VOL . 2
ROOTS & REFLECTIONS
TARR AN T COU NT Y COLLEGE T RI N I T Y RIVE R C AMPUS LIT ER ARY MAGA ZINE
PREFACE Welcome to the second issue of Roots and Reflections, dear readers! What a year this has been. With our first issue, we finished major work right before the pandemic caused TCC to move online; this year, everything—seeking student submissions, choosing works, editing, and designing the actual magazine—has been through a digital format. It has been a challenge, to say the least, but we are so glad to finally present the end result. After experiencing problems from COVID-19, Black Lives Matter, and the 2020 presidential election, the past school year gave our student body many issues to contemplate. As such, the forthcoming pages display a recurring theme of seeking change in a consistently changing world. When you browse the table of contents, you will see nonfiction that reveals real-life stories of young adults who persevered in many difficult situations, including the loss of family and friends. These writers’ tenacity balances well with other pieces, which speak to the ongoing desire to achieve despite incredible adversity in the real world. This same theme can be seen in the artwork displayed in this issue, as many photographs display a hard look at the reality of what 2020 was like for so many; still other images simply reminded us of how much we longed to be out of our homes again! The digital images and paintings demonstrate the incredible talent shown by our students, and we are grateful to see our students contribute these works to our magazine. On that note, we would like to congratulate the contributors for last year’s issue one more time, as the Spring 2020 issue received a first-place award from the National Council of Teachers of English. This award is a demonstration of the hard work and tenacity put forth by TCC students, and we are so proud of each and every one of you who took the time to write, create, or design pieces for our inaugural issue. These past two years have gone above and beyond what we could have predicted, and we can’t wait to see what’s next for this magazine. Lastly, if you are a student and you’re interested in submitting to this magazine, please feel free to contact either of us. This magazine welcomes all forms of creativity--writing, art, editing, and design--and we know there’s a place for you. Professor Janae Corrado and Dr. Jerrica Jordan Faculty co-advisers
ROOTS & REFLECTIONS TARR AN T CO U N T Y CO LLEG E : T RINIT Y RIVE R C AM P US LI T E R ARY MAGA ZI N E
2020-2021
TABLE OF CONTENTS FICTION AND NONFICTION Tidal Waves The Alter of Ego Ticket in My Hand The Loss of a Father: Effects and Lessons The Call Coming Up for Air Survivor: A Widow’s Tale of Strength Reflection Every Day I’m Hustlin’ Control Change for the Better Seven and in Rehab
Casey Allen Mary K. Maturo Emily Arellano Christiana Ogbuezi Maricela Clemente Grace Perreira Stephanie McClure Stephanie McClure Bret Allen Green Courtney Lockwood Kamryn Keith Evangelina Reyes
10 12 18 25 28 32 36 37 38 40 44 46
Cristal Gonzalez Casey Allen Mackenzie Guzek Mackenzie Guzek Jared Preciado Mary K. Maturo
7 14 16 20 23 24
P O E T RY This is America Ascension Monet’s Admirer Raison D’etre The Cynical Mind of a Pothead Skater Circa
PHOTOGR APHY Hard to Breathe Justice for Breonna Taylor Bulletproof Vest Web of Paths All of You He Sees Us Reasonably Glorious Where Will We Go Reverence Before the Precipice Nature’s Imperfect Symmetry Respite June 19th My Hurried Choices On I-30 Mama, I Can’t Breathe Time to Reflect A Mother’s Hands Finding Southern Gothic The Ruins Over the North Sea Fort Worth Courthouse
Sonali Mittal Front Cover Johnathan Johnson 6 Johnathan Johnson 6 Hannah Milton 8 Rolando Galvan 9 Holly Justus 10 Mary K. Maturo 13 Rolando Galvan 17 Mary Holcomb 19 Mary Holcomb 20 Sonali Mittal 26 Mary Holcomb 30 Johnathan Johnson 33 Rolando Galvan 35 Johnathan Johnson 39 Johnathan Johnson 40 Mary Holcomb 45 Sonali Mittal 47 Mary Holcomb 48 Mary Holcomb 48 Johnathan Johnson Back Cover
TABLE OF CONTENTS P A I N T I N G A N D D R AW I N G Be Yourself Self Portrait The Decorated Lion Beyond Bruno
Catherine Umholtz Catherine Umholtz Ali Ibrahim Victoria Robinson Catherine Umholtz
16 27 28 42 42
Mackenzie Guzek Mary K. Maturo Mackenzie Guzek Mary K. Maturo Mackenzie Guzek
15 22 24 34 43
D I G I TA L A R T Freedom Efflorescence Mitsuha Inflorescence Whale
Bulletproof Vest, Photograph by Johnathan Johnson
J u s t i c e f o r B r e o n n a Ta y l o r Photograph by Johnathan Johnson
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THIS IS AMERICA Poe m by Cris t al Gon z ale z This is America. Land of the Free; Home of the Brave. My mother speaks another language but If it ain’t English it ain’t right. My brother is more American than all of us but we the people want to send him to a place he never called home. You want to be someone, “Show me your Green Card, please.” I’m tired of having to explain who I am, Who my parents are, And why they are here. I am Latina, But as Selena’s dad said, “I have to be more American than the Americans and more Mexican than the Mexicans.” But when am I going to stop proving to the rest of the world, When can I stop saying, That children don’t belong in cages And families aren’t meant to be separated. “They’re illegal,” they scream, but if it were them, They would be screaming, “This is illegal!” The world is a race, but if you’re white, you are 10 steps ahead. This isn’t meant to be racist; it’s just to open your eyes. Would you survive one day as a person of color in a line full of whites? Because even the way I walk is judged when I go shopping for tights. I am followed like a criminal on death row Because the color of my skin has more pigment than yours. I wanna know When we the people will live up to “Land of the Free; Home of the Brave.”
