ROLE CALL ROLE CALL ROLE CALL ROLE CALL ROLE CALL. ROLE CALL ROLE CALL ROLE CALL ROLE CALL
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR The media is filled with straight, white, cisgender
men. Everywhere—from the news, to literature, to our advertisements of toothpaste—we are surrounded by them. They’re almost always the main characters in TV shows, the ones who are given the loudest voices in classroom settings, and the ones that magazines and pop culture deem as the most desirable and most important. Despite the fact that they dominate our society, both politically and culturally, this demographic makes up a very small fraction of the world as a whole. The world is filled with a medley of cultures and experiences, all of them worthy of exploration and recognition. We need to give attention to the people that have been ignored by mainstream media and literature for so long, and let their voices be heard. Without this shift in focus, we risk alienating countless individuals. During this increasingly polarized time in history, our stories need a diversification of experiences to help people understand each other. We want our world to be better; we want people to feel like they belong and to interact with one another despite differences. Our magazine, Role Call, was designed to challenge the prescribed roles that were placed on us when we were born. We want to show that people are more than just the preconceived ideas that society expects from them. People are unique, they don’t always fit into the status quo, and their
identity isn’t some word to be checked off a list. The stories and art in this magazine are intended to give a glimpse into lives that aren’t typically shown on screen or in books. We wanted to provide a medium through which people could share their struggles and stories in a way that would be represented truthfully and respectfully. We chose to showcase artists and writers whose voices have been silenced, whether that’s due to their sexuality, gender, race, ethnicity, or any other number of reasons. Everyone’s stories deserve to be heard, and it’s time that the spotlight is shared. This literary magazine is for the kids whose names are mispronounced for weeks after the first day of classes. The kids who see themselves on TV as sidekicks and subplots but never as the main characters. The kids who are afraid to be who they are in their own home, knowing that if they spoke up they could be faced with judgement. The ones who wage internal battles every day, who are constantly told it’s all in their head and that they’re just faking. We see you. We hear you. And we want your voices to be shared with the world. Children should not have to grow up ashamed of their identity because it doesn’t fit what they see in the media, or feel like they have to follow a stereotype in order to fit in. We hope this magazine gives a voice to the silenced and lets people speak their truths about their experiences for the world to finally hear. -
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Dani Bischoff
TABLE OF CONTENTS ”MY NAME IS ALICIA” BY NEIDA TORNEL
PAGE 4
UNTITLED BY ORIA SIMONINI
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PRIMA AND EN LA BANCA BY LUIS MARTINEZ
PAGE 8
THE UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE BY PHAT NGUYEN
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“THE STRUGGLE WITHIN” BY BINH LE
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PROTECTOR BY LILLIAN NGUYEN
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AM I PROJECTING BY SCOTT CUSHMAN
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“AIN’T NO LIE, I’M BI BI BI” BY QUINN KEERY
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“FAMILY TREE” BY HELEN WINSTON
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“DEPRESSION AND I” BY HELEN WINSTON
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“AMERICA THE MISOGYNISTIC” BY BREE GIBSON
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“THE BLONDEST HAIR” BY BEZA BEKELE
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A FIGHT FOR EQUALITY BY KARINA HERNANDEZ
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“LONG, LONG AGO” BY MADHUMITA GUPTA
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“BUG BITES” BY SHAELYN RAMOS
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COPYRIGHT Copyright © 2017 by Paper Throne Publishing All Rights Reserved. The reproduction of this publication, in whole or in part, is restricted without express permission from the publishers or their representative, Dr. Beverley Rilett. Printed in the United States of America pg. 3
short story
my name is
ALICIA
by Neida Tornel
I read the question on the application over and over in my head. I thought about how selecting yes would change my life. I also thought about how selecting no would change my life, or rather, not change it at all. I thought about all the names I liked: Athena, Rachael, Meredith, Camille. As I sat in the lobby of USCIS, thinking about possible names that I could change my current name to, certain flashbacks of my life came flooding in my head. *** “We have to go, Alicia,” my mother said to me in Spanish as I cried. “No, I don’t want to go!” I yelled. “Who’s going to take care of my goldfish? Or Roxy?” My mother rolled her eyes. She had been begging me for the last few minutes to get in the car that was loaded with a few suitcases filled with our clothes. My twin brothers and my father were already in the car. My dad got out of the driver’s side and came up to me. He knelt in order to be face to face with his stubborn seven-year-old. “We’ve already told you, Alicia,” he began
in a soothing tone. “Roxy is going to stay with your Grandma. And your goldfish too.” He smiled at me. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go to Houston,” I said, reaching my arms around his neck and hugging him. I felt the tears beginning to slide down my face. “You have to,” he said, hugging me back. “Or do you want to leave Mom, your brothers, and I all alone?” I brought my face from the crook of his neck around to face his. I shook my head. He smiled at me. “Ok then, we have to go.” He lifted me in his arms and carried me to the backseat of the car. As the car pulled away, I turned my head and looked at the place that had been my home all my life. The two story, bright yellow house, with the lime tree at the front of the house that seemed to bend in pain from the weight of all the limes hanging from its limbs blurred from the growing distance as we drove away and the tears pooling in my eyes. I waved to it, with the premonition in my heart that I would never see it again. The first few months of living with my Aunt
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Carolina and her husband were awkward. I felt out of place. I didn’t like the way my aunt and her husband spoke. I couldn’t understand them. I didn’t like the way the food tasted. I didn’t like the way my aunt wouldn’t let me outside because there was too much traffic. I hated playing in the backyard, I felt trapped by the fence. As time went by, these differences started to lose significance to me. I started school and at first that was weird for me too, but I began to love it. In my classroom, I had students who spoke the same language as me, they were also fresh off the boat. The rules for the new school were different from the one back home. I didn’t have to wear a uniform. There was also grass and a playground to play in instead of concrete. The walls of my new school were covered in colorful posters that I would spend hours looking at, trying to decipher the words until I eventually understood them; the walls at my old school had only holes to decorate them. I believed that eventually I would be happy. I stopped believing thatwhen I switched to a private school. The entire class was full of little white kids. They looked at me like I have seen children look at animals in the zoo. They analyzed me from head to toe. As the teacher introduced me to my new class, I gave my classmates a defensive look as they looked back at me with keen interest. “Hello everyone. This is Alicia, our new friend.” Mrs. Schnetzer said, pronouncing my name Aleesha.. She smiled, pulling her lips back and displaying a straight arrangement of white teeth. “Would you l—,” She began to say, but I interrupted her. “That’s not my name,” I said, matter-of-factly. She frowned and then smiled again. I didn’t like her smile—the way she puckered her lips so
“My name is
not Aleeshaa,” I replied.
