Roots and Reflections

VOL . 1

ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

TARR AN T COU NT Y COLLEGE T RI N I T Y RIVE R C AMPUS LIT ER ARY MAGA ZINE

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 NE

2019-2020

PREFACE Welcome to the inaugural issue of Roots and Reflections, Tarrant County College’s newest literary and art magazine. This anthology compiles writing and art submissions from the Trinity River student body, and has been designed and edited entirely by the 11 members of the coenrollment ENGL 2389 Academic Cooperative/ARTS 2313 Design Communication courses. As faculty advisers, we have been pleasantly surprised by the talent and enthusiasm this group has contributed to our campus-wide project.

The literature presented here conveys an amalgamation of talent. Our largest amount of submissions came from burgeoning poets, all of whom allowed their emotions to transcend the page through evocative imagery and word choice. Others shared both imaginative and realistic fictional texts, each of which presents different ways in which relationships shape the way we view the world around us. Still others conveyed bravery and tenacity through their personal narratives.

Selections also include screenplays, examples of which demonstrate students’ ambition to go beyond the traditional storytelling format.

The art exhibited spans a wide range of media, ranging from drawing and painting to 35 mm photography and digital art forms. The selected artworks have been thoughtfully crafted, some with profound personal narratives and commentary surrounding current events. What is particularly striking is the pairing of literature and poetry with some of the artwork almost as if they had been made for one another. We are so incredibly fortunate to have such a thriving student body passionate about the arts on our campus.

As a group, we would like to thank those who supported our project, especially our campus president, Dr. Sean Madison, and Dean of Humanities Dr. Scott Robinson. Your help and advice were key to allowing our project to come to fruition. This issue is merely the first of many, and we look forward to seeing even more artistic and literary examples of student resilience in the future.

Enjoy.

Professor Janae Corrado and Dr. Jerrica Jordan Faculty co-advisers

TABLE OF CONTENTS FICTION The Risk of it All Devin Jones 21 Nyungwe Roadblock* Alexis Muhirwa 24 Fake Plastic Greg Humphries 30 Peaceful Captivity Ethan Vargas 36 A World War I Memoir Angelina Villatoro 52 The Landscape of Bliss Cristian Villegas 62 What We’ve Lost Devin Jones 70

NONFICTION Losing A Mother* Siomara Jones 10 The Caterpillar in the Pill Bottle Casey Allen 12 Walk on the Wild Side Mathew Rodriguez 40 Everything Has Changed Marco Martinez 54 Agent of Change Lizbhet Sanchez 65 Sixteen Going on Thirty: How I Became Independent Courtney Leach 66

P O E T RY Dear Brother Ethan Vargas 8 Dear Sister Ethan Vargas 8 Flame Stella Haley 9 Death Diane Wanger 14 Why? Diane Wanger 16 The Glory of Elmet’s Woods Cristian Villegas 18 Sunflower Mary K. Maturo 19 Flower Crown Khloi Charles 20 How Can I? Ethan Vargas 26 Last Letter Ethan Vargas 32 A Martyr for Wars Cristian Villegas 34 Bravery Josiah Leblanc 35 The Cerulean Ketch Cristian Villegas 39 Strong Darashagam Nagal 43 Anti-College Mary K. Maturo 44 Sleep Paralysis* Rebecca M. Smith 47 I’m Sorry Arianna Figueroa 48 Frozen Tundra/At Your Battle Stations/Home Diane Wanger 51 Space Oddity Mary K. Maturo 51 Beautifully Ugly Alexis Muhirwa 57 Sweet Intoxication Diane Wanger 59 Dog Juanita Hernandez 58 Forevermore Alina Shah 61 Isolation Stella Haley 64 Butterflies Sarah Tieu 66 Under the Mountain and Through the Valley Tristan Roland 68 The Loss of Oneself Jacob Pugh 74 Self-Care Johnnie Cunningham 76

TABLE OF CONTENTS D R AW I N G Cracks Mariska Martinez 13 Huesos Hermosos Mariska Martinez 15 Piece by Piece Khyan Freelon 16 Peachy Skull Dylan Robinson 30 Self-Portrait in Ink and Marker Angelina Villatoro 33 Rainbow Shell Dylan Robinson 38 Line Collage Ashley Roh 39 Mother Rushing Khyan Freelon 43 Self-Portrait in Charcoal Angelina Villatoro 49 Flower Mariska Martinez 52 Mississippi Summer Nights Khyan Freelon 55 Still I Kneel Khyan Freelon 57 I, Too, Am America* Khyan Freelon 60 Acapulco Waters Lizbhet Sanchez 61 Autumn Antiquity Katja Vollmer 63 Chaos Arianna Figueroa 64 Self-Portrait 2013 Angelina Villatoro 65 Yawn Ashley Roh 74 Torture of Time Khyan Freelon 77

CO L L AG E Collage 3 (Texture) N64

Ashley Roh Dylan Robinson

31 46

D I G I TA L A R T Fly Erick Suarez 19 Red Rider Victor Alva 35 Undefined Beauty Emily Barrientes Chavez 43 Journey Victor Alva 50 Sunset Thoughts* Erick Suarez 59

PHOTOGR APHY Untitled Rolando Galvan Front Cover La Havana Erick Suarez 12 Untitled Rolando Galvan 17 A Circular Formation of Pique Turns Johnathan Johnson 24 The Notre-Dame Tyler J. King 34 Dancers Peering From the Side Stage Johnathan Johnson 44 El Viaje de Un Heroe* Marco Jimenez 47 Pink Stars in the Night Cindy Renteria 58 Connections Erick Suarez 69 Ghostly Figures in Port de Bras Johnathan Johnson 76 El Viaje de Un Heroe Marco Jimenez Back Cover

TABLE OF CONTENTS PA I N T I N G Anzietta Angelina Villatoro 9 My Reflection Tamara Smith 10 Symbols Marco Jimenez 20 Black Cat’s Cold Stare Dylan Robinson 27 Charlie Chaplin Ashley Roh 29 Night Sky* Karla Hernandez 41 A Buddhist Dance Ashley Roh 42 Black & White Rosary Emily Barrientes Chavez 46 Self-Portrait Ashley Roh 53 Snow Tiger Ashley Roh 67 Butterfly Arianna Figueroa 70

*Artworks with an asterisk won the award for being the best in their category.

DEAR BROTHER Po e m by E tha n Va rga s I remember you helping me with my homework when I could not do it.

I remember when you would let me go with you when you would babysit.

I remember when we would play football on our knees and I never won.

But that did not matter because we were hanging out and that is what made it fun.

I remember I did not have a room and we had to share.

I remember the time when we would sleep in the bunk beds together.

We did not really fit, but I would like to think that it made us closer than ever.

I remember when we saw the constellations in the night sky.

I remember listening to music in the night car rides.

We could just talk and laugh about things we never wanted to around others.

I remember when you talked about salvation and you made it simple.

You asked me if I believed in Jesus, and I just said, “Yes.” You made the memory memorable.

We also had moments where it was not the best.

The moments that we would soon regret.

The moments we would soon forget.

However, those memories will never change the relationship we have made.

You are my brother and that will never change.

We have gone through a lot together, and every moment made us stronger.

No best friend can take the place of a brother.

All three of us would play games, and it did not seem that you were six years older.

Because when we played, it seemed like we were the same age.

The smallest things were the silly memorable moments we made.

I love you because you are open-minded.

You do not focus on trying to master one thing, but you try to open your mind to new things.

This quality makes you very special because it is not something you can see, but it is something you show.

Curiosity is your strength, and you do not let anyone take that away from you.

I hope that you will not see exploring as a waste of time, but rather as a way to open the mind.

I promise I will be there, wherever you are, At your highest mountains and your deepest valleys.

No matter what, I will be there and you better believe that.

I love you because you are not perfect, but you are growing.

I do not care what people tell you or call you because I know the person you are becoming.

I love you because you made an impact on my life.

I love you because you are my brother and I cannot hate you even if I tried.

I might forget the memories and the jokes you say, but I will never forget the way you make me feel inside.

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DEAR SISTER Poe m by Et h an Vargas I do not understand you and sometimes I wish I could.

But that would take away from the beauty between me and you.

I do not remember specific memories we had.

But the feelings never ran.

I feel you everyday.

And there is nobody I’d rather have to share my birthday.

We were like a dynamic duo.

Different yet very similar.

Together we could fly to Pluto.

Go fly like eagles to places that were not familiar.

Nobody understood, but you were my interpreter.

A binding that cannot be broken.

Even if someone separated us from each other.

No matter how far we are, we will help when in the lion’s den.

If I could, I would give you the best husband, Give you the best that you could not comprehend.

Your man better treat you like a queen: The best for you and nothing less.

Give you everything or he should be trying.

I hope my wife is like you.

Thinking about the standard is far from my view.

How can I find someone who is kind?

How can I find someone who is loving?

How can I find someone who is of the same mind?

How can I find someone who is forgiving?

How can I find someone who loves me at my best?

How can I find someone who loves me at my worst?

How can I find someone I love from the east to the west?

How can I find someone I love beyond an evil curse?

I love you because you see the best in me.

And you see more than I can see.

You do not see who I am, but who I can be.

Maybe that is why happiness flees when you see the family not live up to what you can see.

The top models cannot compare to your beauty.

And nobody can take that away from you, trust me.

I wish I could remember more but I cannot.

I would do anything for you too.

Take a bullet to my heart or tear my limbs apart, And maybe because I do not want to ruin the memory of you.

ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

FLAME

A n z i e t t a , Painting by Angelina Villatoro

Poe m by St e lla Hale y

I’ll keep this flame at bay tossing and turning all night, long putting the flames out.

Doubt clouds my mind no matter the time of day, no matter the time of night. I’m still battling this inner flame, frantically pushing air out, trying to get oxygen, unable to function. This flame causes me to only see red.

Swollen knuckles, bitter chuckles, this flame is a trickster for making me believe that it has left my side when it has only grown stronger. This strength is uncontrollable bloody knuckles, shattered glass, broken hearts: the mind of a broken home lives inside of my mind. I clean up the mess, but it’s never enough because it always returns and is just as strong as the last flame.

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M y R e f l e c t i o n , Painting by Tamara Smith

LOSING A MOTHER No nf ict ion by S iomara Jon e s “I truly never learned what the words ‘I miss you’ were until I reached for my mom’s hand and it wasn’t there.”

- Unknown Author.

My mother died on October 27, 2016, two days after my birthday.

I was 15 years old. My mother was struggling with B-cell lymphoma due to smoking her entire life. I remember the first time we all found the devastating news. It was around June 2016, and she was having trouble breathing and would have frequent panic attacks. After almost a week of trying to convince her to go

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to the hospital, she finally decided to make an appointment. There, we did all the forms to sign her in. We waited a long time before the nurse finally called her back. After various tests and questions, the doctor came in with a heavy face and looked at me before breaking the news.

The doctor said that they found active cancer cells around the lungs, meaning the diagnosis was lung cancer. My heart was going twice its rate, and my stomach dropped to my feet. I immediately looked at my mom to see her reaction. She was shocked as to say how, with just

her facial expressions. The doctor still said there were more tests to be done, and asked if my dad and I would wait outside. Dismayed, I went to the bathroom, fell to my knees, and broke down. I never prayed to God over something this extreme, so I didn’t even know what to say. In my quivering voice, I repeated the words, “Please Lord,” as I sat there and cried for my mom.

With very strong chemo, the doctor gave the cancer a 70-percent chance of being annihilated. The chemo treatments were extremely hard for my mom, but she was strong

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and put it all into the hands of God, saying that it was going to be alright and that He had her.

After several weeks of chemo, I came home to my mother crying. She could pull her hair out by the handfuls.