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W e b o f Pa t h s Photogram by Hannah Milton
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A l l o f Y o u , Photograph by Ronaldo Galvan 9
I
TIDAL WAVES
’m sitting on a beach on Lake Tahoe, on the first day of what the locals call “summer.” The sun is beaming, the girls are more than half naked, and I can’t decipher the clouds from the pot smoke. It’s only 65 degrees, which is wild to me, because back home in Texas, we can fry an egg on the sidewalk on our first day of summer. I’m here for some scenic therapy as I try and reflect on my life up to this moment. I know how I’ve been feeling, but I need to put it on paper. I often come to the lake for inspiration when I’m journaling. The scenery of Lake Tahoe can leave me speechless at times; it’s intoxicatingly beautiful. But today, I don’t feel like rambling about its beauty. And today specifically, for the first time since the snow bent us over for the winter, it’s flooded with people. People from all over the world visit Lake Tahoe, which makes it a fucking circus 365 days a year. It’s like Russian roulette when someone speaks to you. Accents are a funny thing. Apparently even I have a thick accent, being from Texas. I’m one of the last real cowboys if you can’t tell. As I’m looking around for something remotely relatable, I’m deprived. I see an ocean of teenagers playing beach volleyball, and young couples scattered across the shore. I see an older couple in front of me trying to feed each other fruit, but they keep dropping it in the sand and giggling because they’re soused. I sadly note people of ALL ages doing fucking TikTok dances. Lastly, I see a mother and son, struggling to set up shop in the sand with a picnic basket, a canoe, a beach bag, and a bunch of toys. I can’t relate to that shit either, but at least it’s wholesome. I’m about to surrender my notepad for the second day in a row. I feel
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defeated. I can feel how badly I need an outlet, but I can’t find it here. I look around one last time. Fuck it, I decide, I’m going to the pub. I start packing up, and do one final stretch before I hit the road. I stand up, dust the sand off, and start making my way to my car. When I look up, I notice that I’ll soon walk right past the mother and son. Being the polite southern fella I am, I take out my AirPods and give them a quick “howdy hey” as I skid past. That’s when I walk right into the inspiration I had been looking for. The second I yank my ear buds out, the smooth funk of Al Green is replaced by the mother screaming bloody murder at her no-more-than 7-year-old son. “I’m just so… fuckin’… ANGRAAAAAY!!” is the first thing I hear. So naturally, I do as anyone else would in this situation. I immediately stop in my tracks, and without hesitation sit my ass back in the sand. I place my ear buds back in, pause the music, and get my metaphoric popcorn ready. (You how
Nonfiction by Casey Allen it goes when you’re eavesdropping; don’t lie to yourself.) I even pull a book out of my pack and open it as part of my disguise. To my surprise, as I tune in to the rest of her wrath, I don’t find it hilarious. Usually when shit like this happens, when people lose their minds in public over something stupid, I piss my pants with both laughter and joy. It makes me feel like, “Yeah, I may be having a shitty day or whatever, but look at this fuckin’ clown.” Then I feel better about my situation, and ride off into the sunset with the Full House theme song on blast. But not today. I am absolutely mortified. This lady is straight up Samuel L. Jackson-ing the fuck out of this kid. And he just stands there and takes it for about three-and-a-half minutes, before he bursts into tears. What ignited this woman’s tantrum is the fact that she forgot her cellphone. She, in a very unnecessarily hostile way, explains to the kid that they can’t just disappear into the lake
H e S e e s U s , Photograph by Holly Justus
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without it. It would be too dangerous. She keeps mentioning how the most important objective of the day is that “Mommy gets her exercise” because she had only gotten to once in the last two weeks. She repeats, “I just need my time, Mommy just needs a minute sometimes.” I can tell she is about to snap even harder, and my heart starts to hurt for her. Then she starts spitting out what was really bothering her: “I’m tired of your Dad being a fucking asshole; I’m tired of his parents being assholes; I’m tired of my Mom being so sick and so frail.” The list goes on until the boy erupts into tears, only saying things like “I’m sorry” and “This is all my fault” as he collapses into the sand. My heart shatters for both of them. I don’t know which one of them I want to hug more. I have felt like both the mother and the son at some point in my life. Now, both of them are just sitting in the sand, wailing in unison. I feel like I’m not far behind them. Life can feel unbearably overwhelming at times. I’ve felt like the mother more times than I’d like to admit. Without listing stats like the back of a fucking baseball card, I’ll just say that I’ve experienced heartbreak in a lot of creative ways throughout my 25 years. Ask anyone that’s ever met me: I am like a magnet to that shit. In my relationships, my family life, my friend circles. And it used to make me feel just like that little boy. I felt so helpless, apologizing for shit that wasn’t even my fault, begging for everything to just be alright. I’ve had several days where my life was falling apart, and I just wanted to go canoeing, too. But in each and every one of those heartbreaks, there was a lesson to be learned. I finally noticed that there was a common denominator in all of my heartbreaks—me. This made me start thinking. Have I been reckless with other people’s hearts? Have I allowed others to be reckless with mine? Have
I allowed my happiness to depend on someone else? The answer to all of these questions is fuck yeah, I have. And every time I end with the same result: heartbreak. I’ve lost girlfriends, I’ve lost friends, I’ve lost family members, but most importantly, I lost myself every time. Just like the mother has. I know she wants to be a good wife, a good mother, and a good daughter. I want the same things, to be a good lover, son, brother, friend, and now uncle. I’ve compromised so much in 25 years just to hopefully feel loved and appreciated. My self-worth, my morals, my time. And every time I’ve loved at the expense of one of these qualities, I’ve come up short more often times than not. Once I recognized the common denominator of myself, I had to make peace with it. I had to look in the mirror and shake that guy’s hand. I had to make friends with who I am, and forgive myself for my trials and tribulations. I can’t control the things that happen to me in my life, but I can control the way I react to them. And though I’ve had countless nights where I’ve felt just like the mother, I’ll be damned if I keep feeling like the son. Love is something that I will never give up on. I have always loved so hard, and it’s always seemed to come at a great cost. But I won’t allow it to anymore. I will continue to love with my whole heart, but only when that love is reciprocated back to me. Sure I might be lonely, sure my family might keep shrinking, but I will keep my hope. I believe in this life we experience pain to be mesmerized by love. That our hearts fall apart so someone or something can piece them back together again. But we ourselves have to be the glue.
We must love ourselves before we can love other people. I won’t go through my life any longer feeling like the mother either. That’s why I’m sitting on this beach in the first place. To discover the love that I truly deserve, within myself. It hasn’t been easy. It’s the dirty work, but I’m at least I’m fighting the good fight. When I moved 1,650 miles away from everyone and everything I’ve ever known, I was forced to get to know myself. To reflect on all of the components that got me to where I am today. The people, places, and things. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I had to look at where I had done wrong, and where I was done wrong. I had to figure out what I should and shouldn’t feel sorry for. More than anything, I had to forgive myself. I loved very selfishly when I was younger, and I’ve spent most of my adulthood trying to redeem myself for the pain I caused others early on. I’ve been so focused on loving others without false motives, that I’ve been starving myself of the love that I need myself. I didn’t realize this until I had no choice but to seek it from within. I wish I could tell you that I have all of the answers now, but I don’t. And I won’t. Love requires never ending maintenance. Your wants and your needs will change over time, and you have to seek them, not expect them. I think in order to love ourselves and others effectively, we have to take it one day at a time. I can’t love someone because of the way they loved me yesterday, and I can’t love someone based off of their potential to love me tomorrow. I have to love people who love me today, unconditionally.
“Love is something I will never give up on.”
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T H E A LT E R O F E G O
S
Fi cti on by Mary K. Mat u ro
uperheroes are manufactured. Corporate creations of accidental mutations and alien lifeforms captured by animal control. I was sixteen when the offer was given, and I was a child with aspirations of greatness. They dangled the world in front of my eyes and told me of the altruism in my role. I accepted. I signed myself away. What did it feel like, you may ask, for the blood of superhumans to course through my veins? It is a painful dull ache that serves as a reminder of my own foolishness. The mutation started like a shortness of breath, easily mistaken as asthma until my running turned to bursts of speed without a way to stop. A rash prickled my arms until my skin changed colors. I saw rich brown turn to ashen green. Someone told me my skull reshaped itself and my eyes would never recover. I was dying, so I could live like no one else. The training began in dark lifeless labs, and my body grew accustomed to regimental muscle memory. A long list of things to remember, and words I could never pronounce zipped past my ears like the speed of my feet. A name I did
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not get to choose for myself was slapped onto me. Many teens search for their identity, but I could not forget mine. It was emblazoned on my chest like a cattle brand. It was taboo to speak of the secret, but a child confides regardless. My friends began to fear me. What happens when one stops fearing war? I began with the belief that my powers could fix the world, but each moment left it with one more piece missing. I was a calf sent out to slaughter the bull, and he knew the field better than I ever could. Yet, he was careful and concise. He was considerate in ways I could not be. His damage was cleaned, and the costs were reimbursed. My carnage was messy and unapologetic. There was death in my wake. Masks can hide identity, but humanity still can be seen, and I realized all at once I had never asked why I was sent to destroy him. He was a father. I was a child. He wanted his family. I wanted my fame. I had become the villain without ever knowing the game.