it seemed like she was showing off her wide, bright teeth. “What?” She asked. “My name is not Aleeshaa,” I replied, copying the way she had mispronounced my name. “My name is Alicia.” “That’s what I said, sweetie,” she turned towards the class. “Now, let’s introduce ourselves to Aleeshaa one by one.” I was so angry that she had lied that I didn’t even pay attention as my classmates stood one by one and stated their names. That was not my first, or last humiliation at my new school. My day consisted of trying to correct Mrs. Schnetzer’s mispronunciation of my name, or fighting with some of the kids. Their badgering consisted of questions such as: “Why do you wear your hair like that?” “Eww, what is that you’re eating?” “Why do you talk so funny?” I was so hurt that I would cry to my father after school, begging him to take me back home. “Daddy, please,” I pleaded in Spanish. “Take me back home. I don’t want to go to that school anymore. The kids don’t like me and I don’t like them. And the teacher doesn’t know my name!” “Alicia,” he began to explain in a soothing tone,“we can’t go back. Mommy and Daddy have work here. Your aunt and uncle are paying for you, Sebastian, and Manuel to go to a good school where you will learn a lot of things.” I ran to my room, amidst tears. Things at school didn’t change. Mrs. Schnetzer kept calling me Aleeshaa, and so did the rest of the kids. Mrs. Schnetzer, frustrated at my constant reminders to her that Aleeshaa was not my name, began to call me Alice. That only made me angrier. I got so angry that I stopped replying when she called out “my name”. “Alicia, Mrs. Schnetzer said that you are being very naughty,” my mother scolded me one day. “She said you don’t answer when she calls your name.” “Well Aleeshaa is not my name,” I snapped, “and neither is Alice!” “You have to understand her, Alicia. She cannot say your name,” she explained.
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“My name is Alicia.” “Why not?” I retorted. “Because she is not like us. She cannot speak the way we do,” my mother explained in a soothing voice, talking very slowly, as if she were talking to a dog. “Well I can say her stupid name! And it’s harder than mine!” I argued. “And I can say Keyon Kopischke’s name right! And it’s hard! But he can’t say my name either!” My mother looked at me and I became afraid as her eyes narrowed and lips puckered in frustration. She rolled her eyes and then rubbed her temples with her fingers. “Alicia please, for your own good! Stop ignoring your teacher! Or you’ll be in trouble,” she threatened, giving me the look that sent my brothers and I running. I had always been scared of my mother so, the next day at school I corrected Mrs. Schnetzer for the last time.“Mrs. Schnetzer, my name is not Alice it’s Aleeshaa,” She gave a triumphant smile. As the years went by, I grew tired of correcting everyone who mispronounced my name, but it always bothered me. Even my mother and brothers started calling me Aleeshaa. My father did not, I loved him even more for it. I begged my father almost every day those first few years to take me back to Culiacán, back home, but he always gave me the
same explanation, that we were better off here than in Culiacán. I had childish thoughts about running away. I hated living there. I was so different from the other kids at school, so different from everyone else. My brother Sebastian used to pick on me telling me I was really an alien abandoned by my alien family. I found some comfort in his silly story, it explained why I felt so different. Every night I prayed for my alien family to come and take me back with them to Culiacán. *** Those same feelings of alienation followed me all my life, but I was no longer that small defiant girl. I learned to hide my feelings, to bury them deep inside me, like grownups so often did. I tried to mold myself to this new world. Those feelings never truly left, even now they still follow me. I snap out of my reverie and look around me. Suddenly, I start to wonder if I am doing the right thing. I look down at the application in my hands. Would you like to legally change your name? I read the question again, and again, and again. I finally make my decision and stand. My name is Alicia.
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“Untitled” by Oria Simonini
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ARTWORK by Luis Martinez
P R I M A
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EN LA
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B A N C A
ARTWORK
THE
UNIVERSAL
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This picture was taken in Điện Biên Phủ, Việt Nam on Saturday, June 10, 2017 during my deployment with the Army ROTC (Reserve Officer Training Corps) when some of our American cadets played a pick-up soccer game with the local children in a village.
Our main mission there was to teach English to the Vietnamese cadets. However, we were also there to interact and build up our relationship with the Vietnam government and their citizens. Many villagers came out to watch us play.
LANGUAGE
by PhĂĄt Nguyáť…n
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ESSAY
The
STRUGGLE within By Binh Le When I came back home for the first time in a while, things didn’t seem too different, but that changed quickly. My mindset was shattered as soon as my family walked through the door to greet me. I had gotten so used to how free and easy things were in college. Long story short: my parents work so hard. I’m sure any other child with immigrant parents can understand. Our parents work hard and long hours only to feel like they are not doing enough. They consistently put 150% into whatever they do. Every now and then, they will make a risky decision hoping the best, if only for the sake of their children’s future. My parents placed all of their money into a family business years ago, which has grown into three more locations as of today. I like to think that luck has played a role in that aspect, but their determination and perseverance have done more.
Most people know about the story of immigrant families. The determination, the perseverance, the struggles, and usually the story is told in the perspective of the parents, because that’s what matters. But most people don’t hearabout how the son or daughter feels. It would be selfish to take away the credit from what our parents have done for us, just so we can complain about our less significant struggles. There is always internal conflict. I’m majoring in biochemistry and I aspire to be a physician in the future, but things aren’t always so simple. It’s not really the thought of doing poorly on exam that freaks out the average first-generation immigrant student; it’s the thought that the summation of all our efforts have lead up to not landing that job, not being accepted into graduate school, not amounting to the expectations our parents have for us. It
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“We’re doing as much as we can with what we have, and sometimes that is the best that we can hope for.”
sounds dramatic, but these thoughts are literally always racing through our minds. We're all competing for the same spot, and that spot is not guaranteed for everyone, even if they work hard enough for it. Some of us have priorities that others don’t. Some of us have family that suffer from mental health issues, but don’t have the insurance or money to pay for regular treatment. Some of us pass out plates of food and gather checks because in order to become a doctor, we have to have the money to pay for the schooling. Some of us take care of extended family members living alongside us because life elsewhere was too much, but here with family in America, things are better. A place such as America where opportunities are so abundant is an amazing thing. First-generation students are reaching their hands out, grabbing for these opportunities as best they can, but there is always the internal conflict
holding them back. The students always have to consider the idea that while they’re out in college being able to reach their goals, their parents have already sacrificed that. We’re doing as much as we can with what we have, and sometimes that is the best that we can hope for.
Protector by Lillian Nguyen
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ARTWORK by Scott Cushman
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AM I PROJECTING?
