear. Cold and shocking.

I run over, See the cut on her knee, Band Aids, a kiss, stand-up.

The child.

I rest for a minute. I hear sobbing. Another cut. Invisible this time. But I know its there. Another. And another. Time passes and my Band Aids Have begun to run out.

The child.

Is my mother. How long have I been doing this?

We should leave the playground. But she wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t come with me. I beg. Plead. Sing. Dance. Lecture. Yell.

I wake up.

Learn to Play

You grow up and you learn fear. Fear will drive you to step over people in need rather than offer help.

Mark Blanchard 2

growth. Sarah Lomax my body. growing. expanding (blue shift) assuming space my stomach sits over my hipbones and i used to see shadows of muscle now grown soft with stretch marks yet somehow beautiful me growing deserving existence thick thighs and all.

to the “other” girl Sarah Lomax to the girl who says she’s not like ‘other women’: i get it. you’re afraid. terrified. you don’t want the boys to single you out. you want them to think you’re in for the ride. you want to win the game, so you do your best to hide that tube of lipstick you swore you wore only once at senior prom and wear that baggy sweater like armor. it’s clever. really. you get them thinkin’ that you like the jokes that slip from the rooftops of their mouths with use of awkward grins. at three in the morning, you’ll make a break to the McDonald’s downtown and they’ll pass judgment with their fingers coated in Big Mac sauce about how girls these days are girly, much too girly. feminine. feminine. it’s a dirty word ‘cause they say so, and you wonder why but you’re not like the others’ so you never question. you accept. you associate. you associate femininity with the stick thin images of celebrities played out in the latest issue of Seventeen magazine, with half-naked women are laying over, well, anything, with how there’s just too much talk about designer jeans and the fashion scene, and with an interest that you believe is better suited to abstract things. so you make yourself out something better than. see, you will say as these boys clap you on the back, you certainly aren’t like those other girls because you’ve elevated yourself to not buy into such silly ideas. careful, though. those are the hands of enemies that lay upon your hipbones, hands that will break you, hands that will make a toy out of your bruises and ask if you liked that by morning’s light. you will remember those hands as the ones that held you up for being the ‘other woman’. you will remember, because, you will be hollowing yourself out at your bedside. you will say say something but they’ll all wonder if you were ‘begging for it,’ even though you never dressed like the girls you used to tear down. you will remember how the shower burns your flesh while you wonder where you miscalculated, then realize no clothing could ever hide you from their wrath.

when you do, you will collapse. and rise. you will sift through the broken breastplate you made your shield and pull out that tube of eyeliner you hid since you were fifteen. you will do what you can to live and raise your fist with other women because we were never your enemy. you may hate that you didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get it, but iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not angry. you were hoping to win the only way you knew how.

Playing God for Ma Rose,

Selfie 1

Brannon Rockwell-Charland

38-28-35: A Response to Duchampâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Standard Stoppages

(No) Schema: ... (II)

Brannon Rockwell-Charland

Untitled Modjeska Pleasant She could keep Me Pressed between her fingertips She could breath Every one of her sorrows Into my folds She could fill Me She will try to show Me Why she is broken She will try to hide Her loveliness From Me But it will still Spill from her Drench me in such Beauty that her gusting Sorrows could not dry Me

Untitled Modjeska Pleasant Dreaming of myself Flowing like consciousness Smooth, tasting feelings With ease I can distinguish Flavors of my emotions Flowing. I sputter into wakefulness, Drowsy, jittering Spinning into uneven Fabric. I cannot feel the edges of This garment, I can only Tell that that it is unraveling I am unraveling Thinning, My smile is spinning thinner Spilling. How does this emptiness Gush with such Urgency? How can I still feel myself Withering? I am crushed by My own clutching Fingers. Daggers sinking Deeper, Yet I grasp at the Jagged edges even as they Slice my skin. I can feel.

Untitled Modjeska Pleasant Excited breaths slip from me when you press your lips to me. Something about your eyes Black, they don’t move change color, they don’t seem real, they are too perfect. Something about your voice, neither high or low, it sometimes shivers, it usually flows with confidence like the rush of ancient rivers. It is unreal to me. Something about your lips, a perfect bow, always changing color, always changing shape with the taste of what you speak about. Your words have a special Flavor, when they caress my ears, when I lick them from your tongue. I want to know you more. I am afraid that I rely too heavily on my senses when I think of you, when I am with you. I do not want just a question, a “something” to mark your presence, to mark the rippling of your soul within you.