As a child, I felt great sorrow for my mom and just wished repeatedly that her cancer would go away and leave her alone. It took months of strenuous chemo for the cancer to be gone. We had won the fight, or so it felt.

It was now August 2016, and we were all so happy. My sisters came to celebrate my mom being cancerfree; they surprised her with a trip.

At that moment, never would I have thought that my life would turn left so quickly. But around the beginning of October, she began to have extreme panic attacks. It was like her airways were completely blocked for a period of time.

On October 24, at night, she finally decided to go to the hospital, the same hospital that discovered her cancer. Her heart beat at an incredibly unnatural speed. The doctors couldn’t find the reason why we could visibly see her heart.

On October 25, my mother stayed the night at the hospital. I was very sad and angry at the doctors.

Why couldn’t my mom breathe or walk without these panic attacks?

Why could I see her heart beat?

On October 26, at 3 a.m. in the morning, my mom called my dad, begging him to come back to the hospital to be with her. He tried, but on the way from the hospital, my dad’s car had a flat so he couldn’t get there straight away. He was finally able to fix his tire, and he arrived at 7 a.m.

By this time, she was on life support.

He found out her heart had given out after strenuous work. Her health was declining after every hour, and they tried everything to save her, but she

was in septic shock; all of her organs were shutting down.

On October 27, 2018, at midnight, the doctors came out with the words I didn’t want to hear, “I’m sorry; there’s nothing we can do for her.”

The family and I said our final goodbyes and wanted to be with her until her last breath. I kissed my mother on her cold cheek and told her I loved her. I had to leave the room. I couldn’t hear that flat line. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t process how fast all this was happening. She was fine just a month before; how

“LOSING A MOTHER DOESN’T HAPPEN IN A MOMENT. IT TAKES YEARS TO APPRECIATE THE IMPACT OF WHAT’S GONE.” LISA-JO BAKER could this be happening in only three days? The death still shocked me.

For weeks, I asked, “God, why? How could this happen?” The sad part is that she didn’t even die of cancer. It was her chemo treatments; she died from an infection from her port, and her immune system couldn’t fight it due to the hard chemo.

The first months without my mom were extremely hard. My grades were slipping. I became quiet and sullen; I was depressed. I never knew how much I took my mom for granted until the day she was diagnosed with cancer. I missed my mother terribly at the tender age of 15 because, at that age, you need your mom the most. I would envy all the kids at my school who still had their moms, especially on Mother’s Day, which was the worst.

I still miss my mom. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about her, but I know that even though she

is not physically here, she is still here with me walking alongside me.

On occasional nights where I long for my mom the most, I have endless nights of crying. It’s almost like I can feel a certain warmth, like she’s reassuring me that she’s still with me. I wish I could have that warmth in my mother’s arms every day that I come home from school. I long for it. I even frequently dream about it. I am currently trying to soothe the hole in my chest even though that hole will never completely heal. I have accepted the fact that my mom is no longer physically here.

As Lisa-Jo Baker would say, “Losing a mother doesn’t happen in a moment. It takes years to appreciate the impact of what’s gone.” I asked my psychology teacher if it’s possible to love and appreciate a deceased parent. My teacher was surprised by my question and told me it all depended on the person. I surely love and appreciate my mom more than I did before. My mother was always there for me, no matter what happened; she always took my side and gave me endless love no matter how mean I was to her.

I give long speeches to my friends why they should love and appreciate their mothers even more than they do.

When someone talks disrespectfully or means to their mom, I get angry and scold them because once your mom is gone, you no longer have that passionate, warm, and endless love.

Losing my mom drove me to always want to make her proud. It’s been almost four years since my mother died. She encourages me from Heaven to always do my best.

Without my mom, I wouldn’t be the person I am now. So instead of crying and mourning and not accepting the fact that I do not have my mother physically, I say, “Thank you, Mom.”

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T H E C AT E R P I L L A R I N T H E P I L L B O T T L E No nfi ct ion by Cas e y A lle n Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” If one were to ask me what this meant on any given day in the last decade, I would’ve said she probably needed to use the restroom. This day would be different. It was a rainy morning in March, and rain is an understatement. This was a rain that even Forrest Gump failed to describe. My situation was far from noble, unlike Forrest’s. He was waist-deep in the rain for four months, during the most cynical war in our nation’s history. I was a 22year old “man” living at my mommy’s house, trying to solve the riddle of what a normal life is like: a puzzle with an infinite number of pieces. Not on this day. It felt as though my daily trip down the mental rabbit hole was on rain delay as I forfeited my agenda.

Almost unconsciously, I curled up on the couch with a book I had bought several months before. This dusty shelf ornament would keep me sane during the rainy morning, and at this point, my rainy life. I flipped passed the dedication page, and what I found behind it would change my life.

My love for writing originated when I started fourth grade. It was the first day of school when a new type of anxiety within me was born. I was the new kid. Luckily for me, so was my teacher. She was a first-year teacher out of the University of Texas and seemed to be just as nervous as we were. We would bond over this. She would go on to tell us that she had just graduated with a major in Education and a minor in English so that we would be more so language artsbased than any other subject. I was ecstatic to learn this because reading was my favorite hobby.

I might also add that I was so enthused because she was smoking hot.

From then on, I wanted to be her little English prodigy. I didn’t have any friends yet, so I ended up hanging

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out with her during lunch and recess.

During these times, we would play card games or work on my essays together. I might not have been invited to any birthday parties that year, but I did score the only perfect 4 in her class on the TAKS writing test. I felt like I had won the Super Bowl with the way she would always brag about me.

She made a transparency of my essay to use on her overhead projector as an example for years to come. I felt like I had found my niche, my calling. I

La Havana Photograph by Erick Suarez loved writing, and boy, did I love Miss Whitten.

In a perfect world, I would’ve remained focused throughout grade school, and earned some fancy English degree from one of those prestigious Ivy League colleges. But the world I reside in is far from perfect.

Although my writing held its own throughout high school, I’m not too confident that I could even spell the

word “college” correctly during my senior year. I graduated high school in the middle of an eight-year drug binge, and college was not on my itinerary.

My days consisted of getting as high as I possibly could and selling enough drugs to pay for it all. I traded in being a good son and brother, for being a lackluster drug dealer and a “when I feel like it” boyfriend. My house was always filled with nameless people that only cared about the drugs I had. I thought I was happy because I could make a whole room laugh by telling a story or just acting like a jackass when in reality, we were all just high. “Tell them about the time you told the nurse you shit your pants so you could leave school,” or “Tell the story about the guys who bashed in your windshield and tried to kill you.” All of my stories were meaningless, but it felt good to connect with people by telling a story. It wouldn’t be until I got to rehab that my stories became meaningful again.

Rehab is a very vulnerable place, where no one shows up on a winning streak. It’s a place where men from ages 18-65 go when their lives become unmanageable. In many cases, an unmanageable life is the only thing we had in common with each other.

There can be someone who robbed a bank to buy crystal meth who’s there by court order, and there can be an 18-year old whose mom found a doobie in his sock drawer. Those two examples are expected to live amongst one another and open up to each other. Intimidating, yet necessary. So many different personalities under one roof, yet they all share one common goal: to quit using drugs. Most men cringe at the idea of therapy, but the group of guys I was with were too far-gone.

This was life or death, and we treated it as so. We had to be honest with each other and ourselves. We

ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

C r a c k s , Drawing by Mariska Martinez had to tell our own stories and listen wholeheartedly to others telling theirs. We had to share our experiences, strength, and hope with each other. Our stories are what got us here, and thanks to the latest chapter in all of them, we’re set up nicely for our sequels.

It was so liberating to share stories with a group of people and feeling instantly connected with them.

Sadly, the hardest part of rehab was leaving. It was hard getting back into the real world after spending several years of your life under a rock. It was even harder to relate to someone who hadn’t been under that rock once I got out.

About five months out of rehab, I hit a wall. It was a rainy day in March.

After months of being gracious for this new way of life, I fell off that pink cloud. I didn’t relapse, but I grew extremely frustrated that everything wasn’t perfect even after five months of sobriety. I was embarrassed that I lived at my mom’s for the first time since I was 17. I was upset that certain people didn’t want to hang out with me because I was sober, and I felt very unsure about what I wanted to do with

my life. For some reason, I felt I needed to know the answer to all these questions right away.

More than anything, I wanted to feel “normal.” All of my peers were

“MY DAYS CONSISTED OF GETTING AS HIGH AS I POSSIBLY COULD AND SELLING ENOUGH DRUGS TO PAY FOR IT ALL.” CASEY ALLEN graduating from college, getting married, and having kids. I had just gotten out of rehab and was preparing for my first-ever midterm. I started feeling extremely anxious and worried when I compared my life to someone else’s.

Instead of getting bullied by my worries, I tried to simmer down my thoughts by cracking open a book.

The Woman in the Window by AJ Finn, a thriller, would occupy my mind that morning. I was wrong. It occupied my mind for 13 hours.

I learned so many things about myself through his fictional story. It was completely relatable, compelling,

and astonishing. Just when I thought I had figured out the plot, the author turned my insides out. I had never experienced anything like it. The way he related to his audience with such creativity left me speechless. I didn’t say a word for hours after I finished reading.

I assure you I didn’t sleep either. I just thought. I felt as if I had come into a full circle as if I had just been told my first story. I fell in love with it all over again; I’m a sucker for creativity. I had been disconnected from writing for so long, and for the first time, I was mad at myself for it.

From that moment on, I have never once worried about what I was going to do with my life. I want to create stories that relate to people in creative ways. That night, I figured out that relating to someone is what I’ve wanted to do all along.

Storytelling has been and always will be a huge part of my life. It’s been a way for me to express myself in any situation, and connect with people along the way. I feel like everyone has an important story to tell, but listening to someone else’s story is just vital.

One can never know what they might learn but listening, or teach by telling.

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D E AT H Po em by Dian e Wan ge r They ask me, “How are you?”

I reply, automated, in a trance: “O.K.” What is this “O.K.”?

Is it the right answer, the one they want to hear?

The acknowledgment that they cared enough to inquire.

But polite, civilized.

I don’t tell them that my insides have been wrenched from my entire being, that my throat is swollen and puffy and that my tears are from an unending source.

I don’t tell them that I reach out for you--grasping; But you are gone.

I have to believe that you will watch over me and that your spirit will urge me on as you did in life.

I tell them, I’m O.K. And one day I will be.

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H u e s o s H e r m o s o s , Drawing by Mariska Martinez

P i e c e b y P i e c e , Drawing by Khyan Freelon

WHY? Po em by Dian e Wan ge r When you open your heart to me, I am burdened by the trust in me your vulnerability shows.

Sharing is a two-way street and I am reminded of my closed doors and vacancies.

If I find the key, will I know the truth of what lies beyond, Or, will it be just another facade, carefully constructed?

And, if it is the truth today, is it a lie to say it when tomorrow may be different?

And so, I sit mute and smiling And wonder why you stay When I am so far.

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ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

Photograph by Rolando Galvan U n t i t l e d

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THE GLORY OF ELMET’S WOODS Po e m by C r i s t ia n Villega s A day once ago, ten men aroused a hassle in the woods of Elmet’s west, searching far from the village for honey for mead.

In the bluntness of their quest they stumbled upon a fallen log of dried meat as aged as the woodland itself.

Hare-brained in a way, the men prodded it until then it woke! A monster of the land, sized and unsightly to all but its own!

The men they ran, all the way home, to me and my own. Our eyes they darken at the sight as it mashed into the village aloud!

It hurtled behind the all, ravaging, hollering, killing and taking our women away, a beast so tall and bulk, like trees of oak.

Scared but brawny, we raised our blades! Thirty in all, charging to save, and facing the walking wave like wolves to a stag!

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Raging it rioted! Clamoring in defile and slamming in enmity it struck us down one by one, but as our steels clashed with its charred flesh, and our blades lashed with each flash, it told us no lies in its final cries.