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short story
But it ain’t no lie,
I’m Bi Bi Bi by Quinn Keery Why didn’t you tell us sooner? (A story about Layla, but not really about Layla) The four of us sat in a circle in the middle of Josie’s basement, relaxing against the movie theatre chairs with the credits of a movie rolling in the background. Me and Kim were on our phones, only half listening to the conversation that was going on around us. Anne was poking fun at Josie, giving her shit for ditching us the past few months to hang out with Layla. “‘Sorry I can’t go, me and Layla are going to a movie.’ ‘I would hang out, but I already have plans with Layla.’ ‘Yeah I can chill, is it cool if Layla comes?’ Layla, Layla, Layla,” Anne said mockingly, and we all laughed. “Thank God you finally realized how weird Layla is,”
Kim added in. “I swear; you guys were attached at the hip. We were about ready to stage an intervention.” Josie laughed and leaned forward, “I know, right? God, she was so weird. I swear I couldn’t do anything without her. She would text me constantly, and always want to hang out. She was so weird. Like, so weird. She was one of the most annoying people I’ve ever met, just thinking about how much we hung out makes me cringe. Plus,” she added, leaning forward conspiratorially, “I’m pretty sure she’s a lesbian,” she whispered, and Anne and Kim erupted into giggles. I ran the conversation over and over in my head. I hate
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Layla. She’s so weird, like the worst person ever. Oh, and I’m pretty sure she’s a lesbian. Calling her a lesbian was an insult. Maybe it wasn’t intended to be, but the way it was phrased made it sound dirty. Like this was a valid reason to hate someone. This made someone weird, annoying, not friend material. I sat there on the floor, my friends laughing around me, and felt my face grow hot, my stomach churning, thoughts racing. If I tell them I like girls, they’re going to do the same thing to me. They’ll sit here, and gossip about how weird I am, how much of a freak I am. I decided that night that I would never come out to any of them. I didn’t want to be a freak.
“I COULDN’T KEEP PUTTING IT OFF.” I lied to myself that night at Josie’s Kim was the first person I told. It was a lazy day over the summer, we didn’t really have much to do. We were just chilling on her couch surfing channels, not really paying attention to what we were watching. Her mom was washing dishes behind us in the kitchen, the water running from the faucet was white noise in the background. After a while, her mom went upstairs and we were left alone in the living room. Kim was sprawled out beside me, her foot dangling off the side of the couch. She had her elbow propped up on the armrest, dark hair spilling over her shoulder. Her other arm was held lazily in her lap, clicking the buttons on the remote. I thought I was going to throw up. I got up quietly and walked over to the bathroom, Kim didn’t even glance over when I stood up, her eyes glazed over, staring at the TV. I went and just stood in the bathroom, terrified about what I was going to say, terrified about how she would react. I had decided that I was going
to tell her I was bi that day, I couldn’t keep putting it off, but I was was second guessing myself. I didn’t want to follow through, but I felt like I had to. As I came out, Kim was standing there, phone in her hand. “Hey,” she started, not looking up, “my mom wants to know if we can go pick up Jason’s homework from the Kumon building. He forgot it there last time, and it’s due tomorrow.” “Sure,” I said, still feeling slightly nauseous. “I don’t have anywhere better to be.” Kumon is about twenty minutes away from her house, and we pass most of the trip in silence. The radio is playing in the background, not loud enough to be overwhelming but just loud enough that we could make out the lyrics. My hands were shaking and I felt cold. I could tell how white my face was, and I thought I might pass out. “Hey Kim, can I say something?” I asked. “Sure,” she said, glancing
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over with a knit in her brow, “what’s up?” “I’m bisexual.” I didn’t look at her as I said it, just stared straight ahead. I watched some of the trees fly by, not really seeing them as they passed. “Oh,” She said. I could tell she was surprised, but she was trying to compose herself. “Are you sure you’re bisexual, not a lesbian?” “Yes, I’m sure,” I said, my face coloring. “Ok,” Kim said. I could tell she was trying really hard to act normal and not make it weird. It was comforting in a way, but I could tell she had been totally blindsided and didn’t know what to do. “Well,” she continued, “thanks for telling me. I know that must have been hard. And I hope you know that I love you no matter what,” she turned to look at me as she finished. I managed a smile, and turned back to face the front. I focused on the radio, letting the music drown out everything else.
“YOU KNOW WHY I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING.”
“IT’S HARD TO LET THAT GO.” Why didn’t you tell us sooner? Part 2 The second time I came out, it was an offhand comment, specifically designed to seem casual and like it was no-big-deal. After Kim’s positive reaction a few months earlier, and her continued support and acceptance, I felt like it was finally time to let the rest of my friends know that I was bisexual. I told Kim earlier that I planned on telling Anne and Josie that day, and she assured me that they would love me no matter what. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Josie asked. Her and Anne were staring at me, obviously annoyed. “Seriously Quinn, did you
really think we’d care?” Anne asked. I just stared at them for a second, too confused to even respond. “Ok, well, sorry I didn’t tell you guys when I told Kim, I was just scared I guess.” “Do you really not trust us?” Anne asked, “After how long we’ve been friends? That’s just kind of shitty, Quinn.” “I just don’t get why you wouldn’t tell us,” Josie said. “but whatever, I guess.” I shared a glance with Kim, who shrugged. We quietly went back to the cards in front of us, not really acknowledging what was just discussed. We were playing Pitch,
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like always, and I could play it almost without thought. I could feel the tension in the air as we moved on, but I was surprised at why Anne and Josie were annoyed. You know why I didn’t say anything, I wanted to tell them. I haven’t forgotten what you said about Layla. You all mocking being gay has been in my head for the past three years, and it’s hard to let that go. But I kept my mouth shut. “Ok Quinn, we all passed. Looks like you’re stuck with the bid,” Josie said. “Hearts,” I said. But what I really wanted to say was Fuck you.
“I AM BISEXUAL. I AM NOT STRAIGHT, AND I AM NOT A LESBIAN.” I’m just me At the beginning of my freshman year, I would go to meetings for the LGBT club on campus. There, people weren’t afraid to be themselves, and knew that they could act without judgment. Nebraska is a conservative state, and many of the people here were afraid to come out to their families and sometimes friends. This was a place where LGBT people could act how they want, and interact with people who have shared or similar experiences. I would sit in the back, with a smile plastered on my face, willing myself to have more fun than I was. I would look around at the people clustered together around me, wondering why this place, which had been specifically designed to be inclusive, was where I felt the most alone. Eventually, I stopped going
to those meetings. It started as just a schedule conflict, but it was one that I could’ve gotten around if I wanted to. If I really tried, I could start going to meetings again. But I didn’t want to. That place, the one that was built all around inclusion and uniting people who felt like they didn’t belong in society, had become one where I felt I didn’t belong. I was one of about three openly bisexual people in the club, and in this space—this LGBT, all-inclusive, safe space—I was the odd man out. “No offense, but you’re pretty privileged,” Miranda said. “You’re straight passing, and probably don’t experience the open hostility that people like me have. I’m not trying to be mean, it’s just the truth.” And she was right. It was
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the truth. I looked at her with her cropped, bright pink hair, nose ring, a pride flag tattoo peeking out from the top of her shirt, and I knew exactly what she meant. I don’t fit the stereotype of an LGBT person, I wasn’t obviously not straight. I never have, and probably never will, experience the open hatred that she and other members of the community have faced. But just because I don’t seem to fit in with everyone in Spectrum, or the LGBT community, doesn’t erase my identity, and I’ve stopped trying to insert myself into that world. I am bisexual. I am not straight, and I am not a lesbian. All that matters is that I’m Quinn, and I happen to be bisexual, and I really don’t give a damn what Miranda, or Josie, or Anne has to say about it.