I hope one day that our eyes can speak to each other. I hope you will let your voice rush freely when you speak to me. I hope your lips always smile when you see me. I hope your words never change their flavor just to please me. I hope one day I can share this with you without feeling like I am showing you a gapping wound. I hope I can share my vulnerabilities. I hope my feelings for you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always seem like weakness to me. Dear Lexy

Feministas Clandestinas: Testimonios

Ana Robelo, Ashley Suarez, & Victoria Velasco

Feministas Clandestinas is a portrait project we undertook to honor the Latina womyn that came before us. Using Aida Hurtado’s concept of underground feminisms, we sought to negotiate the gray area created when womyn who are not exposed to scholarly feminism or who do not identify as ‘feminists’ for whatever reason embody so much of the theoretical underpinnings put forth by feminist academics. This collection of photos and testimonios is a means of sharing narratives about the mujeres in our lives that not only embody their own kind of resistance but have heavily informed—and continue to inform—our transformative developments of what it means to be a feminista.

Jennifer Murdock The woman who is my Latina feminist icon is my mom, Valerie. She grew up in the projects of El Barrio (NYC) and was the first one in her family to go to college. She’s now a lawyer and single mother, helping to put my brother and I through college. She always taught me to be myself and has always supported my dreams and always makes sure that no matter how I identify or what I do I am welcome and wanted at home. My mom has taught me that it’s okay to be silly while being hardworking, and that it’s okay to not always be confident and “strong.” I aspire to be even a quarter of the woman that my mother is.

Wes Ruiz Sylvia Rivera (1951-2002) was a Puerto Rican and Venezuelan trans and queer activist from New York City. She is well known for her influence in the social justice struggles of the 1960’s and 70’s, including the Gay Liberation Movement and Third World Liberation Movements. She participated in the Stonewall Riots and famously fought her way on stage at the 1970 Christopher Street Liberation March (soon to become the Gay Pride Parade) and called out the mainstreaming and destruction of the Gay Liberation Movement. Sylvia Rivera is a fierce reminder to live, think, feel and act complexly. From her complex experience as a person with multiple marginalized identities, she thought and fought back for queer and trans youth of color, especially those who were experiencing poverty and homelessness. She knew that even those who represent marginalized identities still had the capacity to perpetuate structural oppression. The self-proclaimed “feminists” who condemned her and used transphobic rhetoric to exclude her from participating in their activist circles were just as responsible for perpetuating patriarchy as anyone else. People with power and privilege decontextualized and appropriated social justice rhetoric to serve their own interests. They were mainstreaming liberation movements, moving from collectivity to privatization and subsequently separating the theory and struggle from the people who created it in the first place. These thoughts, the work and the actions of the most vulnerable populations were being turned around on them and used to exclude them. I remember Sylvia Rivera’s struggle and her unwavering commitment to truly radical, compassionate and complex activism when I feel helpless and alone. Her strength continues to be an inspiration for me to fiercely advocate for myself and other highly vulnerable communities, even if it seems no one will listen. She taught me how to create theory and action starting from my most intimate understandings of my own experience and deep love for my people.

Ana Robelo My Mom and my Mami. These mujeres are stubborn, focused, generous, and intelligent. They’ll tell you how it is but they know how to laugh, and know how to appreciate life. These are the women that taught me to be resourceful, to make use of home remedies, to buy things on sale, to pay attention, to pick things up quickly, to ask for the things I deserve, and to do things for myself. When I was younger, I remember going on long walks with Mami and having to work to keep up with her as she wound in and out of dirt paths with agility, pulling me over, under, and through. She would always make me eat lots of oranges, cut up with salt on the side. She’s healthy and put together, a Tica on a mission, a world traveler with serious cooking skills. While she’s reached a point of comfort now, she never forgets her home and the journey she made to Connecticut with her siblings to work and where she raised my mother by herself. My Mom has always shown me that it’s ok to leave things behind and start over, that as long as you have family and as long as you have yourself, it’s ok to be scared at first, you’ll adjust. While you may be pulled between places, you can take your home with you. As I go through college very far from home, I think of how my mom left for Costa Rica at 18 with only her broken Spanish to have her world turned upside down. A few years later she moved to Nicaragua with my father following the destruction of the revolution to join a new family. They have kept our family afloat time and time again. Even though they value the men in their lives, they have always known when to put up boundaries, when to put themselves first and assert their independence. While Mami and my Mom have their differences, they have survived together in this country and fulfilled their dreams of making connections and relationships beyond it. I hope I can match their courage and strength to do the same.