Falling hard unto the ground, bleeding out and all around.

The women, naked, fled, and the fallen blessed as the men who stood raised our swords high into the sky, calling loud and ready to strike deep down, trusting our metals into the beast as one, to see the felony in its eyes vanish like a murky sun into non!

“Ha-How!” we shouted, “Ha-How!” we screamed as we climbed upon the monster and basked in all!

The evil was dead and the women saved, waiting away in the dark of our homes, awaiting the braves, and forgetting

the ugly of the sorrowful brute, dead in dirt and left contort for the bratty rats or the lands.

Yes, that day we feasted!

Seeded and memorialized! For the beast of Elmet was dead, and our glory so bold and sealed!

So drink up your mead and enjoy the dreaded danger and friendliness of warm flesh! For one day soon or outlying you too shall find your defined glory!

Be it in a heat of vicious battle, or savage skirmishes through the hold, but brave bones and kept steel shall do you well.

And all to those who act!

Strong and bear, ready to stare passing without fright, but only nerve ‘n’ gut!

So drink up that mead and sing with me one final night as I flee my withering body into divinity!

SUNFLOWER Po e m by Ma r y K. Maturo You are growing

Far above

You’re alive

Seeds of peace

Sunflower

Let the light feed you

Up and going

Soon you will be a speck In the cloudless blue

Sign of love Light tower

Photosynthesize

Reaching up to the heavens Don’t quit

See it through Fly Photograph by Erick Suarez

Ever sowing

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FLOWER CROWN Po e m by K h l o i Cha r les

I made you a flower crown of weeds from my backyard

To show you that beautiful things can be created from unconventional things, Something people deem as unworthy and not valuable, Something you see as a pest that you refuse to touch with your bare hands.

I sat in the burning sun for 25 minutes molding this crown

For you to recognize my admiration and love And give you something beautiful.

What a shame I am not beautiful enough for you.

I am a garden of weeds myself, you know?

I weaved myself into something beautiful for you with great precision; You threw the crown away.

It began to wilt.

Symbols Paintings by Marco Jimenez

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THE RISK OF IT ALL Screenplay by Devin Jones A man, STAN THE GAMBLIN’ MAN, is driving down the road, dressed in business casual attire. He appears to have had a long day at work, shown by his loosened tie and the bags that hang underneath his eyes. He clicks through radio stations and catches a commercial for the lottery.

RADIO DJ Grab your Scratch Ticket today! With over 10 games and a $13 Million jackpot, try it!

It could change your life!

A song comes on the radio, but Stan tunes it out, deep in thought.

Noticing a gas station, he pulls over. As Stan enters the station, a MAN bumps into him, distractedly scratching a lottery ticket. Unfazed, Stan continues to the counter.

ANNOYING GAS CLERK Hey, if it isn’t Stan, the Gamblin’ Man! STAN THE GAMBLIN’ MAN Please don’t call me that. Twenty on pump two, and a lotto.

He leans against a wall and scratches the ticket with the desperation of a man on his last chance. He scratches one box, then two, then three and they all match! The ticket reflects a heavenly hue on his face, until he notices the prize amount: $1. He goes inside to buy another.

He scratches the boxes and wins a prize! However once again, it is only a dollar. With a grunt, he goes in to get another.

He repeats this process over and over again. He scratches in odd places like his car, the building, the station’s restroom, and the parking lot.

Each win produces a brief shine on his face, followed by a grunt and a “come on” when he sees the prize amount.

Finally, he loses.

STAN THE GAMBLIN’ MAN Oh...

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He pulls out his pockets for another dollar to buy a scratch-off ticket.

Finding no money but only lint and broken dreams, he drives home.

INT. HOUSE – NIGHT Stan the Gamblin’ Man sits silently at dinner with his wife, BROKE BETTY. The scraping of their forks on the dinner plates emphasizes the tension between them. A television plays faintly in the living room.

BROKE BETTY Washer and dryer is broke again.

Stan the Gamblin’ man’s responses are almost a short grunt, as he is clearly not listening.

STAN THE GAMBLIN’ MAN Mhm. BROKE BETTY The dishwasher is broke too.

STAN THE GAMBLIN’ MAN Mhm. BROKE BETTY So, what’s working here, Stan?

There is a stiff silence before an advertisement on the television cuts the tension like a knife; the ad for the Scratch Lottery plays again.

Without a beat, he ignores what she said and changes the subject.

STAN THE GAMBLIN’ MAN $13 Million! What would you do with that kinda money?!

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ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

BROKE BETTY (Tossing fork down in frustration) I don’t know-STAN THE GAMBLIN’ MAN Because I would get us out of this dump!

Some nice beachside condo, with appliances that actually work.

Betty dramatically pulls a ticket out from her purse and slides it across to Stan.

BROKE BETTY Well, here’s your chance.

She leaves the kitchen and Stan is left at the table by himself. He picks the ticket up, and, with a glimmer of hope in his eye, begins to scratch.

BLACK SCREEN: STAN THE GAMBLIN’ MAN Sigh.

FIN

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NYUNGWE ROADBLOCK

Fict ion by A lexis M u h i rw a

A C i r c u l a r F o r m a t i o n o f P i q u e Tu r n s Photograph by Johnathan Johnson

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ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

I woke up to a beautiful spring day of equatorial Rwandan weather. The sun was shining alongside a slight breeze that made all the colorful plants dance around in the background.

The only thing that could have improved the day would have been a lack of the sound of bombardment in the background and the vision of legless soldiers being brought to the hospital daily.

At this point, it was no longer shocking, but it still affected me. One bright side of the intense unsafe violence of this war zone was that at least I didn’t have to go to school.

First grade would have to be completed later.

After getting ready that morning, my mother and two sisters went to the part of the military base that served food. Although our father was thousands of miles away at military school in the United States, his name and rank still allowed us a daily serving of meat to feed ourselves. As we reached the front of the line, they called out his name and handed us the food. I thought it was pretty funny that they were calling his name as if that meat came from his body. The laughter was quickly wiped away when the lady behind us

heard her dead husband’s name called.

She was hungry and had children to feed, but it must have hurt her every time she heard the name of the man she would never see again.

But sometimes, you’re just hungry in a war zone, and a dead man is the only one who can feed you.

As the days passed, our safety level dropped due to the advancement of the murderous, rebel army. It was well known that once they took this base, our lives would be swept away as one would a dirty floor.

I was just a child, so I thought eventually things would calm down. I kept wishing for our eventual return home. I was oblivious to the lives being lost on a daily basis. I had no idea how much further we had to travel.

After several weeks at the base, my mother went to make a deal with this priest who was leaving the city. She was able to negotiate a ride for our cousin and us. We left in a short amount of time towards a border town that was further away from the fighting.

We took the trip alongside two teenage boys who would permanently attach them-

selves to my memory for the remainder of my life.

As we were leaving, I said goodbye to some local friends and got in the car. By this time, I had gotten used to the routine.

Rebels bomb the town, we pray it may stop, and then skip ahead once again to stay one step ahead of the atrocities behind us.

As we left Butare, we drove through the Nyungwe Forest on the way to our destination.

This place would have been terrifying even in a time of peace.

We rode on steep mountainous roads with hills that floated to the sky on the right and deep drops into the jungle on the left. If one didn’t die from the car rolling over, I’m sure you would have been eaten alive by the leopards hiding in the thick woods. Little did I know that those animals would be the least of my concern.

Several hours into the drive, we were stopped on a roadblock that dropped the temperature of my body below zero and plummeted my heart deep into my belly.

As we had passed through Rwanda, the roadblock was known to be a dangerous place where many had taken their last breath.

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I remember leaving our home in the capital city and passing one where the river beside it was red with the blood from the dead bodies flowing downstream. While terrifying and extremely sad, my family’s name in the military had always spared our life.

It was terribly despairing to see those who were left behind to die, but sometimes in life, one must keep moving unless we want to lose our lives as well.

This one was different.

There were barely any soldiers. It was filled with 14 year-olds who were holding 32 round clips of AK-47s.

Amongst them, I counted one adult, 15 children, 30 bloodshot eyes, and countless empty bottles of Mitzig beer. This was it. I knew after so much good luck on these roadblocks, we had finally hit the one to take us off this earth.

They checked my mom’s and the priest’s IDs and said they would let us pass.

My breath, which had been paused for what felt like an hour, came rushing back.

Somehow, through the grace of God, we were going to make it.

I had thought too soon, though. One of the rifle-armed children demanded that the two boys, as well as my cousin, be handed over. They pointed the AK47 at the bed of the truck and said they must step down. As I glanced around, I saw up the hill where

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those who were removed from vehicles were taken.

It was a march to a place where those poor souls would never be seen again, a place where they would take their last breath as the blood drained away from them. It was a pristine, countryside hill with green grass that seemed to be overflowing with blood.

Before they could be removed, I saw a look in my mother’s eyes that is rarely seen on even the toughest men in the world.

It looked out of place on this little five-foot-tall lady who made me warm milk with sugar in it for breakfast.

She walked to the man who had an assault rifle pointed at the truck without regard for his life or her own.

She looked him dead in the eyes and said that my cousin was not going with him. He tried to argue, and she told him he better be prepared to kill all of them because she was not leaving her family behind. “If you have the heart, go ahead and pull the trigger, but don’t you dare take my family away from me,” she said.

As I looked at the situation, I thought of the seven years I had lived up to that point and felt that they had been pretty marvelous. I was prepared to lose them that day, so I just started looking back at the pleasant things I had enjoyed so far. In my mind, this man was going to shoot us all and keep going on with his day.

Somehow, through the grace of God and the steely fearless look in my mother’s eyes, the man gave up.

He gave her my cousin back and allowed us to leave, but the two teenage boys were not as lucky.

You win some, you lose some, and you can’t save the whole world. As much as it must have hurt her, she didn’t know those boys and had to let them go.

Had their mother been there, then maybe things would have been different, but not everyone makes it in the end. That is the heartbreaking, horrendous side of war.

There are many dead bodies on that hill that never got to tell their story.

They were taken out of the truck, and as we left, I saw them marched up the hill of death to leave this earth behind. It was such a beautiful place to have an ugly ending.

I am still alive as I tell this story, but a part of me got out of the truck, marched uphill, and died with those boys that day. I have forgotten so many things over time, but I can still vividly see those young men as they were removed from the truck and forced to take their final march uphill.

We kept driving through the forest, and I was no longer afraid of the woods or the animals, once I became aware of what men could do.

The saddest part of those roadblocks is that we had to continuously move forward,

ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

so we couldn’t even look behind to mourn those lwe eft behind.

We finally made it to the Catholic school near the border where we would be staying for the near future. It was calm and quiet with no bombs nearby or roadblocks full of atrocious child sol-

diers.

I reunited with family and friends from my hometown, and everything was peacefully quiet until I heard the grim news. Since we were safe for the time being, we now had to return to class.

B l a c k Cat ’s Co l d St a re Painting by Dylan Robinson

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HOW CAN I? Po em by Et h an Vargas How can I forget her when she is all I think about?

How can I forget her when the thoughts go beyond my deepest doubt?

How can I move forward when I look forward to seeing her everyday?

How can I ignore her words when my words to describe her will not go away?

How can this feeling be undone? When it creeps inside, where can I run?

How can I let her go when I want to hold her so close?

This feeling is so addictive I might just overdose.

What do you do when they tell you it’s wrong and the feeling was never meant to be, But you only see where you belong and your mind is filled with her memories.

I cannot give up on her when the feeling seems to be affecting us mutually.

She could reject me and it would be better than to be killed by this what if thinking.

Do not get me wrong; I have tried to forget her.

Separating myself from her just makes my mind feel as if I am in a desert.

Starving myself from my needs and wants because it will hurt my future endeavors.

