Animo Pat Brown Charter High School Los Angeles
Transcripción
Animo Pat Brown Charter High School Los Angeles
A PEN In The Classroom Literary Journal Animo Pat Brown Charter High School Los Angeles, California Spring 2011–2012 A PEN In The Classroom Literary Journal Animo Pat Brown Charter High School Los Angeles, California Spring 2011–2012 For the parents of APB students who have shared their stories, poems, and dreams COVER ART KEY BY ALEX MARTINEZ 1.) The bird represents f reedom. 2.) The road sign represents the path to truth. 3.) The ribbon symbolizes the people in our community who are fighting cancer. 4.) The tree has long been a symbol at our school of our generation and the generations to come. 5.) The picture is of Kevin Campos, who would have graduated f rom this year’s senior class, but who passed away f rom leukemia last year and is very much here in spirit among this class. 6.) The microphone represents the power to speak out. 7.) The writer represents the poet at work. 8.) The peace sign indicates that speaking the truth will bring peace. 9.) Love is the answer. CONTENTS CONTENTS 7 INTRODUCTION 13 Poetry Slam by HEIDI AMAYA Luna by JESUS DE JESUS 17 18 19 Look Strong by JOSE DEL TORO 20 Yo Toco Sus Suenas by VERONICA LANDA This One Is For Your Mom by RAQUEL GUEVARA Guardian Of Our Secrets by OSCAR DUQUE 23 The Assembly Of The Mechanism by KATHERINE CHAVEZ 24 Lost Beneath The Colors by KATHERINE CHAVEZ All The Riches by IRMA SANCHEZ Immense by YRIDIANA LOPEZ 27 Your Name by MARIO SALAZAR 28 29 30 Vernis A Ongles by EVELIN ZAVALA 31 Connected by EVELIN ZAVALA 32 IMAGINE THE ENEMY with MARYTZA RUBIO The Fill by KATHERINE CHAVEZ Dinosaurs by WENDY GARCIA I Am by LUCIANA PEREZ Under The Toes by AMY COX 25 26 Beautiful Moon by YRIDIANA LOPEZ Promise by VICTOR CRUZ 22 35 39 41 42 34 43 Drawing by ELAINE RODRIGUEZ 44 Family Love by RAFAEL GUEVARA 45 Darkness by RAQUEL GUEVARA 46 Fire And Candle by JESUS DE JESUS 47 My Romanticism by SAMOAN BROWN 48 Mystery-Flavored Gum by GIOVANNI SOTO 51 Toys by GRECIA HERNANDEZ Hawk by YESENIA REYES 54 Testing by YESENIA REYES Perdido by OSCAR DUQUE 55 56 The Moon And The Star VS. The Sun by KATHERINE CHAVEZ 58 59 Home by RONALD MARTINEZ 61 Father by KIMBERLY LIZARRANGA El Salvavidas: Un Cuento Popular by DALLAS RICHARDSON 62 I Am by GUADALUPE VARGAS 64 TELL YOUR STORY with ANTONIO SACRE Little Man by EDDIE CERVANTES I Am Lost by SAMOAN BROWN 66 68 69 Free by KIMBERLY LIZARRANGA 70 Mother by KIMBERLY LIZARRANGA You Want To Play? by YESENIA REYES Frosty Wind by DANIEL TORRES You Wish by DANIEL TORRES 71 73 74 The First Beer, Definitely Not The Last by 65 ALEXIS VALDOVINOS 75 77 Desire by OSCAR DUQUE 78 I Am by KIMBERLY ARENAS 79 I Don’t Even Know Why by MARIO SALAZAR I Am by RAQUEL ZAVALA I Am by JUAN GOMEZ 80 81 82 Dreaming World by ELAINE RODRIGUEZ Hatred by VICTOR CRUZ I Write by ANONYMOUS 83 84 85 Dark Little Flower by ELAINE RODRIGUEZ 86 Yo Soy by MARIA RODRIGUEZ 88 I Am by MARIA HERNANDEZ Sonnet by ANONYMOUS 89 90 Deadly Fire by CRYSTAL SIMPSON 91 FIND YOUR INNER ANIMAL with NATASHIA DEÓN Yo Soy by ROSALIN AMAYA 92 Like A Trauma And Like A Plague by RAQUEL GUEVARA 95 Snapshots: Family by ANONYMOUS The Blue Plus Sign by SARAH VASQUEZ Opposite by MARIO SALAZAR Yo Soy by ANA HERNANDEZ Poison Thirst by JESSICA RAMOS Memoir by WENDY GARCIA 94 99 101 102 104 105 CELEBRATE THE IMPOSSIBLE with JON SANDS My Beauty And My Beast by VICTOR CRUZ 108 107 110 When We Were One by LUIS GARCIA 111 Deeper by JESUS DE JESUS 112 Yo Soy by XIOMARA GUEVARA I Am by MERCEDES RAMOS 9/5/09 by ANONYMOUS 114 115 116 Novel In Progress by STEPHANIE GARIBAY Fire by KIMBERLY LIZARRANGA Our Village by HEIDI AMAYA Yo Soy by MARIA TAPIA 122 123 124 126 I Am Latina by CELICA QUINONES Act by RAQUEL GUEVARA 127 128 Nevertheless by EVELIN ZAVALA 129 So Scared Of Falling Down Again by ANONYMOUS That Single Moment by ERICK MIRANDA 130 131 CREATE SOMEONE NEW with JUSTIN MFARR 132 Under The Lake by YESENIA NEVAREZ My One And Only by KEVEN CASTENEDA Truth by KEVEN CASTENEDA Yo Soy by LAURA HERNANDEZ Complete by SAMOAN BROWN Silent Help by ANGEL IRIBE 136 137 138 140 141 Where I’m From by JESSICA RAMOS I Remember You by RAQUEL GUEVARA 144 145 This Is Not A Love Song by STEPHANIE GARIBAY Jealousy by JESSICA RAMOS Remember by ANONYMOUS 147 148 146 To Whom It May Concern by SARAH VASQUEZ Love by LEO MARTINEZ 150 151 Your Goliath Nose by EDITH GONZALES Various Times When I Cried by NOEL NEVAREZ Witness by KIMBERLY LIZARRANGA Back Then by KEVEN CASTENEDA 152 156 157 Indescribable by KEVEN CASTENEDA With Apologies by IRMA SANCHEZ 158 159 My Way To War by JOSE DEL TORO 160 163 MAP YOUR LIFE with AMY FRIEDMAN The Brothers With No Last Name by ALEXIS VALDOVINOS 164 Unheard, Unknown Boy by ANGEL IRIBE Cuts And Scrapes by IRMA SANCHEZ First Day by JESUS DE JESUS 149 172 174 175 176 The Rose In My Hand by HEIDI AMAYA The Letter My Friend Can’t Write by ALEXIS VALDOVINOS 178 Love by DANIEL TORRES 179 Battlefield by FAVIOLA HERNANDEZ Help Me by JOSE DEL TORO 180 182 What’s The Name Of The Janitor In This Building? by NADINE ARENAS 183 TRAVEL WITH WORDS with DENISE O’KELLY Hands-On Accepting by EDUARDO MARTINEZ I’m So Jealous by RAQUEL GUEVARA 189 185 187 I Never Thought About My Dreams by EDUARDO CONTRERAS 190 193 I’m Slipping by EVELIN ZAVALA Let The Blood Run Wild by EDITH GONZALES 195 Her by MARIA LOPEZ 196 No Love by CYNTHIA RODAS 197 Your Eyes by YRIDIANA LOPEZ 198 It Hurts by YRIDIANA LOPEZ 199 Guiding by EVELIN ZAVALA 200 I Am by EXSCARLET MALDONADO 201 The Heartless Man by JORGE ALVAREZ I Can’t by YESENIA REYES 204 205 Let Me In by OSCAR DUQUE 206 Where I’m From by SARAH VASQUEZ Sola by ROSA LOPEZ 208 Brother by KATHERINE CHAVEZ 210 The Beginning Of The End by JESUS DE JESUS The Story Of Love by IRMA SANCHEZ Yo Soy by VICTOR M. CRUZ Believe by LUIS GARCIA 194 211 213 214 216 All work in this book reflects the opinions and beliefs of the authors and does not represent a statement by the school. Cover artwork by Alex Martinez INTRODUCTION I ..honestly do love every day in creative writing, but my handsdown favorite class this year was when my fellow teacher, Amy Cox, crushed the dreams of everyone in the room. The incident was particularly memorable because Amy is usually a lovely, polite, kind person, which is lucky for me, because the class meets in her room while Amy, who doesn’t teach her technology class that period, sits quietly grading her own students’ work, graciously ignoring the music we play, the box of books we lug into the room, and the general noise of twenty-nine writers working in the same space. That day, though, we were having an in-class poetry slam. We’d been inspired by the visit of poet Jon Sands, who had blown us away with his poetry reading. Afterwards, our whole class had spent two weeks studying spoken word, watching videos of prize-winning poets at contests, and working on performance techniques. Everyone in the class had performed, even the shyest members; we were down to the last three poets. The stakes could not have been higher for the winners: glory, of course, and snacks, including the grand prize, a slice of lemon cake. That morning, to incentivize the shy, I lay the snacks out on the desk. Amy looked up from her grading. “Lemon cake?!” Her intensity was startling. “That’s my favorite.” I told her the snacks were for the prize-winning poets. “I’m in,” Amy said, eyes on the cake. “Those kids are going down.” I assumed Amy was kidding. I mean, what kind of person would take down a group of children who were just learning to write poetry? But moments later, Amy ripped a poem from her printer and, after the last student had performed, stood up and lit into an impassioned, gut-wrenching poem about love and betrayal. The poem was awesome in the Biblical meaning of the word, almost terrifying in its power. The class was stunned. She won, of course, with a score of 9.9 out of 10, and, for the rest of class, Amy sat contentedly enjoying 13 her cake. A lesser person might have felt guilty for snatching victory from a roomful of students; Amy merely seemed satisfied. Life is cruel, cake is cake. We all do what we have to do in this world. What I loved about that day was that — sorry, Amy, but I have to point this out — she only won by two-tenths of a point. Victor Cruz, who scored 9.7 out of 10, was right behind her. Maria Lopez, in third place, scored a 9.5. In other words, Amy made a serious tactical error, because instead of licking the frosting off her fingers and gloating after the slam, she really should have been sharpening her skills. The next time we do a slam, Amy is likely to find herself crying into her grade book while one of my students eats lemon cake right in front of her without offering her even a bite. But what I loved most of all about that day was Amy’s real message to my students. First of all, she was telling them that there was nothing unusual in a technology teacher just happening to have an awe-inspiring poem ready to go. Writing poetry, she implied, is something you can do all your life, no matter what your job. Beyond that, she was telling them they were actually not a group of children learning poetry; they were real writers, writers she took seriously enough to challenge as equals without holding back. Here, in the creative writing workshop, no matter what our age or level of experience, we’re all engaged in the same struggle, battling with language, working to push beyond the limits of what we think we can do, finding beauty in ordinary moments, wrestling meaning from the chaos of our lives. This year, the circle of our writing community has grown even wider. This is the third year of our work with PEN In The Classroom, a collaboration that grows deeper and more joyous every year. PEN is extraordinarily generous in funding the printing of this book and in supporting us in every imaginable way. This year, so far, they’ve sent eight guest speakers to lead workshops on poetry, spoken word, fiction, memoir, and performance technique. We’ve learned an astonishing amount: how to find a subject (write a list of the five things you love most, then throw one out, and keep throwing them out until you have only one left — thank you, Amy Friedman), whether to use Spanish in your writing (yes, if you can, as often as possible — thank 14 you, Antonio Sacre), whether you can write about God’s deodorant (definitely — thank you, Jon Sands), and what the Irish language sounds like (beautiful — thank you, Denise O’Kelly). Also, my personal favorite: when practicing public speaking, tape a pebble the size of a garbanzo bean to your solar plexus for a few days (I can’t remember why I’m supposed to do this, but I’m enchanted by the intense commitment to public speaking a person would have in order to do this — thank you, Dave Thomas). Throughout this book, I’ve printed a description of our guest speakers’ workshops and the techniques they’ve taught us so that all of our readers can learn from them. But I love PEN for reasons that go beyond their financial and logistical support. I love them because, like Amy Cox, they believe that everyone in our community is a writer, and they believe it so much that, year after year, they publish a book and distribute it to every single student at our school. Almost two years ago, Michelle Meyering, Adam Somers, and I had lunch at Canter’s and actually cried as we talked about our dream that one day — in addition to publishing work by students, faculty, and staff — we’d publish work by parents at our school. This year that dream has come true. Our parents, who have worked so hard and sacrificed so much for their children, have taken the time to share with us their own poetry and stories, and what moves me more than anything is that, in every single case, their dreams are not for themselves but for their children. But isn’t that really what it’s about in the end? Writing is about taking your secret dream, a dream you hadn’t even fully formed or articulated or dared to believe in yet, and making that dream come true. Whether your dream is a slice of lemon cake; an imaginary world where the moon is disappearing in bites, as it does in Jesus de Jesus’s astonishing story; a horrifying underworld under a lake, as in Yesenia Nevarez’s chilling tale; or an education for your children, when you write, dreams become real. This book is my dream. Thank you to everyone — PEN, guest speakers, Amy Cox, APB students, and you, the reader — for making this dream come true. Ellie Herman Creative Writing Teacher 15 Poetry Slam HEIDI AMAYA you see… I had no idea what poetry slam meant until I saw him on the floor slamming with his words speaking out of his throat like rap without a music beat what does poetry slam mean? I think I’ve got this: poetry slam means feeling the pain of a bullet going through a vein red blood dripping down your hand it means trying to understand what pain costs. the poetry slam: do you understand? 17 Luna JESUS DE JESUS The moon, Luna, princess of the night; she controls what we cannot. She shines her light down to reveal what we can’t, making secrets impossible. When it rains, the moon cries. Why? Even I cannot comprehend that, for only the moon knows why. When the clouds block the bright night sky with darkness, it means the moon will not appear, for she, too, has her own matters to take care of. When the moon is annoyed, she wrecks ships into oblivion; in contrast, in a good mood, she lights up hope for the one in darkness. Spectator of night and ruler of water, the moon watches in the sky for eternity. 18 Look Strong JOSE DEL TORO You grow up Your dad leaves You and your mom struggle You start your first day of school and you cry You make friends Your name isn’t Jose anymore, it’s Toro You get in trouble Mom gives you a big whooping You borrow money You get some bombass shoes to wear Your new shoes are ugly from kicking the ball You don’t get punked anymore because of your height You see her You ask her out — no, wait… Never mind Get to know her Look strong Be funny Talk to her She’s your ideal girl (f*** yeah!) You ask her out — no, wait… You just write her a letter instead You’re nervous She reads the letter You get the letter back You decide to wait to read it alone in your house You already know the answer You look at the wall You have to fix the hole you punched in it You go to school again You see her and say hi You walk away. 19 Yo Toco Sus Suenas VERONICA LANDA Mother of Kimberly Lizarranga Soy soñadora y creativa. Yo me pregunto porque la vida será tan corta Yo escucho sus sueños de mi unica hija, y veo su esfuerzo por estar bien en su escuela y por ser buena persona. Yo quiero vivir para verla realizar todos sus sueñas. Soy soñadora y creativa. Yo hago de cuenta que ella ya esta yendo a la universidad. Yo siento mucho orgulla, porque ella sería la primera de mi familia que loraría algo así. Yo toco sus sueños, y me preocupo pensando que no los llegue a realizar y lloro de tristeza pero no porque no le ponga ganas sino por la difícil que esta cada día la vida Soy soñadora y creativa. 20 I Touch Her Dreams Translated by Kimberly Lizarranga I am a dreamer and creative. I wonder why life is so short. I hear only my daughter’s dream and see her effort to be good in school and to be a good person. I want to live to see all her dreams come true. I am a dreamer and creative. I pretend that she is already at the university I feel very proud because she would be the first one in my family to accomplish something like that. I touch her dreams and worry that she might not accomplish them. And I cry from sadness, not because she doesn’t try, but because of the difficulties in life. I am a dreamer and creative. 21 This One Is For Your Mom RAQUEL GUEVARA The following poem is not humble at all. Stop with those lies; nowadays, nobody is modest. I’m arrogant — oh, yes, I am, and, so you know, I’m not going to be modest in the rest of my “poem” — I have achieved things you are incapable of achieving. Yeah, that’s right, I got an A on my anatomy test. But how would you know what I’m talking about if you don’t even know what “anatomy” is? It’s a class, by the way. Anatomy is the study of the human body. I know you’re thinking that I’m being ridiculous right now, but don’t blame me. Unfortunately, I owe my ridiculousness to you. It’s a shame that even with all this anatomy training I can’t describe your physical appearance. But how can I blame myself? It’s not my fault you’re not present in my life. This poem is dedicated to your mom who didn’t know how to make you behave like a man. 22 Guardian Of Our Secrets OSCAR DUQUE In the summer, it rains; in the winter, the wind blows. When the sun sets, parrots sing. A beautiful orange-red sun hides behind the clouds. Our flag: blue, white, blue, Air, earth, sea. Our symbol a quetzal, our own green phoenix who protects us all, our guardian of the ruins and secrets. This country hides a secret. Its beauty is as great as our pride. My land, where our anthem revives us; the bird, our most precious symbol, the most beautiful of all, stronger than the eagles. Guatemala, land of eternal spring, where legends are born, where beauty is on every corner. My land where our ancestors lie, where the ancient cities are lost but not forgotten, where the cities never change. Time stands still. Our nation made by sacrifices; our pride flies higher than anything, as high as our quetzal, our phoenix. Secrets hide but remain. Where it all began, it will end, my own piece of heaven, my eternal Garden of Eden, Guatemala, land of beauty. My home. My teacher. My pride. Our bird will sing its sacred song until we are truly free. 23 The Assembly Of The Mechanism KATHERINE CHAVEZ If the world were gray, would you finally accept it? Would it relieve your throbbing headaches relieve this constant worry of a revolution where the controlled are blinded and their minds become acutely absent the street black with a single tar road only broken gray trees as the road’s sole company with no birds to inhabit the trees’ weary branches to sing a symphony with the wind and the sky would not illuminate and it would not usurp our tears not even for a tired child as a parent callously looks forward still desperately trying to comfort their only piece of life. We all assemble and march like a tyrannical army, eyes set for war with the darker shades of zombies a few miles away 24 Lost Beneath The Colors KATHERINE CHAVEZ Every time I see her, she strikes me. My heart beats with as much anticipation as a drum roll when frightened soldiers stare at their enemies at war. My mind races as its pathway is aimed at the unknown dimensions. I ache because she will never know my lost secret, which I try to disguise beneath my camouflaged suit. But she is merely a child finding amusement with a weapon. It is all gone for me. It started with nothing; it was always obsolete and she will never be the missing page that will finish the tale of my heart 25 All The Riches IRMA SANCHEZ You think you’ve seen it all until you’re the only witness to a little boy stealing a loaf of bread, his tiny hands full of greed, saying over and over in strident apology, “Mommy can’t afford it.” You think you know poverty until you see that guy, the one who looks like trash, sleeping on the cold ground, his weak and shivering hands open, waiting for a filthy, pity penny. You see the child pleading for a cheap toy and his mother’s whisper, Orita no tengo dinero, mijo. His sticky little face like a wrinkled pair of pants. His tears, glossy as a fancy glass. You’ve ridden smooth, rich roads in other neighborhoods but here, it’s as if someone dropped a giant pile of gravel that even the tiniest attraction can cause every smidge of your car to toss and clatter. The money, the wealth — it all depends, so get up and applaud because this is the end. 26 Immense YRIDIANA LOPEZ I loved you more than a fat kid loves cake. My love for you was so immense that forgetting you was so hard — every night, there I sat next to my window, looking at the first picture we took. I could still smell the softener from your sweater. I wrapped my blanket around me and there! I felt your arms around me. I could still hear my own giggles when you used to tickle me with your feathery hand. So many memories about us — But as you can see, nothing worked out. 27 Beautiful Moon YRIDIANA LOPEZ The moon is the witness of the night, seeing criminal secrets it will never reveal. The moon is your guardian, watching as you walk the streets alone. When you look at it closely, it gives you a sparkly diamond smile. If you could feel it, it would be like thousands of feathers. When you are down, like a friend it will tell you the most wonderful stories and give you that big smile keeping you safe like a mother. 