Victoria Velasco My grandma Alicia migrated from Zacatecas, Mexico, to the barrio of Boyle Heights in Los Angeles in the 1970s. She was a survivor of domestic violence and a single mother of six children. Her 8th grade education in a rural school permitted her to work at several low-paying jobs while in the U.S. When I was a child, I was left in her care while my parents were at work. She would make me tacos de papa when she was feeling extra generous, and she would watch 1930s Mexican films whenever they would air on television. She would take me all around the city with her on the bus, since she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t own a car, and she would often tell me how much she missed her father and siblings who still lived on the ranch where she grew up in Mexico. In 2005, she lost her life to cancer, and her children, including my father, have since grown apart from one another without her unifying presence in their lives. When I remember my grandma, I remember a matriarch that spent so much energy loving me and teaching me about my (and her) cultural heritage. I remember a woman who worked the night shifts so that her children could be the first in their families to attend college. I recall a mujer that never spoke to me much about the history of physical & emotional violence inflicted upon her by her ex-husband, who fathered five of her six children, but I do remember her pride for being, as she would say, both a mother and a father. Her life is a powerful embodiment of feminism for me because she taught me that we needed to reject the machismo found in my grandfather, my dad, and other men in our communities. She knew, as I do now, that it is women who take up the reigns and fill the many gaps that men often create.

Food Bank Krista LaFentres Ingredients:

Method:

- Rice (in bag or donated gold GladWare)

1) Boil rice.

- Cream of mushroom

- Beef, canned, â&#x20AC;&#x153;with natural juicesâ&#x20AC;? (black cow printed directly on metal)

2) Warm cream of mushroom (microwave, stovetop, oven, grill in a pinch). 3) Add government beef and hopefully pepper. 4 )Hold back part of mixture for Dad. He refuses to eat rice, says it reminds him of maggots. 5) Pour remains over rice.

Ingredients:

Method:

- Standard November issue bone-in ham

- Canned pineapple (rings preferred)

1) Begin at midnight, no preheating possible or necessary

- Earache (left side)

- Hot Damn cinnamon schnapps

- Weeks-old Sunday paper (ads, comics, and Ask Dr. Gott)

2) Complain of hunger. 3) Watch Dad place ham chosen (identical to all other hams given) in rusty pan. 5) Pour or place pineapple over and do not drain. 6) Cry from earache until heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s desperate enough to force you to take 2 shots of Hot Damn. 7) Do not vomit. 8) Read paper and star a pretend list of desired gifts, giggling softly to self.

Ingredients: - Onions and bell peppers (if possible)

- This week’s meat, sliced into strips

- One package brown gravy powder, wrinkled

- No electricity at home

- A pallet in a friend’s house

Method: 1) After school, call Dad to help with recipe. Let him stay for 2 hours to get out of the cold of home. 2) Don’t slice strips thin enough and wait to be told to slice again 3) Put vegetables in pan with oil or butter or fake butter (skip if no vegetables available) 4) Toss ragged meat strip into pan when onions are clear 4) Worry and constantly ask questions about meat temperature and color 5) Relinquish stained wooden spoon and watch as Dad finishes the rest

Krista LaFentres 23

For Those Trying To Make It - An Ode to Womyn Heartbroken By Ivory Ana Robelo & Joelle Eliza Lingat These are the struggles of being a Womyn of Color in Academia, knowing the disposability you face and the conflicting standards that you are to perform under. You are a threat to the same institution that gave you the tools and vocabulary and promise to develop and articulate your radical survival. This thing that is supposed to empower us, to give us a path, to allow a way to transform from within is draining us, sucking us dry with every hour we are forced to type our souls away. While we know that being kicked down, rejected, and deemed as not enough is a part of this work, the fight simply hurts too much. There comes a time when we need to sit in and feel our exhaustion, pain, and feelings of unworthiness to heal and move forward. There is power in this too. This is how we feel, unashamed. We are angry, confused, sad, crying, divas, drama queens screaming and singing at the top of our lungs when cheesy ballads give us voice that academia cannot. Nancy Sinatra – Bang Bang - My Baby Shot Me Down Etta James – All I Could Do Was Cry - 1960 Single Version Adele – Chasing Pavements Shakira – Beautiful Liar - Main Version / Album Version Abba – I Have A Dream Beyoncé – Poison Fergie – Big Girls Don't Cry (Personal) Lily Allen – Fuck You Destiny's Child – Survivor Jennifer Hudson – I Am Changing Mariah Carey – Shake It Off Gwen Stefani – Cool Taylor Swift – We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together Britney Spears – Lucky Duffy – Mercy Christina Aguilera – Beautiful Carrie Underwood – Before He Cheats Rihanna – Breakin' Dishes Janelle Monáe – Cold War