Sometimes I wish I had never met her.

It is hard for me to say that, but it would make my life a whole a lot easier.

How can we be together when we are so different?

How can I be with her when we come from opposite ends?

How can I let her go when she is the only one I want to be with?

These feelings rush like turbo when I am with her for a minute.

A part of me wants to forget her, but another part wants to be with her forever.

And maybe this poem I’m writing is not making these feelings any better.

I can see her when I sleep. I can see her in my dreams.

Her touch gets warmer like the sunrise’s morning beams.

Her voice is softer than an evening stream.

And I am left thinking what it could mean.

How can I resist when she says my name?

When her eyes target mine, all I do is smile, as if I am in a picture frame.

And when these affection kills my heart and my mind, who is to blame?

Now I would not settle for a dime, but give her everything just to call her mine.

Make the last word on every line on every poem rhyme.

So please tell me, how can I forget her when she is on my mind?

When we could go anywhere, do anything, maybe make the stars align.

And if you pick him over me, then I will ...

It will take everything in my body to keep from crying a little.

My heart will sink so deep it would feel as if the pain would send me to the hospital.

I will lose strength in my body as if my bones were starting to become brittle.

I will have to walk as far as my legs can carry me just to feel the pain go away a little.

The saddest part is you might not even have a clue, So maybe I wasted my time writing this poem for you.

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C h a r l i e C h a p l i n , Painting by Ashley Roh

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FA K E P L A ST I C Fictio n by Gre g Hu mph rie s Editors’ Note: This story is based on Ernest Hemingway’s story, “Hills Like White Elephants.”

The Woman comes across a familiar sight: the valley of the Ebro. On her side sits a river, and what once was fields of grain, are now residences. Almost everything is the same, but not. More people had discovered this location since their last visit. The building is renovated and the fields of grain are gone. The biggest change, however, is time.

There were things that remained static. It is still hot, and the express from Barcelona is on the same time route. In through the same fly-repelling bamboo curtain walks the American, visibly older.

speaks promptly into the curtain.

“I’m thinking beer,” says the Woman, stretching out her limbs as she speaks.

Before the server can set down the beers, the Old Man softly grabs them, handing one to the Woman before proposing a toast. The Woman silently nods in approval again, her eyes fixating on the Old Man’s hands. They tremble so now, fleeting of the grip they once held so tightly.

“I was thinking the same,” replies the Old Man. “Dos cervezas,” the Old Man

Peachy Skull - Graphite by Dylan Robinson

P e a c h y S k u l l , Drawing by Dylan Robinson

“What size?” asks the server, quietly.

“Two pints please,” says the Old Man, silently getting a nod from the Woman.

“To memories!”

“Fresh and Old,” replies the Woman, nodding once more. The glasses clink and are set down on recycled cardboard coasters.

“Looks like some things have changed.”

“Some were never right.”

The Man picks up his beer for the second sip, with the coaster sticking to his glass. He motions to the Woman to look at the coaster, which she nods again.

The American then sets down his beer and looks at the window, studying it.

“Some windows now have a composite plastic film on them in case the window shatters, keeps glass from flying everywhere.

What kind of plastic do you think they use?” asks the Old Man. “It doesn’t matter; all plastic is fake,” replies the Woman.

“That doesn’t make it any less

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ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

C o l l a g e 3 ( t e x t u r e ) , Collage by Ashley Roh

effective.”

“It’s still fake; it will always be fake.”

The man goes silent, swishing the beer in a circular motion around the glass. This time he puts a finger on the coaster to keep it from lifting with the beer. The Woman examines the glass, with the label of Michelob Ultra near the top of the lip where she sips the beer.

“Michelob Ultra, huh? Not so Ultra to me.”

“The taste is really quite disappointing,” says the man.

The two quietly share a chuckle before the man speaks.

“This is much more complicated than you think.”

“So you say.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s quite simple.”

An announcement comes from the server. “The train leaves in five minutes.”

“What have I done to warrant this?”

The Old Man stares at the Woman once more.

“You’ve done nothing.” An uncontrollable smile creeps over the Woman’s lips, like the valley of the cascading hills she once took note of so many years ago.

“Enough time for another beer, for old times’ sake?”

“I hope you know I love you, no matter what you’ve gathered.”

“I’ve gathered enough.”

The Old Man looks at the window again. “If you can live with this, I can live with this.”

“Not this time, I’m afraid.”

The Old Man slowly gets out of his chair, followed silently by the Woman, clutching her purse. The two slowly saunter out of the train and away from the station. However, as the train departs, the Old Man notices that when there is a sunset, the white hills turn red.

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LAST LETTER Po e m by Et h an Vargas When she leaves, I am left standing there, wanting a little more.

I need to forget her and leave the thoughts to die, But I cannot do this because I feel like I am lying.

Am I lying to myself when I say forget her?

Am I being real when I enjoy my time with her?

This girl gives me goosebumps and chills when she walks by.

She also gives me the reason to cry, convincing me that I have no alibi.

Her smile is similar to the morning sun, warming my toes all the way up to my chest.

Sometimes she can be the coldest as if my skin has just hit the Celsius of an ice chest.

When she texts me and I hear the buzz, the butterflies come alive inside my stomach.

When she leaves my sight, it is as if someone just punched me in the gut.

When we make eye contact, all my issues go away and they shrink to atomic.

We hang out in public, but I swear we speak in private.

Her voice is the sweetest sound I have ever heard.

A song sung through a mockingbird.

I love the way she says my name.

My name is the same but something happens when she says it.

It is like the world stops for a second .

My head turns so fast and my heart skips a beat.

The choir plays and the orchestra sings.

I do not know what this means.

I do not know where this can go because we are different.

Yet we are similar in ways that when I think about, make me ignorant.

Different religions, different races, and different cultures.

The odds cannot be harder.

The stakes cannot be higher.

But thinking about it, we could make it together.

I do not know how we would do it but I know that I would want to figure it out with her.

I want to be by her side and let every feeling clash as her hand holds mine.

These feelings feel like they are forbidden, as if it is a crime.

Listen to the words, I say with my eyes.

They tell the story that I cannot hide.

My touch has got you memorized.

These feelings are coming to life.

As I sit here writing these rhymes.

Like I do not know how to say it otherwise.

Or I would be telling you and looking in your beautiful eyes.

You might not even know any of this and the feelings might not even be mutual.

So if not, take these words to heart and do not dim the light that makes you unforgettable.

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S e l f - P o r t r a i t i n I n k a n d M a r k e r , Drawing by Angelina Villatoro

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A M A R T Y R F O R WA R S Po e m by C r i s t ia n Villega s

The malevolent and angered waves of Poseidon rose before the clouds, slamming upon the wooden and wounded bodies of twentydozen battle-built vessels birthed for the sea!

And the old captains they stood, steering at the decks their ships well or weak, waiting to meet the storm, waiting to meet what lay beyond the veil of the brittle mists deep in dismay.

A thousand miles from home, they confronted the wrathful enemy on the wet face of the earth; a thousand miles from home, they looked towards the evils of man, held tight by ironclad chains and iron-borne blades.

“From the dawn of time to the end of days, let the blood of our bodies be martyrs to the sea, martyrs to the earth and martyrs to man.” A sailor And her wetten voice lingered at the back shouted with all his might, into the angered air as of every sailor’s ears, and the creeping nails of his chest bore the cool brushes wet wild winds, Hades scraped down the necks of every young waving his arms wide to welcome the battles tosolider-boy that stood firm within the belly of be and battles to-come, whether they’d be on those weltered ships. “Be in horror, for war at sea land or upon those dreaded seas. is the worst of ways to battle, and death by the ocean is the most bitter of ways to suffer a God’s Souls, they flow and go, but memories never wrath!” A warrior of dirt-laden combat shouted die and legends never erode … Let it be known, from above into the openings on the ship’s the souls that flow and go by the hands of man, wooden floor, gazing upon the distant foe that no matter the surface, be remembered and seen sailed forward through the storm and towards as the martyrs for wars to come and be. the moore.

T h e N o t r e - D a m e , Photograph by Tyler J. King

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ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

R e d R i d e r , Digital Art by Victor Alva

B R AV E R Y Po e m by J o s i a h LeBla nc It looks like a lion defending its pride. Risking its life keeping rivals at a distance, within a mile wide. An idol, a father, fearless and strong. Who will unleash havoc on anyone, who does his family wrong. It feels like a fiery road, intense and insane. But I still power through it, as if I’m immune to pain. It sounds like screams running through a warrior’s head, but still approaching a challenge, which could leave him dead. It would live deep within a castle, preparing for a fight. Leading its soldiers to victory, through day and night.

It’s like a special dinner, that you were afraid to cook. But tasted successful, that it was worth every minute it took. It would let off an irresistible confident glow, of a shiny crimson red. Telling that the end of one’s goal, is just further ahead. It represents a shield, tough yet sleek. Facing blow after blow, until the victory that the bearer seeks. Bravery is standing up for what you aim to defend. Never giving in, from the humble start to the glorious end.

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PEACEFUL C APTIVIT Y Fic tio n by E t h an Va rga s

S

he opens her eyes. A bright light shines in the middle; bars are all around her. She lies on a mattress in the corner. There is no covering or pillow, just a steel bed frame. The place is murky and dark, and she cannot see past the steel bars. She sits up on her mattress, confused, and and her heart is beating rapidly because of the lack of knowledge of what is to come. She paces back and forth. Her thoughts come and go with no time to rest. She has no control of these negative emotions. They drift as they please. She paces a little longer until she notices that there is a glass jar that has a beautiful violet flower in it.

However, the jar is cold, and the flower is frozen.

The girl thinks about her goals and dreams, drifting away from her grasp on reality. The thought of being beautiful and happy slowly leaves. She thinks that she will never be as happy, pretty, and wealthy as the people who are always smiling.

A woman walks in. She is in her teens and is beautiful. Her clothing reveals her wealth. It is clear that she has it all, the girl says to herself.

The teenager walks in and stands right in front of the girl who is now sitting on the bed. “Look at yourself. You are pathetic. You will never be like her. If you compare yourself to her, you are very foolish because she is so much better,” she criticizes.

The girl looks at her, feeling discouraged, and says, “Why are you saying this to me? Who are you?”

“It is true what I am saying because after all, the only opinions that matter are mine. Right?”

The girl looks at her for a moment and states discouragingly, “Your opinions are the ones that I believe.”

“Who cares about you? You are invisible everywhere you go, and the only comments you get about yourself are from me. Look at yourself.

Are you proud of yourself? Because no one else is. You are so worthless because no one even calls or messages you. You will never be good enough for somebody because you cannot compete with those other girls. The popular girls are so much better than you will ever be. Tell me, if you die today, would anyone care?”

The girl looks at her, lost in thought.

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“You should not even think about it because it is true.”

The girl, sick to her stomach, wants to believe that it is not true, but she cannot. “Who are you?

Please tell me,” she says in a whining tone.

The teenager smiles and says, “I can tell you my name, but my opinions are the only things that you will listen to. Just know that I am a voice and a person that you created way before this cage.”

The girl thinks about what she says and fears that she will never get rid of this feeling of depression and judgment. She fears that these people’s voices will never go away. She is overwhelmed and lies on the bed. Tears roll down her cheeks, and the pillow becomes wet.

As the girl does this, the teenager walks out of the cage.

Just then, someone different enters the cage.

He looks at the girl and stands across from her.

He has a black cloak and a black hat. His face is hidden within the shadows of the darkness. He says, “Do not look at me like you do not know who I am. You know me just like I know you. We were born at the same time, and we both grew as you became older.” His voice deep, dark, heavy, and thick as if he were an animal. The voice shakes the cage, and the girl feels frightened.