“She was Halloween III: Season of the Witch That October, Kim and I decided to go to our first real college Halloween party. Despite showing up together, I could hardly keep track of her, and I wandered around the main level of our friend Blake’s house looking for her, pushing my way through sweaty bodies. The music was blaring and that, coupled with the fact that I had probably had a bit too much to drink, made it kind of hard to concentrate. By the time I reached to the living room, I was exhausted from the trip, which took probably less than a minute, and flung myself dramatically onto the couch, my eyes drifting closed. “Great party, huh?” the girl next to me interrupted, and I opened
my eyes. She was gorgeous, dressed in some kind of witch costume, a black dress with fishnet tights. I smiled at her and she smiled back, scooting closer so we could hear each other over the sound of the music. I could feel her leg pressed against mine, and her face less than an arm’s length away. “Yeah it’s pretty good,” I said, still smiling. “Getting better though.” “Oh yeah?” “Yeah,” I said, laughing. “I’m Quinn.” “Sarah, nice to meet you. So, you like sports or what?” “What?” I asked, confused. She laughed and pointed down at my costume. I had totally
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forgotten that I was wearing a baseball jersey, a batting glove dangling from my pocket. I rolled my eyes and brushed the front of my shirt, feeling like an idiot. “Nah man,” I said, glancing back at her. “This was all I had, so I figured, why not? I know absolutely nothing about sports. Go ahead, ask me something. Guarantee I don’t know it.” Sarah laughed and leaned forward, her arm brushing my shoulder. My heart leapt into my throat, and I found it suddenly hard to breathe. I became aware of how close we were, and my face flushed, half from embarrassment and half from something else. I opened my mouth, about
gorgeous.” to speak, when she leaned over me, arm waving at someone. “Carson! Carson, over here!” she called out. A short guy dressed as some kind of vampire walked over and sat on the arm of the sofa right next to Sarah, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. He leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the lips. “Quinn,” Sarah started, huge smile on her face. “This is my boyfriend, Carson.” “Nice to meet you,” I said, standing up, giving them a tight smile. “Sorry, I gotta go find my friend. It was nice meeting you guys!” I said, and quickly walked away, scanning the room once again for Kim. I saw
her standing off in the dining room corner, nodding her head along to the music. I walked over slowly, weaving through the crowd until I was right in front of her. “Where were you, man? I was looking for you!” “Yeah, sorry,” Kim began. “I was looking for you too, but then I saw you on the couch with that girl and I wanted to give you two some space. Just in case, you know,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows, a smile creeping onto her face. “You think it’s going anywhere with her?” “Nah, pretty sure she’s not interested,” I said, leaning back against the wall, taking a sip from my drink. “Aw man, it looked like it was
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going good!” “Yeah, I thought so too. Until her boyfriend came over.” “No!” Kim said. I could tell she was trying to act outraged on my behalf, but she couldn’t seem to stop a few giggles from escaping. She sighed and laid her hand on my shoulder, giving it a couple pats, lifting a bottle up to her lips with her other hand. She took a long pull then stared at me, suddenly serious. “That really sucks man. Next time, for sure. I know there’s a girl out there for you.” “Yeah, next time,” I said, taking another swig from my drink. I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, letting the music drown out everything else.
POETRY
FAMILY TREE by Helen Winston
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Photo from StockSnap.io
Someone once asked me what my ideal partner would be like and I said: “one who doesn’t lie about where they’ve been.” I dread the day when I tell my daughters the kinds of things the women in this family do for love. I’ll tell them what it’s like to leave the lights on in an empty house, that if you play music loud enough, it’ll look like someone’s home. You can learn to be a good wife in the time it takes him to come back. We know what it’s like to keep ourselves conscious but not awake. See how the men in this family eat at other tables, but “don’t think about that too much, you’ll wrinkle”. Women in my family make our homes out of our old backbones and we set the table with plates made of our dried tongues, teach our daughters that the most important skill is weaving a good marriage out of silence. Women in my family lie to make room for the men,and tell me if how much we want a happy home is worth letting the rot in. Like the last time I went home, the basement of my mother’s house sagged and she didn’t smile when she talked about her new man, but she told me sometimes it just isn’t worth it to fix the things that are broken. My mother found a strong woman hiding under her tongue and buried it in the backyard next to her last marriage. My sister taught me how to pray over an empty table. “Ask God what you’ve done wrong,” she says. The women in my family die a slow death by missed phone calls and untouched meals. We call our husbands ‘ball and chain’.
Our men bind our wrists and toss us into the water, tell us that if we just love them good enough we’ll float. I tell my daughters how I almost drowned waiting up for the kind of men that don’t come home, how a bad apology could pass for a life preserver if you just give up. And my daughters will look at me all confused and ask me why I’ve been raising them to be warriors if I know this is how they’ll turn out, and I’ll tell them about my first girlfriend. How the things I did for her look like everything I’ve done for men, only when I betrayed my family to love her it was a good thing. How when the woman I was dating last summer told me she was married, I thought about how her wife must have been waiting like I used to. Or when I dumped the man who was cheating on me and he asked me if it was because I had found another man, not if it was because I had found myself. I want to tell my daughters the things the women in my family do for each other. My mother says she tore the rot out of the basement and let the sunlight in. My sister and I have dinner with each other and pray over a full table for our own health. And today, the women in my family learn to live again. And today, I tell my daughters that the women in this family make war, not home. That we swallow our digestible past selves, That we launch ten thousand ships for the face that stares back at us, That we queer, we war makers, we unforgiving women, We rise and love again.