La Roux – Bulletproof Amy Winehouse – Tears Dry Tegan And Sara – Now I'm All Messed Up Common – I Used to Love H.E.R. The Pussycat Dolls – Happily Never After Aaron Neville – Tell It Like It Is Omarion – Ice Box Norah Jones – Cold Cold Heart Kanye West – All Falls Down Rihanna – Take A Bow Gloria Gaynor – I Will Survive Lauryn Hill – Ex-Factor Beyoncé – Irreplaceable Cee Lo Green – F**k You Beyoncé – Best Thing I Never Had Avril Lavigne – Complicated Erykah Badu – Tyrone - Live Version Kate Nash – Dickhead

Sherwood Island Beach

Dyeemah Simmons 25

“Aloha Marriage Equality!” Unsettling Gay Constructions of Paradise (excerpt) Cuyler Otsuka My goal is not to inspire white activists to adopt a more liberal, multicultural attitude towards inclusion of Native Hawaiians and people of color into the fabric of American society. This type of activism has historically reinforced the legitimacy of the settler state with the help of people of color in addition to the white activists who already occupy positions of power. Rather, I hope to push activists—settler and indigenous—to think critically about how they are implicated in reinforcing settler colonialism through their occupation and activism, and to ask them to think critically, and not necessarily embracingly, about the settler state. One prong of my argument is that actors possessing certain identities are not exempt from enacting a counter-liberationist politics for either their own communities or other communities at the margin. The major actors in this paper belong to at least one identity group that has either historically faced or presently faces structural oppression. And yet, many of them through their words and political activisms are able to advocate a counter-liberationist politics. Our queer foremothers and forefathers in the historical struggles for liberation faced extreme violence at the hands of the heterosexual settler state. Forgetting their struggles is a rejection of cross-temporal affect. How should the queer community reconcile our continued history of oppression with the rise of heterosexual tolerance for cis gay people? Humbly, I put forth that we should respect our queer ancestors who lived and died at the margins by not becoming so absorbed in individualistic capitalist success that we reinscribe those same forms of violence onto differently othered bodies who continue to live and die at the margins of society.

Mother & Child Reunion

Cuyler Otsuka

tao / bahay / bagyo

Natalie Villasana (‘17), Emily Bang (‘17) and Wang Si (‘15) in a game of tao / bahay / bagyo, MAASC Conference, 3/15/2014.

Cuyler Otsuka 28

Untitled Cuyler Otsuka There is a phrase in Hawaiian—”mana wahine.” Mana refers to spiritual and political power. Wahine is Hawaiian for woman. I feel blessed to know you and call you a friend. You truly embody and enact “mana wahine,” from the way you care for others, to your leadership through action, and dedication to creating and envisioning radical change. So much of our political work in praxis goes unnoticed and unthanked. At the top of my head, I think of you buying snacks for the babies, or you sacrificing a work shift to meet with Carol Christ in order to be present for future students who come into Oberlin similarly situated to you and myself. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for the selflessness and humility you bring into your activism. It’s refreshing. It’s something that is sorely lacking in student activism. Moreover, the faculty members in charge in the CAS department treated you so thanklessly and invalidated an entire year’s worth of work for you in one fell swoop. Their lack of transparency and accountability has perhaps reflected their character more tellingly than any words can describe. More importantly, your scholarship is at the cutting edge—studying student activism through zines? How many Ph.D. dissertations have cared to even recognize zines as a legitimate medium of knowledge production? You constantly contribute your manaʻo to the conversation, even when your words aren’t received at all, much less received well. Thus is the paradox of the misunderstood genius: the most brilliant of thinkers and doers among us are disregarded or pushed to the wayside, even by people who are supposed to be trained to recognize excellence. In my four years here, I’ve learned that excellence in the academy is predicated upon the ability to talk an empty talk. Thank god you’re not one of them. Your integrity and your intelligence will continue to shine long after your undergraduate degree loses its luster. Isang bagsak. One fall. One crash. Holla back— I got your back. With aloha, Cuyler K. Otsuka

gold women Belle Espinal Mirame bien No soy idiota Ni puta Pa que tu lo sea pa ---Amor. Yo soy mujer Yo soy fuerza Yo soy. Y tu, quien es? O si, Cabron. Mirame bien. En mis ojos gigantes. Que pueden verte un mile adalante Sin amor, sin compasion, sin gracia --Conmigo son mis ancestras de fuerza. Por que The Bronx raised me better than that. Knowing better than to fall in love. Knew love was not for us. Knew heartbreak like my womb was it. Mama washing our clothes Making us food We watched her unfallen tears. Left in the crevices of my eyes. When I was born. Baby we know better. When a stranger puts themselves inside you. And then proceeds to tell you not to fall in love. You pause You remember the vacancy left time and time again. And you scream from the top of your lungs, You do not know me.

