NON-FICTION

What The F***ing H

non-fiction by Guadalupe Campos

Hands: Mami’s hands are like sandpaper. The skin on them is chapped and cracked. Her nails are long and thick. They rarely break and are the best back scratchers. Her hands are almost always warm, and when they aren’t I intertwin my fingers into hers to pass my heat onto hers. When mami pinches my cheeks, her hands unintentionally scratch my skin. And I never flinch away. Why would I? These hands are full of love and warmth and everything. They hold me. These are the hands I grew up with. They fed me. Changed my diapers. Brushed my hair when I didn’t know how to. They existed even before I did. These hands are the hands of someone who cares. Someone who has to

constantly come into contact with chemicals to feed a family. That’s why, whenever mami’s hands accidentally scratch my cheek I lean into them and smile.

Haunt: The moment my eyelids touch, I am no longer on the twin mattress on the floor. There is no blue and black deer blanket engulfing me. There is no me. Only eyes. Watching. Constantly watching. There is a lady wearing a pastel yellow dress. She is talking to someone. The eyes start to move forwards zooming in. Zooming into this woman. And her skin peels off. All her muscles are visible. The eyes zoom in more. Her muscles melt off and only vessels, bone and organs exist. But she is still talking. I can hear her voice. No body flinches. This is normal to them. The eyes see her heart pumping and her lungs inflating, deflating. Then she turns and looks at the eyes. She shrieks. Eyes rolling back and her bones disintegrate with the wind. Her organs splatter on the floor and her blood bubble. The person she was talking to turns their head towards me. Suddenly, I have a body. Their face is white and their eyes glow red. They rush towards me and I fall. Fall. Fall. Into the abyss. And it repeats with different people.

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House: My dad always says, Cuando regresamos a La Romera… Cuando vamos a México para vivir… Cuando. Cuando. Cuando. The more he says it the less I believe him. Especially when I stare at this light blue house. The light blue house my dad paid other people to build while he’s been in the US. The light blue house with cracked walls and fading paint. The light blue house with glass windows and no screens. The only house with glass windows in La Romera. The light blue house with a squeaky gate that doesn’t welcome its owner’s daughter. The only house in La Romera with locks on its doors. The light blue house with tiled floors. All the other houses here have cement and dirt as it’s floor. The light blue house with a shower inside it. In Mama Vega’s house, we use buckets to pour water over ourselves. The light blue house with no doors inside. Everything is connected and there is only one bed. A bed that no one uses. Whose bed even is this? The light blue house with three rooms. Papi says that the room without a window is mine. The room without a window has no light coming in. It is dark. It is hot. It is humid. It smells like furniture even though no one has ever lived in it and there is no furniture inside of it. The light blue house where the bathroom is next to the kitchen and there is no door dividing them. The light blue house that no one lives in. The light blue house my dad says is where we are all going to move to. The light blue house that I am meeting for the first time. The light blue house that has a painted portrait of my parents smiling. Mama Vega told me that she had it made and that all the artist had to reference my parents were old pictures of them. The light blue house I am greeting alone with an illiterate uncle I only met two days ago.

Haze: I sit in the front of the row, second row to the right. I’m in college algebra because my counselor wouldn’t let me not take a fourth year of math. I’m on my period and my cramps are kicking my fucking ass. My stomach is flipping frontwards and backwards and inside out. My eyebags feel like they are weighing down my face and the hot room is cold on my skin. A shiver licks my back and I feel like puking out all the food I didn’t eat during lunch time. I leaned back and mumble to the guy behind me, I think I’ m gonna pass out. He nods and yawns out, Yeah, me too. We are not on the same page. My eyesight starts to blur. Fuck this I’m gonna ask to go to the nurse’s office. I stand up