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POETRY
DEPRESSION Depression is a rabid dog. I let depression take a bite out of me when I was thirteen and the legend says, you can still see the bite marks on my wrists. Depression smothered me in my sleep the morning after I drowned her in pills, and I can’t quite tell if this is how cat and mouse games go, but I feel hunted in my own skin. And the legend says, depression, the rabid dog, howls outside my window to come out while a storm is on, and last night depression got me hit by a broken power line. I pushed depression into oncoming traffic face-first and all that got me was an uglier rabid dog and an attempted murder, or did I mean suicide? And my therapist told me there is no such thing as putting down depression for good. My mom said that was bullshit, told me to take it out back with the shotgun she hides under her teeth and put it out of my misery. The legend says, my grandmother chased a rabid dog out of the house with a broken noose and a bottle of
whiskey. The legend says, that kids these days let themselves get haunted by howls and don’t know shit about how hard you can get bit. Depression told me that my queerness was the one that bit me, and my queerness was too small to snarl back. My therapist says I need to stop talking about my depression in metaphors, that I cannot allow myself to name it something other than the thing that tried to kill me. This morning I wrote a new legend about how depression sits in the kitchen while I make breakfast. I bury it dead by sunset everyday, but I have made peace with knowing it will rise again by a new sun. It cries for scraps at my ankles, but it knows that I will not give it any more than I am willing to. Today my fiancé kicks it over to sit by its dish. He does not fantasize about killing it, does not label himself a hero in a legend he isn’t writing. Depression, my fiancé, and I sit at the breakfast table. We eat, do our dishes, and the legend says, some days I can walk outside with only my love in tow.
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AND I by Helen Winstron
Girl by Egon Schiele The Metropolitan Museum of Art pg. 25
AMERICA THE
MISOGYNISTIC Origin of the Greek Vase by Auguste Rodin The Metropolitan Museum of Art pg. 26
poetry
America the Misogynistic By Bree Gibson You say you love women You say you love their perfect curves and their big eyes You say you love their pouty lips and their soft hands Yet When they yell with those lips And say NO And raise those soft hands into a fist And say NO You hate And hate And hate You say you love woman But you touch them even as they cringe You say you love women But when they tory to change things for the better You call them crazy You say you love women But choose to ignore their cries for justice You say you love women But force them to bear their attackers child You say you love women But as they get held down and forced to reveal the most intimate parts of their bodies You claim it was their fault You say you love women but In reality You Don’t pg. 27
POETRY
The
BLONDEST hair by Beza Bekele
Growing up I was always surrounded by the Caucasian standard of beauty In stores, media, magazines. A stark contrast to everything I saw around me; dark curly hair to the blonde straight hair; brown skin to interrupt the pink and pale. I was made to always feel like an outsider. My hair became my curtain, My skin, my shield. My camouflage, my guise, An attempt to fade into the background. Hair sections of stores felt like a metaphor for my life; aisles dedicated to Caucasian hair, Adjacent, a modest, dense, fragmented hair section,
mainly filled with relaxers and flat irons for Caucasian conformity. Constantly being reminded that I was the minority, the odd one out, but still expected to aspire to “traditional” beauty. I often felt resentment towards everything: Toward my genes for ‘cursing’ me with curly hair and melanin, Toward society for making me feel like I couldn’t be a part of them, Toward myself for being inadequate. We need to stop conforming to society’s standards of beauty, and instead expand them.
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The lack of representation lead to my confusion. A lack of representation lead to feelings of inferiority. A lack of representation leads to limitations. Why is it that blonde hair and blue eyes on a white person hold more power than they hold on me? Why do the blondest hair and the bluest eyes hold power? How do the blondest hair and the bluest eyes hold power over me? They are not my features.
“We are all beautiful bodies and so must never be prostrate before barbarians, must never submit our original self, our one of one, to defiling and plunder.� - Ta-Nehisi Coates
We must learn to expand. Not just our minds. But the materialistic world too.
A Fight for Equality by Karina Hernandez
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short story
Long, long ago by Madhumita Gupta It was in the early 19th century, way, way before ‘women’s liberation’ had become a fashionable word in India. Those were the days when the girls in India happily got married to the boy their elders selected for them. When girls truly believed that their well-being was the only thing their parents considered before selecting a boy for them. When they were too naïve to know that there could be other reasons behind some marriages. When girls saw their husbands on the day of their wedding, they were supposed to fall, and stay in love, with that man for that life and next seven ones.
But Radha did not like what she saw. She certainly did not fall in love with the red, suspicious eyes and the thin, mean lips. And she had absolutely no desire to be with Ranjan Choudhury for her next seven lives. 1How she wished that the person behind the betel-leaf would turn out to be someone at least a little like Biren da…. Biren da was there, looking after the guests, smiling sadly as he ladled out the fragrant dishes, and kept stealing looks at the bride, thinking of all that could have been. If only…. But that was so long ago,even the thought of either of them voicing their affection for each other was unthinkable in their elite, respectable households. So, there Radha was—stuck for this life at the least. * Six months later, Radha had no reason to change her initial opinion. She tried to think of the “positives,” but she kept coming up against the negatives. Her husband didn’t like her cooking; he didn’t like her chatting; he didn’t like her laughter. He didn’t like her. Period. Once she ventured to ask, “Why did you accept me then?” Yes, boys, unlike girls, even way back then, could refuse. “I know,” he smiled sarcastically, “ I should have asked back the 500 rupee loan from your father instead.” So, she had been given in lieu of a loan. Radha didn’t know whether to feel humiliated or furious. Then Vidya arrived—swaying seductively in her loud brocade saris, betel-stained lips, and kohl-lined eyes—the ultimate insult for any wife
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“Yes, boys, unlike girls, even way back then, could refuse.”
Radha retired to the attic the same day. Nobody cared to call her back so she spent the rest of her life in that tiny room on the roof. She was still addressed as ‘Bouma’—The Lady of the House and Vidya was ‘didibhai’—but that was small consolation. Hardly any, in fact. But as they said, even way back then, every dog had his day. * Ranjan Chodhary was invited to the most important wedding in their village. Everybody who was anybody in their and the neighbouring villages was going. Lord Brighton from Calcutta too would be there. For Ranjan Choudhury it was the chance to impress everyone. “Wear all your jewelry,” Radha was instructed even as Vidya sulked in her flower-bedecked boudoir. Even Ranjan Chowdhury couldn’t flout norms enough to be seen at such an important gathering with his mistress. Lawfully wedded wives did have some advantages over mere mistresses. Radha hid a smile. That night she dressed carefully and covered herself with a gorgeous green ‘pashmina’ shawl, big enough to almost entirely cover her tiny frame. Ranjan nodded approvingly as he helped her up their two-horse carriage. In the wedding-hall, with all eyes upon them, Radha shook the shawl off. Every mouth fell open. In pristine white—the color of widowhood—without a single piece of ornament on her, nor the branding red ‘sindoor’ in the parting of her hair—a proclamation like the wedding-ring here—Radha stood resplendent, staring defiantly at her husband. His widow, during his lifetime.