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R e a s o n a b l y G l o r i o u s , Photograph by Mary K. Maturo
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ASCENSION Po e m by Cas e y A lle n With a breath of fresh air, I am lost in a stareHow did I get here? Velvet skies for as far as I can see Never again looking for what’s behind me. Thick white blankets to my left and my right, Footprints ruin them as I walk toward the light How can I feel so warm in a place that’s so cold? I’m blinded by beauty in an aura that is blonde; My heart starts to twitch for the love that I’ve longed. I don’t know this feeling, but it feels like home I’ll follow it forever, into the unknown.
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F r e e d o m , Digital Art by Mackenzie Guzek
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B e Y o u r s e l f , Painting by Catherine Umholtz
MONET’S ADMIRER Po em by Macke n z ie Gu z e k Had Monet leaned to me and softly spoke “Would they prefer the artist or his work?” I’d laugh and grasp his color stainèd hands And shake my head in empathy and ruth. “Who on this earth of lucid mind and heart would merely glance at finished frames Instead of watching paintings brought by hands to life when the opportunity to learn pertains? And what’s derived from moments here in light of meanings left beyond their surface Unattainable by initial sight but so when given time to find purpose? In this the irony of time is present charted And I, well, I would choose the artist.” 16
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W h e r e W i l l W e G o , Photograph by Rolando Galvan
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TICKET IN MY HAND
W
No nf ict ion by Emily A re llan o
hen we think of Mexico, “vibrant and “festive” and “free” are a few of the many words that we associate with Latin America that is deeply enriched with culture. Most people who travel there only know the upscale side to it, when in reality there is more to a picture than just the frame of it. Being of Hispanic background, born and raised in the United States, I personally have never embedded myself into my roots. Living in a country that condones and disowns people at the same exact time—for being a different color—makes it an arduous self-fulfillment task. Therefore, if a ticket guided me anywhere possible in the world I would take the chance and go back to my family’s roots in Mexico. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to grow up and try my best to make an impact in people’s lives that are less fortunate than I am. I have family in Zacatecas, Mexico, which has been in the headlines for the violent drug cartels and homicides that have a huge effect on children and families who can’t do anything about it other than hope that it isn’t them next. I want to help change that. My first step I’d take would be to start a nonprofit organization to help the less fortunate adults and children have a better education and life. Tackling a problem such as this one cannot
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be done alone; it would take effort of myself and others that share the same mindset as me. For that I would ask my church and community to help make sure that these children and adolescents adults have a better life than I did. I would sit down with the children of Zacatecas that dream of a better life and make sure they don’t go down the same road as so many other kids. I want to positively influence the lives of the kids in need and provide the resources and guidance essential to a successful life that so many Americans take advantage of daily. I want to be able to come back from helping kids from Zacatecas and show people that not every Mexican is a criminal or is somehow involved in violence that ensues on the news. My main reason for this huge idea is because this past summer I went to Zacatecas, Mexico to visit family and my father, and it was brought to my attention on how many people get up every day at 5 a.m. to just make a living for their families. Some people will go to the market and sell fruits or vegetables or anything that they can.I want people that believe in stereotypes to see that there’s not only a negative side to Mexican culture, but in every culture, and that behind that negativity there’s people who share the same ambitions as those in America who want nothing more to than to pursue a better life for themselves and their families.
ROOTS & REFLECTIONS
Reverence Photograph by Mary Holcomb
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RAISON D’ETRE Po em by M a ckenzie Guzek In love and lust divided doth he stand with hands polluted red in Rembrandt’s wake, and should he prove to hold the faulty hand, his heartstring’s pluck a song shall never make. For with conflicted eyes he breathes her waves her beauty holding depths he yearned to reach, but as the falling Sun calls hills his grave he shields her with the hindrance of his speech. Yet Love loves not the concept of refrain; Nay, She relishes inside its conflict She grabs his hand and pulls him up from pain and reveals to her his shrouded convict. Thus, even with his candle’s dimming flame his path grows warmer with her all the same.
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B e f o re t h e Pre c i p i c e Photograph by Mary Holcomb
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Efflorescence Digital Art by Mary K. Maturo 22
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THE CYNICAL MIND O F A P O T H E A D S K AT E R Poem by Jared Preciado I know I’ve been a cynic Tell me how are y’all so optimistic Blessings swerving out my way like they riding ripsticks I know I’m gonna get it Girls will kiss your lips, but only for a minute Then toss you in the trash like your ass is empty lipstick I know I’m gonna fix it, I know I’m gonna fix me But lately I don’t get it, this shit is not an edit Life is just like Reddit because it’s unfiltered Hey man, that’s A-OK Life is like a slot machine because you gotta pay to play Like a Kobe jumper everybody seems to fade away Everyday I go to skate Do it on the day to day When I fall at least I feel the scrapes Pop it like an ollie that’s an onomatopoeia Pop it like the molly that I’d take before I’d re-up Feeling like John Cena Nobody can see us Impossible is nothing that’s a word to Adidas Lotta dudes around once they see that you have made it Lotta fools around once they see the stacks you making Lotta cruel profound actions police have been taking But you not gon’ call the bloods when your ass is getting raided People dish it out but it seems like they can’t take it Why you making cake if you know that you hate baking Michael J. Fox knees shaking and they quaking I drank a lot of Henny so my tummy’s fried like bacon I got it all together and can’t help but think it’s funny I was happier when I was broke than when I got this money Maybe all the drugs created some unnatural façade In a den of thugs the only love comes from loving God
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CIRCA Po em by M a r y K. Maturo
Pacman is made of lemon meringues. Spot me a quarter for Glenn Miller. Mama found out I cut my own bangs. Am I longing for a home I’ve never seen? Summer reading champion of ten years. Leaning on a Styrofoam pillar. Entrechats only lead to tears. When did I stop fearing the saline? There was hard bubble gum on September asphalt. I had a crush on Ben Stiller. With the milk carton easter eggs made of malt, Saccharine memories disappear at fourteen.