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and the world tilts to the left. I take one step after the other and warm jelly starts to leak out from between my wobbly legs. I end up in front of the math teacher’s desk. He looks at up at me with a dead stare and says, What? I stare back and ask in a weak voice, Can I go to the nurse’s office? His response is immediate, No. Fuck this guy. May I go to the bathroom? If he says no, I’m walking out. Fine, he says as he goes back onto his computer and asks me for my name. Guadalupe Campos, I say as spit starts to leak from my glands. You only have two more bathroom passes left. Use them wisely, he says. I think, Suck my fucking dick. And I wobble my way out the room. The light outside is blinding and I walk two doors to the right with my head down. I open the door to the bathroom and it’s dark. It smells like shit. And looks haunted as fuck. The walls all have

carvings on them. There’s three different layers of paint. One of the sinks is plugged with wet paper. I rush to the farthest toilet and gush out spit. Nothing is coming out. I push the stall door open and splash water on my face. I look at myself on the reflective fake mirror made of polished metal and my skin looks yellow next to the green walls. A sudden wave of exhaustion slams onto my shoulders and I curse at gravity for existing. Fuck this I’m going to the nurse’s office. I’m in the second farthest building from the bathroom and this is the biggest school in the city ready to faint. WHOOP WHOOP! Let’s do this shit. I slap my cheeks and walk outside. Each step I take feels like I’ m walking on cotton as my head starts to float around my shoulders. I look up at the sky and don’t hear the parrots flying by. The blue sky starts to fade into white. White. White. White. And suddenly all my surroundings are non-existent. Is this how I go? I can feel the hard floor under my soles and thank fuck once more for knowing this high school like it were my own home. I squint my eyes, and everything starts to blur back into focus behind tears. I go up two small steps and put all my weight onto a light green heavy metal door. It smells like hand sanitizer and I start to shiver. A lady with a bun on her head and a mole on her face glances at me. Input your ID number, so I can call your emergency contact, she says as she points at a number pad. Suck my fucking dick, math teacher.

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Hold: Mami’s been crying for days. She’s been staying in the room on her bed. Soft weeps spill from her mouth and onto the bed sheets as her shoulders tremble. And maybe it’s because she wishes to hold something. And maybe it’s because she wishes to be held. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. It seems like I can’t get the right words to comfort her. It seems I can’t do the right things to make her feel better. How can she be doing chores when she is so vulnerable right now? Mami’s been falling apart for days and her smile has chipped away to the point where it’s non-existent. Deep bags have been carved under her eyes and her gaze is distant. She clutches a picture of her mami. I wonder what it is she is thinking about. I wonder if she’s even thinking at all. I wish I could hold her tight and give her a piece of me to help her rebuild herself. What does it feel like wanting to go back to your home country? It’s been more than a decade and mami hasn’t gone back to Guatemala. What would it feel like to go back to a motherless mother country? Would you even want to go back? Mami still does the house chores, but I wonder how she can keep going when she’s so exhausted. I wish I could give her what she wants the most, but she can’t meet the person she misses the most

anymore.

Hug: You walked me home even though I live two streets away. We bumped into my mom and the pack of kids she used to babysit. My little sister started at our locked hands and I thanked fuck for having told my mom about us. The light turned green and the stick figure gave us the sign to cross the street. We split from my mom and kids and went towards my home a different route. When we reached the tall black gate, we both stopped. I didn’t take out my keys. We both stood there looking at the door and I was both disappointed and relieved that I was home. I swallowed my spit and mumbled, Bye. You nodded awkwardly and I took out my keys. I opened the door and you pulled me into a hug. I froze in social awkwardness and decided to hug you back. You kissed the top of my head and I panicked so I kissed the first thing that was in front of me. Your shoulder. I kissed your shoulder and you laughed at me. I pulled away and quickly rushed to my apartment and you continued to laugh.