Head of a Woman II by Alexej von Jawlensky The Metropolitan Museum of Art
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short story
BUG BITES by Shaelyn Ramos The town of Ashley is quaint. Inhabited by less than eight-hundred people, it looks like the stereotypical image of a small, Midwestern town: little houses painted red and white, open fields and wildflowers growing among the prairie grass, one singular paved road that proudly bears the town’s only stop sign. You can see why Emery insisted on moving here, why she was so hungry to return to her childhood hometown after she got her degree in auto mechanics. It’s beautiful. And- you note, as a cockroach skitters between the otherwise clean shelves of Ashley’s General Storefilled with bugs. “I think you might have a bug problem,” you say, loudly. “A bug problem?” He retorts, gruffly. Joseph Miller, at least seventy and with grey eyebrows that look like caterpillars, has been glaring at you and your fiancé for every single second you’ve been inside of his store. His gaze is a constant pressure point on your spine, and you’ve been holding back the desire to ask him what he’s looking at. You know the answer. You and Emery, the only engaged lesbian couple for miles, stand out in a place like Ashley. “I don’t have any bugs.” You trade a glance with Emery, but decide not to fight him over it. If the man wants to believe that he’s bug-free, you’re not about to waste time correcting him. Instead, you squeeze Emery’s hand as you approach the lone register, placing the items on the counter. Miller glowers down at them with clear suspicion. “What’re
these for?” He barks, as if you could stage an entire criminal heist with a box cutter, a screwdriver, and a snickers bar. “Housework.” His jaw clenches and unclenches, seeming to have difficulty chewing on the idea of trusting two young lesbian women with housework. “I only take cash.” It’s not true; you can see the credit card scanner on the counter, but you don’t argue. “Fine.” You open your bag, placing a twenty and a ten on the counter. He doesn’t risk touching your hand, choosing instead to drop the coins in your palm. “Don’t cause trouble,” he warns, crossing his arms and straightening his back to loom above you. As you walk out, the rusted bell above the door making a sharp ring, you hear two words in a gravel voice, soaked in disgust and spat into the air: “Damn queers.” You suck in a breath and hold it in your lungs, tension compacted tight in your chest. Don’t say anything; he’s just an old man; it’s not worth it. The air blows out of your body all in a rush, forming into bitter laughter as the door slams shut and your shoes touch the dirt. “God, he’s such an ass.” “The very worst Ashley has to offer,” Emery says. “I promise he’s harmless, though.” “The very worst Ashley has to offer,” Emery says. “I promise he’s harmless, though.” “Think he’s ever going to change?” It’s the only
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general store in town, and you’re not looking forward to spending the next couple of years dealing with an old homophobe whenever you need basic home supplies. Emery snorts, swinging your hand. “Not likely. Joseph Miller been the exact same for as long as I’ve been alive. When I came out at fifteen, he called me a godless heathen and tried to sprinkle holy water on me.” She says it like it’s a point of pride. “Wow,” You say, sarcasm softening the word. “What a charming little town you’ve got here, Em. Filled with such lovely people.” “Hey! It’s your little town now, too,” She protests, tugging you to a stop. “And it is filled with incredibly lovely people. In fact,” She says, stepping close enough that you can feel her breath on your lips, sneaking a hand into your back pocket to pull you closer. “Now that you’re here, I’d say that it has the loveliest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.” “Babe?” You look into her eyes, the dark pupils framed by soft eyelashes. “Yeah?” Her smirk grows, lips soft and kissable. “That’s gay.” She grins, pressing her face against your neck and snickering. “Oh no, how terrible,” she says. You start to laugh too, but it sticks in your throat as a buzzing tingles in your right year. You shake your head, watching as a horsefly gleams in the sunlight and hovers away. “What’s wrong?” “There’s a lot of bugs in this town, aren’t there?” “It’s the country, babe. Of course.” +++ The more you unpack, the more bugs you see: roly polies on the table, spiders skittering behind the moving boxes, centipedes and earthworms dragging themselves over the carpets, flies hovering in the sink. It’s been a wet fall and Ashley is a small countryside town, so you’ve expected bugs, but not to this extent. There always seems to be one, creeping at the edge of your vision.
“When I came out at fifteen, he called me a godless heathen and tried to sprinkle holy water on me.”
Every morning you wake up itching from where bedbugs had crawled over your skin. Emery swears she hasn’t been bitten, but comes home with cans of pesticide and helps tear apart the bed, ripping the sheets from the mattress, battling against the infestation. It doesn’t work. You still wake up, itching, the red scabs on your skin spreading, and you notice ants have started to nest in the linen closet. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” you say, baffled. “Like what?” Emery asks. “The bugs.” “Well, we’re not in Denver anymore.” +++ No matter how often or meticulously you clean, the bedbugs are back every night, slipping with glee beneath the covers and biting into your unprotected flesh. You stop sleeping in the bedroom, take up residence on the couch. In the couch there are little beetles, but they don’t bother you so long as you don’t slip your hands between the cushions. With each attempt to cleanse the house, you watch Emery’s support grind down to anger and exhaustion. The dark bags under her eyes match your own. “Honey, there are no bugs,” She tells you as you’re combing the mattress. It’s become a daily habit, but a losing battle; the bugs just keep coming back. “Please, stop. Come eat dinner.” You don’t look up. You can’t eat, not when you’ve seen maggots in the mashed potatoes. Later, as you’re flicking the beetles off the throw pillows, your fiancé says in that same pleading tone, “Please, Ava, come to bed.” You don’t respond to that either, unable to find the words that might bridge your worlds back together. Eventually, she stops asking. +++ One evening, as your hands are shaking from how long you’ve been combing the mattress and the bites won’t stop itching, you decide you’ve had enough. As you’re twisting spaghetti on your fork, trying not to think of how easily they could be worms, you say it: “I want to move.” “What?” Emery says, swallowing, and for a moment you feel bad. For as long as you’ve known her, Emery has been reminiscing about her hometown Ashley, telling you stories of her childhood, and now that you’re finally here and half-settled, you want to leave. “I want to move,” you repeat, steadying yourself on the words. “Back home.” You crush the guilt. You can’t be expected to stay, not in a place as infested as this.
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"THE BUGS FRIGHTENINGLY “This is home now.” She speaks the words slowly, swirling spaghetti on her fork. You shake your head. Through the kitchen window, all you can see is dying weeds and the sun setting on a horizon too flat. “It’s not home.” “You told me that you’d give it a chance,” she says, and you notice the trembling in her voice, the rising lilt of it as her voice breaks. “And it’s only been a few weeks. You promised.” “I have,” you tell her. “But there are bugs everywhere and the town is filled with homophobic pieces of shit and I don’t want to live here.” The words all come out in a rush. Every time you go out, you swear you can feel glares on you, and now all you can think about is how your eyes sting and your bites hurt and how the noodles look like worms. “I want to go home.” You look up, and Emery is rigid, her face stoic as she looks into your eyes. “There aren’t any bugs,” she says, voice flat. “There are!” “We’re not moving, not for fucking imaginary bedbugs!”