The girl, now across from him, stares at him for a moment, and while she does not recognize him, she knows who he is. “What are you doing here? Why have you come?” she questions in an unsure tone. Her heart races as her breaths get heavier and heavier.

“You know why I am here, and I do too,” he says. He pauses for a minute and looks at her for a moment, then questions her. “What? Are you scared of me?” he asks in a chuckling tone.

“How can you be afraid of me? Well, I guess the saying is true then. Men create what they fear.

We built this isolation for you. Is that not what you wanted?”

“I do not want you in here anymore,” she says.

“Really? Is that what you want?” he says. Then he continues on, “Are you out of your mind?

Your thoughts tell me a different story. They say actions speak louder than words, but in here, the only thing that speaks is you. Like I said, we

ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

know each other, and I know you very well.

You created me. Do you not remember?”

The girl stares at him in anger for a very long time. Then she declares, “You have dictated my life, by not telling me what to do, but questioning what I create. You do not understand who I am or what I have been through. You have put my life in places where I never intended it to be.”

“If that is how you feel, then tell me: Why am I still in this cage?” he asks calmly. “I have protected you, told you it was okay, and have kept you out of the pain that you could not bear.

I am the reason why there is no misery.”

“Misery? ” she asks. “You have kept me from the joy that I so desperately need; you have killed the things that I have created. You have stopped the things that I have wanted.”

“Is that how you see it? You should see how it really is. I have taken away because you let me.

Do not act all innocent because you could have killed me. Instead, you fed me and stood by as I took away the life you were scared to have,” the man commands.

The girl stares at him angrily.

“I am not going anywhere. I am going to be here until the day you die.” His voice starts to increase. ”I was there when you were feeling scared. I raised you. I have taught you everything you know, but now you want to get rid of me and keep me away. What is the point of having love without the pain that comes with it? There is no you without me. I control you and you just need to learn to deal with it. I am not going anywhere.”

The girl stays silent as the cage is so quiet that you can hear her breathing.

“Do not tell anybody about this. They will not understand what you say,” the man states in a calm voice. “You will lose everything if you let me go. Say what you want, but I am your best friend.

There is only one person who loves you, and he is in front of you.”

The girl falls to the floor. She sits on the ground for a moment with her eyes getting watery. A teardrop hits the floor, followed by silence. She starts sobbing, asking why he was doing this to her.

“Your future is no better than your past. You will never be the person you want to be. You will be in here for the rest of your life,” the man states, grinning.

The girl, drowning in her sorrows, starts to

reflect on her past. She thinks about the things she is not fond of, the things she wants to get rid of.

As she does this, the man opens the cage door, but before he leaves, he tells her that the only way to get to joy is to go through risk.

Afterwards, the man walks out of the cage.

A woman walks in. Her hair is as white as snow.

Her skin is smooth in some areas and veiny in others. Her clothes drape to the floor. She has a black dress on, and her hands have black gloves.

Her voice is also loud and heavy. She speaks with purpose and intent, inquiring briefly about the girl. “How are you?” she asks.

“I am fine.”

“Are you sure? Because that is what we all say. I might be filling you up inside, but they will not see you the same way if you mention me. I have told you how it really was. I have never lied to you,” the woman says.

“It does not have to be this way. I can go outside and be a person that enjoys their life,” the girl states.

“Why would you do that? I am a big burden on your shoulders, and do you think that the feeling of getting rid of me will outweigh the feeling of being vulnerable?” the woman continues on.

“They will not see you the same. Sure, the feeling of being vulnerable will feel good at first, but then they will start asking questions and start wanting to help you. Do you want that? This cage will not cause the pain that you cannot bear.”

She stands up, looks at the girl for a short time, and then leaves the cage.

The girl, feeling hopeless, starts to wonder if she should just check out for good. Then she remembers the people that she will hurt if she does kill herself. She pauses for a very long time.

She thinks about life when she was a little girl, when life was easier and simple. When there was joy in her ignorance. When she did not think of others’ opinions. A time when her life looked pleasing to her.

A little girl walks in the cage. She is about eleven years old. She is a brunette with tan skin. and she wears a yellow shirt with blue jeans. “Hi, my name is Kari,” she introduces. “Why are you in this cage?”

The girl stares at her for a moment and then states, “I do not feel comfortable telling you. You are a complete stranger.”

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Kari chuckles and then says, “You do know me. Have you been in here so long that you do not even know me?”

“How did you get in here?”

“You let me in.”

“When?’

Then the girl asks, “You really do not remember me? Do you remember when we used to stay up all night and just think about what we would do the next day? Do you remember when we used to play all kinds of games until the sun went down? Do you remember when we were on top of the world and thought that we could do anything?”

The girl looks at her, not uttering a word. She lowers her head down to her chest.

“Look,” Kari demands, “I do not care what you have been through or what you are feeling, but you are being told lies about who you are. You can cry, but you need to get out of here. Do whatever you need to do to get out of here.”

“You do not know me or my life. I do not want to get out of here. It is more peaceful in here than out there,” the girl says.

“You are confusing peace with quietness,” Kari tells her.

“You need to get out of here.

You will rot in here if you do not get out now. The longer you wait, the harder it will be for you to get out of here. Your dreams and goals do not need to be out of your grasp. You can grab them if you just get out of here.”

“I cannot have them! Are you too young or too dumb to understand that?” the girl shouts.

“I am the only person in this cage that can see who you are.

You are beautiful. Do not let anyone tell you anything else because they are wrong. Their opinions do not matter. Just listen to me because I have known you longer than anybody else. You are not worthless. You have meaning and a purpose.

This cage will keep you from that; is that what you want?”

“What do you know?”

“You can shut me out, but I will keep coming back because I believe in you,” the girl states.

“You created this cage, and you can destroy it too. You can start a new beginning. A chance to start over where there is no isolation or barriers in your life.

Your past does not determine your future. You can start a new journey. Be known because the real people that love you will be there even if you fall. They will see past your mistakes and look on to your ability to be better.”

They both stand in silence for a minute.

Kari states, “I was listening to a song the other day, and it said that sometimes what looks like to be a broken person that is too far gone, it might just be a person who can be healed beyond belief. I do not think that it is too late to believe in yourself.”

“Why are you saying this to me when we just met?”

“Because it is true and who knows you better than you.”

The girl recognizes her instantly.

Kari smiles.

The girl tells her, “I do not think I can get out of here. How do I leave?”

“Do you not remember?”

The girl thinks about it carefully. She reaches in her pocket and pulls out the keys.

She looks at the jar, and the flower is no longer frozen.

She looks up at Kari, and smiles.

Rainbow Shell, Drawing by Dylan Robinson 38

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THE CERULEAN KETCH Po em by C r i s tia n Villega s

Like a Venetian Quartz she lay haven fold, Brown chords draped upon freckled earth; Those iridescent marbles glimmering over the relaxed figure of a pink granite turned pale.

Hark! What a fool to think such a sight bare true; Heed! What an imbecile to burden honor as his crown.

For before me jingled an envisioned promise given by Hera.

Afore me lay that sweet curiosity; An Appian way towards something doomed.

Hark! What a cretin to brave the unknown, to see some things he may never dare bear.

Listen! How trailed along in this somber song.

So this sailor moves on mast wide before the blue.

Those waves take him homebound, where the lands are withered and gods go to die.

Line Collage Drawing by Ashley Roh

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A WA L K O N T H E W I L D S I D E No nfic tion by Mat he w Rodrigu e z My connection to nature is lost as I look around and see people in a hurry to arrive at their predetermined destination. I, too, am guilty of rushing about and getting caught up in my own life. Looking around, I see stressed-out people fighting the beast that we call life.

Before taking this trip, I was used to the fast life of getting from point A to B, and not really taking in my surroundings. I would listen to my AirPods and drown the world out, keeping to myself and unaware of my surroundings. After this awakening of sorts at Mineral Wells State Park, I gained an understanding of life: beauty within nature, and what it means to be fully present in the moment. Upon arriving at the park, I decided to put all my homework on hold, set my phone on “Do Not Disturb,” and focus on my surroundings.

This trip was spontaneous, but I wanted to immerse myself in nature and use it for this assignment. A few things I learned about this experience was how peaceful a forest could be, and how it could help someone like myself be present and take in my every action.

Walking through the forest, I saw birds, crickets, wind wrestling leaves. When I began my travel through the small forest, I immediately noticed how life here is very peaceful. I saw ants which seemed unbothered by my presence carrying on with their ant duties. I saw a spider working on a web to catch the next unassuming bug. And from what I could see, life in a forest 40

seemed unbothered from the outside world, with each insect and animal living in its own little world with no worries about paying bills or the stresses of life we as humans have.

Furthermore, life is very, very simple for a bug or animal living within a forest. A forest is a living and breathing being, and from my short walk when entering the park, I noticed how life for me and other humans can be very stressful.

While sitting on an old log, having a rest looking out over a lake, I noticed just how big this forest was. Every step of the forest was filled with life, from small insects to larger animals.

WHILE I SAT AND OVERLOOKED ALL THIS BEAUTY, I WAS TAKEN ABACK BY HOW FANTASTIC NATURE CAN BE. - MATHEW RODRIGUEZ For me, this short walk was benefiting me in thinking on a higher level and visual, seeing how the “real world” works. When I took this walk, I gained part of myself back and realized that I took my vision for granted.

Continuing my journey, I began to hear a melody of two birds serenading each other and the creatures dwelling under the forest canopy. I listened to the humming of a dragonfly as it flew near my ear and I was overtaken by the sound of a stream as it ran down a hill.

While walking through the mid-

way point of the forest, I heard all types of sounds from birds, squirrels running and jumping from tree to tree. After listening to this, I could not help but notice how I had forgotten how a forest sounds or how mother nature sounds. Growing up, I lived in downtown Houston, so I was used to hearing cars go by my bedroom window from early morning to the late hours of the night. With this said, I had drowned out nature and people and minded my own business, only giving them my attention if I needed something from you.

After realizing that I had never really heard nature before, I realized that I also lost touch with what it meant to be human and listen. I enjoyed listening to the forest; it helped me open my ears and take in my surroundings and appreciate my ability to hear. When I began to listen, I started to learn, and I think this is something many people struggle with due to the fact of being caught up in their own life. I think if we as a people began to stop and hear the birds, we would be better for it.

After having a reawakening of what it means to be alive, the last thing I learned from walking through the forest was the smell. As mentioned before, I grew up in a city and never traveled to the countryside. I grew up smelling gas, trash, and other scents you wouldn’t find in a forest or place far from civilization. While continuing my walk, I took in the fresh air that seemed to have never been breathed before. I smelled the

ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

smell of trees as I walked past them in the vast numbers along the walkway trail. I was like my dog, Chevy, a beagle, who sniffs everything. I felt as if I had been in my own prison because I never smelt anything so clean, and how I felt like a free man after exploring the forest and taking in fresh new air. With this, my walk came to an end. I smelt the smell of grass and the smell of

nature, which for me is something that I cannot describe, but if I were to smell it again, I could pinpoint what the scent is.

What I learned from this short nature trip was that I had lost touch with myself and made other things a priority and not my overall health. My senses were lacking. I felt so disconnected from my surroundings, be it my hearing, smell, and

vision. I felt that I regained an understanding of what it means to be alive and in the moment.

I now look at every day as a gift from the sight of green trees, the smell of fresh air, and the sound of birds chirping. All in all, I took this life and world for granted, but after my brief nature walk, I no longer take this world, or especially my life, for granted.

Night Sky Painting by Karla Hernandez

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A Buddhist Dance Painting by Ashley Roh

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STRONG Po em by D a ra sha ga m Na ga l Your mother is “weak.”

She is weak because she is a woman.

She is weak because compared to your burly father, Your curly-haired mother is meek and quiet, One who doesn’t start riots.

Society is judgemental, ungentle.