28 Your Name MARIO SALAZAR You disgust me. You are the waste that gets recycled in the nitrogen cycle, the mugre under the fingernails of a young kid who refuses to bathe, the smudge all over the baby’s diaper, thrown in the trash, the trash that even a homeless, starving old man refuses to eat. You disgust me. I’m ashamed even to say your name. Your name is nausea covering my body, my stomach fighting your name, spending an eternity trying to release the revolting words. Migraines dictate my head just thinking of your name. There is no space for you in the world, the way there wasn’t space for the dinosaurs who were annihilated by a fiery red meteor shower sent from the heavens. I will not apologize for this statement. The only apology I’ll send is to the dogs, cats, snakes, and rats who have been compared to you. You are only someone who coincidentally carries a familiar sound at the end of your revolting name. You disgust me. 29 Vernis A Ongles EVELIN ZAVALA Sparkly, liquid darkness It’s violet, but then transforms into a different shade because suddenly its overloading blackness turns a shimmery purple. It contains fragments of tiny particles like the shimmers on a disco ball. As if through a microscope you can see the actual detailing that seems to have some sort of paint spattering, overlapped by pink and violent squares. It manipulates the persona of your hand, always changing. 30 Connected EVELIN ZAVALA The beat drives you with its serenading sound. It’s like getting ready to sleep, when you fall into a soft, dramatic place. The beat is the moment when you forget everything. The rhythm soothes your stress; it’s the best remedy for the melody. The beat is the only sound that understands you. You connect to the waves of the notes. Insane, how you do that without even noticing, that you feel the melody running through your flesh, turning you inside out. 31 Promise VICTOR CRUZ I promised you I would become a soldier when we separated. Now I will accomplish my promise. But don’t think I’m doing it just for you; I’m doing it because it was my first dream. This is the place where I was meant to live, where men fight together to keep the ones they love safe. The world of pain and savagery, you point out, is where I belong, the place where my anger won’t be a danger to the world or to you. You have to understand that I want a life where I’m at risk every second. You remember my idol’s quote? “Conquer fear and, I swear, you will conquer death.” Ha! I remember how scared you were when I fought that guy who disrespected you. There was blood everywhere, as if I’d been splashed by a water balloon, stains everywhere on my clothes, hands, face. You stopped me, and as I got up, I almost hit you as well. You saw the beast inside me, and your face said it all. And yet you had the courage to hold me while the demon was taking control of my body. Of course, you would always bring the angel side of me back. But no more of that. No more of you and me. My time has come to meet my creators, where I will shake hands with war and tease death. You and I are done. But I still carry that feeling with me, and it will be my inspiration. This is my last letter to you. I’m leaving the “us” part to death’s hands And leave myself to death’s room 32 so he can decide whether I survive. Bye, my love, and continue your path, because this one, I already had it planned. 33 IMAGINE THE ENEMY A PEN workshop with Marytza Rubio Our first PEN workshop was with Marytza Rubio, a novelist who is also PEN’s program coordinator for Emerging Voices and The Mark. Maryzta’s workshop threw us directly into creating a story with a series of quick writing exercises based on creating a fearsome antagonist. Inspired by a reading from Tobias Wolff ’s Bullet in the Brain, we created an absolutely terrible character, then worked backwards to place that character in a vivid, richly imagined setting. Now that we had an antagonist and a setting in place, our story was ready to begin. We created a sympathetic character who entered the setting and confronted the enemy. Instant conflict! Some of the battles that ensued were physical, others were emotional. Marytza’s kind, warm, and enthusiastic personality encouraged all of us to throw ourselves into the work. Several of our students continued to work with the short pieces they created in this workshop to create a longer, more polished piece of fiction by adding, embellishing, and revising. Can you find our fearsome antagonists in this book? 34 The Fill KATHERINE CHAVEZ Chapter 1 “What are you?” the guard asks in a firm, hoarse tone that perfectly resembles the cold gray concrete walls and floors of every single building and home that my people have endured for centuries. I look at his aged face. He has a single mole beside his right eye. He forces, with much effort, his tired eyes to stay open and his posture to stay upright until, suddenly, a tall, muscular officer with a gray, clearly ironed uniform pushes the guard in front of me and yells, “Stop wasting time!” Such a tainted figure he is. Poor old man. It is such a disgrace that the old man is a follower of The Great Force of the Fill. “Hole,” I say. The old guard gives me a brown slip of paper. It is so crisp. It is so unexpected. Everything in our possession is frayed and weary. The Great Force only distributes the completely unwanted to the common people. This place they call home is blank. No novel path to find. The Great Force believes we need order and guidance to build this nation from its ruins, but all it has created is a dystopia, an abyss of inhumanity. “Mr. James Bach,” the guard says, “do you swear to The Great Force that you are male of twenty-three years of age, you inhabit 564 Iron Place, have brown hair, gray eyes, are 5 feet and 10 inches, weigh 130 pounds, mother is deceased when you were fifteen years of age, father is the ambassador of the Hole, and you have no siblings?” “I confirm,” I say in a sturdy voice, trying not to stare at a young child behind a guard as she drags herself across these dry concrete floors desperately begging for help. Her bones are clearly visible through her tattered clothing. Bruises, dirt, and blood distribute all over her pale flesh. No one has come to help her. No one can help her because of the power and consequence that came from The Great 35 Force. I remember seeing her long ago, not the same as she is now. Her body was plump and liberated by all the dirt and bruises she now embodies. She was a child like any other, bright blonde hair with a white hackneyed dress, as she plucked the very few and dispersed daisy blossoms that were beside a fungi-infested well. She was the epitome of innocence. An image my society fails to acknowledge. She lived a few buildings away from mine. A mysterious vehicle with darkened windows would constantly pass and ask for her. This was common. If a member of The Great Force felt a need for perverse entertainment, they would vulgarly choose the youngest of citizens and then leave them off for the vultures to collect. I look back at the guard, perplexed. He tiredly repeats a phrase that is difficult for me to process at the time, turning his abdomen and pointing to another room. This room is for the examination. It is a simple examination to check the level of how well the people are. The equipment is moderately new, perhaps a couple of decades old. Best we could ever ask for… We do not have the right to give our views about anything that shapes this, our world. Since the formation of the masses, there have been two groups of people: the Holes, the party that calls for equal opportunity and change, and the Fill, who have violently tried to remain dominant. The Fill have been in command since that long hiatus in time since documents that were written thousands of years ago governed us all. Since then, people have been given the opportunity to label themselves but not to revolt against injustice. In our government now, the chamber is not equally divided. The Fill has disproportionate participation. Lights flicker green synthetic rays in the examination room. The temperature of the room seems to rise exponentially with the heavy breaths of crowded men trying to go from one room to another. I face the usual mediocre professional with his head tilted forward and eyes squinting to see my face in a much clearer light. He tells me to change into a wrinkled gown worn by at least sixty prior males, then 36 lays me down on a metal table. I can feel my body heat transfer to it in seconds. My eyes look steadily at a light above me. The rays are hypnotic. It resembles the light that will soon come for me when The Great Force decides to execute me for their own entertainment. The mediocre professional checks my muscle mass and my mobility. Later, they will send me to go through a brain scan. Why did they command everyone to go through these trivial checkups? Are they conducting yet another plot to control and exploit the masses? I pray to whatever religious idols the Great Force once obliterated, because they went against the control of their jealous God that this will not happen…not again. When he is done with the examination, he points the way out to another door, this one guarded by the proud officer, whose arms are abusively flinging the people out of the building. There is no mercy. Many fall in piles, like the old and the small, while others try desperately to catch their weary step and grab hold of the ground’s mixture of dehydrated soil and pebbles. He grips my shoulder and shoves me out of the narrow door. I fall on my knees and hands. Pebbles sink into my skin, all conjoined as an army to infuse small jolts of pain. I stare into the dirt, accepting but yet enraged at this system. All that it has caused the people, all that it has caused my mother… All paths have become parallel. Only one way to go, and that is for the devotion of The Great Force. There is no way to escape. The world monumentally decreased in population. All that is left is the people of this country. Beyond are only ruins of what was. The road is silent, and there are guards in every corner. The people do not even dare to look them in the eye. It is a sign of respect, and the people do not deserve to make eye contact. I did not have to follow my usual duties today because of the examination. Now the day is already darkening, and so I walk to a building that reflects an ancient, once-known library, but here books have to remain in the building. All the documents in this building are virtually all the same; most of the books correspond to the ways 37 of the Great Force, particularly the words of the Fill, and very few are the misunderstood voices of the Hole. The building is nearly empty, only me and another woman. I pay no attention to her and vice versa. I pull a book out of the weak shelves and read the strange words “to be great is to be misunderstood.” Words that induce adrenaline, to rush through my body, giving me an invigorating, new sense of life. My heart races as my body is distilled in the empty air. The woman comes closer, but I don’t take much interest. I walk away, but then I notice that she has pulled out the same book. I look at her from a distance, hiding myself behind the corner of the bookshelf. She places one hand over her heart as if that motion prevents her heart from plunging. I know then that I am not the only one. To be continued… 38 Dinosaurs WENDY GARCIA You’re such a dinosaur! RAWR when you’re hungry for baloney RAWR when you want attention RAWR when you’re in pain for all the world to hear. The world is rather small beneath your feet (a fragile beach ball that can easily pop beneath your sharp toenail). You could take three steps and you’re in London three steps later you’re in China. I admire your determination to leave your mark but is it really necessary? I mean, there are hundreds of you out there possibly millions! Millions of loud, selfish, and threatening man-eating attackers! You’re here, claiming you’re the only one but, dinosaur, there are plenty of you to go around. Besides, some don’t want you to RAWR. Know why? Because when you open your mouth what lingers on your breath is the ghastly smell of still-rotting flesh from the people you’ve previously preyed on. You walk the earth as if you own it. Well, maybe a thousand years ago you did but today there are billions of living creatures other than you. You just put big shoes on your small feet to leave bigger marks. Don’t you know that you can trip over your own feet? Every time you just keep adding the size of your shoes as if the shoes represent how big your problems are but, dino, let me tell you, there will still be others like you with the same size shoes or even bigger and maybe there are others out there whose feet are actually big. They don’t RAWR for the attention for their problems; they don’t want to be like the dinosaurs that created the chaos. 39 You dinos out there making all that ruckus with your RAWRING please stop, because you’re making it hard for those who can’t RAWR. Attention-seeking, dead-breath, fake big-footed dino please only RAWR if you’re really in need to be heard, or else you’ll be turned into a boy and you’ll cry wolf. 40 I Am LUCIANA PEREZ Mother of Angel Iribe I am a stressed and prideful person I wonder what life has in wait for my children. I hear cursing every day at home. I see death every day in the news. I want my children to have what I never had. I am a stressed and prideful person. I pretend that there are no problems in my life. I feel weak and tired at times. I touch the pills I have to take for my diabetes. I worry about the paths my children will take. I cry when I can’t control my actions because of my diabetes. I am a stressed and prideful person. I understand that there will never be an end to problems. I say that the government should focus more on poverty. I dream that one day there will be peace and equality in the world. I try to be there when my family and mother need me. I hope for a cure for every sickness in this world. I am a stressed and prideful person. 41 Under The Toes AMY COX Technology teacher scar tissue squelches cemented in the muffler hunting for the mandible it divides a sort of binary fission now encroaching my eyes knit shut yarn left to dangle a pair of woolly tears the mole trembles wrapped in flannel trying to be patient the wanting waits beneath the mulch 42 Drawing ELAINE RODRIGUEZ My mind turns in curls, thinking and thinking of the past, the present, the future. Thoughts start crawling into my fist, then my hand leads to a pencil and then boooommmmm!!! Thoughts, ideas, memories, feelings splash onto this paper all connecting like puzzle pieces to create a masterpiece all joined to one. 43 Family Love RAFAEL GUEVARA Our world has revolutionized the term “crime”; Seeing nations and innocent people as victims — It’s a shame. Where I’m from is as dangerous as a country at war. People witness deliberate crime And their dream is simply to arrive home safely. My country can easily be feared and, unfortunately, criticized Yet its internal beauty cannot be taken away. Besides the tourism, the bond between families is something to admire. Family love can break barriers. Everything has its own beauty And certain beauty is found in the core of family bonds. My family is what I admire most. Support among relatives is a habit. In times of need, nobody denies their help. The intense bond of my family has been the fundamental piece of our advancement in life. Without where I’m from, it would have been a place of enormous struggles. Although my country was not easy to inhabit, I have great pride in it. It has made an impact on me and on my thoughts. Now that my family and I have changed our ways of living, I realize El Salvador has made me who I am. Though America has offered me new opportunities, I will maintain my roots, my pride I won’t let Americanization take over my customs. Where I’m from, El Salvador, has shown me how to appreciate family. It has made me who I am. And I will never forget it. 44 Darkness RAQUEL GUEVARA I remember meeting the darkness even though the darkness doesn’t remember meeting me. Darkness is negative and I am positive. Darkness is my opposite; it was one of those moments when you don’t find an exit to your problems, one of those moments when you feel like disappearing from earth and finding a new place far away from this planet. At that moment, something was pressing on my heart, something abnormal but very real. I couldn’t breathe, so I opened my mouth. Suddenly, I felt a delicate touch on my back and a whisper: “I am alive,” an extravagant voice — therefore I remember meeting the darkness, even though I’m sure the darkness doesn’t remember me at all. 45 Fire And Candle JESUS DE JESUS The beginning of the end and the beginning itself. A reincarnation of its original form, for once it loses its form, it will gain a new one. Yet many people look at the negative side of this, affiliating it with despair, but I see it as light. When you see light, it means there’s hope. Reincarnation is change, but will the reincarnation be better than what was before or worse? Only time can tell, for time is the only thing that cannot reincarnate. 