You say you do not know my herstory But can’t say anything. Just know, my predecessors wouldn’t have left Me here, not knowing the differences. You say motherfucker I know love and No love Like I know good dick And no dick. You tell em baby I knew love wasn’t you like I knew it wasn’t even good. Like I knew my dad when he was around And didn’t when he wasn’t. Like Pops likes my facebook posts And then doesn’t. He disappears and reappears I know y’all are Inconsistent And undependable. When strangers tell you not to fall in love. Im gonna let em know We protect our hearts like it is the only thing we have left. We, los mujeres, don’t wait or hope or wish. Cause You would never catch me falling. Sabemos que los hombres vaia como el mar. Y yo no soy un barco. Soy un arbol. Agunatado para siempre. Y tu, que te joda. I am jumping. I am jumping. I am jumping. I am at peace

because It is not just daddy issues It is man issues. It is not me. It is not women. It is you. It is men. And Remember I am not bitter. I am not broken. I am spoken. Awoken You motherfucka must be joken. Cause I aint choken. So when you remind me not to fall in love. You donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need to. I know that already. _ Y although Sabemos que los hombres vaia como el mar Y dejemos Por aya, y por aqui We still want to be loved And treasured And found and discovered Like the gold That we are. Like yall mis hermanitos Can you please stop hurting nostras. We are not here for you to abuse. We are here to support And love.

You Like you should start being Here for us too. Stop making us hurt Because you hurt. Because it is hard being un hombre Of your skintone But it is hard being a mujer Of mine. Or hers And ours. We want to love yall We want to grow explore And plant some seeds. But yall need to stop Fucking with us. We can only take so much. We want to be loved The way we deserve to be Like the creators of life Like the creators That we are. WE. We bring your asses here And you need to treat us Like preciousness Y puedes empezar con sus hijas y hijos Show em the love they deserve Show em they are diamonds And not diamonds in the rough No clauses on their royalty. Tell us We are worthy

We are not looking for affirmation Just proper presentation Proper resignation Stop hurting us. We are your women. Like you are our men. We were grown in the same wombs Of pains Of oppressions Of struggles And you men Need to start stepping up. Start being honest Start loving us the way you should. Love us like your mama shoulda been loved Love us like you are your dad Who has finally returned and learned. And Finally. Is able. Love us that way. Because we are standing in front of you Ready for yall to change. It is not that we need you It is that we love you. Because we are the same. You are me. Like me is you. And we are together As a people. So treat us. Love us.

And we do not have to be your lovers For you to respect us. We are family. El sangre es el mismo. We are still las reinas Y las mamas de la comunidades. So men Por favor. Mira nostras como mujeres de oro.

what kind of gaze would you give to someone who has a defining emotional impact on you?

Mengchen (Sue) Xu 33

Crystal Castle Anthony Moaton The coldness inhabits the space Where your body used to be. It wraps around me, Fashions itself into a noose, And chokes me out of pleasant dreams. I look around. You sit on the side of the bed, An indescribable gloom contorts your body Into a damaged fetal position I exhale slowly. This scene is not foreign. Lately, your nighttime ruminations Have cast impenetrable shadows On my connection to you. But at this moment, I’m deafened by how loudly The pain screams from your body, As if your soul has taken revenge On your corporeality For not housing such a precious gift well. I slide from under the covers And take up the space next to you. We don’t want to talk, But I know talking is unnecessary. I take your hand in mine And circle your palms. I wish I could understand you. And I wish your soul wasn’t locked up In a crystal castle, There for me to witness and appreciate, And marvel at its striking beauty,

But never to enter. I wish I could enter you And tame your soul, And drive out the shadows That smother our connection. I wish that I could love away your pain, Because it hurts that I can’t help you With something so powerful That it shapes the way you move and speak. The way you live. I let go of your hand. You instantly grab it again. I refuse to ruin the moment with words. And I hold your hand with both of mine, While I lay my head on your shoulder. We forget what time is, But you can’t time a pure reconnection. And I find myself coming closer To understanding your sensitivity. But right now, I’m happy just to feel some warmth. I’m happy to be inside your castle. I’m happy that your soul isn’t screaming anymore, And like our conjoined bodies It slowly drifts to sleep.

A Transplanted Bogotรก In my journey to reconnecting with my cultural roots I try to draw connections between the body and its origins. My father is from Bogotรก, Colombia, a place I have visited but do not feel as close to as I wish. I placed fragmented frames of Google Earth images of the mountains that run across Bogotรก onto my back to create a visual and wishful connection between myself and the city.