Society sees masculinity and femininity Before it sees humanity.

If to you femininity means “weakness” And masculinity means strength, Your mother is masculine Through and through.

She was masculine when gave birth to you, When she endured the ninth most painful experience known to humankind.

An experience she doesn’t mind.

She was masculine when her clammy hands grasped your blood-soaked, blanket-cloaked body.

Your mother is “weak” because she doesn’t show pain.

But really, she knows pain so well, one can’t even tell.

Your other mother, Nature, is just as strong.

Silent, she tolerates pollution and violent deforestation.

She provides you with air, All while she hides her pain.

A mother is selfless, seemly, sensible, and strong.

For so long, you did not realize how strong a mother truly is.

You forget that the strongest warriors were born to an even stronger woman.

So why call a woman weak?

Why assume femininity signifies weakness?

Why infer a mother, your mother, any mother is weak?

Without women there would be no one at all - strong or weak.

A mother is the warrior of warriors, and thus the next time you see femininity, Correlate it with strength, not weakness.

Undefined Beauty Digital Art by Emily Barrientes Chavez

Mother Rushing Drawing by Khyan Freelon 43

AN T I - CO L L EG E Po e m by M a r y K. Maturo Do not place me in your boxes I am not here to adapt to your conventions It was never my intention I am a rule breaker Risk taker Eclectic wonder Note of thunder Free from group think Hands covered in ink Not to be told Soul very old Tin foil hat Looking for that Which shows people Kindness Overcoming blindness Meteorite Small beam of light Brainstorm Heart warm Pain overcome Much more than one God fearing Unafraid Here to learn Not to remain

D a n c e r s Pe e r i n g Fr o m t h e S i d e Stage, Watching the Last Group Pe r f o r m Photograph by Johnathan Johnson

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Black & White Rosary Painting by Emily Barrientes Chavez

N 64 Cut Paper by Dylan Robinson

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S L E E P PA R A LY S I S Po e m by Rebecca M. Smith Late at night I await your presence, anxiously gripping the corner of my pillow, letting my tired eyes close for just a moment.

I know you’re coming.

I feel my legs go weak; my jaw unclenches, I slip.

And that’s when you come for me.

I feel your breath on my neck.

Please wake up.

Your claws pry my eyes open, but I cannot see you.

Please wake up.

I reach out to fight you off; I try to move my legs.

Please wake up.

I scream but make no sound.

I cannot move.

I am powerless.

Please wake up!

I feel you pulling me downward, the mattress engulfing me.

Please, just let me wake up!

I feel your many arms wrap around me, I hear the screams of your victims.

I fight with everything in me to free myself from you.

I feel my tears hitting my cheeks.

Please, just wake up!

I can’t breathe; you’re suffocating me!

As I sink further, your grip grows tighter.

Please wake up!

I feel my chest cave in, the breath forced out of me.

Please, just let me go!

Please wake up!

Cool air fills my bedroom, I shoot out from under the covers, finally awaking from this night terror.

I’m covered in sweat.

My knees are weak.

EN VIAJE DE UN HEROE, Photograph by Marco Jimenez

I am so tired; I just want to sleep.

I know you aren’t real, but I still fear you.

I recline back into bed, reassuring myself I am safe.

But I’ll slip again, I always do.

And you will be waiting for me, Every night.

I fear next time I will not escape.

I will not wake up.

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I’M SORRY Po em by A rian n a Figu e roa

oday I did what I’ve been hoping to avoid ... I T let myself fall back into something I tried so hard to get out of, just to find myself confused and regretful.

Clinging on to what we had I allowed you in the room we once shared ... I allowed you to touch me how you used to and place these beautiful dreams in my head because it was easier to forget all the pain and damage we had.

I tried to convince myself to stop thinking it was only a matter of time until you snapped or until we fell into the same toxic pattern, but I just couldn’t shake this feeling that that’s just what they were ... dreams.

That’s not fair to you ... allowing my pain to build a wall so high that it’d blind me from seeing the other side ... a side that might just be different.

In my heart I know you could change; I know you would never want to do what you did again but ... I think that change is meant for someone else.

I’m sorry that I can’t forget about all the nights I cried, begging you to see me, trust me, believe

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me. All the uncertainty of waking up knowing we could never just have one good day.

But I know it wasn’t you. I know that you carried around a lot of demons that hindered you from seeing how much I wanted to heal you.

But It’s too late now ... I was around you and I could feel how badly you wanted things to be the way they used to be when we first met, but the truth is we aren’t those people anymore.

That love caused us to be toxic in each other’s lives, and it ran so deep it didn’t matter how badly we tried to do something different, it always found us again.

I’m sorry I couldn’t leave the past behind us, but my fear of us falling into old habits is way to strong to ignore.

Saying goodbye will always kill me, so this is my letter to you.

Thank you for the opportunity to love you, and thank you for all the love you’ve given me.

But I had to do this for us. *** I’m sorry.

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S e l f - Po r t r a i t i n C h a r c o a l Drawing by Angelina Villatoro

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J o u r n e y , Digital Art by Victor Alva 50

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PA R T O N E Frozen Tundra

Numb-the cold chills Is winter ever over?

The leaden silence of the trees draped in snow hangs heavy and dark, but pure There is a solitude in the icy silence The serenity binds and draws me forever to its jaws Lay down asleep, she cries I’m so tired

PA R T T WO

At Your Battle Stations It’s a battle the armor fits so well Custom-made If I can’t feel the wounds of war Will I know the victory?

PA R T T H R E E Home

My skin is missing, but no one is thereto blame for the theft.

What lies did I tell to pry it away and start the exile?

(And so) I look behind each nook and cranny Wanting to go home Waiting to go home

Poe ms by Dian e Wan g er

S PAC E O D D I T Y Po em by Mary K. Mat u ro The nights were the hardest, especially when that’s all there was.

He missed the sun, the home sun, Sol, and the way it shone on water. He missed his swim trunks and the feeling of sand beneath him. He missed the shrimp tacos they served at Molcajetes on warm summer afternoons.

The stars were beautiful and he had loved them all his life, but he wondered if his niece had been born yet. He imagined what she looked like and pictured her growing up not learning the words to her uncle’s favorite lullaby.

Sometimes he felt a pain in his stomach when he realized he didn’t even know which way home was anymore.

And when he asked her, she could only give the approximate direction.

But she leaned on him so he wouldn’t be alone when he sang the song towards Earth.

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F l o w e r , Drawing by Mariska Martinez

A W O R L D WA R I M E M O I R Fictio n by A n ge lin a Villat oro It’s another grueling day; more and more men arrive injured and crying for help. I see things no one should ever witness.

Blood. I see men bleeding to death from their gun-inflicted wounds. Men who cry out for their mothers, yearning to go home to their comforting arms.

I try my best to care for them, the wounded soldiers. Many of them come from poverty and are illiterate, so we help them write letters to their loved ones.

I have become attached to a soldier named Andrei. I feel so sorry for him.

His delusions make him confuse me with his mother. I try to feed him, but he refuses to eat anything. I can’t help but cry at this. The poor boy is deteriorating right in front of my eyes. I hold the spoon near his lips as my hand trembles with grief.

The tears fall down my face as I realize his fate.

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S e l f - Po rt ra i t, Painting by Ashley Roh

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EVERY THING HA S CHANGED Non fict ion by Marco Mart in e z Less than one percent of the United States population makes up the U.S. military, and fourteen percent of that is in the U.S Marine Corps (Reynolds and Shendruk). It takes a lot of courage for an individual to commit. I am one of those few who chose to serve as a U.S. Marine, and over the course of thirteen weeks, my surroundings, my lifestyle, and my character changed for the better.

As a kid, I remember seeing commercials about the Marines, and every time I saw one, I pictured myself signing up for the military branch. Joining was never an option for me. It was something I had already planned going into high school. I first brought up the topic to my parents in my junior year. However, my family has always been strong to its Mexican roots, and it was uncommon for anyone to leave the house until marriage. I would be the first to join the military in the history of my family. My mom reacted as expected with tears and a stubborn, “No.” My dad, on the other hand, surprised me. He also initially said, no, but once he realized how much this meant to me, he was able to get my mom on board. My older and younger sisters were both very supportive while my little brother, only four at the time, was too young to make sense of what it meant. We had a really strong family bond, so it was tough to come to terms with me being gone for four years. Sunday, July 13, 2014, was our last day together before I flew off to boot camp. I was leaving Fort Worth and my family behind, but I knew I would come back a better man.

Six other guys and I flew to San Diego to meet the rest of our battalion and a very intimidating drill instructor. The bus ride to base was proof that my stay in sunny San Diego was no vacation.

We weren’t received with a warm welcome or friendly instruction. Instead, we were yelled at to follow orders. It felt like a nightmare as we were told to put our heads down in order to not see the route to base. We arrived and stripped down to our underwear before the few belongings we had were taken and had our heads shaved aggressively. After getting zero sleep the first 54

36 hours, we were finally assigned a rack--an incredibly thin mattress over squeaky springs-in a squad bay with 78 others. Morning showers consisted of a walking line through running showerheads while being handed shampoo by squad leaders. Trips to the restroom were no longer private due to nonexistent doors, with only dividers between toilets and, in some cases, drill instructors yelling at you while timing you. I was no longer home with a sweet, loving family. I was a new recruit in unknown territory surrounded by higher-ranking individuals trying to break me.

In boot camp, my days were not my own. My lifestyle was completely different from what I was used to. Instead of waking up peacefully at my own will, I now woke up to scolding at 5 a.m.

Growing up, I was never the strongest or fastest.

Therefore, all the intense physical training we had was a big challenge for me. I was usually close to or always last in training, which my drill instructors soon caught on to. This led them to make me a target for incentive training, a technique used on the recruits who seem weak or disobey their command. I would be separated from the rest of the group during our free time to perform a variety of workouts. So, it felt like training never stopped for me. Although I knew I was getting stronger, being singled out made me resent being there. Despite the physical and emotional toll of training, my biggest obstacle was my diet.

I’ve been a picky eater my whole life, but in the Marine Corps, you cannot afford to be picky. I was fortunate enough to never go hungry and have a mom that catered to my likes and dislikes back home. The food we were served during boot camp was terrible, but you got what you got, and you either ate it, or you didn’t. I survived solely on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches the first few weeks, but eventually got so hungry I didn’t care what I ate; the same food I refused to eat a few weeks back, I would now devour and enjoy.

In hindsight, I am glad I was forced to taste new foods. It has enriched my experience.

If one was given the opportunity to ask my family or friends to describe me in my school

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Mississippi Summer Nights Drawing by Khyan Freelon years, they would say how shy I was. Growing up, there were multiple occasions where I’ve felt uncomfortable in certain conversations or suffered from physical pain, but I was too afraid to speak up for myself. Why? I was too scared of what someone would think about me or how they would react to what I said. I still think about those times to this day, and it infuriates me knowing I was fine living that way.

While I was training, I noticed a different man coming out of me, one who wasn’t afraid to speak up. I started conversing with my peers to

make what we were experiencing better simply by joking around with each other. I had to build that confidence in myself to succeed in the final challenge that all recruits have to accomplish to earn the crucible title of a Marine.

The crucible is a 54-hour exercise with multiple obstacles and challenges. We were to hike around 40 miles, were only given eight hours of sleep, and had three meals to ration ourselves.

On the very last push of the crucible, all that was left between earning the title was a six-mile hike back to the squad bay. My body was physically torn up. It was telling me to give up and faceplant on the ground to end it. A voice in my head told me otherwise, to keep moving no matter what.

The physical and mental strength that I gained leading up to this point is the reason I was able to complete the exercise. At the end of the crucible, the drill instructors placed an Eagle Globe and Anchor in our hands and called us a Marine for the first time. I was no longer the same person who stepped in there 13 weeks ago. I was now a proud Marine and felt like I could accomplish anything.