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How: And I’ve been feeling off this week. And I don’t know why. Everything's the same. Classes have been the same. The weather in SF has been the same. Dinner has been the same. My hair has been the same. The carton of milk has been the same. Nothing is out of place. Everything is as usual. But there’s something in the air and it’s making everything shift. Maybe all the furniture in the apartment has been moved to the left by an inch. Maybe all my clothes have one more wrinkle than usual. Maybe there is one extra grain of salt in all my food and it’s too much for my tastebuds. Maybe my glasses prescription has slightly changed. Maybe my pillow was flipped to the wrong side. Maybe the fog is a bit thicker. Maybe my hair is a bit longer. And maybe it’s all of the above and that’s why I’ve been feeling like something is off. Something from me has been missing. And I don’t know what. The shadow behind me has felt it too. The aura around me is different. How do you explain that to someone? How do you explain that everything is the same, but there is something missing, and you don’t know what the hell it is? And lately I’ve been feeling like crying. And lately I’ve been wanting to mourn the you that is missing, but I don’t know what you are to begin with. And then I get a call. It’s dark and the only light on is the dim Ikea paper lamp. I’m alone in the apartment and I’ve just arrived from class. I’m sitting on a dining chair and papi sounds exhausted. His voice is raspy and way too soft. I can hear the frown in his voice. You’ ve been missing for a week. You no longer exist in this world and he was going to keep it from me until the semester ends.

Hell: We were both stuck in a pearl white Thunderbird plopped in the middle of a parking lot on a hot summer day in Southern California. The dark purple tinted windows were rolled a quarter way down so we wouldn’t suffocate. You opened your mouth and the words vibrated out from your vocal cords the way notes echo off a hollow violin. Do you think we’re in hell? It took a moment for my middle school brain to process what you’d said. I asked, What do you mean? You continued to look out the window and rephrased your words, Do you think there's a hell? Like the one in the

bible. Like the one la doctrina preaches on and on about. Do you think it exists? A warm gust of wind twirled your hair. I opened my mouth. I don’t know. A car passed by and you said, I don’t think the hell the catholic church speaks about is real. I said, Then what do you believe? You turned to look at me, your black eyes tired and expressionless. I think you might have been high. I think we’re in hell. I think we’re currently living in hell. This. This right here is hell. I asked, Cuz it’s hot? You shook your head and said, No, not cuz it’s hot. Cuz this sucks. Cuz life just sucks man. And like I think this planet is hell. There is no heaven nor hell. There is only this and reincarnation. And depending on how much of a good person or crappy person you were in your past life, when you die you end up getting reincarnated into a good environment or a crappy one. There is no great oasis waiting for us when we die, just the end of another vagina. The hell in the bible isn’t real. This place where we’re currently living in is hell. You went on not noticing you were repeating yourself and I stayed silent as your words sunk in. You planted a seed of doubt into my brain and you probably don’t even remember.

Hard: I used to climb on the tall metal poles that connected the old swings. They were upside down V’s on each end of the middle pole that held the swings. And I would look at them and be like, Oh hell yeah. I’d grab the worn-out cool metal. I could feel the years of dirt and rust stick to my hand. I’d wrap my legs around the pole and like a caterpillar, I’d pull my legs closer to me scrunching up my body and move my arms up stretching myself out. Then, pull my legs in closer to me and then stretch my arms up. Scrunch, stretch, scrunch, stretch, scrunch, stretch. And Ta Da! I’d reach the top. I’d let go of the pole with my left hand and grab onto the pole behind me that was much closer at the top. I’d unwrap my legs from the pole and hang myself from the top looking like the letter Y. Both arms outstretched above my sides holding on to the poles while my legs dangled. I was much higher, and the wind felt so fresh wrapping its arms around me. I could smell the mix of molding rainwater and sweat. And it was beautiful. But it never lasted long. Eventually my arms would start to feel tired, so I’d grab on to one single pole again and wrap my legs around it. Then, stretch, scrunch, stretch, scrunch, stretch,