46 My Romanticism SAMOAN BROWN Why was I raised here? Perhaps I would have grown more alive in that greenery hundreds of miles from my world, become aware of that hue beyond my comprehension; favored the elms of beauty and bold creation, engulfed myself in the fury of existence that lies within the chasms of life. Such a life would be cherished, as if I’d just birthed a new form. I would become whole — now I am a contradiction among all others, forced to be pushed and shoved through time, never getting the chance to examine and imagine that hue. The cloud of this world has rained on my future. I am shamed to have never really seen the sun. Oh sun! The shape within an eternal shape the giver of life and bringer of worlds. I have never truly seen you for you I have only seen you through others. My mind is not my own. I beg you to have mercy. I am born into a life in the city. Gases are our air. Paper is our trees. Everything is a commodity. Oh earth! What has happened to you? Tell me what I can do to bring you back to your natural aspects. Let me, oh blue one, create more green than gray. Birds fly where no man can go. Replenish us, oh blue one wash nonbelievers away hold in the wise and true the ones who always come to you 47 Mystery-Flavored Gum A GIOVANNI SOTO h, damn, not again! Waking up in a random room with a random girl lying next to me in a stinking apartment. I look around the room trying to see if I recognize anything or anybody lying on the floor. Unfortunately, there isn’t anybody I know on the floor. In fact, there isn’t anybody in general. All that’s here is my old, torn-up skinny blue jeans next to my “I’m With Stupid” T-shirt. Then I spot what appears to be girls’ clothes: a red short dress that, from here, doesn’t look like it would cover someone’s thighs and a red bra with a Victoria’s Secret label on it. The girl has class in a slutty way, I must say. One thing that’s missing in this pile of clothes is my red Nike Air Force Ones that my mom bought me for my birthday. She’s going to kill me — my mom, not the girl lying next to me at the moment. I turn to see the girl, but all I can see is her back. She has light brown hair that, surprisingly, appears not to be dyed. She’s white, almost pale to where you can nearly see her veins. I slowly run my hand down her arm to get a feel of this mystery girl’s skin. It’s so smooth; I’m shocked. My hand wanders until it finds itself on her back, naturally coming to a halt at her shoulder blades. I get a firm grip, but don’t hold on too tight. Then curiosity hits me. I must see her face. I push off the hard mattress with my right hand, shaking on the way up due to my very weak arm. I place my left hand on her shoulder to support myself on my way up, trying to put a name to her face. But I can’t remember. I wonder if I even asked for it. Names just hit me usually the way the end credits of a movie hit you, except that each girl feels like the same character before you see the name. Still, I’d rather think of each girl as a mystery-flavored gum; you never know what kind of girl you’ll wake up next to. Her hair is still covering her face. I begin to remove her hair 48 from her face with my left hand. Her face is pale as well — no makeup, which, again, surprises me. Her lips look very well-defined and smooth. I quickly run my index finger over her lips to confirm my observation. Affirmative: smooth lips. I let my hand go freely on her pale white cheeks. Then I begin to panic. I begin to search on the floor and under the covers. No sign of protection whatsoever. I get out of bed and desperately begin to look around everywhere. The girl begins to move as she wakes. Quickly, I try to put on my blue skinny jeans and my T-shirt from the floor, struggling to put on my jeans because they’re so tight; I look like a flamingo on one leg, stumbling, falling, and making a racket that wakes up the mystery girl. She looks at me in confusion. Not confused like, who’s this guy? But more like, hey, why are you leaving? She greets me with an awkward “hey.” I turn to look around, double-checking she’s talking to me. Of course she is! I’m the only one in the room. “Hey…,” I say, staring down at the floor. “Where are you going?” She picks herself up against the headboard with one hand while covering herself with the other. I don’t know what to say. Where am I going? I have no idea where to go, and if I did, how would I get there? I don’t even know where I am. “Just leave like the rest of them. I never even expected to find you here in the morning either way. At least I remember what happened yesterday,” she said with a grin on her face. The rest of them? How many are there? Well, right now it doesn’t matter. She’s giving me the okay to leave. “Well, boys will be boys,” I say as I walk out the door with a smile on my face. Was I too harsh? I wonder as I leave. Who cares? I’m out and she’s had others! Oh my God, I’m jealous. Why am I jealous? I’ve never felt this way before, but it’s too late to let her know now. I’ve already closed the door behind me, and I can’t go back in the room 49 now. If I did, what would I say? “Oh, I’m sorry. I just realized you’re not like the others, and I would love to get to know you?” That’s a thought. But nah, too cheesy. That’s just not me. I keep walking down the hallway of the hotel, my hands in my pockets, thinking about what could have been if I had not walked out. 50 Toys GRECIA HERNANDEZ Three years old Since my brother had no one to play with, he would take me everywhere with him to pretend with him and keep him company. I remembering being pulled by the arm down the stairs into my brother’s playroom. As I went in, my eyes widened with joy; I’d never seen so many toys. But since I used to only wear socks around the house, I needed to remember to look at the floor so I wouldn’t step on a toy and hurt myself. My brother seemed to have a thousand toys; they were scattered everywhere in the room. Sunlight coming from the window glared on the toys, brightening them up. He had all types of toys: cars, robots, horses, anything you could name. Even though we played together, we each played our own game. Even today, my brother and I sit together doing homework or watching TV. Funny, our relationship has stayed the same all this time. Five years old The only birthday I remember completely. It wasn’t one of those birthday parties where you invite all of your friends and have a big jumper; this one was just me and my family. The kitchen was full of balloons of different colors spelling out “happy birthday.” The table had a birthday cover, we all had party cups, and there were plates laid out on the table. My mom had made my favorite foods: carne asada, potato salad, and her rice with vegetables. The cake was white, with strawberries around the edges, and my whole name written on it in red. As I stared at the cake, a hand pushed my head into it! My face was covered in icing. I was surprised and angry — my mom had done this and also recorded it! I screamed at my parents. How could they do this on my birthday? How could they take pictures? “It was supposed to be fun,” said my dad. My brothers were laughing at the goofy faces I made at the camera. 51 I look at the pictures now and regret getting mad. I should have had fun the way my dad said I should have. I realize my dad was right. Every time we have an event in our lives, we should capture every moment of it, good or bad. Six years old My mom had promised me a bike. I was jealous of the people on TV, and of my neighbors, who had beautiful bikes, especially the girls who had their bikes decorated with pink flowers and Barbie stickers. As we went into Toys R Us, the doors opened automatically. I could feel a breeze going through my hair caused, I think, by the fan in the doorway on top of the ceiling. As I walked into the store, there were millions of toys everywhere, kids running and touching toys and begging their moms to buy them the toys they were holding in their hands. But right now, I did not care for the toys — only the bike. There were bikes of different sizes, styles, and colors. But, out of all of them, only one caught my eye: a silver bike with stars on it. Soon I would learn to ride on it. I would become independent. Eight years old Second grade. My brother and I were waiting for our parents to pick us up at school. Two hours had passed; the school had closed. I was getting scared, but my brother wasn’t. “Let’s walk home,” he said. I thought he was crazy. I’d never walked home before. But because it was so lonely at school, we had no choice. As I walked, I looked down at the ground, seeing gum on the floor. As I looked up, I saw bums leaning on the walls of liquor stores. Frightened, I looked up to see that my brother was far ahead of me; I ran after him. Most horrible of all, I had to walk by houses whose yards had huge, scary, vicious dogs. As we passed by them, they began to jump; their mouths would drip saliva as they barked. I was terrified, walking with my eyes closed and my hands covering my ears, pretending I was walking through someplace quiet. 52 Finally, we reached our house. But there was no one home. Disappointed, we headed to the park where we lay under a tree for another two hours, then headed back home. On our way, we saw our family’s car pass by. Running after it, we caught up; my dad was surprised we weren’t at school waiting. To my surprise, the only reason they hadn’t picked us up early was that they’d gone to eat at Burger King. The bags of burgers and smell of fast food filled the car. In the end, walking home wasn’t so bad. Finally, I had experienced real freedom. Thirteen years old Everyone had a cell phone except me. I asked my mother, and, to my amazement, she said yes. It arrived in a small orange box. I opened it with excitement; it was silver and tiny, no bigger than my hands, which were small. The next day at school, I no longer felt left out. I was cool; I had a cell phone. I could call my parents to pick me up. I was connected to my friends, but could call my parents any time I wanted. I was free. I had power. I was a teenager. 53 Hawk YESENIA REYES There’s beauty and poison in every word he speaks. His eyes are a hawk silently preying on every soul that crosses by. There’s no telling when he smiles or smirks, no hint in a vocal that he tunes from his throat. Look deep down into his heart. You’ll never know is it the truth he sings or lies that he spills? 54 Testing YESENIA REYES The reflection in the mirror: ripples engraved in her skin. Her fingertips the color of the depths of the ocean. Her eyes float away. The breeze blurs her body, but when she looks down at her feet, the floor under her is solid as snow. She lifts her hand. She breezes past her skin, the blade only a wisp. Yet she bleeds. 55 Perdido OSCAR DUQUE Desde lo más profundo del olvido fue cuando te conocí Eras tan hermosa tan atroz Pelo color negro más oscuro que la noche Por qué lo hiciste? Me apunalaste por atrás y me mandaste hasta lo más profundo del abismo Me condenaste al encandenarme con tus mentiras y me besaste por última vez al decir adiós Desde tiempos remotos de cielos y nubes azules, blanco, negro y dorado Cargue con el peso de tu desdicha Te mostre las estrellas y te dije sus deseos Me diste confianza para emprender el vuelo desde lo mas alto del precipicio Pero me arrancaste las alas y caí al vacio Tu ángel guardián ya no existe más cayo al olvido de tu alma Impure como las sombras Y como el diablo reto al todo poderoso yo también caí del cielo Ahora soy un ángel de la noche sola vuelo A la luz de la blanca luna de tu corazón Pero mi amor por tí aun arde y arde mas fuerte que el mismo sol Arde con más pasión que las llamas mas fuertes ye profundas del mismo infierno Al verte recuerdo las lecciones de amor Y como solíamos ver al cielo y desear su dulce regreso Pero ahora esto es nada más que recuerdos de blanco y negros perdidos En el profundo de mi corazón Yo te amaba pero me dista la espalda me mandaste al abismo Donde vivo solo y con el corazón roto Tú eres mi amor perdido La chica de pelo negro y calidez en su alma 56 Lost Translation by Oscar Duque From the forgotten past and the endless void in my heart, I met you, the innocent girl with long black hair as dark as the dead of night Why did you do it? What did you want from me? You attacked me from behind, seduced me, you took me for a fool, you threw me into the abyss and bound me with the chains of your lies, you dissed me and kissed me goodbye. Before, we would watch the heavens and see them become blue as day, black as night, and gold as the sunset. I showed you the stars and told you their desires. You gave me the power to spread my wings and fly over the abyss. As I flew above the ever-growing darkness, you ripped my wings off and fell into the darkness of your heart. Try as I might, I will never get over you. My passion for you burns hotter than it ever has before; hotter than the sun, hotter than the deepest parts of hell. And I remember the times we shared and all the times we spent together. But now they’re just buried memories of black and white, forgotten forever. I love you, and yet you brought me down, broke my heart and soul. All that’s left is a ghost with no hope of ever finding love, from either you or anyone else. I have become just like you. 57 The Moon And The Star VS. The Sun KATHERINE CHAVEZ Your moon is conjoined to my internal crimson heart My beats and pulses erode his material Its sweetness comforts me As I am merely a million sizes inferior I am the darkness and he is my light that illuminates the pitch sky The contrast makes us whole He is my savior of the synthetic rays of light He is the master of waves and I am by his side He pulls and pushes the purely wanted and the cynically unwanted out of the cold waters I’ve grown stronger, but, in consequence, he fades away Shade by shade And piece by piece He is gone to hide from the day And I don’t hesitate to follow I yearn for him in the brightest days But soon time will be sweet to me From every faint tick of the righteous time he is mine once again His audience is intrigued by his beauty and he rightfully presents what is yet to come 58 Home RONALD MARTINEZ Home? Home to me, a place where I feel the love of a mother all around me. The place where I feel the hate of the people who criticize me. A place where I run like the child inside me. My home has angels that live in peace. But where angels exist, Demons are also there that hate and breed war. War shall start tonight. My home is deadly silent at night. Bullets and knives ready to penetrate the skin. Blood shall spatter tonight. My home has the smell of drugs and beer. Beer bottles on the ground, smoke in the stars, bodies on the floor. Let’s drink tonight. My home has a rain of faces, Hearts that grow tears, scars, memories. Let’s cry tonight. My home has the cries of the homeless, Carton houses and ripped outfits. Let’s donate tonight. My home is where the music is in a yard, Instruments are being played, hands held up high. We shall dance tonight. My home has the love of couples. Lives that intertwine, souls that reunite But have their struggles. Let’s love tonight. 59 Home: The place I will remember. From day of birth to ending days of death, A place where it’s neither heaven nor hell, But the place that is the Utopia of the imperfect; The home I share with others. Take me home tonight. 60 Father KIMBERLY LIZARRANGA I forgive you I have your blood running in my veins I don’t regret it You showed me your love By taking care of me You kept me inside if it was cold Made sure that at night I was warm and comfortable Gave me materials for school And a clean uniform And lunch. Sometimes the nights were horrible You came home late at night and I already knew what to expect I knew you were drunk, and it only meant fights with my mother I forgive you You were not the best father But I still love you I will always love you And I hope you love me too 61 El Salvavidas: Un Cuento Popular U DALLAS RICHARDSON Spanish teacher na vez oí una historia de un anciano chaparro que vivía en una choza al lado del mar en la República Dominicana. Aunque tuviera unos sesenta años tenía buena forma y era muy activa. Corría por los paseos cada mañana. Él no era de ese pueblo originalmente pero cuando vino lo aceptaron como uno de ellos. Todo el mundo lo respetaba y lo apodaban como el <<padrino del pueblo>>. Un día ese hombre, mientras que se relejaban en la playa después de haber corrido seis millas, notó que la marea alta había llevado cientos de estrellas de mar del agua y las dejó en la arena. Él sabía que esas pobres creaturas no podrían sobrevivir afuera del agua. Así que, se levantó e inmediatamente empezó a echarlas al mar, una por una. Un turista ignorante vio lo que hacía el hombre y se acercó para hacerle una pregunta. “Buen día, señor. Me gustaría saber, pues, ¿por qué trata de salvar las estrellas de mar si sabe que no podrá salvar a todas?’ El hombrecito contestó después de empujar una más en el agua. “Bien, es verdad que no voy a poder salvar a todas. No obstante, a las que salvo me lo agradecen muchísimo.” 62 Life Jacket: A Folktale I Translated by Dallas Richardson ..heard a story once of a short old man who lived in a hut beside the sea in the Dominican Republic. Even though he was around sixty years old, he was in good shape and very active. He always would go for a run each morning. He wasn’t from that town originally, but when he came, the people accepted him as one of their own. Everyone respected him and nicknamed him the “town godfather.” One day that man, while relaxing on the beach after having run six miles, noticed that the high tide had carried hundreds of starfish from the water and dropped them onto the sand. He knew these poor creatures wouldn’t survive outside the water. So, he got up and immediately began to throw them back into the sea, one by one. An ignorant tourist saw what the man was doing and approached him to ask a question. “Good day, sir. I would like to know…well, why are you trying to save the starfish if you know you can’t save them all?” The man answered right after pushing one more into the water. “Well, it is true that I will not be able to save them all; however, it will mean the world for those I do save.” 63 I Am GUADALUPE VARGAS Mother of Giovanni Soto I am a happy mother of four and a Mexican woman. I wonder what my son will do with his life. I hear my babies crying, I see how fast my children are growing. I want a better life for my children. I am a happy mother of four and a Mexican woman. I pretend to be a better person than I am. I feel the weight of my babies in my arms. I touch the skin of my baby. I worry that my children will get very sick. I cry when I see people crying. I am a happy mother of four and a Mexican woman. I understand that life is not easy. I say that, after the storm, things will get better. I dream of buying my own house. I try to be the best mom in the world. I hope my son will be somebody in life. I am a happy mother of four and a Mexican woman. 