Mitsuha Digital Art by Mackenzie Guzek 24
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THE LOSS OF A FATHER EFFECTS AND LESSONS
O
h, death who art thou? You sneaked secretly into the homes of men causing havoc that not even an eternity can solve. If only you will learn what you did when you snuffed out the light of my family – my dad. You did not just take him; you took everything we thought we treasured so much. You took him so early when we are about to need him so much for everything in our life. You altered the trajectory of my family leaving us standing at the edge of a high water fall with virulent wind blowing from every side. Why? Sorry, I can continue and even drift off the point I want to make but cannot overstate that the demise of a close family member not only leaves an unfillable hole but also can alter the entire of one’s life and reshape one’s overall life experiences. How much more is that even true for the pillar of the home — a true center that anchors everything together; a beacon that trusts the home in the direction it should steer — and the “General” of the home whom I am certain would have fought you to a standstill had you for once not resorted to cowardice and faced him physically. Just like any other day
Nonfiction by Christiana Ogbuezi
at school, I finished the day waiting on my mother who usually was never late in picking me up. But I always envied my friends in school who usually waited a longer time as they used that period to play at the school playground. So alas, today was my day. I played and
“Everyone who identified with him . . . completely abandoned us.” played, had so much fun that I got exhausted, that one of the teachers noticed me and took me inside. I relished the extra time I had to play. But in the midst of the fun and happy moments, I never knew that what have delayed my mum from showing up early was the beginning of gloom that I never knew existed. My mother received the awful news of the passing of my dad. He died from wounds sustained in a deadly crash. In fact, he died at the scene. Now that is when our world turned sour. Everything that had happened
from here looks like it happened over the span of decades, but eventually, facts about what we would face started to crystalize after the funeral. My father had a huge command on family relatives and friends. Because of him, we had many friends who thronged our home on daily basis. I would normally play a lot with visiting kids, accompanying friends, and other family members. Some bought me all manner of toys and gifts, making such visits what I would normally look up to as a child. Like I said earlier, my dad was the star and the center of the home. But when he was taken, everyone who identified with him — his friends and family who usually showed up at our house — completely left and abandoned us. My mum who was not working was left to figure out life and how to face the darkness. She was still very young (just turning 19 years old) and with four kids to care for. When the going is good, a lot of people, good or bad, tend to flock around, but when the going becomes tough, they all disappear and never come back. This was a classic example of what happened to us and it was tough to understand it as a kid. That was to go on to shape my entire attitude towards friends while growing up.
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All through my school days, I had a very minute sphere of friends. Making friends became a trauma and which even brings up the issue of trusts and truthfulness of motive. This might have the normal practice when anyone is trying to get to know someone new, but I took my vetting process which is mostly covert to unprecedented high levels because of my past experience. Some of my new acquittances would get offended. They bristled at my regimented pattern of living and could not put up with the unwarranted scrutiny, and ended up walking away. The positive takeaway
is my ability to adopt an independent lifestyle and the uncanny ability to decipher what I think is good from bad. I controlled all circle of my friendship accepting only who and what I wanted or needed, without having to explain my decisions. Well, in the negatives, I am certain I lost tons of potential good people who could not simply put up with they often unnecessary scrutiny from a fellow student or colleague. Writing these, I can immediately recall one or two old potential friends who later complained about how my attitude made them feel uncomfortable towards me and whom I would have loved to
be friends with now. After growing more mature over time, I have come to agree that there are more good than bad people in our world and most times people act according to specific experiences of life. I have come to realize that one must optimize situations to get the most out of it. Give everyone the benefit of doubt; never write off anyone knowing that people make mistakes all the time; be magnanimous with understanding that people have human limitations and imperfections and allowed that to always calibrate your attitude toward friends and people.
N at u re ’s I m p e r f e c t Sy m m e t r y Photograph by Sonali Mittal
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S e l f Po r t r a i t Painting by Catherine Umholtz
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The Decorated Lion Drawing by Ali Ibrahim
THE CALL
L
Nonfiction by Maricela Clemente
ife is full of ups and downs that we all must deal with; however, death is never easy, especially when it is someone we dearly love. I will never forget the heartache I endured at the loss of my only brother. Before I get ahead of myself, I’d like to share who my brother Willy was. He had a loving and caring soul who would brighten any room. He was the type of person to start a conversation with a total stranger and make them feel safe. Willy was always ready to lend me a hand any time I needed it. His unconditional love and support extended beyond his family. He was
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a sharp dresser and every time he attended a get-together with friends he would always ask us, “How do I look?” He would turn around, allowing us to see his clothing at every angle and make sure we noticed how nice he looked in his cowboy boots and black vest. Oh, and how can I forget, the rubbing of his chest against our noses, so we could get a sniff of how pleasant he smelled. Maybe his warm scent is what hypnotized people to love him so much, not only by family but by any stranger. Every year in November my husband and I, along with our two children, had a tradition to travel to Mexico for the patriotic festivities con-
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nected to the Revolution Anniversary. Lo de Carrera Zacatecas is a small town 45 minutes away from the main city of Jalisco. There is no internet, nor cell phone service. I had checked in with my parents and siblings when we would visit the main city, which was every other day. From dawn until dusk, activities were happening. On November 20, 2014, I spent time getting my children and myself ready so we could attend the morning festivities when a young girl from the town walked in and told me I had a call from my family. I was confused. My family never called me while I was there. I had been doing this tradition for five years and I had never received a call from them. I got to the young girl’s house to take the call and the call dropped. At that time, Mexico calling-card funds were needed to make and receive phone calls. The young girl suggested I go buy a calling card to ensure the call would stay connected. I walked to the nearest store to buy a card when I ran into her on my way back. She told me my family was calling again. I was a bit concerned about my family’s persistence. After entering the calling card information, I was connected with my sister. I asked her, a bit concerned, “Hey, what’s up?” “We have been trying to reach you since last night,” my sister replied. I was even more confused! She continued to tell me, “Willy is dead.” For some odd reason, I thought she was joking. So puzzled by her words, I asked, “What do you mean he’s dead?” As if there was any other meaning to the word “dead,” she repeated herself and that’s when it hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt a knot in my throat. My knees were weak. I was gasping for air. A cry for help came crashing over me. All I could tell her was I would be home on the next flight. I was in another country standing in a stranger’s home.
I walked back home disoriented, with cries of despair. When I got home I sat on the bed in disbelief. My only brother was gone. How can that be? I felt hopeless, 1,200 kilometers away from my family. The flight back was a blur. Waves of grief hit me as I sat in my seat trying to contain my sorrow. Leaving my children behind to attend the burial of my brother didn’t make it any easier. As I walked up my parents’ walkway, I saw that the house was filled with people giving their condolences. All I wanted to do was run into my mother’s arms and hold her tight. I caught a glimpse of her in the back of the room. I rushed to her but I stumbled upon my father. His facial expression was that of a Mexican father holding his cries in for the sake of his family. It only made me cry more. I hugged him tight knowing I had to let go of him. I then ran to my mother and threw myself at her feet. I cried on her lap looking to be comforted. The next silent morning, we drove to make funeral arrangements. Having to pick a casket for my only loving brother is a task that takes courage. The Sunday morning weather reflected our sorrow. The grey and cloudy day matched our mood. When we arrived at the burial, the number of people that loved my brother was astonishing but still believable. Having to sit in a room full of people giving their condolences made me just want to scream and run. As his casket was lowered, the sky cried along with us hiding our tears with every drop that hit our faces. Many people go through grief. It’s part of our life cycle. Although it has been five years, this has been one of the hardest things I have had to endure in my life. Losing my only loving brother, I lost a piece of my heart. He was my protector. Now I have to learn to live without him and this is going to take a very long time.