scrunch. I’d unwrap my legs about halfway down and hop off the pole. A lunch lady who was watching would step onto the blacktop where I was and start scolding me telling me, Don’t you know how dangerous that was? You could have hurt yourself. You could have fallen and broken something. You could have- Weeks later my mom would be told about what I’d do during recess and lunch. How I’d climb the swings, the tetherball poles, the tall metal slide, the pull-up bars. Mom would scold me and hit me for doing something so dangerous. And the next day there was a lunch lady now looking over the swings to make sure I wouldn’t climb. So, I got a spork and went to the field where most of the boys played. There would be three different games of soccer going on in the open grass area while the baseball field was empty. Kids used to play kickball there, but someone ended up losing a tooth, so they stopped letting anyone play on the baseball field. There was a tall palm tree and dirt surrounding it. There was a really old lunch lady who would watch over this section. Everyone just called her abuelita. She was also the nicest lunch lady. The first day I was banned from climbing, I squat right in front of her and the palm tree, took out my spork, and started to scrape at the dirt. I didn’t have many friends. The boys had started to bully me ‘cuz of my long hair and the girls were all really obsessed with some show on Disney Channel. I couldn’t relate to them at all since we hadn’t had cable in years. So, I scrapped and scrapped and scrapped at the dirt while imaging myself climbing the poles and being able to finally breath as I looked down at everything and everyone below. They all looked so small and insignificant. The bell for recess rang and I had just barely made a dent on the floor. Abuelita looked at me and I looked at her. Then I waved and left to class with dirt under my nails. I’d go to the same spot every day and dig. My mind wandered and abuelita would stare off at the distance looking at all the boys kicking a ball. Eventually I started to find rocks. The first time I found a rock I was so surprised I raised it up and screamed, Ira abuelita una roca! She smiled at me. Her cheeks wrinkling even more as she showed me her teeth. Que bonita. I grinned back and gestured for her to take it. Entonces te la doy, I said. Ay deberas? Gracias mija. Aqui la voy a guardar, she said as she took it and placed it in one of her purple apron’s pockets. Abuelita’s collection would grow bigger and bigger and the hole

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grew deeper and deeper. The school banned digging not long after a kid playing tag tripped over all my holes and abuelita was moved to the bathrooms surrounded by concrete.

Hair: I shared a table with three guys in my Life Science class. I was resting my head on my crossed arms on top of my backpack as I watched the teacher take her time setting up the projector. My eyes were slipping close when something cold brushed the middle of my forehead and I heard a crisp, snip. My eyes widened and I instantly sat up. A small group of inch long strands of brown hair dusted the table. I looked up and saw one of the boys from my table retract his arm with a pair of bright red scissors in his hand. My mouth dried as my head screamed. Another boy, the one who sat across from me, reached out towards my backpack’s strap, and dragged it to the center of the table before my trembling hands gripped the material. I yanked it back towards me while the boy with the scissors desperately snipped one of my backpack’s straps. Fuck off pendejo! My scream was drowned out by the laughter of classmates having their own conversations. I clutched my backpack up to my chest trying to hide it inside me while I tried to steady my breathing. Don’t cry, Lupita. Don’t you fucking cry, I thought. I stared down at the top of the table and my teacher turned around to face the class. Okay, everyone quiet down and take out your notebooks. Today we’re going to- My fingertips were cold as I hesitated to take out stuff from my backpack. What’s wrong Scorpion?, the boy who sat next to me asked with a smirk on his face. I moved my long braid away from him and ignored him. Don’t. Just don’t, I thought.

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Funky and Camp: A Conversation with Megan Murphy

interview by TreVaughn Malik Roach-Carter

This interview was conducted on October 10th 2020 via Zoom.

TreVaughn Malik Roach-Carter: Who is Megan Murphy?

Megan Murphy: Wow, that’s a question I ask myself everyday when I wake up and I still don't know if I have an answer. I feel like I am a lot of things, especially currently, I feel like there's a lot going on. Constantly changing what I am and what I’m doing. I would say that I am a visual artist who likes to play with a lot of different mediums of art. I’m a big fat homosexual. White and Filipino-American. I’m an organizer. I’d like to think I’m a good person. I’m also an Aries. And that's my highlight reel.