64 TELL YOUR STORY A PEN workshop with Antonio Sacre O ur next PEN workshop was with storyteller and writer Antonio Sacre, who charmed us right away by telling us the story of his own high school writing experience. Rejected by his high school literary magazine, he wanted to give up, but then found his voice again in his college theater program, where he discovered a talent for storytelling. Now Antonio travels the world telling stories in English and Spanish — everything from personal stories to fables his grandmother told him when he was a boy. Antonio gave us an exercise we now use nearly every day in creative writing class. He warmed us up by giving us free writing time; with a short prompt, or with no prompt at all, we wrote for two full minutes. The only instruction was to keep our pens moving the entire time. No editing, no holding back — no matter what, the writing spilled from our pens. When we finished, we looked back at what we’d written. Sure, maybe a lot of it was nonsense, but we underlined a sentence, and image, even just a word that might inspire a story. And from that kernel of inspiration, we found poems, stories, memories we could use in our work. Even if you have the most paralyzing writer’s block ever known, you can do this exercise. It’s amazing how much you can write in two minutes if you don’t censor yourself. Sounds crazy? Try it at home; try it every day for a week. Who knows what stories might emerge? 65 Little Man W EDDIE CERVANTES Father of Justine Cervantes hen I was in elementary school, they used to call me “Little Man” because, even when I was in kindergarten, I’d fight whomever I had to in order to survive. By fifth grade, a friend’s older brother gave me a tattoo — a cross “+” on my left hand between my pointer and my thumb. He said that God would watch over me. By the time I was in high school, my group of friends and I decided to make our own gang. We hung out everywhere in red shoelaces with red bandanas to show everyone we were Bloods. Some of them had older friends who taught us how to sell dope and make money. All of a sudden, I had money, a beeper, gold chains, shoes. I remember one day we were hanging out at a friend’s house and a gray car pulled up and a guy said, “Hey, got weed?” They started shooting within seconds. The car drove off as they yelled their local gang name. I tell you, if you think you are invincible, hard, crazy, whatever, when you’re being shot at, you feel defenseless. You can’t stop the bullet. Afterwards, I gave thanks to God, and I remember I looked at my cross and said, “Thank you, God.” That whole year was like a horror movie where I kept taking streets trying to find the one that led me home. After the first driveby, we were shot at seven times. By the time I was a senior in high school, I was carrying a gun. Too many close calls happened after that. I needed to slow my life down. My parents kicked me out of the house; I had to live with a friend, sleeping on the floor. I was cold and sometimes hungry. I sold my gold chains and lost my beeper. But, I couldn’t leave the gang. They would come look for me. I needed to start a new life. But how? I had a job at Pep Boys for a little while, but after the riots, the shop burned down. Long story short, I got back into the gang, and things were spinning out of control. I was selling everything from weed to counterfeit money. 66 All I wanted was to get out. I prayed to God to please help me. But nothing changed, until I met a beautiful girl named Valerie. From the moment I met her, I knew I would marry her. The day Valerie told me she was pregnant, I knew my life needed to change. One of my friends had a brother with a shop who hired me for $7 an hour. I spoke to the homies and explained that I wasn’t going to come around anymore because I was going to be a dad. A few were upset, but I was the , and that was that. I slowly stopped hanging around them until, after a little while, I stopped completely. I’m done with gangs forever. My daughter, Justine, was born on April 4, 1994. It was the greatest day of my life. I remember holding her and listening to her cry — it was like she was saying, “Little man, little man. Hey, Dad, I’m yours.” That was the day I discovered a different kind of love. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for my girl. It’s a new love. Unconditional. Unexplainable. This beautiful “little lady” has changed this “little man’s” life. 67 I Am Lost SAMOAN BROWN Earth, wind, and fire clash the mind to dust. Psycho because I knew too much. The African drum is the only living thing. Faith is now gone; if only there were hope. I am lost. My intellect fights with all outside sources, trying to hold on. One more year. One more year. I am on the verge of tipping over the cliff of inevitable adulthood. I am lost. Fire holds me in this cage. Wind pushes me to climb. Earth, earth, earth is where I fail to stay. So many components. So many trials. I’ve been convicted — But for one more year, I am lost. 68 Free KIMBERLY LIZARRANGA I wish I were a hummingbird I would smell the scent of flowers I would fly to the tallest tree and build my nest there I would wake up feeling the fresh air I would sing with joy and fly so high I could see and touch the clouds I would fly to a secret place Where there would be flowers And a lake whose waters were so clear you could see the ground There would be butterflies I would know that I would see the whole world I would be free 69 Mother KIMBERLY LIZARRANGA Since I was born, you’ve looked after me You’ve fed me, dressed me, saw my first teeth come out, witnessed my first steps. You were with me when I was sick, took me to the doctor, and made sure I drank my medicine. You took care of me as if I’d been made of glass. You were careful of dangerous things I could grab. Now it’s time for me to pay you back. I will make you proud of me. I will try my best, get good grades, take care of myself the way you’ve taught me. Show you that everything, all your hard work, has paid off. 70 You Want To Play? YESENIA REYES You want to play? I can do that too. I’ve been through more than you ever have, so if there’s an end, I know how to deal. I know what hurt feels like. I know the meaning of being alone I know what life can do. Do you? As far as I’m concerned, you’ve lived in a puddle of paradise, nothing stabbing your heart where it really hurts You walk like a tower leaning over the city; the thing is, you haven’t seen what’s in between the dirty alleys. You’re laughing, thinking you’ve got this planned, thinking you’ve got the upper hand, but what you don’t see is that I’m one step ahead: I’m not afraid. You may think you’ve got your game figured out, but I’ve played this game many times before. 71 You want to play? I can do that too. Have you ever lost? ’Cause that’s just what happened to you. 72 Frosty Wind DANIEL TORRES The sky is covered with darkness as if something above does not want to see me. The window is open. A frosty chill enters my room. The wind seems to dance with pieces of ice following it, starting to dance around me. I do not mind until I hear thunder, angry with the frosty wind. 73 You Wish DANIEL TORRES You wish I would leave. You wish you could see me cry. You say awful things to me. You tell lies, hoping I will cry, but I will not cry. I will not leave. You once were in my heart, but know this from me: I will not hate you, because you will find joy, but now you are nothing to me, and your hate brings me joy. 74 The First Beer, Definitely Not The Last ALEXIS VALDOVINOS Before Three months ago, her Nina was in the car, drinking the last drop of alcohol from the opening of the can. Can after can, one turned into many empty cans that soon turned her crazy and abusive. That night was different from the others; exceeding her limit of beer and hard liquor, she drank more than enough, making her unstable. Her adrenaline was speeding like wildfire, spreading through her veins. Her husband, buzzed and driving above the speed limit, was drinking, too, but not nearly as much as his wife. The liquor started to indulge her weak system, making her dangerous, like a tiger untamed. Thoughts raced through her mind, making her scream and slap her husband, begging him to let her out of the car. When he refused to let her out, she opened the car door and threw herself full speed onto the ice-cold asphalt. The street tore at her body, ripping it as she rolled. Her husband came to the quickest stop his car had in it. Running out of the car, seeing his love on the ground and the blood trail behind her, he stood helpless. The pain may not have been felt by her then, but if it could, it would scream out saying, “Sorry, I’ve failed you again.” The next morning her mother got the call she wished she’d never received: her Nina was in the hospital — not her first time drunk driving, not the first time in the hospital, either, for that matter. As she rushed to the hospital, she stared into her Nina’s daughter’s eyes to see if her baby was all right. Her stare broke the granddaughter. As they waited in the hospital, tears of disappointment were deeply buried in Nina’s mother’s eyes. And the daughter Nina pushed aside, the one Nina left behind to party and drink almost every night, waited to see if her mother was all right. As the daughter waited, she thought: Has she finally learned her lesson? Will she listen now? Surely in her hospital bed 75 Nina was convinced that her drinking days were over. But only time would tell if she was right. After Now she’s recovering from her injuries. Day by day she keeps her promise of never touching alcohol while trying to recover and relieve herself of her struggles caused by her drinking. Her aching body is almost healed. The open scars are almost gone. She’s better. One afternoon, she lies in bed watching TV with her husband, and when he walks out of the room, he leaves an ice-cold refreshing beer on the counter. She stares at the beer, her mouth getting watery, already tasting the sweet, bitter memories of her partying. Beer. She can taste it; it calls to her like the devil, irresistible. She reaches over and grabs it, grasping it, letting the water on the can sink into the creases of her palm. She sips slowly, enjoying the taste that runs soothingly down her throat, making its way to her belly and settling there. Home again. The devil is satisfied now; he has won her over once again. Noticing her daughter in the doorway, she jumps up, startled, placing the beer back in its original place. Guilt overpowers the room. Forgiveness is not an option. Nina stares at her daughter from the corner of her eye, trying to make her go away, trying to forget what she has just done. But still, the daughter stands in the doorway. A stare of disappointment. A broken promise. 76 Desire OSCAR DUQUE To live alongside you, to spend my life with you is my desire. You and I are two birds that dance and sing our love in the sky. When I first met you, I saw the girl in white who ran away from me that moonlit winter night. It was just me, my cousins, my neighbor, and you, the uninvited. I was hiding in the depths of the forest in my mind. I waited the way the wolf awaits his prey. I ran — hidden by the shadows, I was. I heard your voice, so gentle like the wind when it hits the leaves and whispers my name. Your skin a powder snow, the brightest white, your heart delicate and innocent, your lips intoxicating, like a poison spreading through my veins. I’d never met a girl with so much light in her soul. The winds of change have hit our doors and taken us by surprise. Opportunity, when I run into you and tell you with a look in your eyes that I love you. The dog howling at the moon? That’s me. The bird showing off his colors? That’s me. You’re the one who answered my taunts, the girl of black and white, the snake of light, and me, the snake of darkness. Now we live along the tree of life, where Adam and Eve began, the two who’ve lost their better halves, the seed that needs water and soil. We are waiting to be planted. When our roots grow, we will become each other. My desire is you, my moon. 77 I Am KIMBERLY ARENAS I am the daughter of a loving being I wonder how far apart we can possibly drift I hear your words of wisdom I see the great person you’ve molded me into I want to come back to you one day I am the daughter of a loving being I feel your warmth I touch your beautiful hands I worry that you will cry I cry at the thought of your being far from me I am the daughter of a loving being I understand why you’re overprotective I say that this is best for me. I dream of buying you beautiful things I try to be the best me for you I hope that you will support all of my decisions I am the daughter of a loving being 78 I Don’t Even Know Why MARIO SALAZAR I am impatient, in love, and I don’t even know why. I wonder if you ever think of me, if you even know I’m alive. They say that if you dream of someone they were thinking of you, and I wonder if that’s true. I hear everyone telling me to give up, that I’m kidding myself, that this will never happen. I see you walk up and down the hallway, careless, isolating yourself; I see you hide yourself in your room, avoiding everyone, neglecting everyone walking in that door. I want you to be happy, to gloat in prosperity and love. But, at the same time, I want you for myself. I am impatient, in love, and I don’t even know why I feel alone. I touch nothing and everything. I worry that I’m obsessing about something that is totally out of my reach. I cry when reality reminds me that I can’t have you. I am impatient, in love, and I don’t even know why. You’re living your life already, promised to someone else who probably deserves you more than I do. I say, “I wish you the best and I love you,” but I dream of the day when we might be together. I try to forget you, but it seems to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I hope someday you’ll love me the way I love you. I am impatient, in love, and I don’t even know why. 79 I Am RAQUEL ZAVALA Mother of Evelin Zavala I am Mexican and hard-working I wonder if my daughter will go far away for college I hear the ticking of a clock I see my daughter leaving my sight I want her to stay I am Mexican and hard-working I pretend not to pay attention to it I feel sad thinking about it I touch my head I worry she will go her separate way I cry I am Mexican and hard-working I understand my daughter wants to become independent I say, “Don’t trust everybody,” because not everybody has good intentions I dream of my daughter’s dreams coming true I try to protect her I hope she’s happy with the decision she makes I am Mexican and hard-working 80 I Am JUAN GOMEZ I am lazy, happy I wonder if there’s someone like me I hear someone yelling my middle name I see a shooting star I want to go back to middle school I am lazy, happy I pretend to be happy when I’m feeling something else I feel cold in my classrooms I worry about my grades I understand chemistry I dream of a better future. 81 Dreaming World ELAINE RODRIGUEZ We are floating on a lily pad under the dark blue sky. The moonlight shines in your eyes; flowing water runs underneath our bodies. As we are settled down on this green, shiny object, we close our eyes. The moon goes down. The sun comes up; I am gently awakened by the smell of rose petals slowly falling down on me. I open my eyes wide; I see the blood-red rose petals at my sides, smelling so sweet and pure. I look on my finger and there are red rubies shining on my ring. It was the vow you gave me, the gentle soft kiss we shared. I then feel a warm, large hand on my shoulder melting me from the inside, ripping me apart, nourishing me with heat. I turn around, look into your dark chocolate eyes. Your warm, safe arms are what I feel around me. And just as I’m about to say something, you kiss me. As I open my eyes I’m awakened from my dream, sitting up in bed, letting go of a long stream of tears because I wish it were reality. 82 Hatred VICTOR CRUZ It flows like sweet wine through our veins, pumped by our hearts morning and night. Never a moment passes that the deeds of the mystics are forgotten. Their indiscretions loom as a red flag before a bull, a virus that has no cure. Vengeance spreads through the brain, causing ideas of torture. Once you feel that, you’re a victim of this illness, and yet your blood pleads for more as if it needed the drug. 83 I Write ANONYMOUS I write what I can’t speak letting paper know my true feelings. I wonder, Will you still love me a hundred years from now? And I look for you, hand you a letter. A smile fades on your face. My heart stumbles, trying to balance itself, leaning more toward you. I look up, God only knows what currently seems impossible for me to describe: your look your touch your voice your scent your taste Forever lasting? Lingering in my room. What can it be about you that I can’t seem to let out, that I can’t seem to let you know — this emotion that only God and this paper know? 84 Dark Little Flower ELAINE RODRIGUEZ As I lie on the ice-cold cement floor, I look up with wonder. I’m wanting to explore, to adore what I find. The stars are glitter on the night sky. I think, what’s out there? What’s up there? If only I can be. This breathtaking view is disturbed by the shouting of two monsters inside the house, constantly shouting back and forth. Their voices collide, all in my head, pressing together. I want to scream forever; instead, a tear falls slowly against my cheek. As I look the other way toward the spiral of flowers, the green overcoming its leaves. I look up along the trunk of the tree, bright white flowers along its leaves. As the waves of wind blow them back, it knocks down their petals, their leaves; they flitter down on me. As they float down, I see the moon and the moonlight, shining on me in the background. I see the purple turning into the dark blue seas, turning into solid black. The wind roars in my eardrums, becoming a melody, finally whispering in my ear, so soothing, moving, floating. I am finally at peace. A place where I can be. A place where I can be me. So sweet. And so, finally, I soundly fall asleep. 