“I walked back home disoriented, with cries of despair. When I got home I sat on the bed in disbelief. My only brother was gone.”
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Respite Photograph by Mary Holcomb
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COMING UP FOR AIR
Nonfiction by Grace Perreira
M
y hand trembled as I reached Beauty had never been enough for me. I wantfor my bottle of shampoo. I had ed to be intelligent and powerful, yet graceful never taken my shampoo out of and kind. I wanted to be so many things before his bathroom. Why was I reach- I was only concerned with being his. I knew he ing for it now? Why did I want was possessive, and it never bothered me, but to take such a permanent part of myself out of I never realized he wanted to possess my entire his bathroom? I watched my hand hesitate and being, mind, body, and soul. On the morning of shake before the vibrant purple tones of the March 1st, 2020, I was getting ready to leave his bottle as I felt hot streams of liquid begin to roll apartment for work when I saw my shampoo botdown my cheeks. My throat closed in and my tle perched on the corner of the bathtub in the eyes were burning with tears. I’m not sure how mirror. long I stayed there, on the floor of his bathroom. I turned around without a second thought and I just know I was taken out reached for the bottle to of my trace when I heard put in my bag. For a girl his footsteps coming up with very long, curly, and the stairs, towards me. He color-treated hair, this found me crying on the was a significant event. bathroom floor, cradling Taking my shampoo out the half-empty bottle like of his shower meant I was a wounded animal. We not planning on coming looked at each other and back. He was my best instantly knew our life tofriend, the man I wanted gether was finished. to marry, the person I had Falling in love with him chosen to share my enwas like sinking to the tire life with. Why would bottom of the ocean. BeI second-guess a relaing in his presence was tionship that seemed so like slowly surrendering strong? to the warm embrace of He had a heart of gold the waves. Most people with just a hint of darkthink the sensation of ness that only I could drowning is terrifying, but see. It was addicting. The I had never felt more at darkness drew me in and S e l f P o r t r a i t convinced me that I was peace. The weightlessMixed Media by Catherine Umholtz the only cure, that I was ness was so intoxicating that I didn’t even notice the only way he could be my lungs screaming for air. I was surrounded by whole again. I fell for the darkness harder than I’d his warmth and beauty. ever fallen for anything before, and it consumed It would’ve been so easy to drown in him. He the both of us. Consumption really is the best was not the kind of beautiful that you see in pic- term for it. Everything in my life began to slowtures, but the kind that made you feel beautiful ly revolve around him. Every single decision I just by being near him. He taught me the pain made completely catered to him. The smell of his of crushing suffocation by beautiful things, like sheets became my drug, his company my only waves of emerald honey or the love of a broken comfort, his touch the only grace I’d come to acboy. cept. Sometimes his touch would bring blood 32
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J u n e 1 9 t h , Photograph by Johnathan Johnson from lip and blueish colors around my eyes, but I always blamed these on the darkness that I fell so in love with. In the moment that I reached for that purple plastic bottle, I realized I was drowning. The safety of my situation turned to instant, intense panic. I could feel my entire body give into the emotions it had been suppressing for months. When he found me on the floor, sobbing over seemingly nothing, he knew what had happened. He had seen me cry before, but he had never experienced me fully in a state of vulnerability, visibly crushed by whatever I had on my heart. He calmly asked me what was wrong, but my voice was so unstable and shaky that I could only push out more cries. It felt like all of my emotions had individual hands, and they were all clenching their fists around my throat simultaneously. I finally squeezed out the words, “I can’t do this
anymore” and watched the color drain from his face. I watched the boy I had loved more than life completely crumble before me, and somehow that gave me the strength to rise and leave with my dignity. That was the day I finally came alive again. I’ll never know why my independence was within a bottle of shampoo, but I will never forget the moment I saw that reflection in the mirror and knew I had to leave. I will never forget the moment I saw the sun beaming through the surface of the water as my lungs were burning, and I made the conscious decision to reach for it. I will never forget the moment I broke through the water and felt the air flooding my lungs again. I will never forget the moment I sat in my small white Toyota and finally felt like I was breathing again.
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Inflorescence Digital Art by Mary K. Maturo
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My Hurried Choices Photograph by Rolando Galvan
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SURVIVOR:
Nonfiction by Stephanie McClure
A WIDOW’S TALE OF STRENGTH
I
never dreamed of becoming a widow at 28 years of age. More than that, I never dreamed of being a widow with a six-year-old daughter to raise. My husband, Chuck, and I had just lived through a summer that, up until then, was the toughest time we had endured. Chuck’s grandmother was put on hospice and we came and spent the summer taking care of her in her final days. We spent our time making her comfortable, being together, and playing at the lake. He really enjoyed jumping from the cliffs. We thought life following her death would be easier. Chuck and I met when I was only nineteen. Chuck was nine years older than me with three daughters. My parents thought I was absolutely insane, yet they supported me fully. To me, it was a fairy-tale in the making. I didn’t think I was ready for love at such a young age, yet here I was. I became a wife and stepmother of three at a very young age. Two years later, we welcomed our daughter together. We spent the next nine years becoming one big, happy family. When his grandmother become ill, we knew we had to be there for her. He worked so hard to be make her final days happy and comfortable. He not only took care of her, but he also
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took care of her property. It was an exceptionally hot summer that year and he spent most of it outside. He did this regardless of the incredible headaches he began to endure. It became a daily thing and more intense. He didn’t really complain of anything else. The day came that we had to bury his grandmother. He promised me that once he bur-
“To me, it was a fairy-tale in the making.” ied her, he would have his headaches checked out, so we went to the ER. The medical staff did several scans and didn’t appear to be alarmed by anything. We never thought in a million years that it was anything more than a pulled muscle, and waited for the expected results. Unfortunately, we were wrong. The doctor came in and it took only a split second for things to get serious. I knew our lives were about to change. Standing in that hospital room, hearing the words out of the doctor’s mouth, was the scariest moment of my life: tumor, brain cancer, surgery, radiation, chemo. These were words we were
not expecting nor understanding. Apparently, medulloblastoma—his cancer—was mostly common in children. More hospital staff quickly came into the room and everything become a blur. Things after that seemed to move rather quickly. He had his first surgery that summer. They told us he would be ok and healthy, and he was out of the hospital a few days later. He was then back to work a few weeks later. We went on with life as normal. However, six months later, the headaches returned. He had his second surgery the following summer. Immediately after discharging from the hospital, the daily radiation treatments began, followed by chemo. Chemo was brutal to say the least. His immune system was so weak from all the treatments, and he became very ill very quickly. It was one thing after another. He was a strong healthy man, but the chemo just overpowered his body. I thought the shingles were going to be the worst of it. Little did I know what was soon to happen. We had a rough winter that winter. We had snow! He wanted to play outside with our daughter. Everyone had so much fun that day. Unfortunately, the days that followed brought on symptoms of pneumonia. I kept pressing him to let
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me take him to the hospital, but he refused. He started having a really bad fever. When we took his temperature at home it was 101.7 degrees. By the time we arrived at the hospital, it was 105.7 degrees. He was admitted and that was the last time I was able to speak to my husband. He went on the ventilator with the goal for his body to rest and recover. He had moments where we thought he was going to be getting better. I spent every night in that room with him. His best friend arrived from outof-state to help me and just be there. Keith spent one night with him so I could go home and get some good sleep. This was the night he suffered a stroke. I had to make the decision.