TMRC: Aside from your drawings and paintings what other kind of art do you participate in?

MM: I feel like I’m really indecisive. So I can never decide what platform of art I like to do. So I kind of just mess around with literally any medium that I see, that I'm like, “Oh! That looks interesting.” So in the past I've done a lot of wood working, I’ve done set building before, I do like making big installation pieces. I love hands-on stuff. I feel like it's fun to play with physical things and create art through crafting. But right now I do a lot of painting and ink drawing like you said. I also recently got really into textiles. So I started making tiny carpets. Yarn is really fun. I also make jewelry. I’m also trying to do digital art now. Like I said, if I see anything that looks like fun, I’m just like, “Oh, I wanna try that out!”

TMRC: Speaking of jewelry, you have a very eclectic sense of fashion. It feels like artistic expression is just always dripping off of you. Even right now, you’re wearing some

skeleton earrings—which are very cute, by the way. Can you talk about what drives your sense of style?

MM: I feel like my sense of style is something I kind of personally developed just as I became more confident in myself, honestly. I feel like I've always been very artistic. And I've always loved drawing and been into creating visual pieces. But for the longest time that wasn't something that wasn't super reflective of how I dressed. It wasn't until I graduated high school and got more into community college that I really started actually playing with my wardrobe and feeling more confident. I feel like that's common for a lot of people too. You get out of high school and you get away from everyone you’ve known for twelve years of your life and you’re like, “Oh, it's the time!”

I feel like my outfits are inspired by the things that inspire my art. I love bright vibrant colors, I love really fun patterns, I just love playing around with things in my wardrobe. If it’s funky, I want it.

TMRC: What would you say your overarching goals in life are? It’s okay if you don't have an answer to this question.

MM: It's funny that you said, “If [I] don’t have an answer,” because I've been thinking about that a lot lately. In general, my main goal is to serve any community I'm a part of.

Courtesy of Megan Murphy

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For me, as a queer person, as someone who is mixed white and Filipino, theres a lot of communities that are very big parts of me. I want to be able to help these communities in the ways that they’ve helped me develop as a person. I want to be able to work and give back to these communities as much as I can. I feel like that's one of my biggest overarching goals: serve the Filipino community as well as the LGBT community.

TMRC: You spoke a little bit about this before, what sort of things do you draw influence and inspiration from?

MM: So much! Again, literally a lot if it is from being mixed white and Filipino and also being a little homosexual growing up, ya know? I feel like those are two really big things that, when I look back on my inspirations, they're always connected to those things.

This is such a gross answer, but unfortunately—well, not unfortunately—anime was a really big inspiration for me growing up. I feel like that's a thing that's pretty common for a lot of Asian-Americans. And specifically, unfortunately, Asian Americans that aren't Japanese and Korean. You tend to cling to the first Asian thing you see in America, which for a lot of Asian-Americans it’s anime, it's K-pop, it's these ideals of Asian-ness. So I clung to Anime. I loved the colorful visuals and the overall style. And when I got into middle school I got more into experimental-weird Anime. Which really inspired the way I draw. There’s a lot of animators, like Satoshi Kon, Junji Ito, and Koji Morimoto. And being a big fat homosexual, I love all things camp. I love the camp aesthetic. I love campy horror movies. I love over-the-top, pushing boundaries. Camp. Leave it at that.

TMRC: Speaking of camp—and you mentioned weird earlier—your art has a unique and striking quality. What would you say camp is your art’s aesthetic or would you give it another label?

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MM: I feel like it's pretty safe to call my style camp. I tend to really love exaggerated and over-the-top colors and looks and just kind of pushing that. I also do really like to play around with the idea of horror, in some sense. Almost pushing what is naturally making things look “unnatural” and a little creepy with how excessive it is and how bright it is. Almost offensive to the eyes.

TMRC: Are there any artists who match your aesthetic?