Gaby Hurtado-Ramos

A Sense of Location In this piece I broaden my sense of self and location to encompass whole landmasses and my own nude figure. I repeat the image of the figure to refer to a multiplicity of identity while weaving in and out the continents of the Americas.

Gaby Hurtado-Ramos

Mi Abuela Anonymous Lizards move at fast speeds. This one in particular was small, almost the size of a pencil, greybrown, and very slithery. Just the right color to camouflage with the color of the land I was standing on top of. From a distance, some fifty steps away diagonally from where I thought the lizard managed to hide, I was able to see a band. A banda. There was a heavy set man with a small mustache playing a white tuba to the beat of the drums and to the chords of the guitar. He simply followed the beat of his other band members. They, the members, followed the beat of small steps that the women dressed in black made in between their cries or small murmurs of grief. Their steps were slow but well paced, enough for the men in beige sombreros, black button up shirts, and simple campesino pants with guaraches (mexican sandals), to carry the coffin to it’s final resting place. I had heard numerous corridos (folksongs) by Mexican men in the radio. They always talked about their muerte. How on the day of their death, they wanted la banda to play their favorite songs. There’s no use to feel sadness when life had granted them happiness. I wonder if the person who had left the physical world was content knowing that a banda played their favorite songs while I watched, heard, every beat the tuba player played. As the men in the beige sombreros came to a halt, so did the women dressed in black with the black veil. Soon, the banda would change their song, another one of the deceased’s favorites. I am sure. Yet, there I stood. Looking down at my plastic sandals, wondering if I was stepping on grey-brown dirt or on a lizard. The sound of that band drained whatever feeling I had as I stood next to my grandmother’s tomb. There was no fancy fence or green grass or mini flowers or mini flags surrounding the perimeter of where the grave was first dug. That was the only image I could think of when I first thought about a cemetery. I always saw little american flags and yellow flowers and angel statues around a person’s gravesite. But I was in Mexico, and things were not the same. Fourteen years ago to this date. I stood there, looking at a grey stone with faded letters that spelled out her name. My father stood next to her tomb, looking also at the banda but he was more aware of reality. How do I know? Because he stood there, recounting the moment he carried his mother into his pick-up truck, lifeless, and hopeless. His youngest brother, who was thirty at the time screamed when my grandmother’s fragile hands no longer moved. Her face had lost it’s blush and her soft voice was quiet. Gone. My father stood in the room where she layed. In her bed, and carried her, put her in the back of his pick up truck hoping to find a doctor to save her. It was late. And the nearest hospital was an hour away. He stood near her tomb and spoke of holding his mother lifeless but then he sighed saying that she was at peace. My mother listened with care and my young sister tried to understand. I understood.

My grandmother found her peace. Rumors had it that her kidneys failed the moment my grandfather put his hands on her. Other say that her kidneys failed the moment she mourned endlessly the loss of her eldest son and daughter. Some say that it was because she spent countless hours making tortillas and caring for the livestock that helped her raise her six sons. Her kidneys, some said, failed because she spent countless hours awake at night praying for the sons that decided to cross border but forgot about her. She walked countless nights around her small house hoping to one day see at least one son come back to la casa but instead, she saw more of them wave goodbye as they walked northbound, dreaming of living in another land. But what kills me, even to this day, is that for all that she had done, she didn’t have a banda playing music when she passed away. It’s not about the stupid music or melody or about the lyrics, it’s about being acknowledged. My grandmother, Pina, was forgotten. Even the lettering on her tombstone started to fade. And there I was, looking, while the women in black veils on the other end cried, cried, for a man in a coffin. And there I stood, on my grandmother’s gravesite, wondering if at least that grey-brown lizard commemorated her from six-feet below. I stood there, on Mexican land wondering, why Mexican women did not get a banda to play for them. My grandmother, was her own form of warrior. She is not gone for good, just, at peace.

April 9 Natalie Villasana I remember the first time I saw a blue eye It’s one of my earliest memories Some kid was trying to tell me something but I wasn’t listening I was just looking at his eye I thought something was wrong with it Like someone had stamped a hole through it I remember running away from him Both of my parents’ eyes are black I didn’t know they could be other colors I thought they were just dots like in cartoons I used to wish my eyes were lighter in elementary school We did an experiment where two students went into a dark office And shined a pen light in each other’s eyes To watch the pupils dilate and contract I remember Alexandra’s pupil contracting smaller and smaller like a pin point but When it was my turn she couldn’t see Mine at all because it was too dark my ex-boyfriend Used to tell me that he loved my eyes he Had a t-shirt with a Chinese character across the chest that he Used to wear a lot I asked him what it meant but he Didn’t know he asked his friend Kevin Qian but Kevin didn’t know either

â&#x20AC;&#x153;This is how I used to beâ&#x20AC;?