85 Yo Soy MARIA RODRIGUEZ Mother of Noel Nevarez Yo soy sonadora y romántica Yo maravilla como mi vida habra sido si fuera enfermera Yo escucho los parajos cantando todos los diás rumbo al trabajo Yo veo una casa enorme Yo deseo irme a vivir de nuevo a Colima Yo soy sonadora y romantica Yo pretendo ser la mejor mamá para mis hijos Yo seinto que quedo ser la mejor mamá Yo toco la piel suave como nieves de mi nieta Hayley Yo me preocupo sobre mis hijos Yo lloro todos los diás que mi nieta no está en mis hombros Yo soy sonadora y romantica Yo entiendo que debo ser más energética Yo digo que tenemos que ahorrar Yo sueño viajar el mundo Yo intento ser mejor persona Yo espero que mi nieta estara conmigo Yo soy sonadora y romántica 86 I Am Translation by Noel Nevarez I am a dreamer and a romantic I marvel at what my life would have been if I’d followed my dream of being a nurse I hear the birds chirp as I walk to work every day I see myself in an enormous house I dream of moving back to Colima to live close to my mom, my brother, and my sisters I am a dreamer and a romantic. I pretend to be the perfect mom my children desire I feel like I must be the greatest mom I touch the soft, delicate skin of my youngest granddaughter, Hayley. I worry about my children and grandchildren I cry every day that I don’t get to hold my granddaughter in my arms I am a dreamer and a romantic I understand that I can’t give up I say that we need to keep going together as a family I dream of traveling the world I try to be a better person I hope my granddaughter finds her home in my arms I am a dreamer and a romantic 87 I Am MARIA HERNANDEZ Mother of Erick Miranda I am a mom I wonder how my kids are going to do in the future I hear screaming I see my family happy I want my family to do better in life I am the one who takes care of them I pretend not to notice that they haven’t done their chores I feel bad I touch the dirt I worry about my family I cry for my kids I understand that it’s hard in life I say that my kids are going to get a good job I try to get them to get good grades I dream that they will go to college I hope that everyone will live in peace I am a caring mother 88 Sonnet ANONYMOUS My love for him is relentless in how If he loves me he would tell me not lies If love is true, then he should see me now Every time I see his smile my heart dies If I cannot blame him for my mistake I should not show him this awful remorse My heart will fall, but not for this big ache I think that I should take another course A love like his runs deep in desires A love so true that it needs a new chance His love so true, so deep like the fires Take my hand and let’s do this in one chance Your love was and always is a sunset It is something that I will not regret 89 Deadly Fire CRYSTAL SIMPSON The silence is settling And it’s peaceful But sometimes it’s lonely And desolate It drives me crazy And I try to find the intense side Silence is so slow Time never flies With a picture in my hand And a lighter in my pocket I burn the picture And realize I’m dead. 90 FIND YOUR INNER ANIMAL A PEN workshop with Natashia Deón W e love Natashia! This was her second year visiting APB, and, as before, she filled the room with her contagious enthusiasm. Natashia, a screenwriter, got us in touch with our inner selves using an exercise in imagination. Try it yourself! First, write down three animals. Don’t read any further until you’ve done this. Done? Okay. Now, look at your list. The first animal is how others see you. The second is how you really are. The third is who you want to be. Try it with your friends. It sounds ridiculous, but you’ll be surprised how accurate it is! Having found our true inner selves, we took that animal and wrote a short piece in which we put the animal in a threatening situation. Digging deeper into our imaginations, we described the setting and the conflict, using the animal as an extended metaphor for our own inner battles. It’s a brilliant way to bring our emotional selves to vivid life on the page, creating instant, powerful poetic fiction. 91 Yo Soy ROSALIN AMAYA Mother of Heidi Amaya Yo soy tierna y sensible Yo me pregunto por qué existe la guerra? Yo escucho lo tríste que es cuando la familia se destruye Yo veo correr el tiempo muy rapido Yo quiero un buen futuro para mis hijas Yo soy tierna y sensible Yo pretendo olvidar el dolor Yo siento miedo dejar de existir y que me necesiten mis hijas Yo toco las puertas para encontrar soluciones Yo me preocupo sí llegue a ver un maremoto Yo lloro cuando hieren mis sentimentos Yo soy tierna ye sensible Yo entiendo que las cosas pasan por una razón Yo digo que el fracaso ayuda a crecer como ser humano Yo sueño un diá lograr una carrera Yo trato de conservar el amor Yo espero que mi hija Leslie ya nunca tenga asma Yo soy tierna y sensible 92 I Am Translation by Heidi Amaya I am tender and sensitive I ask myself, why does war exist? I hear how sad it is when families are destroyed I see time go so quickly I want a good future for my daughters I am tender and sensitive I pretend to forget the pain I feel the fear that one day I won’t exist and my daughters will need me I knock on doors to find solutions I worry that one day a tidal wave will come I cry when my feelings are hurt I am tender and sensitive I understand that things happen for a reason I say that downfalls help humans grow I dream that one day I’ll pursue a career I try to conserve love I wish that my daughter, Leslie, didn’t have asthma I am tender and sensitive 93 Like A Trauma And Like A Plague RAQUEL GUEVARA “Unexplainable” is actually a word that can easily be explained just by breaking it down. Fragments and pieces connect to each other. But you and I are incompatible. If I am water and you are oil, you are the type of oil that penetrates the skin when it spills. I am a fragment that first looks insignificant but one day will be complete. You, however, are nothing, because you are disappearing day after day, exactly as the wind carries the dust away and never returns it to the same place. I don’t remember your facial expressions, therefore I just see you the way I see a mental depression, like those dark rooms that don’t have exits. You are stuck in my head like a trauma, like a plague that never fades, even though I try to get over it. 94 Snapshots: Family ANONYMOUS Five years old I lay in bed in the dark, cold room. The moon was the only light shining through the window. I’d tried falling asleep, but it hadn’t worked. I kept wondering where my dad could be. He’d been out all day long and had left my mother and me home alone. My mom had a worried look on her face; she didn’t like that my dad had gone out with his friends, because we both knew he would be back home late and drunk. I heard a noise at the door. My body tensed. I felt fear. I didn’t like when my dad was drunk; he was aggressive and impulsive. I heard him yell, “Open the door!” My mom tried to ignore him, but in the end, she got tired of the banging on the door and decided to open it. I was really scared. I didn’t like seeing my dad this way. I lay there, still, thinking that if I moved I might cause my dad to yell at me. I don’t know how long I lay there, but when I opened my eyes, it was morning. When I walked into the kitchen, my dad was sitting at the table as if nothing had happened while my mom cooked him breakfast, also acting as if nothing had happened. My dad just sat there quietly, eating his scrambled eggs; as for my mom, she cooked me breakfast. I sat down, feeling awkward at being next to him. I still felt afraid of him. How could he be so nice and sweet at times, then turn into such a ferocious beast? He probably thought I hadn’t heard anything the night before. I guessed that was how adults just acted at times. Sometimes they pretended I couldn’t see or hear. But I did. Seven years old As always, when things were going great, he found a way to ruin it. What had we done to deserve his many insults? I tried my best not to get in his way. I’d tried to be a good girl and to make him proud. My mother kept the house clean, fed us, took care of me, tried 95 to raise me as best she knew how. I guessed it was the alcohol in my dad’s system. I always saw him acting differently when he was drunk; he’d yell at my mom and call her stupid. I’d stand in the corner trying to mix in with the shadows. I’d watch as my mom’s smile faded, as the tears ran down her face. I stood there, trying to disappear from the surface of the earth. I saw no point in his argument. He had nothing to complain about. I stood there; he never realized I was watching. When he finally left, I rushed to my mom’s side. I was all she had, the only one who really understood what she was going through. I was her best friend and she was mine. Nine years old My mom yelled at me: “Hurry up! I don’t want your father to see us.” She wanted to get out of there before my dad arrived, wanted to avoid another heated confrontation that would go nowhere. My dad made pointless arguments about things that hadn’t even happened, all of which were a product of his deceptive imagination. She told me to pack everything that was essential to me. As we walked out the door, I thought this time it might be forever. I would no longer have a “family.” All the way to my grandmother’s house I was quiet and sad. I imagined my daddy coming home to an empty house, the house where I’d grown up. My grandmother was happy to see us, but she also looked worried. We spent the night there. I woke up to the smell of pancakes. At the table, I felt hungry and tired. While I ate, I thought of what my dad might be doing. I thought he might be hungry. “Mom,” I asked. “When are we going home?” “We might not be going home,” she said. A few hours later, my dad arrived. I heard him yell, “I have the right to see my daughter grow up and be there for her!” My mom was yelling, “She’s not going with you until you change your ways. Do you think your daughter feels safe when you’re drunk?” They kept going back and forth, neither of them giving up. I 96 wanted to speak up and make them notice that I was there, that I was a human with feelings, but I didn’t say a word. Finally, my dad convinced my mom to come home. The walk home was quiet and awkward. When we got home, I felt strange. Something in me was growing, a feeling I didn’t like. But, in a way, my dad deserved the resentment I was developing. Eleven years old Another of the many confrontations I’d heard all my life. What could it be this time? Jealousy? Drinking? Money? I heard my mother yell, “I’m not having an affair! You’re crazy. You have a disease! Your jealousy doesn’t let you see reality.” I wished the walls were thick enough to keep the noise from reaching my ears. I thought that if I listened to music, I might be able to forget, but my brain didn’t let me; it kept reminding me of everything that had happened in my life. I wanted to shut my brain off and keep it off of my parents’ problems. I wanted to leave and pretend I was from a different family. At last the fighting stopped, and I rushed to my mother’s side. She was crying. All I felt was my uselessness. I couldn’t do anything to help her; I couldn’t tell her to leave, because part of me wanted to stay. I just sat there and watched my mom let her disguise fall. Fifteen years old I was on the couch. Outside the kids laughed and played. I picked up my cell phone and my cousin said, “Your mom left.” I didn’t know how to react or what to say. I just felt the warm, salty tears run down my cheek until they reached my mouth. My friend, Anthony, asked what was wrong. I just sat there, feeling embarrassment rising to my face. My cheeks burned. All I could say was that I needed to go home. I needed to know what had happened, where my mom could possibly be. We had no other family here; all the family we had was from my dad’s side. Anthony and his mom gave me a ride home. I kept trying to hold back the tears because I was embarrassed to say what had happened. Anthony and his mom stayed with me for a while. He wanted 97 to make sure I was all right and didn’t need anything. As they were about to leave, he turned around and said not to worry, that everything would be all right. I just stood there and let my emotions take over. He said he had to leave, but if I needed anything, he was just a phone call away. I walked into my empty house and sat in the empty, dark living room, crying until my dad got home. When he walked in, I noticed he was carrying my sister’s backpack. Then I saw my mom, walking behind him… I was relieved and happy to see them arrive home safely, but I was also disappointed to see my mom back. Here she was, ready to put up with my dad all over again, just for me, just because she didn’t want me to grow up without a father figure. My only home was built on her unhappiness. 98 The Blue Plus Sign SARAH VASQUEZ The oppression from her father; the pain he caused her. Black and blue, alone and abused. She was seventeen years old. She had no place to go. Her two younger brothers looked up to her with wonder. Why was their mother still there? Yet they saw her nowhere. She needed someone. She looked for anyone to help her erase the pain and live life with no games. He was there for her. She thought she was in love. Passion took over, then they became lovers. What happened next? I’m afraid to tell you the rest. She waited and waited. Her sight became faded. When she saw that blue plus sign she broke out in a painful cry. She wasn’t sure how to tell her mom. She was too afraid to tell her dad. What would happen to her future? Could she raise a child? They made her leave the house. 99 She went to live with him, the one she thought would be the one, but in the end, he turned out to be just like the rest of them. He was a liar. He was a cheater. She couldn’t take it anymore, so once her child was born, she went back to live with her parents away from the one she no longer wanted in her life. When her daughter was born, all she wanted was to be the best for her; to be something more in life, to be successful in life. She had no idea how to raise a child, so she got help from her mother. She took advantage of the situation and went back to school to get an education. She worked all day and went to school all night. She hardly saw her daughter, but it was all for her. This is your story, Mom. I want you to know that you are a great mother. You are my role model. All those days and nights of hard work were worth it. I am here reading this poem because of your strength. This one’s for you. 100 Opposite MARIO SALAZAR To me, you’re a flawless being, perfect smile, perfect style, perfect persona. A dark cloud hovers over my head, pouring water over me, but just a simple stare, a simple glance from you turns all that into a summer day, cloudless. My body absorbs the warm, bright rays of the sun. Goosebumps fill my body, a warm sensation takes over me. You’re the sun in my galaxy. You’re my air. You’re random knowledge that leaves everyone wondering, leaves everyone wanting to know more. They come back for more, especially me. I go to see you because you’re always trying to convince me you’re right, always contradicting everything I say or do. You are my opposite. Why have someone who is just like me? I want someone who will show me the other side of the world, the beauty of the unknown. I don’t want somebody like me; I want to rejoice in the unknown — I want someone like you. 101 Yo Soy ANA HERNANDEZ Mother of Grecia Hernandez Yo soy una persona positiva que se preocupa por el bien estar de mi familia Yo quiesiera saber como la hacer el futuro de mis hijos Yo oigo mi instinto de mama que mis hijos un diá van hascer professionals porque lo siento Yo deseo algún diá el convertirme en una ciudadana De este país y poder traer a mis dos hermanos de El Salvador Yo soy una persona positiva que se preocupa por el bien estar de mi famila Yo pretendo que a veces soy una diseñadora de ropa Yo siento que con esfuerzo y trabajo voy a logar lo que quiero Aveces yo siento que toco el corazón de díos porque cuando Yo le pido algo con fé, siento que mis problemas se me hacen mas facíles Algo que me preocupa es estar en un accidente y Que nunca voy a volver a ver mis hijos Yo lloro cuando me pasa algún problem a mi o a mi familia Y que no se como lo voy a resolver, incluso Cuando le pasa a otras personas porque todos somos humanos Yo soy una persona positiva que se preocupa por el bien estar de mi familia Yo entiendo que un dia mis hijos se van a construir sus proprias vidas y no van estar conmigo Yo digo que siempre voy estar en los pensamientos de mis hijos Yo sueño con que voy a volver a comprar otra casa Yo trato la manera de ser buena mamá, humana, hija, y esposa Yo tengo fé que algún día voy a cambiar de trabajo porque estoy consada de trabajar en el mismo Yo soy una persona positiva que se preocupa por el bien estar de mi familia 102 I Am Translation by Grecia Hernandez I am a positive person who worries about the good of my family I want to know what my children’s future is going to be. I hear my instinct as a mother telling me that one day they’ll be professionals; I can feel it. I wish one day to become a citizen of this country and to bring back my brothers and sisters. I am a positive person who worries about the good of my family. I feel that with hard work, I can accomplish what I want. Sometimes I feel as if I am touching God’s heart because when I ask for something with hope, I feel my problems have become easier. I worry about being in an accident and never waking up to see my children again. I cry when I have a huge problem or my family has a problem and I don’t know how to solve it, and this includes anyone in the world, because we are all human. I am a positive person who worries about the good of my family. I understand that, one day, my kids will leave and create their own lives and no longer be with me. I say that I’m always going to be in my children’s thoughts. I dream of the day when I’ll own my own house again. I try my best to be a good mother, person, daughter, and wife. I still have hope that one day I will change jobs, because I’m sick of working the same tiring and boring job. I am a positive person who worries about the good of my family. 