MM: A lot of Japanese animators. Masaaki Yuasa—I really love his animation style. He plays with vibrant colors and really weird shapes. He was always a really big inspiration for me. There's a lot of current artists too, that I follow that have a similar aesthetic or that I try to take inspiration from, like a friend of mine, @laschicaspeligrosas on Instagram. Other artists are @plastiboo, @masa.toro, @tiny.tattooer,and @betsy.cola. And also, @kurboi who is this Filipino artist that does really cute 50s and 60s themed Filipino drawings that are really colorful. I love his style.

TMRC: You’re living in San Francisco right now, and you're originally from which city?

MM: I’m originally from Los Angeles, California. I am dead center Los Angeles, I can't even say West or East LA because I’m literally in the middle.

TMRC: Do you think the cities you’ve lived in have impacted your style?

Courtesy of Megan Murphy

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Angel Eyes by Megan Murphy MM: Absolutely. Growing up in LA, Published in Issue # 2 of Ramblr Magazine there's that stereotype of people from LA being really fake and kind of over the top sometimes, and I feel like that's kind of true. In high school, there were a lot of people trying to be really over-the-top with their style and the ways that they drew. That was something that pushed me growing up, being in art scenes in LA. Seeing a bunch of dumb young teens trying to push the envelope and be real wacky. When I was growing up in high school—and honestly still probably now—there was a really big camp aesthetic in a lot of young queer spaces. So that was also something that pushed me a lot. In San Francisco you see a camp aesthetic too, among queer people. And unique and colorful aesthetics. Also, it's important to mention that the really big Filipino population in the Bay Area helped me get a better understanding of a lot of the ways I've been inspired through Asian culture. It’s made me have a better focus on how exactly I want to be drawing things in relation to my identity as an Asian American and specifically as a Filipino-American. And that's something I’m taking into consideration now and figuring out. TMRC: Do you have a favorite piece of your own? MM: It's funny that you say that, because it also reminds me that I write. I forgot, until you said that, to mention that I also do a lot of written pieces and screenwriting

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sometimes. Like I said, if it looks fun and artistic, I will do it. As far as visual pieces, I really liked “Angel Eyes” a lot. That was one of the first pieces I fully completed. It gives a good portrayal of what I want my style to be and what I try to do with painting, drawing, and ink and pen work. I tend to cling to really bright colors and an unnatural look. As far as writing, I liked my piece in Transfer Magazine called “It Started in a Car.” I’m really proud of that piece. I really tend to reflect back on my identity as Filipino-American and also as a queer person. That piece is a really nice reflection and ode to being a queer Filipino and the ways that has complicated things in my life. I’m really happy with that piece.

TMRC: Is there anywhere specific you’d hope your art could take you?

MM: To the moon, baby! That's something I’ve been thinking about more and more lately. One of my biggest focuses is community-based things. If I’m able to use my art in a way that serves the community, whether that be through being able to open art galleries and host events for people to show their own work in. I’m also super into film making, another aspect I forgot to say. I really like the art department of films. So being able to create more films that have a queer perspective or a Fil-Am perspective. And being able to help publish pieces, whether they be visual or written. I would love to be able to help people create more pieces and get their work out there. That's one of my main goals in creating art. To get to a place where I can help others.

TMRC: That’s amazing and I'm sure your art will get you there one day.

MM: Thank you!

TMRC: Last question, if your art as a whole could talk, what would it say?

MM: [Audible screech] Honestly, yeah, I feel like it would give a good ol’ scream. Most of my art is just a reflection of what I’m feeling and how I’m doing. A lot of my art is very personal

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and I feel like it tends to be an outlet for me to put out emotions. So I genuinely think it would give out ol’ screech. Just a good ol’ yell, a little howl into the night.

TMRC: Thank you so much for giving me your time today. Are there any final thoughts before we end the interview?

MM: Look out for my work. Follow me on instagram if you want. My art instagram is @koalajamboree.

Megan Murphy is an emerging artist based in San Francisco. You can find Megan Murphy’s work on instagram @koalajamboree.

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