You shake your head, start to quiver. Even worse than the yelling are the words themselves, the denial, Emery’s refusal to believe you. “They’re not imaginary-” “They aren’t real, Ava!” She shouts, her hands slamming down on the table. “It’s all in your head!” “Stop lying!” You scream, your blood too warm and your heart pounding in your chest. In the corner of your vision something crawls, and all you can think about is the dizzying anger and how much you want those painful words to die in her throat. You expect rage, more yelling, but instead Emery cracks. “I can’t do this anymore,” She says, and the sob that stumbles out of her lips is worse. Her hands wipe roughly at her eyes as she steps backwards. “I can’t, Ava.” You don’t know what to say, mind blank and blood buzzing. But it doesn’t matter, because she’s walked out of the kitchen and locked herself in the bedroom before you can even try, drowning the house in a festering silence. Not speaking
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WERE REAL, REAL." soon becomes a habit between the two of you. In the house, there is nothing but silence and tension and bugs. +++ You don’t realize that you might have a problem, one deeper than a bug infestation and relationship issues, until a few days later, when you’re trembling inside of a cell in Ashley’s tiny police station. The last few hours are a blur of fear and things you’d rather forget. You’re still shaking, but you no longer feel as if you’re on the verge of shattering. Exhaustion has replaced the adrenaline, and you can think clearly now as the baby-faced officer who brought you in earlier approaches the cell. “How’re you doing?” He asks. “Better.” “Has this kind of thing happened before?” “No, never,” you say, holding your legs to your chest. You’d never seen a giant bug, a mantis wanting to pry at your flesh, before this morning, or had the normal ones rise all at once and try to consume you. You ran out of the house,
screaming and shedding the clothing that the bugs had been clinging to. When you’d told people in town about what happened, shivering and muddy and barely dressed, they’d called the police. For the first time, you realized the fact it’s not just Emery who can’t see the bugs, but it’s everyone else, as well. “You should really consider seeing a doctor.” “For the bites?” “No,” he says. He taps his finger on the bars. “I- I mean a therapist. For the hallucinations.” “Oh. Right,” you say, glancing down at your hands. You remember how it felt when bugs were crawling over them, and you scratch at your wrists. “Are they really hallucinations, though? Are you sure?” You’re not certain, and the uncertainty causes fear to curl in your stomach. The bugs were real, frighteningly real, their existence feeling even more real than the present moment. “I think we’d know if there were giant
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“YOU’RE A MESS.” bugs running around town.” You think? You look up, and he must see the concern on your face, because he’s quick to confirm: “You were hallucinating.” +++ When Emery arrives to pick you up, you’re escorted to the front desk, where Emery is talking in tones with another officer. They stop when you get there, words dissolving into nothingness. You feel relief wash over you like a warm wave once you see her, even when her black hair is disheveled and her skin is slick with motor oil. “Emery,” you breathe. A tension seems to fall off of her, shoulders dropping. “Ava.” You both move towards one another, but with each step it feels like all the previous weeks are a painful gulf between you. You stop, awkwardly in orbit with one another. You nearly jump when her hand touches your shoulder. You realize you can’t remember the last time she’s touched you. “C’mon, let’s go home,” she says, and then suddenly her face shifts at the word home, and she glances away, the hand dropping. “Or… to the house, I mean.” You bite the inside of your cheek, rub the sores on your arm. “Okay.” It isn’t until you’re in the car, the little truck she’d named Athena, that she speaks again, pulling a leaf from your tangled hair. “You’re a mess.” The words strike a wound. “I know,” you snap, to hide how it hurts. You don’t want to know how you look to other people, how insane they must believe you are, especially Emery. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
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“How did you mean it?” “I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t want to fight right now.” She sighs, rubbing her face. “Let’s just go home. You could use a shower and we both need some rest. We’ll… we’ll figure everything out in the morning.” As you drive away, the gravel cracks beneath the tires. “Em?” “Yeah?” “Am I crazy?” You ask, shivering, and your whole world seems reliant on this singular question, ready to crack the foundations of your life. Emery sucks in a breath, but doesn’t answer. That night, the silence remains, lurking in every room like a sleeping beast. +++ The office of Dr. Michael Chang is sleek and unassuming, with light grey walls and pictures in the waiting room of abstract art, as if circles and curving lines will calm patients. You talk with him for nearly an hour about your experiences, your life, what happened last Tuesday, and he has you answer a questionnaire that makes you suddenly aware of a lack of motivationand focus that you’ve felt for the past number of weeks, of a struggle to care for yourself. Do you have hallucinations? You pause on that one. Do you? No. Yes? You force your hand to circle yes. Schizophrenia. Neither you or Emery are sure what to do with the information, not even after the two-hour car ride home. Dr. Chang gave you a pamphlet, describing symptoms that range from disorganization to difficulty with speech to paranoia. It also has treatment options. Problem
“BUT I’M SCARED, EM. I’M REALLY SCARED.” to solution. Except you’re not sure how to apply the formula to your own life, how a pamphlet will fix it all. “What should we do?” Emery asks. Her voice is rough and you can tell she’s been crying. “I don’t know,” you admit. “But I’m scared, Em. I’m really scared.” “Me too.” You flinch, look towards her. “You think I could hurt you?” “No, no!” She says, winching at the accusation. The knot in your chest relaxes. “Ava, I’m scared because, because…” She trails off, struggling with the words, before smacking her hands hard against the table. “Because god Ava, I don’t know what to do either, but I know that I don’t want to lose you.” The words are shaking, but she doesn’t look away. “You’ve been the center of my whole universe for three years now and I don’t want to ever imagine being without you, but everything is falling apart and I… I don’t know what to do.” “I’m sorry,” you say. “Moving here was supposed to be the start of our happily ever after, y’know?” “I’m sorry.” “No,” she says, shaking her head. “Don’t be sorry. Just- stay.” “Stay?”