A decision we never talked about. We were young, right? We didn’t have to have that conversation. I had to decide what to do next. I questioned GOD. I questioned HIM hard. Why were we being tested? Will I make the right choice? How does one make this type of decision? Something happened to me. I knew I had no choice but to move forward and do what I think is right for him. I requested all the tests to prove to me he had no further brain function. After the many tests and discussions with the doctors, the decision was made to stop all life-saving measures. Looking back, this was the decision that made me the woman I am. A woman who is
strong. A woman who has faith. A woman who does not take one single day for granted. This decision also looks me in the eye every day when I look at our daughter. Even though I am a stronger woman from this experience, I am still saddened for her. I know that I have to show her how to prevail in darkness. I realize that by my becoming the woman I am, I am the woman she needs. I have since remarried and have another daughter. I survived an experience that was earth shattering. I know that I can make those tough decisions and have the faith I need to rise up stronger. This is the kind of woman I want our daughter to be.
so happened to be the tenyear anniversary of his passing that week. That alone brought everything back. I just focused on those feeling and memories. There are some things that never leave you. This experience is that way for me. I appreciate the feedback that was given to me. I tried to focus on the point of story as becoming stronger in the face of darkness. By forming more of a backstory on our love story, I think it deepened the emotion. It showed how strong we were together for me to being strong alone. While I shared a lot of what happened in that short span, there is still much that was left
out. Ultimately it took away from the main point. I didn’t want the story to be all about the bad stuff. I wanted to show the strength that had to prevail following these horrible things. This is what I wanted to convey. Reading over my narrative, I feel proud. I am proud that I was able to put pen to paper and relive the most painful thing I have ever had to experience. I feel proud that my classmates felt the emotion in which I was trying to show. I am proud that this narrative shows that even with this being the most pain I have felt, it shows that I am a survivor. I may not have been the one who had cancer. I am still a survivor.
REFLECTION I chose this experience because there is no other experience that has affected me the way this one did and still does. It was the first time I have never been put in a position that made me question everything. This experience left me with so many unknowns. I had no idea how to be in a world without my partner and best friend. I had no idea how I was going to strong enough for our daughters. The fact that ten years later I am where I am now is crazy to think back on. At that time, I did not think I could be happy again. I wrote the first draft based on all the feeling that came back the week I wrote it. It just
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EVERY DAY I’M HUSTLIN’ Nonfiction by Bret Allen Green
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n an early morning day in January, a rhythmic and soft thudding sound can be heard through the rows of evergreen and Angel Oak trees. Rays of light shine through the leafless trees onto a small, light brown, and well-traveled path. A runner wearing navy-blue sweatpants and a reflective yellow shirt can be seen slowly making his way down the path. His name is Bret. His feet are pounding the ground with the grace of a sack of wet concrete. At a closer glance, it becomes clear that any thoughts of this being a graceful runner can easily be dispelled. His quick and grumbly breathing leave a small cloud of fog behind him as the warm breath contacts the nippy South Carolina January air. Why would anyone be running this early in the morning at such low temperatures through the woods? The reason is a person, and his name is Chaplain Adams. According to Chaplain Adams, who might be slightly delusional depending on who you ask, “Running brings out the best in you.” He also lives on the idea that four peanut M&Ms and a pint of coffee at 0400 is a reasonable breakfast. This run was no option, but in fact PT for new recruits at Naval Nuclear Power School in Goose Creek, South Carolina. My first day at NNPTC started off in contrast to everything that I had hoped. It was 0500 on a Saturday! Nobody had mentioned the previous day that we had a 0500 wake-up call. In fact, I believe that Chaplain Adams rather enjoyed himself while yelling at 20 new recruits. I barely managed to get my clothes on correctly, and I am pretty sure I missed almost an entire flight of stairs. I somehow managed to make it to the bottom landing relatively unharmed. As Chaplain Adams led us through our routine
warmup, he began to talk to us about a river that we would be running to. A scenic run through the countryside did not seem like such a bad idea. Being fresh out of the bootcamp, the only thing I had really seen for the past three months was base concrete roads or an indoor track. What he failed to mention was that the river run would be five kilometers! The pace that we started out with seemed about normal. Eight minutes per mile was a steady pace that all of us had become accustomed to. At about the 10-minute mark my bunkmate, David Schmidt, asked me where I thought we were going. I noticed that we had not really changed directions and usually our runs finish where we started. At this point I started getting a little concerned. Surely, we should be getting close to the end. Just as the thought crossed my mind a clearing in front of us started to open and we could see the river in front of us. I was relieved to see the river. Off in the distance we could see another part of the base and though that maybe we had lost track of direction in the early hours through the groggy run. To my surprise, Chaplain Adams had just passed me in full stride back the way we came. I was shocked. I thought this was the end. Nope. We had only made it halfway! In utter disbelief, I made the turn at the river and started running back the same way that I had just come from. Around the 20-minute mark everything started to blend together. The trees looked the exact same as the ones before them. Every step that I took started to feel like a step backwards. As my exhaustion started to set in, even the footprints left behind in the opposite direction became disheartening. At this point I was beginning to
“Running is my way of abandoning everything and devoting myself entirely to the act of running.”
- Chaplain Adams
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O n I - 3 0 W , Photograph by Johnathan Johnson
regret the idea of wearing sweatpants. Sweat was pouring off me. My own breath became suffocating and my clothes clinging to my body as they became soaked with sweat. My face was flushed and my skin was roasting under the warm clothing that I had foolishly thought would be a good idea. Chaplain Adams started to run circles around our group checking in on people to see if everyone was ok. He would slow down next to someone and give them little words of encouragement. When he came up beside me, I simply looked at his smiling face and waved him off. I said to him as he paced ahead of me, “You like this too much.” Twenty-eight minutes after we had started, I never thought I would have liked the ground so much. I laid on the cold concrete parking lot that we had started from. I must have laid there for 10 minutes at least, just trying to catch my breath. After struggling through my first 5k run I asked the chaplain, “How can you be so cheerful and ecstatic to be running at such a time and for so long?” I will never forget his reply. He told me, “Running is my way of abandoning everything and
devoting myself entirely to the act of running. It allows me to forget all the things going on in the world around me.” Early in my career as a U.S. Navy sailor I had difficulties with the stress associated with becoming a sailor. Although my first few runs were forced upon me for the sake of PT, I began to realize that in fact it was a way to escape the world in a sense and just put my mind at rest. I made it part of my daily routine. Although I did not wake up at 0400 like the chaplain, running in the morning gave me the wakeup that I needed to make it through the day. My decision to make running a part of my life made me feel very proud of myself. The endorphins released during running bring about a feeling of euphoria and general well-being. My health and life changed drastically after that day. That day 12 years ago started something that became a part of who I have been for the years to follow. Through perseverance and dedicated you can achieve things that you would not have believed possible. Small events in your life can make huge and drastic impacts on your life. Stay strong and keep hustlin’!