During my senior year in high school, we were told to act like adults, and we would get treated like one. A month later, I arrived at boot camp where that was not instantly true.

I was treated like a child, but expected to give respect while still performing my best. Every day was a challenge for me. Not knowing what was to come the following day, and the fear of failing while dealing with the tremendous stress of adjusting to a new environment was intense.

Everything had changed for me, and it was a terrifying experience, but it’s an accomplishment I will never regret. I went on to proudly serve my country for the following four years of my life.

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B E A U T I F U L LY

U G LY

Poem by Alexis Muhirwa

S t i l l I K n e e l , Drawing by Khyan Freelon

In my chest, to rep the set, no gang banging.

Millions of us dead, but those that left are maintaining.

Stressed, by King Macbeth, he stays chasing.

Every breath we take, we know we blessed, remain patient; A change is gonna come.

The pen is stronger than a gun, And rest in peace to momma’s mom, You aiming low; I take the high horse.

Made it out the slum, Where it’s impossible to run, In eastern Congo where the ones, the police office is the crime source.

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DOG Poe m an d Illu s t rat ion b y Ju an it a He rn an de z I can’t help but stare at you Through the glass window.

Can I take you home tonight?

My family would love you.

We can share a bed Every night if you want to.

You are simply beautiful With your long brown hair.

Can I take you home tonight?

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SW E E T I N T OX I C AT I O N Poe m by Dian e Wan ge r

Bewitched by the majesty of time, space and solitude.

Like a drug, Big Bend calls to me to partake again.

But I think she means to keep me if I let her.

Is that good or bad?

To be with her is to be with God.

I remember, as in a dream, bits and pieces, but I can’t duplicate the feeling, here, of freedom, possibility and serenity.

I just remember it felt like nothing mattered and I could just play a part without writing it too.

Sunset Thoughts Digital Art by Erick Suarez

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I , To o , A m A m e r i c a Drawing by Khyan Freelon 60

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FOREVERMORE Poe m By A lin a S h ah Feast your eyes on the forbidden treasure That was once received with open arms Yet forbidden for the heart.

For the same fruit you craved will soon be your undoing As everything comes with a price And this price is one that is yet to be involuntarily paid.

Say goodbye to those you love As you have ventured onto this path.

They loved you once; Now they’ll love you never, Due to your undesirable crass.

Death knocks twice upon your doorOnce when your vessel is emptied And again once they speak of you no more.

How unfortunateYou breathe, Yet are gone forevermore.

A c a p u l c o W a t e r s , Drawing by Lizbhet Sanchez

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THE LANDSCAPE OF BLISS Fictio n by Cris t ian Ville gas Explosions burst in the sky!

Ear-splitting cries erupted from the great skyline vessels as they set the clouds ablaze with beams of unimaginable light and enormous rage! Doom as afoot and after long decades of war and incomprehensible losses, our people finally achieved the power to send us to our tragic and inescapable damnation!

at hand? My brothers and sisters had perished for absolutely nothing, and in perspective, had we done nothing, this moment would never have to happen.

We provoked a self-destructive order. At last, their ignorance, lust for power, and bitter control would be the will they engorged themselves in for one last time, knowing that they’d won in the end by wiping out our very existence from the face Oh, the gods must be crying of this solar system, and galaxy for us, for out of all they had giv- as a whole! en us in love, they still with all of their might could not save I prayed for the future speus from ourselves! As I rushed cies that will come after our dethrough the terror-filled streets, mise. I prayed that they act betI witnessed the final moments ter than we did with the power of unity between the humble we worked together to conjure and prideful; children danced up from the darkest reaches of with each other for their last our worlds and mental abilities. time and lovers shared their I prayed they never use what feelings and humanity together can be meant for great achievein fear and peace. And preach- ment ers attempted to keep the loyal as weapons of mutiny minds of the aged creed in against their own blood, for in bliss before meeting death by doing so once they will indeed the burning-cold rush of our open the flood gates to do so people’s most malevolent and again, and again! The sons and bleakest of weapons. daughters of our nations would never be able to see the lights For years I had foreseen and sounds of our magnificent this day, attempting to delay it cities, feel the winds of the most through the words of politics emancipating skylines, or walk and the actions of will and ini- among the stars from world to tiative, but alas I have failed. world, as I did in my youth with And all was soon to be lost to my father. Oh, I wept! I wept all a dead space that once flour- too late, for as I cried aloud, my ished with bountiful life and tears meant nothing for anyone graceful beauty. How could this anymore! have happened? How could we have failed so badly, and in a How foolish we were to time when we all thought social think we could possibly overand political salvation was throw our empires in the name 62

of freedom and justice, for once a nation tastes the honeyed flavor of power, manipulation, and utter enforced submission.

There is no true way to finally ignite a flame capable enough to save a society! Perhaps if others had acted earlier, they could have spared my generation the struggle, the pain. And an ultmate goal to liberate our people of a government that would provoke unjustified crimes to be committed. However, the past matters not anymore, for this species’ scholars will never be able to use our past to shape our future again!

As I gazed towards an old preacher and his followers, I thought to myself how for years I had despised what they shouted to the innocent and blissful, and yet now in this broken moment in time, I found myself feeling more comfort in their words than ever before. Now I wished I could have become one of them long ago, all too late … Glancing above, I saw with my exhausted eyes ships battling each other needlessly, and I knew so well that the end was inevitable. I knew no matter how many enemy vessels they may sink from the heavens, they still wouldn’t be able to win.

Perhaps they fought because that’s all they’d ever known, or perhaps they fought because that was how they wished to fade with time, rather than listen to the words of elder men, or share love with a lover for the last time.

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Nonetheless, why did I stand here in my final moments of life? I had no lover to care for, no children to grasp, no creed to hold as mine, for my lover was dead, my children scorched and burned away by war, and my creed ripped apart from me by reality and truth.

Here I stood, mourning for a fallen legacy, wishing I had a creed to behold, and envying all that still stands with some light within. I guess nine was my unlucky number after all, for after nine years of fighting a bloody conflict that felt endless but near-ending, instead of peace, there was only calamity.

I hoped that at least in all this chaos, there would be some opportunity. Maybe the next species to rise into this sea of stars will find our emptied worlds and ruins, and maybe in doing so they will discover our

silent catacombs of knowledge and history. And in doing so through wisdom and curiosity, use our knowledge from our past, understand our present, and prevent their future from becoming our present.

power to adapt, to execute operations perfectly, and improve in situations that had shifted in the opposite’s favor - but now, how would I embrace a power to adapt, to act even in the worst of scenarios?

The ground shook. At last, the blast from the final evil war machine had reached our planet after cleansing the others behind us; in minutes, would cease to exist. And what could I say? In the last moments of my life, I had failed to determine if I was a villain or hero. Unable to understand where we went wrong, and unable to comprehend the challenges we faced.

And how even in all our noble actions we still could not save everything we dreamt of saving.

I fought nine years as a rebel, killing and sparing those who deserved to die or live. And in those nine years I embraced my

This all began for me with my family’s death, and would end with a society’s death, wrought terribly by the same hand who struck those many years before.

With the heat of the blaze close enough to engulf my very soul, what were my final thoughts?

Trees, rivers? It was an old sight I saw so long ago in a place I had lived upon half my youth.

Yes … in the final moment of my life where so much suffering had blistered the galaxy and me, I saw my peace. I saw my landscape of bliss. Trees ... Rivers .. Her.

A u t u m n A n t i q u i t y , Drawing by Katja Vollmer

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C h a o s , Drawing by Arianna Figueroa

I S O L AT I O N Po em by St e lla Hale y I’ve been here my whole life, yet this life of mine doesn’t feel right.

As I step outside, the light is too bright.

I can’t see straight and that’s why I hide away from this life.

I want to stay sane, but as I hide away I can feel myself slipping in and out of control.

I can feel myself spiraling in and out of control.

I just want to feel whole, but as I continue to fall, it’s all out of my control.

Time keeps on ticking and it stops for nobody.

It’s all out of my hands as I wish for the clock to just stop.

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I’m unable to recognize myself, as I look in the mirror all I feel is shame and nothingness.

The numbness takes over unable to recognize my existence, unable to comprehend what I feel.

It’s a shameful life to live when you can’t even see yourself.

It’s a shallow life to swim in when you can’t even tell how you feel.

These walls surround me unable to feel unable to live.

It’s almost as if I’m in a stranger’s body and it crushes my soul.

ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

AGENT OF CHANGE No nfict ion by Liz bh e t S an ch e z

I am choosing to be the change I want to see.

Majoring in political science is a step I am taking towards going into law school to be a criminal justice defendant, to preserve civil rights and to keep the humanistic aspects we face in moments of need alive in our minds when we look at our neighbors.

When our lives are truly at stake, our backgrounds cannot save us. Often, we only see the headline in the news versus what lies underneath. I deeply believe it would be wrong for me to stand by when I have the capability to be an agent of change and protect others.

S e l f - P o r t r a i t 2 0 1 3 , Drawing by Angelina Villatoro

Nineteen years ago, my parents moved to America from Mexico to give their children a safer and brighter future. Growing up required me to mentally get away from the standards of my low-income, and often dangerous, environment.

Instead of allowing my surroundings to dictate my future, I seek to become someone capable of changing them.

I am a first-generation college student, and I know what my parents sacrificed to give me the opportunities they did not have in Mexico.

Through them, I learned the importance of hope. I must always seek to be better. That is why my pursuit is to become a lawyer and create a positive change for my community.

My primary schools had very low standards.

However, my secondary school was an entirely new environment. It was upper-class and in an unfamiliar community. We were all strangers from different upbringings. I forced myself to learn to excel academically.

During my sophomore year, a boy brought a gun to school and opened fire. In that dark moment, we became the same. We all huddled in the corner of a pitch-black classroom. I was now close to the terror in their faces, tears in their eyes, and the faint whisper of prayers. Fear had gained control. The humanity that we shared became apparent. I juxtaposed this new atmosphere to my frugal upbringing.

The idealized notions I carried about being in a safe environment were suddenly destroyed.

I was no longer the little girl who feared the gunshots outside her window, using blankets as a shield. I was older and knew enough now to understand those scenarios are not normal, nor should they be.

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S IX T E E N G O I N G O N T H I RT Y: H OW I B EC AM E I N D E P E N D E N T No nf ict ion by Cou rt n e y Leach When one thinks about the everyday sixteen-year-old and what their life might be like, a few common things come to mind. They are high schoolers who might be prepping for the PSATs, thinking about who they’ll go to the dance with, and of course, learning how to drive. It’s a time in their lives where they are learning to transition and prepare for life outside of high school, a critical time where parents are vital to that process and development.

However, I wasn’t an average sixteen-year-old, and I never had that guidance. For a while, I had lost my way, but that obstacle made me who I am today.

In 2011, my sophomore year started like any other academic year. In a small town beneath the beautiful Cascade Mountains, my life consisted of school, friends, family, laughter, and love. In 2012, my stepdad left my mom and went to Arizona, and my sister LaTia moved to Seattle.

My other sister Chelsea and I moved with my mom from a beautiful cookie-cutter home to a cramped 800-squarefoot apartment in Covington, Washington.

My mother had always been my best friend and role model, but the divorce changed her.

She was a strong, independent woman who became hopeless and vengeful like an angry spirit. She lashed out at Chelsea and I because she 66

was grieving her loss of love.

Months went by, and I couldn’t stand her berating us anymore.

While she was on another one of her rants, and claiming we were terrible children, I stood up hastily and said, “I’m not listening to this anymore.”

I couldn’t even look at her. I swiftly turned away and headed down the hallway towards my room. Behind me, she was yowling with anger, and during the few seconds that felt like an eternity, she screamed, “So why don’t I just kill myself?”