“Things have been rough. But I want to keep trying… If you want to, that is.” “Fuck, Em,” You say, crying, but this time there’s hope, a spinning point of fear and happiness lodged in your throat. You place your hand on hers. “Of course I do.” +++ Rumors travel fast in Ashley, and as you pick through the oranges at the tiny grocery store, you feel stares like oil sliding down the skin of your back. You visited the general store once; Miller didn’t say much, just smiled with his long teeth and asked, “How’s your bug problem doing?” You try to avoid going out as much as you can, not that being home alone is pleasant either; it’s only been a week since you’ve started anti-psychotics. You’ve started seeing bugs less frequently, but without Emery you can never tell if the bug is one only you can see. Yet, it’s still better than being out in town. There’s something that stings in the way that mothers shepherd their children away from you, the way that men glare and that women cast frequent glances at you, their whispers to one another hissed softly. You’re alone here, an outcast. But you keep trying, for Emery. +++
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It takes another week before you can scrounge up the courage to peel your pillow off of the couch and stand in the bedroom doorway. You find Emery laying in the middle of the bed, reading while her skin glows in the golden lamplight, focused on a book in hand, making stubborn faces at the page. You take a breath, and walk forward, crossing the space between you. “Scoot over?” You ask, offering her a smile like an olive branch. “You…” She begins, and her expression is one of such awe and wonder that you regret not doing this sooner. “You want to sleep in the bed again?” “Yeah,” you say, and your voice catches, so you clear it and hide the emotion behind a joke. “So long as you don’t starfish and steal all the blankets.” It’s not as natural as it used to be, not as easy, but you both have been slowly getting there. She grins, and scoots over, but it falls quickly as she gives you a long look. “You don’t have to, you know,” she says as you lay down beside her and place your pillow on what was once, and will be again, your side of the bed. “I know it’s a lot, especially with the bedbugs you’ve been seeing-” You stop her before she can say the rest, pressing a soft kiss against her lips. “I want to.” She smiles at you, even as her bottom lip quivers. “God, I’ve missed you,” She says, lurching forward and grabbing you in a tight embrace. You hold back just as tightly, and later you both laugh softly at the wet marks, tears, that you leave on each other’s shirts. +++ You wake up with Emery snoring beside you, skin itching and crawling. It’s not real. You try to tell yourself, to let the rational side of your brain solve everything. But the words do nothing, don’t stop the sensation of crawling and biting. It’s not real. They aren’t real. But they feel real, and the fear is real, and suddenly you realize that you can’t stay. Slowly, you rise, pull the covers off and slip away as quietly as you can, wincing at every creak of the bedsprings. You grab your pillow and tip-toe to the living room, disappointed in yourself but not able to keep sleeping in the bed, not tonight. You’ve barely found a comfortable position on the couch before you hear the creaking floorboards and see Emery move into the living room, running a hand
through her hair and blinking. “You saw bugs?” She asks, voice hazy from sleep. You nod, and she nods back. Without speaking a word, she lays down with you on the couch, curling herself against you, warm and familiar. +++ It’s a Wednesday when you find it in the mail. Actually, Emery finds it, but when you see the ashen look on her face you know that something is wrong. “What’s that?” You ask, when you glimpse the paper she’s trying to conceal behind her back. “Nothing.” She won’t meet your eyes. “Em,” you say, in a hard flat tone. She shuffles towards you, uncharacteristically hesitant. “It’s not good,” she says, but it doesn’t prepare you. It’s a singular crumpled sheet of paper, an announcement for a town hall meeting, to “save the children and town from the moral corruption of lunatics and queers.” It doesn’t show your face or name, but it’s clear that it’s about you and Emery. The paper shakes, and you realize that you’re the one shaking. You force yourself to read it all. “Who did this?” “I have a few guesses. But… you weren’t exactly wrong, when you said that this town is filled with homophobic pieces of shit. I’m sorry. I just thought they were better than this,” She replies, head bowed as she rubs at her face. She shakes it off. “I’ll call the sheriff ’s office. We’ll see if they can do anything. We’ll make this right, okay?” +++ You’re not stupid enough to go to the town hall meeting. Instead, you two go out to eat. But that, too, is a mistake when you drive past where they’re meeting and catch a glimpse of how many cars are in the lot. “We can’t stay here,” You say, and this time it’s not about imaginary bedbugs, but about the real hatred of the people of Ashley, dangerous and festering. Emery takes a breath, lets it out through her nose. “It’ll take time to sell the house.” Will we be okay until then? Neither of you give the question voice. You reach for Emery’s hand, intertwining her fingers between your own. She squeezes back, and the only sounds on the drive home is the low rumble of the engine and gravel colliding against the shell of the car.
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"IT’S NOT REAL. THEY'RE NOT REAL." pg. 39
CONTRIBUTORS BEZA BEKELE is a junior psychology major at the
University of Nebraska-Lincoln. She is passionate about mental health advocacy, cultural awareness and The 1975. In her free time, she enjoys watching corgi videos, drinking coke and eating French fries.
SCOTT CUSHMAN is a public relations professional from Lincoln, Nebraska. He started exploring photography in 2009 because it was a lot easier to take photos of Italian architecture than write poems about it. Since 2014, he has specialized in sports, fitness, and men’s fashion photography.
BREE GIBSON is a junior at the University of Ne-
braska-Lincoln, majoring in Communications and minoring in English and History. She is from the west suburbs of Chicago and hopes to either work in communications or go to law school. She also hopes to write a book one day.
MADHUMITA GUPTA is currently an interna-
tional graduate student at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. She is from India where she has divided time between teaching and writing. She has been published extensively by children’s magazines and national publications in India.
KARINA HERNANDEZ is from a small town
called Harvard in Nebraska. She is majoring in broadcast journalism and is minoring in theatre arts, psychology, and art at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. She has always been interested in ceramics and has been studying the techniques for two semesters.
QUINN KEERY is a junior English major at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Quinn hopes to be involved in the publishing industry in the future, and would like to move to New York to accomplish that goal. She has a passion for cats, books, and books about cats.
BINH LE was born in Vietnam and immigrated to the
United States when he was three years old. He is a junior at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln majoring in biochemistry and working towards medical school. He intends on pursuing a specialty involving kids or surgery in medical school, but is very open to other ideas.
LUIS MARTINEZ was born in Phoenix, Arizona
with Hispanic origin. He currently is studying at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln for a BFA in Art. He resides in Lincoln, Nebraska, studying and working on his art.
LILLIAN NGUYEN is a Biological Sciences
major with a minor in Gerontology. She is a first generation Vietnamese-American that paves a pathway for her younger sisters to follow and form their own path. Lillian has a strong love for both sciences and the arts and hopes for her future career in integrate with both of her loves.
PHAT NGUYEN is a junior majoring in Management at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. He enjoys traveling and taking landscape photos.
SHAELYN RAMOS is an English student, born
and raised in Lincoln, Nebraska, with an interest in creative writing and LGBTQA+ studies. She aspires to work as a publisher, and eventually plans to start writing novels of her own.
ORIA SIMONINI was born in French Guiana to
Argentine parents. She grew up traveling between Guatemala and the United States, living in Florida before moving to Nebraska. She is earning her BFA at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, where she emphasizes in painting and ceramics.
NEIDA TORNEL is a fifth year senior majoring in
French and English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. She was born in Mexico and at the age of nine moved to Lexington, Nebraska. She has been writing since she was ten, finding on paper, someone who would actually listen to what she had to say. Her writing is heavily influenced by her experience as a woman of color and an immigrant.
HELEN WINSTON is a senior Political Science
student in her 3rd year on the CUPSI team for University of Nebraska-Lincoln. She is also a slam poetry coach. She likes writing sad poems about how much she like girls and how her brain makes her feel awful things. Poetry is, for her and a lot of marginalized people, the only way in which she can express herself that is digestible for a greater audience.