103 Poison Thirst JESSICA RAMOS One shot, two shots, three shots, more… five strident kicks knocking down the door in the middle of the bliss of night. Yells and screams plead with him, if they dare to disturb him, to stop. Mother and children cynically cry on the floor, children holding on tightly under the mother’s fragile arms. One shot, two shots, three shots, more… He knocks down the wooden door. Mother bursts out, arms held larger, ready to put up a fight. The tall brown man stands up high, arms of a devil, face of a bull, the green-eyed monster ready to roar. One shot. two shots, three shots, more… One hit and the man strikes her down, saintly falling down, he who is a “man” stands tall, children up, rage, run off like there’s no tomorrow, no faith for him, who has taken away their life and soul. One shot, two shots, three shots, more… That’s how many shots he indulged. The thirst of vengeance does unfold, the thirst of a father ending a life. 104 Memoir I WENDY GARCIA ..was always harsh with my mom because she would hardly ever let me go out with my friends. A simple “Ma, me dejas ir? Puedo ir con ellos?” and she would just respond “no.” I would ask her to give me a reason, and she would just say, “Because I say no.” I would tell her that because of this, she wasn’t letting me learn things on my own, and she still would say no. But when my accident happened, I came to appreciate my mom and her “nos” to the many things I asked for. It was a Saturday afternoon, one of the last days my grandma was spending here in L.A. with us, so we decided to have a family dinner at my aunt’s house. It was almost time to get ready, and I went into the bathroom, letting the hot water run; soon the whole room was clouded by vapor. I was rinsing my hair out one last time before I stepped out and felt it — that feeling I knew so well, like a good friend paying me a visit, the sensation of ants crawling out of my heart and moving to the edges of my body. The ants invaded my fingertips and then transformed into needles, which started to stab at my fingers. It tingled, almost like a sensation that is supposed to make you laugh, but I didn’t laugh. I reached for a little window next to me; I thought it would help to let in the air from the outside and let the suffocating vapor out. I was trying to breathe slowly, but the air flowing in was only making me sway, followed by the walls around me. I swayed with the walls from one side to the other. The bathroom tiles on the walls doubled in a blink of an eye; they looked as if they were fighting one another to get face to face with me. When I concentrated my eyes to focus on a single tile, I saw them. The tile was covered in dots, millions and millions of dots. They were so colorful! Almost as if specks of color were surrounding me. If I stopped looking around me, they looked like the tips of colored pencils with their sharpened points facing me. Millions of colorful sharpened points facing me; I wasn’t 105 scared that they might touch my naked skin, because I was surrounded by more color than I had ever seen at once — it was like staring at a rainbow before a nice nap next to a running stream of hot, steamy water… I even felt the water hit my face. Before I fell asleep, I yelled out to my mom because I felt it nearing. I don’t remember if I called her once or twice. I wanted her to wake me up from my nap, but I realized the door was locked; it would take her five seconds or so to unlock it, but I knew she would be there to wake me. And like a movie in its final scene, the tiles in front of me began to fade, starting from the corners of my vision to the center. In unison with my vision, the sounds around me began to leave my ears the way it does when the volume of a song that’s coming to its end gets lower… and lower…and lower… and then there is nothing to hear. I exhaled and felt every sense leave my body. Then I fell into the nap and dreamed. It felt as if I was asleep for years when, in fact, it was only a few seconds. When I was awakened from that dark dream, I inhaled as if I hadn’t breathed in air since I’d felt that frightening feeling of crawling ants. After I inhaled, my vision was clouded as if I had my eyes opened underwater; I could see, but just enough to make out shapes. My mom was shouting out my name. I could hardly hear her, but little by little, I listened to her voice. I was so happy that it was her voice I was hearing. I’d thought I would never hear it again. This experience, having vasovagal syncope, which makes me faint sometimes, has taught me to appreciate the people and things around me. It doesn’t matter if I argue with my mom; I appreciate that I’m even alive to be able to argue with her. I appreciate the air around me, even if it is poisoned with toxic smoke and scents. The air allows me to breathe and stay alive. I appreciate everyone around me, friends or foes, because I can learn things from them. I have finally understood that my mom just wants to protect me — she knows that someday I will have to be on my own and won’t ask permission from her anymore. But for now, I’m so glad she’s here. 106 CELEBRATE THE IMPOSSIBLE A PEN workshop with Jon Sands W hen New York poet and spoken-word performer Jon Sands was in Los Angeles for a long weekend, he offered to visit our class, and we were thrilled! Outspoken, honest, hilarious, and warm, Jon had us spellbound with his riveting performances of his own work, inspiring Heidi Amaya’s poem that begins this anthology. After performing his own work, Jon had us read Willie Perdomo’s “Crazy Bunch Barbecue at Jefferson Park,” then used it to inspire a poem of our own. We listed our favorite places in the world, then listed who was there, what we remembered being said, what we’d never take back, and all the sensory details we could remember: what we tasted, touched, smelled, heard, saw. Using that list, we told a story in poem form about that day. He also recommended that we read “Embrace,” by Michael Cirelli, to inspire a poem about the impossible, taking that same place and writing about what could never happen there — but what we wish could happen, and how the world would need to change. After Jon’s visit, we all became obsessed with spoken word! Not only were we inspired to have our very own poetry slam in class, some of us actually attended L.A.’s biggest weekly poetry slam at Da Poetry Lounge on Fairfax. No, we didn’t compete, but we had a tremendous amount of fun, including a trip to Canter’s afterwards for a late-night nosh. Next year, maybe we’ll even muster our courage and compete! 107 My Beauty And My Beast VICTOR CRUZ Beauty is my cruelty, beauty is my beast; I awaken it from slumber and upon me it feasts, staring wide, hypnotized by nothing. Relate to something — now, please relate, I need my share. That flickering lamp in the dark, attracting the moths from my inner sanctum like blind ghosts haunting a fearless glow in the void, sleepless nights conjure memories buried under ice, cold and steel, paper cuts from decaying wounds. See the blood, taste the blood. Six more lines share my wrists. Come, care for me now. I abandon you all, dripping away my hate to unholy bliss. Sacrilege — the thought of you sends chills down my spine. You are faint, like a butterfly dying. So subtle, so meek, undying. Demon of lust, god of pain, messenger of misery, that flower of white in my soul, that once lived never bloomed again on my road to hell. But I saw you there, waving with a smile, mad you are now, mad with joy. Vengeful conscience has passed and the cold rings like steel again. Beauty, in her cruelty, beauty, in her sin, like hollow dreams and purity of love, burning in fire, untouched made me relate. I am deaf to you now. I confess the frailty I feel for you 108 like water against a glass, a shadow of crimson blue at dusk, magical, mystifying, carved out of a portrait. Steel your mind, you might need yourself again, for now I am dead. Your words I can no longer share. Talk to the mirrors. This hall of eternity, yelling for answers. Dive into my memories, into yours. See the blackness within. Be afraid. Be tormented. Be purged. For beauty is my mistress and you are my beast. 109 When We Were One LUIS GARCIA When we were one in the pauses of my day I could hear you loud and clear. You taught me the laws of life and gave me words, the treasures to show others and point them to the riches found in You. Your ideas were my own, and the unconditional joy found in me contaminated my surroundings. The light that Your love showed me reflected in my mind and heart when I expressed it to others. And now I can’t hear You. I returned to my old path, walking toward the edge of the cliff away from Your presence. All the wisdom You gave me gently faded. My heart hardened. I tried to play it off in my mind, but the gap in my heart is too broad. The peace in me departed. No one else knows what I’m going through. I can’t hear You, I can’t see You, All I want is to hear Your voice 110 Deeper JESUS DE JESUS Bottomless sea of time, the deeper it is, the more darkness controls our eyes. The satisfaction of light covers us in a warm sheet, but time never stops, and so the level of light becomes dimmer and dimmer… and then disappears. We humans aim for the future, but the future becomes the past in an instant. Even now we wander aimlessly to the top, to reach a future we will soon forget in our past. 111 Yo Soy XIOMARA GUEVARA Mother of Raquel Guevara Yo soy complicada pero buena onda cuando me lo propongo Yo me pregunto porque seré tan perfeccionista Yo oigo las risas de mis tres hijos divirtiendose cuando oyen mis historias Yo veo mi vida llena de felicidad y paz Yo deseo lo major para mi familia Yo soy complicada pero Buena onda cuando me lo propongo Yo pretendo ser alguien major pero no puedo Yo siento que el sol me abraza Yo toco las nubes Yo me preocupo porque no quiero envejecer Yo llor de tristeza cuando veo que mi novela favorita se va a terminar Yo soy complicada pero Buena onda cuando me lo propongo Yo entiendo que no soy una madre perfecta Pero yo digo que he demonstrado responsabilidad Yo sueño con ver a mis hijos felices Yo trato de nunca darme por vencida Yo espero que ellos valoren mis sacrifícios Yo soy complicada pero buena onda cuando me lo propongo 112 I Am Translation by Raquel Guevara I am complicated but outgoing when I want to be I ask myself, why am I such a perfectionist? I hear the laughter of my three sons having fun when they hear my stories I see my life full of happiness and peace I am complicated but outgoing when I want to be I try to be a better person. But I can’t. I feel that the sun hugs me I touch the clouds I worry a lot because I don’t want to get old I cry from sadness when I see that my favorite novela is ending I am complicated but outgoing when I want to be I understand that I’m not the perfect mother But I think I’ve demonstrated responsibility. I dream of seeing my children happy I try to never give up I hope my children value my sacrifices I am complicated but outgoing when I want to be 113 I Am MERCEDES RAMOS Mother of Jessica Ramos I am a mother and loveable I wonder how much I can love I hear birds chirping I see kids running I want to be caring I am a mother and loveable I pretend to be a teacher I feel that I am loved I touch the soft hands of my children I worry every day for my children’s safety I cry when I see them cry I am a mother and loveable I see that they are growing up I say that I am here for you I dream of seeing them in their careers I try to be understanding I hope they care I am a mother and loveable 114 9/5/09 ANONYMOUS The sky is so beautiful, to my stress the cure Reminds me of her and her beauty so pure Yes, the one I call Cielo because her name I can’t say The one I share a star with and think of every day The lover of music, literature, and, like me, the sky The only girl I know who, with a smile, will make me shy I can say I love her and I’ll tell you why: Because she won’t lie to me, won’t even try She makes me smile, a smile I have to hide Because even though I love her, I can’t have her by my side But I can wait for her till the day we can be The couple we’ve planned, and the world will one day see. She calls me “Silly Rabbit” because my name she can’t reveal But I have no problem, because no rabbit is as happy as I feel And I know our love will last long, maybe forever Like Romeo and Juliet, except we’ll end up together And let me finish by saying this, Cielo, I love you, and never forget it, please. 115 Novel In Progress STEPHANIE GARIBAY Chapter 1 “Nana?! I’m home!” I yelled as I closed the kitchen’s wooden door behind me. To my surprise, no one answered back. “Nana? Are you awake?” I walked over to Nana’s new marble counter to see if she’d left me a note to explain her absence, but there was nothing, which was strange, because she usually stayed up to wait for me whenever I went out. Although I didn’t like keeping her up, I loved the simple fact that she did it. Geez, I’m starving. You would think that a party with five kegs would have some food, but apparently they were too excited about getting beer that they forgot about ordering some food. Idiots. Apple? I think yes. I must admit, it had been perhaps the party of the century. All my friends had been there. In fact, the entire school had been there, along with people I had never seen before. The party was supposed to be a simple get-together; however, a week after my boyfriend, Greg, planned the party, word had gotten out, and it had become what all Jordana High was talking about. Everyone was been excited about the first house party Gregory Daniels — Jordana High’s baseball captain, quarterback, and rock band Ricochet’s lead guitarist — was going to throw. Greg and I were all everyone talked about. We were the couple with a band. Greg was lead guitarist, I was lead vocalist, our kindergarten friend, Brian, was the bassist, and the new kid, Jake, was our drummer. People envied us. Everyone wanted to be like us and to be with us — Greg especially. Everyone at Jordana High would feel cool around Greg and me because our band’s demos were playing on the radio. Every girl in school would go out of their way to get Greg’s attention. A lot of them thought that taking him away from a simple singer and artist like myself would be a piece of cake, and they saw the party as an opportunity. Greg was unaware of all the plotting because he had been busy trying to make sure all the rumors about his party became a reality. 116 After weeks of preparing a sickly awesome party, the day had come. Greg had been able to get five kegs from a kid who desperately wanted to fit in just like the many other pathetic teens at Jordana. I had decided to head out to his party at seven, thinking I’d get there early; however, when I turned on the road that led to his house, there were cars parked on the sides, leaving just enough space for me to get through. As I drove up to his house, I could see couples getting it on in cars and in between the trees that surrounded the road. When I got to his garage, there was a large space with a sign that read “Do not park. This space is for Alison. I will trash your car if you take her spot.” Aware of everyone eying me, I parked in my spot and got out of the car. Unlike all the other little hustlers wearing rags that nearly exposed their feminine parts and four-inch high heels, I wore a black corset dress that was above my knees with black leopard leggings and three-inch high-heeled boots. My flaming red velvet hair and red lipstick made me stand out from everyone. While I walked up the stairs to Greg’s front door, every trailer-trash girl would glance at me, whisper something obnoxious, and give me the stink eye. When I got to the door, Brian was waiting for me; unable to look into my eyes, he hugged me. We walked inside, and then I saw why he was so tense. Greg was by the pool surrounded by a bunch of girls who looked like hookers who were trying to convince him to drink, despite the fact that he had never had a sip. Everyone hushed and the music stopped playing as I walked over to Greg and the pack of dirty mutts. A little, small freshman in the group of girls turned to see why everyone was so silent. Seeing me, her eyes practically popped out. Afraid of trouble, she ran away and left an opening in their force field where I could enter. One girl saw me coming, and she grabbed hold of Greg’s arm. Acting innocent, she started to flirt with him in front of me. She handed Greg a beer and whispered something in his ear. Rage worked its way up from my toes to my head. Still, I kept my refined posture. Greg was unaware of my presence, even as the clicking sound of my boots got closer. He tried to shrug the girl off of his arm, but it seemed as if she was clinging on for her dear life. I walked 117 into the circle the hyenas had formed and swiftly wrapped my arms around his neck. Greg was surprised at first, because he didn’t know it was me, but when he looked into my eyes, he smiled and pulled my body toward his. Our faces were centimeters apart; all the girls surrounding him glared at us. Some started to walk away, but the blonde chick holding on to Greg just stood there, unwilling to release his arm. I turned, looked her straight in the eye, flashed her a wicked smile, and kissed Greg intensely. Aware that she was still holding on to him, I let my instincts get the best of me and pushed the blonde into the pool. Greg pulled away, looked at the girl trying to get out of the pool, looked at me, took my hand, and started to laugh as he walked me inside. As we walked through the patio doors into his house, the many partygoers who had witnessed our scene began to cheer. Brian and Jake were at the door waiting to high-five me. After that, everything in the party seemed to happen fast; one moment we were all hanging out, the next our band, Ricochet, was performing, then Greg started fighting with a guy who tried to grab my ass. It was crazy. Greg was like a sleek ninja. I’d walked over to the keg to get a drink, and out of nowhere I’d turned around to see Greg holding someone’s hand inches away from my ass. Greg had pounced on the drunk without even giving him time to react. After Brian and Jake had come to the rescue and pulled them apart, I went with Greg to his room so he could take off his bloodstained shirt. In his room, we realized that the partygoers were taking advantage of dark corners and secluded areas. Taking advantage of our privacy, we did what we’d been trying to refrain from doing all night. The music was booming through the walls, and the DJ lights shot through his room’s window every few seconds. After an hour of an intense make-out session, Greg pulled up for some air and reached over to his desk. He smiled, then handed me a wrapped gift. Confused and unsure, I opened it. Inside was a necklace with two diamond doves kissing. That was the last memorable moment of that 118 night. The rest of the party was like any other booming teenage party without parents. Now, in the kitchen, scenes of the party flashed through my mind. As I walked over to the refrigerator to get out an apple and peanut butter, I noticed Nana’s medicine drawer open. What’s going on? Nana always keeps her medicine drawer closed and locked. “Nana!” I yelled as I ran into the living room. “Nana where are you?!” Jesus! Where’s Nana? I quickly looked around and started to run toward the dining room and tripped over something. It was Nana. She was on the floor, as still as stone, her glasses five feet away from her head. I crawled over to her with tears filling up my eyes. “Nana... Nana, answer me... Nana, please!” I touched her pale cold face and more tears formed in my eyes. What am I supposed to do? Check for a pulse! She still has a pulse. Go call for an ambulance. Hurry! I got up and ran over to the phone and dialed 911 with shaky hands as fast as I possibly could. “This is 911. Please state your emergency,” replied a woman’s voice on the other end. “I need an ambulance!” I cried. “…” “Hello?” I asked with a shaky voice. Beep, beep, beep. “No! N–no. Someone, please help!” Beep, beep, beep. I quickly sat up. My heart was racing and my palms were sweaty. It was just a dream. Calm down, A, it was just a dream. But it was a dream I’d had multiple times; however, each time I got closer to the end, I’d already carved it into my brain. I woke up, dazed and unsure of what was going on or why I was in a sleeping bag. What the hell is that beeping noise? I got up and tripped over a box. I looked around my room. There was nothing, just 119 a single cardboard box with the iPod and music box Nana had given me. Then it hit me. “Oh, crap. No, please. Don’t let it be today. I don’t want to leave. Not now — not ever!” I walked to my window and saw the U-Haul backing up into the driveway. My heart started to pound, anger filled my body, and my eyes started to tear up. No, I’m not going to let this happen. I have to stop this. I turned around, jumped over my sleeping bag and my box of stuff, and ran out of my room. “Mike!” I called out as I ran toward the stairs. My bare feet made a pounding noise as they slapped against the wooden stairs. Unsure of where I was going, I kept on running, letting my feet guide me. I found myself running out the