I lashed back at her quickly.

With tears in my eyes, I screamed, “Because you’re my fucking mother!” and slammed my bedroom door.

I collapsed onto the floor, sobbing. I clutched my knees and rocked back and forth. I couldn’t believe she said that to me. Did she really want to die? Were her daughters not enough of a reason for her to live? I didn’t know how much time passed, but my mom knocked on my door and crept in. She knelt next to me, placed a hand on my back, and tried to explain her side. At the end of the evening, she concluded that staying in Washington was too painful for her. She left Chelsea and I the next day and moved to California to live with her dad.

After my mother left, I pretended to be fine, but I merely just placed a BandAid on the cracked glass of

the aquarium that was my life. Eventually, everything would come pouring out.

Every weekend I was trying to find a party to get drunk, and if I couldn’t find one, I’d host one. I hated going to school. I was skipping because I simply couldn’t get myself out of bed. I forged my stepdad’s signature so my absences would be excused. I began to fail most of my classes because the anxiety of trying to catch up was crippling. Being there meant listening to my peers complain about their parents and their problems. It just reminded me that I was abandoned, alone, and had to take care of myself.

LaTia was the levee that kept me from drowning in my self-pity and sorrow. She moved in with us because her relationship didn’t work out, and she needed a new place to stay. When she moved into the apartment with Chelsea and I, she was navigating her own storm yet still managed to brighten her future. She was a full-time student, serving her country on the weekends, and still managed to keep a smile on her face while serving customers at Denny’s too. Seeing her juggle all the moving pieces of her life gave me faith in mine. I finally felt a sense of normalcy and realized that my life didn’t have to be this way.

Getting back on the right path wasn’t an easy task. It took dedication, long hours,

ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

and late nights. I landed a job in the next town over at Chuck E. Cheese working nights and weekends. On my breaks at work, I studied hard, and when I had to stay late, I’d sleep in my car in the school parking lot, making sure I would be there on time. In June of 2014, I graduated with my class and walked across the stage to receive my diploma with my fellow students. My income went towards our bills and supplies for school, and it

“I FINALLY FELT A SENSE OF NORMALCY AND REALIZED THAT MY LIFE DIDN’T HAVE TO BE THIS WAY.” COURTNEY LEACH was all thanks to my new role model, my sister LaTia. My sophomore year in high school was one of the most difficult years of my life.

Without my parents, I headed down a dark path that lead to nowhere. In the end, that

rough path made me who I am today. Joining the job force in high school is what gave me a strong work ethic. I learned how to do my own laundry, clean for myself, and pay my bills.

Now I know that I was more prepared for life outside of high school than if my parents had stayed together, and I still lived with them. Their absence made me independent, and my future is brighter than it ever was before.

S n o w T i g e r , Painting by Ashley Roh

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U N D E R - T H E M O U N TA I N - A N D - T H R O U G H - T H E - VA L L E Y Po em by Tris t an Rolan d

As I sat at my desk I would stare at my textbook and wonder Did the letters in my classmate’s books do the same dance?

Did they turn flips and do tricks playing peek-aboo throughout the pages?

Did the letters play the same game of Hide-andGo-Seek with my peers as they did me?

I sat there confused…

Wondering … how everyone around me could read and write so perfectly While I struggled to calculate letters into words that tallied incorrect pronunciations, Providing a segway for incriminating looks, that left me feeling guilty.

Reading in front of the class was like being on trial Being judged by a jury of my peers who had already deemed me slow.

Often haunted by their laughs, even when I’d tried Causing my focus to lapse, and my behavior to go with it Landing me in the safety net of the principal’s office Where I didn’t have to read.

Bad conduct became my new narrative; Low grades were my unhappy ending.

Dyslexia forced me to believe that my lack of speed, when I would read, was the measure to my intellect.

I was tired of being another black boy with a label; I wasn’t what their data or dyslexia said I was-I AM BRILLIANT! And Brilliance can never be reduced to just another diagnosed stereotype.

Therefore, it was time for a change.

My Father pushed me to read.

No excuses allowed; just results.

His persistence with my mom’s prayers Produced a Mindset of Faith that now Projects me to achieve.

An Associate’s Degree as a high-school teen: Did I mention how much I love to read?

New Goals. New Perspective.

Dr. Tristan. Anthony. Roland.

A future cardiologist, striving to help the heartbeats of my community.

Trailblazing my way through streets paved with stereotypes Busting up yellow-bricked labels, laying down golden-brick fables That will provide lessons for those to come.

Better than ruby-red slippers, I will leave a legacy Transferring the Super Power of Determination into a new song that illustrates the story of how dyslexia couldn’t stop me.

Jesus Christ has blessed me with this platform so Reducing me to being just another black boy I want to give him a shoutout. with a label Thank you for being my Lord and Savior, Lord.

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ROOTS & REFLECTIONS

C o n n e c t i o n s , Photograph by Erick Suarez

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B u t t e r f l y , Painting by Arianna Figueroa

BUTTERFLIES Po em by S arah Tie u Magical creatures Butterflies have lovely wings Soaring in the air

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W H AT W E’ V E LO ST Screenplay by Devin Jones EXT. CORNER OF TWO STREETS – DAY LOIS and her father, CLARK, are hanging posters of a missing dog. They go from post to post hanging fliers, often covering posters of missing children. LOIS is taken aback by all the missing people. CLARK approaches her in a daze.

CLARK

Yeah, crazy how many people are missing. Here one day, then poof gone the next.

She continues to stare.

CLARK

These people are missing family members. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you or-LOIS

Pets are family too, Daddy.

CLARK

Oh, er right, of course, but I mean-She walks away before he can continue.

MONTAGE:

CUT TO LOIS AND CLARK WALKING THROUGH ALLEYS.

CUT TO LOIS AND CLARK WALKING THROUGH STREETS. CUT TO LOIS AND CLARK WALKING THROUGH FORESTS. Lois shouts and runs for the missing dog, searching for him.

Clark follows behind Lois, looking more and more despondent.

CLARK AND LOIS

Sassy! Here, girl!

Clark and Lois continue to walk. They stop as they find Clark’s car, and enter the vehicle.

Lois is on the verge of tears. Clark sits in the front while Lois gets in on the passenger side. Lois stares at a Polaroid picture of her missing dog, which is small and hairy.

CLARK

I remember when I was eight, I had a dog named Susie.

His daughter continues to stare at the photograph.

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CLARK

She knew a ton of tricks and always wanted to play.

Man, I loved that dog. But one day I got home from school and my parents told me Susie ran away, so we looked and looked but never found her.

His daughter is about to tear up.

CLARK

Well, one day my parents sat me down and told me what happened to Susie: she didn’t run away. My father had accidentally run her over.

Lois spies something out of the corner of her eye.

PAN TO POLAROID Lois puts the photo down. She sees a man outside the car with a dog that resembles Sassy.

LOIS

Daddy?

CLARK

(sighs)

I guess what I’m trying to tell you, sweetie, is— LOIS

Daddy!

CLARK

She was just in the driveway, and she’s so small I didn’t see her— LOIS

DADDY! CLARK

I know. I’m so sorry, baby. We will get you a new dog from the pound tomorrow.

LOIS

No, Daddy! That man has Sassy!

Clark acts confused, but remains sitting in the car while Lois jumps out and runs toward the unknown MAN.

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EXT. GAS STATION PARKING LOT - EVENING Lois rushes towards the Man with the dog that looks too much like Sassy.

LOIS

Hey, Mister!

The Man catches eyes with the girl but turns his back on her and begins to walk down an alley. Lois picks up the pace to catch him, while Clark struggles to catch up with her, with her father struggling to keep up.

LOIS:

Mister, that’s my dog!

The Man quickly rounds a corner, with Lois following closely behind. Clark stumbles around the corner but finds no trace of the Man, the dog, or even Lois.

CLARK Lois!

EXT. CORNER OF TWO FAMILIAR STREETS - DAY PAN TO HAND STAPLING A MISSING POSTER ON A SIGNPOST. The hand moves, and the person on the poster is Lois.

INSENSITIVE ANDY

Some of these are dated years back. You think they ever got found?

PAN TO CLARK’S FACE, THEN WIDE SHOT TO HIS BODY. A defeated, miserable Clark secures more posters to the electric pole. He remains silent.

INSENSITIVE ANDY

Well, what I mean is, what do you think these people who posted these years ... Do they move on, or are they still searching?

CLARK

We never stop looking, Andy.

FIN

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YAWN Drawing by Ashley Roh

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THE LOSS OF ONESELF Po e m by Ja c o b Pugh Losing yourself is odd.

It’s like one of those dreams where you’re helplessly falling, wanting nothing more than to just wake up.

“Who am I?” The words float around like an annoying tune you can’t seem to get out of your head.

How are you supposed to know the answer?

“I am who I am.”

These meaningless words of empty reassurance.

You wake up as YOU your whole life.

Yet still, “Who am I?” It’s not so much trying to fit yourself into a box; it’s more — trying to get out of the ocean that is yourself, That constant questioning of every word that comes out of your mouth, or the seaweed you can’t seem to get untangled from.

It is the feeling that you are in the backseat of your own life,

“WHO AM I?”

the frantic search for someone to help pull you out.

These never-ending self comparisons Are an observation of everyone on shore: lively and carefree.

It is the nights of insomnia where your mind is its own enemy, Or the sinking of your heart when you realize you’re helpless.

It’s an occasional answer to a question that tastes legitimate coming out of your mouth; Just a quick breath of fresh air.

And suddenly, the thought floats by: “You remember childhood bliss, that carelessness and passion.”

I remember how to swim. ...

How did I do that again?

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G h o s t l y F i g u r e s i n Po r t d e B r a s , T h i r d A r a b e s q u e Te n d u Photograph by Johnathan Johnson

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SELF-CARE Po e m by J o h n nie Cunningha m Sometimes I forget to love myself from within.

My reflections tell me that I am beautiful; My inner self knows it but sometimes forgets.

Forgets to say, I love You. Forgets to say, Girl, you’re gorgeous, beautiful, stunning, smart, intelligent.

Forgets to speak life into my inner Queen.

Sometimes self doubt takes over and I forget to take the time out to enjoy myself, to tell myself that it’s OK. To put myself first.

That it’s not being selfish.

It’s self care.

To r t u r e o f T i m e Drawing by Khyan Freelon

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EDITORIAL BOARD Casey Allen Matthew Ascencion Emily Barrientes Chavez Arianna Figueroa Jeffrey Laptew Dang Le Mary Maturo Jacob Pugh Dylan Robinson Rebecca Smith Carlos Erick Suarez

The editors of Roots and Reflections decided, in lieu of providing traditional biographies, to share the music they listened to during the production of this issue. These are the songs that spoke to them during late nights and encouraged them during their three-hour-long class sessions. Enjoy!

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R O O T S A N D R E F L E C T I O N S - A M I X TA P E The songs that floated through our heads while we made this magazine.

Created by: The Editorial Staff • 11 songs, 38 min.

title

artist

chosen by

Circles

Mac Miller

Casey Allen

Open Your Heart

Crush 40

Matthew Ascencion

Khruangbin, Leon Bridges

Emily Barrientes Chavez

Wasted

Summer Walker

Arianna Figueroa

A Never Ending Ocean

Andres Boldt

Jeffrey Laptew

Lost Stars

Adam Levine

Dang Le

arrow

half•alive

Mary K. Maturo

Losing Time

Sarcastic Sounds

Jacob Pugh

All Too Well

Taylor Swift

Dylan Robinson

Just Another Day

Lady Gaga

Rebecca Smith

Heartless

The Weeknd

Erick Suarez

▷ Texas Sun

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T T R R I I N N I I T T Y Y Ro o t s & Reflect i ons 2020 Literary Magazine

R R I I V V E E R R