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M
CONTROL
ost of the memories from my youth are sporadic and hazy, but some of them are as clear as day—for instance, a sunny spring afternoon when I was six years old. I was wearing white sandals that didn’t fit well. Those sandals flew off my feet as I sprinted with all my might through my childhood neighborhood, chasing after my mom’s speeding car while my dad clung to the roof. I never saw those sandals again. There’s also the time I was eight and awoke from a dream by my mom. She hastily scooped me into the hallway of our pitch-black house. Shaking with panic as my mom and I quietly hid, I asked, “What’s happening?” and she explained a man was peeking through our windows looking for her.
Non fict ion by Cou rt n e y Lockwo o d
Chaos was the norm in my life growing up. Neither of my parents were the best suited to raise children, but they gave it their best attempt. Luckily, I always had the constant grounding presence of my paternal grandparents. They were there whenever I needed them most to provide stability and shield me from the storms that my parents created. That is until my mom got custody of me and moved us almost two hours away. I felt trapped. I knew then I would eventually have to escape her. Mom wasn’t all bad; she could be a lot of fun sometimes. She was the cool mom who liked to drive her sports car as fast as she could. She relished going dancing and playing pool in trashy dives. It all seemed so fun as a pre-teen along for the ride, unless
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I got left behind. Then she would stay out all night, never answering her phone. The persistent feeling of fear that she had had an accident was always present. And then, one day, years later, she did. Men were my mother’s greatest downfall, but one man especially. I knew from the moment I met him that he was bad news, with his slicked-back hair, reeking cigars, and lifted Excursion. At the time, I was 15, and my mother and I lived in a beautiful house on 10 luscious acres of land. It was the first place that had felt like home since I was eight. He made her sell it so we could move in with him. Things would never be the same after that. Tumultuous is a fitting word to describe their rela-tionship. There were regular screaming matches and short stays in cheap hotels when we would get kicked out of his house. We even had a physical altercation when I stopped him from pinning my mom against the wall one drunken night. But the car accident blew everything else out of the water. She broke 11 ribs, twice on her left side, collapsed her lung, and broke her pelvis in three places, and everyone knew he caused her to lose control. Between the drama of their relationship and her accident, I had been kicked out permanently. In retrospect, this one event shaped my life to this day. My boyfriend and his family became my refuge. They took me in, and I experienced my first taste of a real family. There was no screaming between my boyfriend’s parents. Both of them were home each evening to make dinner. Every night they all watched Wheel of Fortune together. It was so foreign to me. This new family supported me in getting the counseling and mental health care that I had needed for years, which my mom had neglected even after a suicide attempt. Having a new perspective of what a family could be forever changed my life, and that boyfriend would eventually become
my husband. However, my mom would never give up control of me that easily. She was always creating ways to guilt me for leaving her or choosing this family over her. She would be vindictive to anyone she felt had used or hurt her, even family. This led to frequent threats and foul treatment for myself, my husband, in-laws, and my grandparents. Becoming an Army wife and getting some physical distance freed me from her smothering grasp. I even began seeing a therapist to work on my ADD, which helped me dive into my childhood. I discovered much about myself in those months. We found that many of my traits stemmed from my absolute lack of control in my life through my adolescence. During one session, I explained I didn’t think a healthy relationship with my mom would ever be possible. “Courtney,” my therapist told me, “the only thing a person can control is what they do, say, and think. The only thing you can control is what you do, what you say, and what you think.” In an instant, I knew I had to end my relationship with my mom. I felt a weight lift off of me as I finally realized I had control over my life. It has been over seven years since I’ve spo-ken to my mother. In those years, my life has had a peace that it could never have with her in it. But I do miss her. I miss her effervescent laugh and the way she squeezed me a little too tightly when we’d cuddle. I feel stinging envy of loving motherdaughter relationships. Then, out of the blue, she’ll send a hurtful message, and I’m reminded my choice was difficult but necessary. I’ve waited years, hoping that she will eventually take control of her life. Until then, I’m comforted in knowing what I’m willing to allow into mine. I know what kind of life I will provide for myself, my husband, and our future children because I know that I can choose to think conscientiously, speak gently, and be compassionate.
“The persistent feeling that she had had an accident was always present.”
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B r u n o , Painting by Catherine Umholtz
Beyond Painting by Victoria Robinson 42
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Whale Digital Art by Mackenzie Guzek
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CHANGE FOR THE BETTER
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n that moment I finally felt free; I had decided to break the chains that were holding me down. After years of degradation and torment to my body and psyche, I was able to walk with my head held high for once. The experience of losing everything and being at an all-time low is ultimately the experience that brought a change for the better. As children we are at our most pure, while also being at our most vulnerable. During the day we imagine being many different things, nothing holds us back from our imagination. We are so free and unbothered in those moments. When night came, reality hit some of us more than others. Long school nights awake, hearing your mother and step-father yelling, sneaking out of the room to crawl on the floor to peek around the corner and watch. Sometimes hiding behind the wall to avoid glass that broke off one of the dishes being thrown. The early years alter our minds in ways we don’t understand, yet they can mold people into what they will one day be. There are even statistics saying who a person will be when they are older based on their childhood. The teenage years can be rough, with most barely even knowing who they are yet.
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There’s always some sort of competition between teens, someone wants to be cooler than the other or act like they’re better. There is also a lot of peer pressure in these years. Most think they would withstand peer pressure and make their own choices, but a lot of the time it’s harder than you’d think. I, for one, fell victim to peer pressure, and it sent me on years of bad decision-making, numbing myself, and avoiding things. It was July 2018 when I finally decided to end that cycle. I had hit rock-bottom that month and told myself I was going to do things differently. It’s sad that most people have to see what it’s like at the bottom to decide to aim for the top instead. It’s even more sad that some hit rock bottom and decide to stay there. Either way, I’m thankful for this realization I had early on in my life. It had been a year since high school graduation, I was working part time at Enterprise-Rent-a-Car, and I was just getting by enough to keep up my addiction and pay bills. It was the second week of July when my seemingly comfortable life changed. My girlfriend of two years at the time, Mia, had finally had enough. We had been living together with her parents for the last year, then I was told to move out because she was
Non fict ion by Kamryn Ke i t h
done with my way of living. That next night I decided to go spend it with an old friend at his parents’ house. I spent the entire night mixing different drugs, liquor, and substances. This was how I coped with things back then, but this was the final straw. I woke up the next morning in my car with two police officers knocking on the window. Everything was blurry and apparently I had fallen asleep standing up while the officers were talking to me. I slept through the entire first full day in jail. I was awakened to be told I was being transferred to a bigger facility, then was chauffeured over in a van. Throughout the week that I was in jail I had talked to several inmates. One man in particular was looking out for me; he had been a drug addict himself. He said if I didn’t quit with the pills and small stuff, then eventually I would be hooked on bigger drugs like heroin. He told me that’s how it happened to him. This stuck with me and I decided that when I got out of jail I was going to turn my life around. I realized after I had gotten out of jail that before I went in, my addiction was running my entire life. I was taking three Xanax bars almost every day before I went to jail. So I went home and got rid of them all. I called Mia to tell her I was sorry and to try and recon-
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nect. At first she was unwilling to let me back in, which was understandable. After a lot of time and effort she saw the real change happening and we slowly worked things out. I remember a specific conversation from that time period, she said, “I believe in you, and I know we can do this.” That one statement was a big factor in me staying strong and pushing forward to achieve my success. After cleaning myself up, I became interested in spirituality. I started first with learning about Christianity; I joined a church and became close with the members. Through that I was able to find a good job working full time and saved up to get a place of our own. This all happened in just six months of getting out of jail. It was amazing to see how good things can happen when you make a change for the better.