front door toward the garage. “Mike?” I cried out. “Alison?” I heard him say. “Alison! What’s wrong?” My dad ran out of the garage. Seeing my dad rush out of the garage toward me with outstretched arms made the tears in my eyes begin to sting before simply gushing out like a steaming waterfall. I charged toward him, but, before I knew it, I had tripped over a rock. I shut my eyes, convinced that if I didn’t see the rocky pavement getting closer to me it wouldn’t hurt as much. “Alison!” he yelled out. As I fell, I imagined the tiny rocks cutting into my flesh one by one, scarring my face and my arms, tearing my shirt. I felt my body slam against the floor — or so I expected. I winced, expecting the pain to hit me at any moment, but there was nothing. I became conscious of Mike’s arms around me, of his heartbeat pounding rapidly. “Alison. Honey, are you okay?” he whispered into my hair. “I’m…I’m fine” I replied as I pushed him away. I looked up at him and noticed that my lack of affection hurt him. I began to feel guilty, but then I remembered why I was so worked up. “Why do we have to leave? I can’t believe you are just going to give up like this! I can’t believe you are going to let them take the home we’ve lived 120 in for years, the home Nana left us! What the hell are you thinking? Don’t you care? Do you know how heartbroken Nana would be right now? This is our home, this is where all our good memories of Nana were made!” I yelled with a hint of hatred. “I can’t believe you’re just giving up like that. You’re showing weakness, Mike! You’re letting them walk all over you.” I looked into his blue eyes and saw something in them I had never seen before. I was unsure of what it was, but it added to the sorrowful expression he had planted on his face. He stared back into my eyes, but instead of answering, he patted my head and walked inside, leaving me more worried than ever. What was going on? For more of this chapter, check out our online magazine coming soon! And watch for future chapters of this novel to find out what happens to Alison… 121 Fire KIMBERLY LIZARRANGA What I see in your eyes is danger I never want to see you be near me or my loved ones. You can destroy entire families taking everything they have leaving only ashes of everything you’ve touched. You don’t respect anything or anyone. Every time I see you I run away in terror. I don’t want you to hurt me. With you, my skin loses its color, turns red; the pain is irresistible. You would never be a welcome guest in my home. You are everyone’s nightmare. But it’s not your fault — it’s just who you are: Fire. 122 Our Village HEIDI AMAYA I am a hippie in your village You are peace to my problems tu casa es mi casa. The smell of candles roaming around our presence your Scooby snack lips chewy and soft to touch and feel. I am a hippie in your village You are my high and my addiction in a world where everything roams so slowly as my head turns in a different direction I’ll never take back meeting you! Each time I open my eyes you stand out. You are more than beyond. Let me be your hippie in our village, the dummy sounds of ska running through my veins as you get closer. We are wrapped in a ribbon in your bed when it’s rainy and gloomy outside; you are my golden heart and treasure. I am your hippie in your village I am your Pocahontas your mystery to every curiosity in our village. No one to get in between which is what I’ll miss when I’m awake and you go away. 123 Yo Soy MARIA TAPIA Mother of Daniel Torres Yo soy alegre y estudiosa Yo pienso estudiar enfermería Yo escucho ladrar a los perros Yo veo muchas estrellas Yo quiero cuidar ancianos Yo soy alegre y estudioso Yo pretendo reunir la familia Yo siento mucha felicidad Yo toco la guitarra Yo me preocupo por hacer la tarea Yo lloro cuando los ninos se enferman Yo soy alegre y estudiosa Yo entiendo que debo obedecer las reglas Yo digo que todos juguemos Yo sone que volaban muchos ángeles Yo trato de ser buena persona Ójala se acabe la guerra pronto Yo soy alegre y estudiosa 124 I Am Translation by Raquel Guevara I am cheerful and studious I think I’m planning on studying nursing I hear the dogs barking I see many stars I want to take care of old people I am cheerful and studious I pretend I can reunite my family I feel happiness I play the guitar I worry about doing my homework I cry when my kids get sick I am cheerful and studious I understand that I have to follow the rules I say that we should all play I dream of many angels flying I try to be a good person I hope the war will come to an end I am cheerful and studious 125 I Am Latina CELICA QUINONES Mother of Sarah Vasquez I am Latina I am strong and weak I laugh and cry I am Latina I am Latina I search for answers and find questions I speak my mind and I am judged I am Latina I am Latina I dance cumbia and banda I sing to Metallica and Mana I am Latina I am Latina I am Mexican I am American Yo soy Latina 126 Act RAQUEL GUEVARA Don’t think too much — Just act. Let others know who you are. You are the air, unbelievable but real. In life, the simple things are more meaningful. Luxury doesn’t always provide joy. Illuminate others with your precious humility And Provide a touch of purity to those who really need it. You are the light that illuminates every dark spot of my inner feelings. Illusions are illusions, but you are real. 127 Nevertheless EVELIN ZAVALA That moment of failure sticks to you and never leaves your mind. You feel it as if you breathe it every time; It’s in your mind. You never get over it. It’s as if you see it in every corner, Hounding the atmosphere, Crouching, pouncing around the atmosphere, Like the eye of Big Brother, everywhere, Because you know you have failed. You begin to feel sorry for yourself! But you know that won’t change anything. So then you begin from the beginning again. You never give up. You realize what life is: It’s celebrations. It’s fascinations. It’s karma. It’s knockdowns. It’s negativity. It’s battles. It’s beauty,. It’s abstractness. It’s imperfect but yet so perfect. 128 So Scared Of Falling Down Again I ANONYMOUS t was a cloudy day; the sky was covered with a blanket of gray. The moon was playing hide-and-seek under the gray of the clouds. There was a chill, and the wind kept moving, not allowing me to be still. He was standing by the black metal door with the smudges of pink. He smiled at me, wondering why I couldn’t stand still. A huge gust of wind dropped me down, and I felt as if all the insects of the tiny garden were laughing at me. I couldn’t stand up. It was as if something was keeping me from getting up. I saw him walk toward me, smiling. When he smiled, the moon came out of hiding and shone on him. He pulled his hand out of the pocket of his navy blue jeans, which were always dirty with paint smeared all over the right leg, white with a bit of ocean blue. I reached for his hand, but trying to reach his hand was extremely difficult, as if something heavy was trying to keep my hand from reaching his. Once I grabbed his hand, I did not let go of it, even when I was on my feet. I was so scared of falling down again that I couldn’t let go of his hand, but he didn’t mind; he just kept smiling at me. I began to get nervous, sweaty, feeling as if I were burning alive. That’s when he said, “I love you.” That’s when I knew everything was going to be all right. 129 That Single Moment ERICK MIRANDA The moment in life you contain in your heart wrapped around your veins so tight you don’t even care if it squeezes your heart so much it might kill it. The moment I had when I first saw you; I might regret it, but you will regret it, too, if in that moment I hadn’t seen you, I wouldn’t be feeling as if my heart had died and broken into pieces. It died. Sadness crawled into me, trying to control me, but it didn’t. I didn’t want to put myself into a shell. I could tell I was in a fairy tale I didn’t want to crawl in, because if I did, I’d never crawl out. Instead, I crawled into someone else’s hands I am sure I am positive I am going to be okay in this new moment now as I lie here. 130 CREATE SOMEONE NEW A PEN workshop with Justin McFarr J ustin McFarr, a fiction writer, had us looking at a story from a new angle: by creating a complex and believable character. First, we took a close look at literary passages in which characters were vividly described, then, in groups, created characters of our own. The results were remarkable — I particularly recall a 5-foot-2, obese, redheaded man and a very angry cheerleader — and many of us went on to use elements of that day’s characters in later pieces for our fiction unit. Justin also left us with some terrific writing exercises to create three-dimensional characters by working through a detailed physical description and biography before even beginning a story. Try it yourself! Often, you’ll find that just by generating a very specific list of physical qualities, a detailed personal background, and some psychological quirks, you’ll find you automatically have a story going. Remember that 5-foot-2, obese redhead? Well, he lived with his mother and three cats in an old Airstream trailer with a broken screen door…yes, he was allergic to the cats, but he was afraid of his mother, who loved them more than she loved him. It’s a long story… 131 Under The Lake I YESENIA NEVAREZ t was a foggy night down at the lake, so dark the tree branches reflected in the darkness. The lake was dead silent; all I was able to hear were the crickets chirping and owls hooting. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a boat in the middle of the lake, candlelight flickering inside. Strangely, no one seemed to be sitting in it. As I got closer, by the trees, I saw a man in his early twenties, pale, with long, black, thick, wavy hair. His eyes were dark gray like the moon; it seemed as if he was blind. I didn’t want him to see me. I didn’t know what his intentions were, so I decided to hide behind the tree, afraid to confront him. That’s strange. I come here every night and suddenly he appears, I thought. What could he possibly be doing here in the middle of the night down by the lake? But, of course, he could have thought the same of me. I decided to leave, but as I did, I accidentally stepped on a tree branch. Quickly, I turned to see if he’d heard or seen me. “Who’s there?!” he screamed deeply. The voice was deeper than any I’d ever heard before. He walked my way. Many things went through my mind. None of them positive. What if he tries to kill me?What if he hurts me? What if he just wants to know who I am? I didn’t even bother to run; if I did, he would surely catch me. So I just stood, waiting for him, walking and shaking in terror. When he finally reached me, he looked at me. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” His voice was nervous. “I always come here in the middle of the night to enjoy the scenic view.” “Isn’t it beautiful how the moon reflects on the lake? The water seems like crystals are shining in the water.” “It is beautiful,” I said. 132 “You have to be careful. You never know who might creep up behind your back. There are a lot of people in this world with bad intentions,” he said. “I trust you,” I said. “If you were going to do something, you would already have done it.” “I’ve never seen you before,” said the man. “That’s strange.” I kept thinking, should I ask his name? How old he is? What if I ask him why I’ve never seen him here all this time? I was silent for a long time, maybe a full minute. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Alice,” I said. “What a pretty name.” “Thank you,” I said. “So, what’s your name?” “Robert,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine. His handshake was firm, his hand cold. When I smiled, he smiled back. His teeth were very strange; his teeth were white and sharp. He looked haunted, eerie. “Where do you live?” I asked. “Down the lake.” “That’s strange,” I told him. “There isn’t any property down by the lake.” “That’s because I live under the lake.” I looked at him, dubious. He sniggered. “Come. I’ll show you.” I was terrified. I didn’t want to go to his place; I barely knew the guy. Then again, he seemed well-mannered, and it would be rude if I didn’t go. “Okay, I’ll go.” “Great,” he said. “I’ll show you around. I bet you’ve never seen this site before,” he said. As we walked toward the lake, we were only able to hear the crickets chirping and owls howling. It was chilling; by the lake, the air was mediocre. All we could hear were the 133 tree branches swinging back and forth. “Watch your step,” he said suddenly. There were tree logs on the ground and branches hanging down from the trees. As we got to the lake, I began wondering how exactly I was going to swim under the lake. “Are you sure it’s under the lake?” “Yes,” he said. “Don’t you trust me?” “You told me not to trust people,” I said. He laughed. “I can assure you, I won’t harm you. I just want to show you around. I’m sure you’re going to be amazed since you’ve never been under a lake.” I didn’t want to undress in front of him, so I just dove in fully clothed. “Follow me,” he said. The water was cold and gave me chills down my spine. Under the water, I saw a school of tadpoles swimming together, grasses swinging back and forth smoothly. As we got closer to his home, I saw him go into a dark, hollow hole. His house was like an enchanted cave. Green vines spiraled to the ground, with fireflies majestically swimming through the air until they landed on their final resting place. The cave seemed damp under my feet. A gentle wave began, reaching my ears from somewhere through the thick sound of the waterfall coming down the lake. Shining purple dust blossomed from the cores of the flowers. There were candles shining in the dark corners of the cave, making it come to life, wax dripping everywhere. The cave was furnished with furniture from the 18th century from England. At first I thought, how did he get all this furniture? What a hassle! I wanted to ask, but decided to let it go. “So, what do you think?” he said. “It’s very beautiful and strange in here.” “Thank you,” he said. “Do you live here by yourself?” “Yes, I do,” he said. 134 “What do you do for a living? It must be difficult to adapt to this lifestyle.” “What do you mean?” “Well, how do you eat?” “I eat human flesh,” he said. He got closer and closer; his eyes turned red and wide. His smile was huge, his teeth very sharp. My heart began to race and my palms were sweating. “What’s wrong?” said Robert. “Are you trying to get away?” To be continued… 135 My One And Only KEVEN CASTENEDA My mind is soaring My head’s in the clouds And my heart is racing She’s just sitting there All alone Her curves Her beauty… It’s…indescribable I just can’t seem to stay away She’s my one and only… Car 136 Truth KEVEN CASTENEDA Truth is that nowadays guys are douchy and girls are slutty Truth is that nowadays little kids curse and grown-ups act like children Truth is that nowadays people smoke pot and drop out of high school Truth is that nowadays people lie and people get hurt Truth is… we can’t do anything about this we can’t do anything to stop this Truth is… we can do our best to avoid it but that is not enough. 137 Yo Soy LAURA HERNANDEZ Mother of Marcos Hernandez Yo soy curiosa y amorosa Yo me pregunto que el quiere estudiar Yo escucho muchas cosas sobre el Dreamers Yo miro muchos estudiantes tristes Yo quiero que mi hijo balla a la Universidad Yo so curiosa y amorosa Yo pretendo que mi hijo pueda ir a la Universidad Yo siento mucha tristesa Yo toco mi Corazón Yo me preocupo que mi hijo no pueda ir a la Universidad que el quiere Yo lloro de saber que no pueda estudiar Yo soy curiosa y amorosa Yo entiendo que hay una esperanza Yo digo qui sí se puede Yo sueño que mi hiijo balla a la Universidad Yo trato de hacer lo que puedo para salir adelante Yo tengo esperanza de qua balla a la Universidad Yo soy curiosa y amorosa 138 I Am translation by Marcos Hernandez I am curious and loving I ask myself if he wants to study I hear many things about the “dreamers” I see many sad students I want my son to go to the university I am curious and loving I pretend that my son could go to the university I feel too much sadness I touch my heart I worry about my son not attending the university I cry, fearing he can’t go there I am curious and loving I understand that there is hope I say, yes, he can I dream of seeing my son attend the university I try my best to push forward I hope he will attend the university I am curious and loving 139 Complete SAMOAN BROWN Perfect. Pretty Pile the makeup Create the beauty that is no longer there Be a slave to the world’s view Complete your life Extend nothing Keep proving yourself wrong Pile the makeup You are not worthy of their joy Complete your life Shouts of metaphysical shapes are formed Live in the past — That’s where your life remains Kill the light It’s harmful to your new beauty Complete your life Now! You are complete! Show yourself and your shame You are complete You deserve all Create nothing. Be nothing Absolutely complete 140 Silent Help M ANGEL IRIBE y name was Francis. Full name: Francisco Junior. I was sixteen when I committed suicide. You probably saw it on the news, spread everywhere as if I were running for election. This was long ago, March 6, 2011, before people of both genders started standing up for my kind. It was back when people believed things like this didn’t happen. Every day at my high school was the same routine. It had always been the same since the first day of my freshman year, the day I decided to start a new chapter of my life by showing who I truly was. The day I made the worst decision of my life. The day that led to my death. My murderers were a group of football players who went to my school. They hated me for who I was; they believed that people like me weren’t meant to live. They called me names and beat me up every chance they had. They bullied me. I tried calling my teachers and counselors for help, but their only response was, “We’ll talk to them and tell them that what they’re doing is wrong.” They lied. Those football players were treated like gods at my school, due to the fact that they gave the school a reputation for winning every football game. Their coach was deeply respected; Francisco Delaware, thirtysix years old, healthy and tall, with thick black eyebrows, light-toned skin, and bright green eyes. He dated my mother for four years before I even existed. Shortly after I was born, she left him for another man, leaving him with a month-old boy, Francisco Junior. Yes, Francisco Delaware was my dad. He was the best dad in the world to me; we were always together, watching football games, but everything changed when he was offered a job at my school as the football coach. Now all he cared about was fame and glory. He would come home smiling every day and tell me how his boys would punk on minorities, like the nerds and the 141 homosexuals. I never came out to my dad. He was the only person I didn’t want to risk losing by confessing my sexuality. He never paid attention to me. I was always left alone at home while he was out with “his boys” celebrating his winning games. But on March 6th, the day everyone at Boyle Heights High School was getting ready for the homecoming game, my dad saw me alive for the last time. It was hot that day. I remember feeling dehydrated, which is why I decided to go to my dad’s office to get a bottle of cold water from his refrigerator. As I was heading toward my dad’s office, I started to hear whispering coming from the showers. I had a bad feeling. Then, suddenly, the four football players who had bullied me in the past jumped out and started pushing me around, calling me names. I screamed for help and tried to run, but one of them pushed me, causing me to fall. The next thing I knew, I was an object. They raped me. I cried and cried for help. “You tell anyone about this and you’re dead,” said one of them. “And I’ll tell your pops about the little girl you really are.” As they let go of me, I ran as fast as I could in search of my dad. I didn’t care about their threats anymore. They should pay for everything they’ve done to me, I thought. My dad would have them arrested; I was sure of it. But I was wrong. When I told him, he just looked at me coldly. “Stop making false accusations,” he said. I couldn’t believe it. My dad! My only family, and he didn’t even believe me! With tears pouring down my cheeks, I ran home. I sat in the corner of my bedroom for hours, staring at the four walls, in pain. What’s the point of living if I’m going to suffer like this for the rest of my life? I thought. And then I made up my mind. Walking toward the garage, I felt a sudden pause. Time was passing slowly, so many memories came to my mind of myself and my dad together. Watching the games. Having dinner. All those movies we used to watch. Even as I tied the 142 knot in the noose around my neck, I remembered the last time I was smiling: my dad and I had been watching a comedy together. Laughing through the whole movie. How I miss my dad… That was my last thought. 