FIGHT, FLIGHT AND FORCEFUL SEPARATION

Roderick Ruble

perfect synergy. a concept you’d be hard-pressed to find within my lovely little family. I truly can’t recall a single moment in which we united toward a common goal, and our trek around Europe was certainly no exception. With my directionally challenged stepfather leading the charge, we spent nearly half an hour roaming a train station easily three-times the size of any American counterpart. Through blind confidence alone, he guided us around corners and down hallways of which he had no reason to believe were the correct route. Each wrong turn provided my sister and I another opportunity to let out an irritated sigh. We had many a sarcastic remark on our mind, though it was nearly impossible to get a word in amongst my mother’s artful insults for my stepfather. Arguments were our family’s bread and butter, and one was quick to erupt no matter the scenario. With minutes until our departure, it was no surprise that the Ruble family opted to cause a scene. I had never felt like more of a foreigner until the moment I found myself briskly walking ahead of my parents as they hurled roaring accusations at each other in the middle of an orderly Swiss train station. Nothing like the motivation to get away from my family to propel me forward. I would reach the platform, and whether they were with me or not it truly did not matter. This twelve year old was getting on that train. Finally, we spotted it, a deep red bullet train with “Lausanne” flashing along its side. We didn’t know much but we knew our destination. With a sizable distance to cover, we watched as the last of the commuters entered through its doors. I’d inadvertently doomed myself by walking so far ahead of my family, as it took no time for my Mom to begin yelling at me to run for it. I began to sprint, my rolling backpack bouncing along the cobblestone platform. I leaped onto the rail car and before I could even so much as turn to hold the doors, they closed behind me. Off I went, watching as my mother shouted and waved, running alongside the now moving train.

It was the longest forty-five minutes of my life. I sat and dreaded how I might survive alone on the streets of Switzerland, a mere seventh grader with zero knowledge of the language or the surroundings. I waited rather impatiently for the announcement of my destination, for fear that a conductor may come by seeking a ticket that only my stepfather trusted himself to carry. Eventually, the announcement for Lausanne came over the intercom. If I was to be stranded alone, at least it was in the most beautiful place I’d yet to encounter. I exited the train and sat on the nearest bench I could find. My patience for waiting grew thinner, as did my hope for finding my family. It was nearly an hour before another train rolled onto the platform. I searched the departing crowd, wishing so desperately to see the faces of those I had earlier tried to escape. Finally, I spotted my sister, and my parents weren’t long behind. I ran over to them, and instantly we erupted into laughter. The situation had shifted from stressful to hilarious, and all it had taken was the sight of each other. In that moment, the conflict and endless argument faded into memory. Nothing was more comforting than my family in front of me.

Generaci Nes

Daniela Ortiz Mendez

Stinging eyes, clenched throat

Common symptoms of a brown girl with no place to call hogar, home

I keep reminding myself, I used to be happy. Say it enough and you’ll believe it

Say it enough and you’ll “manifest” it?

Keep telling yourself it’s destiny

Watching a little brown girl grow up in front of you

Teach her to talk, use her voice

Teach her to write, fingers aren’t meant for just dishes, for just flipping tortillas

How can you connect to your culture and become a human being?

My grandfather used to hang my mom

By The Neck

I’m amazed at the strength of adobe brick.

I went to visit her childhood home once.

Ruins of a childhood, heaps of hay and rubble

Open fields that she wasn’t allowed to freely roam

5 am rise and shine, small hands making tortillas, small hands shucking the corn

Watching a grown brown woman learn to use her voice

Teach her to talk, use her voice

Teach her to write, her fingers are meant for more than just packing lunches and making dinner

I heard my step dad yell at my mom

“Asi te dieron tu licencia? Ni sabes como manejar!”

“Even like this, they gave you your license? You don’t even know how to drive!”

Age 5. Making tortillas, making desayuno, the occasional cat on the back if it’s burned.

Age 7. She left her home, Almoloya de Alquisiras, Mexico.

Age 11. Working full time, a different city in Mexico.

Age 17. Working full time, Tijuana, Mexico.

Age 24. Married with 3 kids, San Diego, California.

Age 35. Divorced.

Age 49. Still married to the machismo.

We were parking in front of my favorite Chinese place, La Imperial. I swallowed my anger as she laughed the insults off.

Generations of dancing the same fucked up canción.

Stinging eyes, clenching throat.

Common symptoms of brown women trying to find their voice.

Please body, don’t give up on me.

I want to use my voz