My sister; the rose that grew from concrete

Jasmine Adams

Porcelain Skin

Richard Tran 44

America the Homeland/ Vietnam the Motherland

Richard Tran 45

Cropped Out Richard Tran I could care less That you can speak Mandarin, Have seen every Korean drama, Been to Vietnam – and can Quote “Understand and pick up Vietnamese.” Unquote Or that you’ve judged someone’s authenticity By the way they speak OUR mother tongue, But be so hurt when someone tries to correct your native tongue. And you know what’s kind of funny? You use the same accent when trying to speak Vietnamese – Mandarin – Korean – Tagalog But really, it’s just sad That you can’t accept it, That you’re too ignorant to understand Or that you were able to hold a grudge For being told to stop sexually harassing The ASIAN boy you couldn’t keep your hands off of. It’s my fault too, actually That I contributed to your mad yellow fever. I didn’t stop it. I let it grow and grow into an enormous boner You could only satisfy with boys you harassed and Boys like me.

And no, I don’t look like that Asian guy You watched in a porno that Quote “Looks like you” Unquote And that Quote “It’s okay” Unquote Because Quote “He’s hot too” Unquote I live with the regret of having known you every single day Or that you know my family and ask how you’re doing Or even, when you plan to come visit again To take a photo just like this one. But you know what? There are two parts to this photo. And for me, you’ll be cropped out of it, forever.

I peel my skin B. as i peel my skin, I know you see that our blood is the same red. but as I peel my skin, do you see that our skin is not? that my flesh and my wounds are not your flesh and your wounds. That even though you feel my pain, sympathize and empathize with my pain. That my pain is not your pain. that my pain is my own pain. As I peel my skin, do you see that my body is out in the open. That it’s vulnerable. stretched out. laid out. out in the open. It’s Naked. So as I peel my skin and you thrust your ideas at me and tell me my phrasing is improper, that I should calm down, that yelling is unacceptable. That my words are not my own. that my accent is a lack of assimilation. so my words sound dirty. and therefore incorrect. do you see the pain that that’s causing. the confusion that forms. the frustration that stays. the anger that’s escaped. I peel my skin because it’s sometimes too tough. too rough. It doesn’t let things through. let them in. It doesn’t allow me to open up. Disallows love to seep in. Emits energies that are sometimes unwelcoming. Not fit for learning and growth. I peel my skin because it’s sometimes too ignorant. and not enough. I need to go deeper. expand. I peel my skin because I need to remind myself that there are layers. That everything is not just skin deep. That these issues I care about are now apart of me. inside me. running through my veins. Just as my heart needs oxygen to pump. My mind has this hunger for knowledge. It has this need to find out more. It’s now about survival. I peel my skin because these new layers need to form.

Because scar tissue is a story. It shows [her]story. my story. it displays growth. shows where I was, and where I’m at. Where I can be and need to be. but always where I started. I peel my skin for the people who ripped through their own. Shreaded pieces of themselves so that I can grow. For the people whose hunger, anger, frustration, love, angst, needs produced beautiful pieces of knowledge and memory. I peel my skin because... if I don’t peel my skin… if I don’t learn… if I don’t feel… I am nothing but someone with old skin. an old mind. with old ideas. and stunted growth.

Twitching Chris Gould

Hypnagogic jerk: an involuntary muscle spasm that occurs as a person is drifting off to sleep . . . . . . “Is this your rock?” “Uhh, no it’s not my rock. I was just tired so I sat down.” “Are these your glasses?” *Tries to put them on her* “Stoppppp!” *Laughter* . . . . . . There’s a period in between being awake and being asleep in which I can feel you twitch With all that you’ve been through, these moments can be a relief Because I know that you have survived the night A few hours of rest, a temporary break And tomorrow will be another day I lie next to you thinking how truly lucky and blessed I am to share this moment with you

â&#x20AC;&#x153;What you get when you ask Jamaican parents for a care package...â&#x20AC;?