Today I am happy to say that we have been in our own place for the past year and a half. I am still into spirituality and energy, although I no longer identify with Christianity I still respect and apply its teachings. I have changed my eating habits and lifestyle as well, my most recent endeavor was switching to a vegan diet. After changing my life around I am a much less stressed person. I see life for what it is worth now and all the possibilities that I have in this world. I can also finally see people starting to have trust in me again, instead of looking at me as the untrustworthy addict I once was. Most would disagree, but being thrown in jail may have been the best thing to ever happen to me. I was spiraling out of control but the universe put me back on course and redirected me. I still think back on the experience all
the time. I am able to see how lucky I am to have changed my ways, and on days I am down I remind myself of that. This experience is a key moment in my life that sparked change for the better. I learned that temporary satisfaction or relief can bring long term toxicity. Breaking free from years of addiction was very liberating to me. I now continue to grow and work to eventually be a wholesome individual. Although the experience was at first scary and overwhelming, I now look back on that week in jail as a good life experience. In a way the jail was a place of healing and knowledge for me, I went in lost and came out a better person. I now can face my problems head on instead of trying to avoid them, I can maintain self-control and not turn to outlets to relieve stress, and I can finally be my true self.
Time to Reflect, Photograph by Mary Holcomb
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SEVEN AND IN REHAB
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No nf iction by Evan ge lin a Re ye s
typical seven-yearold girl would be playing with dolls, learning how to write in cursive at school; that was not the case for me. According to the Rehab Spot website, about 5 million Americans use cocaine regularly. Of those 5 million, only 10 percent receive any type of treatment. My mother fell into both of those statistics. She was a regular cocaine user but she also received help. Let us dive into the reason my life was turned upside down at a young age resulting in me never wanting to touch a single drug in my life. Growing up, I can distinctly remember my mother being a functioning addict. My siblings and I never went without. We always had food, clothes, and a roof over our head. We did not live a lavish lifestyle but to me, at that age, a comfortable one. My mom was caring and attentive, except on Fridays. She instilled in our head that Friday was her day. We were not to bother her unless we were bleeding, choking or dying. Saturday would come and we made sure to clean up the house before shewould wake up. I would find a glass plate and rolled-up dollar bills. I never had anything to compare my mother’s parenting to, so for me, all of this was okay. My father, on the other hand, was in and out of prison. He and my mother were almost day and night. My dad never fell into that rabbit hole
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and stayed away from drugs. Did he stay away from trouble? Absolutely not. He had constant brush-ins with the law. When I was seven, he had just finished serving a threeyear sentence for holding an entire family hostage. We were all excited to have him home. His excitement quickly diminished as he became aware of the severity of my mother’s addiction. He demanded she get help or he would leave and not come back. His exact words are still burned in my memory: “Either you get help, Cinnamon, or you will never see any of us again! What good are you to my kids if you can’t even take care of yourself?” She was backed into a corner, and thankfully chose to seek help. My mother had three kids from her previous marriage and I was the only child her and my father shared biologically. When she finally found a rehabilitation center that was to her liking, the three eldest children went to stay with their biological dad. My mother was so fearful of my father leaving her, she demanded that I go with her to rehab. Now the state of Washington is very different than Texas. They allowed her to withdraw me from school so I would be able to stay with her. The facility she chose just so happened to be one that allowed you to bring a child. Luckily for me, there were four children staying at the same time I did. I found
solace in one little boy named Teddy. He and I became close friends and helped each other through a difficult time. I never realized how much we relied on each other until I was much older. The first week or so I remember my mom always being gruesomely sick. I was so naive I just thought she had a regular cold or flu. The nurses would give her medicine and she would reassure me that she was going to be fine. The facility was not as scary as most people think. It was almost like a very structured camp. They had a play room for the kids for when the parents needed to attend a therapy or group session. Teddy and I would sneak into the cafeteria where the group sessions were held and listen. For what reason? I guess just pure curiosity because we didn’t fully understand any of it! I remember hearing things people lost due to their addiction. They talked about family members dying and losing their homes. The one conversation I remember the most was my own mother’s. Maybe it was because she was my mother that it resonated or maybe the value of what she was saying was burnt into my memory for me to access at a later age. She talked about how it was what her mother taught her. That was the only lifestyle she knew. It was her mother who gave her the first bump. She, herself, grew up thinking it was normal. She talked about how my
ROOTS & REFLECTIONS
A M o t h e r ’ s H a n d s , Photograph by Sonali Mittal
father, who despite was who he was, made her realize there was more to life. My father is who broke the spell she was under. She cried and cried and I just sat on the floor behind the table, listening. It was almost as if she had a speaker and it was only her and I in that room. Teddy shook me back into reality and asked me if I was okay. I
looked at him and nodded. I reflect back on this time in my life because it was such a life altering moment. I learned a major lesson from my mother’s mistakes. As I got older and understood where we were and why we were there, I realized she had messed up for me. God taught me that drugs weren’t going to be for me. He
made that loud and clear and I didn’t even have to experience it firsthand. To this day, I have broken that cycle. I broke that generational curse of addiction. I proudly stand next to my mother as she still fights her battles. I am her support system. I was there for her when I was seven and I’ll be there for her until I am seventy.
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F i n d i n g S o u t h e r n G o t h i c , Photograph by Mary Holcomb T h e R u i n s O v e r t h e N o r t h S e a , Photograh by Mary Holcomb
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ROOTS & REFLECTIONS
A WORD FROM SOME OF OUR
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CONTRIBUTORS Christiana Ogbuezi:
Despite the trials and darkness of this time, creativity shone through as a ray of hope.
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Evangelina Reyes:
Last year was very peculiar but we persevered and were productive!
Stephanie McClure:
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Jared Preciado:
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Holly Justus:
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Sonali Mittal:
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Courtney Lockwood:
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Mary Holcomb:
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The tough realities that came with COVID19 reminded me of the thick skin I have developed over the years.
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This past year allowed me to grow and become more focused on what I want my future to be. The world gives and gives for a whole lifetime, but in death all the world does is take. Make sure you love what loves you back.
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2020 was like lassoing a tornado made of fire. I viewed the world with my eyes, but that was too painful. So, I viewed the world through the lens of my camera instead. “To those accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.” – Unknown
Casey Allen:
When one foot is already out the door, double up.
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Kamryn Keith:
Enjoy right now, today.
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T T R R I I N N I I T T Y Y Roots & Reflections 2021 Literary Magazine
R R I I V V E E R R