Zach Jamieson 51

An evolution of what I am so you can understand me1 Katrina Cortés Cuando yo pienso en mi es dificil ¿Quien soy Yo? nasaan ako bakit no estoy conmigo chismosa celosa putangina mo uyyy, perdoname pagod estoy cansada pagod estoy cansada Today Soy una guerrera Reimaginada como la virgen de guadalupe defendiendo los derechos de los xicanos2 defendiendo mis derechos ang birhen a virgo nakakapagod la inocencia nakakainis ang mahal Tomorrow yo me mato magingat sa dasal vaya con dios 43 Nakatira ako sa4 mundo de pura idealización I am and will be wala más 4.1 I draw a blank [ ] oop where did I go? what did i do to d i s a p p e a r like that? 1

With translations and explanations and commentary

2 This line references an art piece by Ester Hernandez called La Virgen de Guadalupe Defendiendo los Derechos de los Xicanos. It was found on the University of Colorado Boulder’s Women’s Resource Center Wordpress – in an archive called Feminist Horoscopes! Ester Hernandez’s piece was the picture for Virgo, which is my sun sign. 3 Shout out to Beyoncé (also a Virgo!) 4 Shout out to Filipin@ 101!!

Yo me mato Katrina Cortés When I think of myself these days it is hard. Who is Myself ? where did I go why am I not here with me chismosa celosa putangina mo i’m so sorry Oh, I’m so tired. Oh, I’m so tired. Today I am a woman warrior reimagined like la virgen de guadalupe defendiendo los derechos de los xicanos1 defendiendo mis derechos ang birhen a virgo la inocencia me cansa el amor me acosa Tomorrow yo me mato vaya con dios 4 Walk with me And you’ll see I live in a world of pure idealization where I am and will be nothing more 4.1 I draw a blank [ ] oop where did I go? what did i do to d i s a p p e a r like that? 1 This line references an art piece by Ester Hernandez called La Virgen de Guadalupe Defendiendo los Derechos de los Xicanos. It was found on the University of Colorado Boulder’s Women’s Resource Center Wordpress – in an archive called Feminist Horoscopes! Ester Hernandez’s piece was the picture for Virgo, which is my sun sign.

The feel of it all Katrina CortĂŠs There is a smell to commencement of sweaty bodies cuddled close at night of pheromones exuded of bright eyes staring in the moonlight no oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ever looked at me like that before There is a smell to the lies of messed up sheets and suspicious stories of rooftop mattresses and glittering stars we are not the same by now no one has ever looked at me like that before but you have shared that look with many There is a scent to my body It smells like broken bones and beating hearts Like Tired Eyes Like the spinning wind around me could take me away I lift my leg in the air take me away I plie take me away take me away take me away There is a scent to commencement Of things loved and lost Like negative memories reborn and reimagined New beginnings beginning and old endings dead It smells like you But so many things do Maybe I just confused the scent of you with commencement

untitled

Ale Requena Ruiz 55

reasons for smoking Lexy Phillips i. to preoccupy the mouth in the presence of men ii. a burning tip is a weapon iii. to still the anxiety in my chest iv. a pallet for my lips to stain v. a way to be discreet in kissing my fingers vi. an excuse to leave vii. my own bones burning watch their smoke pour from my mouth

Victoria Velasco 57

Still Not White Victoria Velasco Genevieve wears a second-hand grandpa sweater from a vintage store on Melrose It’s got two jagged rips one at the armpit that blooms with invisible-blondes one at the elbow that never asks for lotion two voids in the cashmere The holes in my sweater are not Cool. I know this because my parents know this and they teach me because I am their daughter two voids in the wool-synthetic blend aspiring whiteness or aspiring hipsterness? (same thing I guess) but they don’t use these words instead they say: “If either of your grandmas saw This, they’d be disappointed with us” partially because one grandma is dead so she will never see This partially because I’m not white and therefore not dainty therefore not skinny not skinny means It’s Not a Good Look for You.

Partially because mom and dad have office jobs like real middle-class americans and partially because the projects in Boyle Heights were Fucked Up. Partially because we only have to go to South Central to see grandma—

she still lives there and we don’t know why.

Refugees from their early nests of childhood-arrival poverty, mom and dad fled during the appropriate season, bootstraps and all to resettle as adults in a barrio that isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;tthatbad, but stillnotwhite. The accidental hole in my grandpa sweater is too real. Not intentional enough partially because grandpa had a fake Social when he wore it partially because my Vans are filthy; my hair, uncombed my eyebrows, too thick; my last name, too spanish.

we can afford some Things now but still not This.

oberlin college, a pRESIDENCY Joelle Eliza Lingat i pray for the moment that i no longer have to write these letters to myself. that i no longer have to look back at the skin that i used to [ occupy ] and C R I N G E. i have never cried as hard as I did that one night. when i failed you and him and her and them and myself. can there be a freedom beyond these expectations, valuations of strength and power for even warriors bleed flesh will i ever be granted a b r e a t h ? to swallow time and reject lies. lay with me. and listen to the drums of liberation.