143 Where I’m From JESSICA RAMOS By one taste, one smell, one touch, you will notice where I’m from. If you’ll taste my mom’s home-cooked meals you’ll notice these are not American meals, the strong, vivid smell of pupusas meals being delightfully served by my mother’s strong but gentle brown hands. Many would notice all the kids and men eating their meals at the long, distant dinner table while the women stand in the kitchen next to a hot, heavy smoke stove, yet with the joy of being surrounded by women. All you hear is “clap, clap, clap” coming from the kitchen, from their brown hands and the sizzle of the cheese roasting in the pan, boisterous laughter and quick whispers. As the table is clearing up, the men stride down with their heavy bellies filled with warmth. As the kids run from the table, almost dropping the plates and the table chair, they are eager to spend some quality time outside. My mom gracefully picks up the mess and the leftovers at the table. With one look, you see the reflection of one woman, sitting at the table, solemn, alone — a culture of one smell, one taste, and one touch. 144 I Remember You RAQUEL GUEVARA While watching Everybody Hates Chris, I remember the moment of your departure. Now I regret not enjoying to the maximum all those crazy moments we spent together. We broke the rules my mom set. You made me eat at eleven at night. You made me cook for the first time. I remember when I made pupusas that nobody wanted to eat just because I didn’t wash my hands before making them and supposedly you found a hair in them (which I doubt). I remember eating crunchy, warm chicken nuggets, five for you and ten for me. You made me go to sleep at three in the morning. Remember when you got mad every time I told you that you snored at night? You were the one who taught me how to put on makeup. I remember you with your red hair down and the perfect eyeliner on your gorgous eyes and those long, delicate eyelashes that made your eyes stand out. I can be unsure about so many things, but the only thing I’m sure of is that I love you. 145 This Is Not A Love Song STEPHANIE GARIBAY My dear friend, this is not a love song. I know this is wrong. You’re my addiction my secret confliction. I think of you day and night. I honestly try to put up a fight. I can’t love you, but I do. Don’t forget, this is not a love song. You seem clueless. I must confess, the things you say always get me through the day. Meeting you would be my last regret. But don’t forget, this is not a love song. Here, it’s something I can no longer hide, but it’s a secret, and I promise you I will keep it. But this is not a love song. 146 Jealousy JESSICA RAMOS The dark, evil feeling that reminisces in our mind leaving our true mentality behind; comprehending only what we want to hear by disguising the truth from reality. As the anger tears out of our veins and expresses itself in action, a foolish bull raging to strike its prey, we act upon our destructive mind of scrambled lies, act upon the sadness, guilt, vengeance lingering at that moment. The total rage has overcome our bodies. With no stop or pause to think, we act as a whole with one hit, one word, we can change everything. We take action as if destroying a mantelpiece full of art, turning it into shattered pieces. We try to fix the damage, but it’s been done. There is no repair, because we can see the work we’ve done. We’ll regret it, try to find redemption, but… our feeling of satisfaction is more powerful than sympathy, that feeling of tolerating and indulging all that anger, building up to be released in one perfect moment of satisfaction. 147 Remember ANONYMOUS Remember when I couldn’t hear and you’d listen for me; when I couldn’t speak and you’d shout for me; when I couldn’t touch and you’d take my hands; when I couldn’t smell and you’d describe the scent; when I couldn’t taste and you kissed my lips — a whole new world to experience. You gave me my five senses and love. Our souls. Our minds. Our memories. Our love. Combined. Revealed. Weightless. Paper-thin, delicate, easily torn apart. Love is blind — that I’m told. You, however, didn’t let go. And that was all I needed: to know that without you all my senses are gone. 148 To Whom It May Concern SARAH VASQUEZ I have broken the law I have consumed poison I have abused addiction Dear World, please do not judge me. I hate liars I hate broken promises I hate my father Dear Father, please do not speak to me. I always yell at you I always make you mad I always disobey you Dear Grandmother, please forgive me. I hope that I can be like you I hope that I can make you proud I hope that you will never lose faith in me Dear Mother, please know that I am trying. I love the way he hugs me I love the way he listens I love the way he can make the pain go away Dear Cristian, please know that I love you. 149 Love LEO MARTINEZ Love is great Love is excellent Love is questionable Love is bad Love is turning into hate Hate has progressed at a slow rate Who knows if I’ll fall for the bait once again? I don’t know why, but she made my heart accelerate. This is for you. 150 Your Goliath Nose EDITH GONZALES I sit and reminisce I sit and curl into a ball as the tears flow down my face. My body is burning with sorrow with misery. I miss you. I miss your funny, mischievous smile your comforting, adoring hugs your serene yet mean look your Goliath, odd nose. I can’t help but despise life for all that’s left are sweet memories. Death called you and you couldn’t run away. I sit in grief. I sit and shriek your name hoping death would hear me, hoping it would see my heart turning black. I sit and gently whisper, You could have taken me instead. I lie on the floor and slowly I die as well. 151 Various Times When I Cried NOEL NEVAREZ Kindergarten Everyone was crying; I was no exception. I kicked the door the whole day, sobbing nonstop. I screamed for my mom. As the day passed, most of us learned to accept that we wouldn’t see our moms for four hours. Except for one girl. She cried for a week, perhaps longer. Eventually, her mom had to stay in class with her and sit next to her to calm down. About a month later, my teacher, Ms. Ponce, said that I wasn’t going to be in her class anymore. I was confused; my mom was confused. She said my new teacher was Ms. Garcia. I didn’t care… until I saw her. She was old, strict, and just plain ugly. She had big glasses, she smelled funny, she slouched. I cried for two days. 1 grade st I had graduated from kindergarten and was about to start real school. The same people were in my class. We had Ms. Homes and later Ms. Love because she got married. She was light-brownskinned, her voice was calming, and she wore the same burgundy lipstick every day. She went to Hawaii for her honeymoon and brought back hula videos, then made us dance in class. It was pretty strange, but I still loved her. One day I forged my mother’s signature. We had to read a stapled “book” every week and our moms had to sign them, but on my way to school, I realized I’d forgotten. As I was walking to class, I got a pencil, took the book out, and tried to write as I walked. Unfortunately, I realized something important: I didn’t know my mother’s name! I called her “mom,” but obviously, that wasn’t her actual name. What did other people call her? Maria? Lupe? I went with “Lupe,” but when I scribbled it on the back of the book, I wrote “Lope.” 152 My mom still tells that story. One day a kid brought a firework to school, one of the ones that popped instantly but didn’t really do anything else. I told the teacher and the kid called me a fat baby. I cried and cried and cried. 2 grade nd For some reason I had Ms. Love again; eight second-grade students in a first-grade class. She’d separate the class by grade and teach us all individually. I felt extremely cool, of course. I was older than most of the kids in the class, who were learning things I already knew. One day I remember sitting next to friends in the morning circle, telling them a story about how my brother did something (I don’t remember what); all I remember is that I was talking and talking and talking until finally Ms. Love got upset and wrote my name on the board. I didn’t know what I was going to do! Ms. Love was going to tell my mother, and God knew what my mom would do! When we stood up and walked to our seats, I casually passed by and wiped my name off the board with my hand. Unfortunately, since my name had been the only name on the board, Ms. Love knew exactly what I’d done. I got in even more trouble. My mom still tells that story as well. By the end of the year, I hoped a miracle would happen and Ms. Love would be my teacher again. But there was no miracle. I cried, obviously. 3rd grade Mr. Lyon dressed as a lion every year for Halloween. Though only a fair teacher, he was a great man. I remember his yellow teeth most of all. He would scream in your face and that’s all you’d focus on, those few teeth in front of your face while the words came flying at you. One day someone decided to play ding-dong ditch at our class- 153 room door. There we were, learning about God knows what, when suddenly there was a knock on the door. Mr. Lyon went to answer it. When he opened the door, all you could see was a grayish blur racing around the corner. He ran out of the classroom screaming, “Hey! You! Come over here!” Everyone in the class was terrified. Nobody said a word. We all looked around in confusion. A few minutes later he came in the door with two kids, holding them by the hoods on their sweatshirts. “Look at these hooligans, children!” he yelled. “These are the kids who have disrupted your learning!” The boys were a little older than us, with big hoodies and saggy pants. I was scared of them, but not nearly as scared as I was of Mr. Lyon, his face bright red. I was too scared to cry. 4th grade Ms. Boyagian was white, short, and totally adorable. She always had a smile on her face, which would have been nice if her permanent smile wasn’t a little creepy. Even when we had an earthquake and she made us go under a table and remain calm, while everyone was freaking out, she still had a huge grin on her face. She left in the middle of the school year for no apparent reason. She said she had to go do a math position at another school closer to her house. Before she left, she spent a day teaching us how to sing like the kids in The Sound of Music. We learned nothing that day because all we’d to do was listen to her sing it, then sing the song ourselves; it was awkward because everyone was afraid of looking and sounding foolish, which we did. After she left, we had a substitute for the rest of the year, Ms. Oobie, who was black and had a cool accent, Jamaican or African; I couldn’t understand what she was saying because I was always way behind trying to decode the words she’d said a little while earlier. Often, she would fall asleep in class reading the newspaper. I hoped this was the last time a teacher would leave mid-year. It was too bor- 154 ing to cry. 5th grade How cool did I feel? Fifth grade! The seniors of elementary school! I had Ms. Park, an Asian lady who always wore skirts and looked beautiful. Her hair was super straight; it was almost as amazing as her voice, which sounded as though she was in an uncomfortable situation. She sounded nervous all the time. The board games she played with us always made math interesting and fun. And then… she left to become the math coordinator for the school. So, again, we had a new teacher, Ms. Sawyer, a tall, blonde, white woman who took us on field trips to the museum, a boat ride, and a picnic. At the end of the year, the whole class had to sing a song at a ceremony for the parents, and a few of us were chosen to sing a High School Musical song in front of the whole school. I was pumped! We all sounded horrible, but the parents enjoyed the show. Afterwards, my mom, dad ,and I went to Jack in the Box. On the way, I started to cry. My parents thought it was because I wanted to go someplace else for dinner, but I realized I was crying because I wasn’t going to see anybody anymore, all of us who’d been together all those years. I was crying because I hadn’t taken the time to say goodbye to anybody. I cried and cried, until finally I realized I was going to go to a new school, meet new friends, and do it all over again, but a trillion times better. I was growing up and I was loving it. People were going to begin treating me as the man I was, a man of sixth grade. I stopped crying. I was excited now. I was ready for life. 155 Witness KIMBERLY LIZARRANGA It has witnessed a stray bullet ripping into someone’s skin It has witnessed a friend telling a secret to someone who promised never to tell It has witnessed a husband beating the wife and children It has witnessed a child helping an elderly woman across the street It has witnessed fights between people because of race But, most important, The moon has witnessed how much I love you. 156 Back Then KEVEN CASTENEDA Remember when you were small? Those days when everything was so much easier when all you had to worry about was getting dirty or tearing your new clothes those days when you would rush home to watch “Pokémon” those days when you would run around in circles. Now I’ve got you thinking, now I’ve got you longing …that is all. 157 Indescribable KEVEN CASTENEDA That feeling you get when you like someone the inability to stop smiling the uncontrollable tingles you get the indescribable sensation. This is a feeling we all know about: a feeling we all desire, a feeling we all dread. 158 With Apologies IRMA SANCHEZ Did you ever see my heart? The way it leapt, hoping you would catch it. The way it sang, hoping to cure your deaf ears. The way it cried, hoping you would catch the tears. You damn deceiver. Your arms flung wide open, reaching for this empty heart of mine that dragged itself out of a cave, seeing your bright teeth only to find that you were laughing at it. You titled me a fool with an empty heart filled with promises you later forgot. You spoke true words like a hero or a prince. But when the time came, your true words faded away like the black from my shirt left under the blazing sun. I apologize if my empty heart wasn’t enough. 159 My Way To War JOSE DEL TORO From: Toro To: Jesus Ayala Subject: They called me, bro! The U.S. military called me at 4:34 p.m., said I’ve been drafted to go fight. The enemy, man, I’m scared. I never thought this day was gonna come. I just hope everything comes out all right, man. Let’s kick it one more time, because you’ll never know if I’ll make it out alive. Well, I will, because I’m gonna hide! LOL! From: Jesus Ayala To: Toro Re: They called me, bro! Dude, no f***ing way! You’re gonna fight the enemy, man. They already destroyed half the continent! Dude, there’s no way the U.S. military is gonna take those countries back. If I were you, I’d run off to Canada or Mexico when I had the chance. You’re more than a friend to me, you’re a brother. I hate this government sh**! From: Toro To: Jesus Ayala Re:Re: They called me, bro! I know how you feel, bro, but there’s nothing I can do. They gave me seven hours to get ready because a convoy is coming to pick me up. Will you come over and keep my mom company? She’s sobbing right now. I need someone to stay with her because she’s gonna lose it. Just hope for the best. I mean, sometimes we have to go, right? From: Jesus Ayala To: Toro Re: Re:Re: They called me, bro! Damn, only seven hours? That’s not enough time…I’m on my 160 way right now. I’m gonna go get the rest of the guys to visit you. And don’t say you’re gonna die, because you’re a strong and smart person. Just try to make it — don’t have negative thoughts. From: Toro To: Jesus Ayala Re:Re:Re:Re: They called me, bro! Thanks, bro. That means a lot to me. 4 months later… From: Jesus Ayala To: Toro Subject: Hey… I’ve been looking at the news. How’s it going? Just hope you can reply, okay? I miss you, dude. I was at your brother’s graduation from high school. He’s gonna go to USC. Crazy, right? Okay, well, I need to get back to work. Let me know how you’re doing! October 25, 2024 Dear Mrs. Del Toro, We regret to inform you that your son, Jose del Toro, was killed in combat. Our deepest sympathy and affection is extended to you and your family. We cannot begin to comprehend the grief and sorrow that you’ll experience in the next few days. In this vocation the lives of good men and women like your son are put on the line to save others and to better protect the society in which we live. This means any small error may be costly. Our team failed to protect your son, and we will forever regret it. We respected your son, Toro, in life; we wish to honor him in death. God bless you, may he remain with you and comfort you in your trials and loneliness. 161 We extend to you our deepest regrets and most sincere apologies. Respectfully yours, Sergeant Andrew McCall Alpha Squad 162 MAP YOUR LIFE A PEN workshop with Amy Friedman M emoirist Amy Friedman has been coming to APB to give workshops for three years now, and every year she’s a huge hit. With her total commitment to telling the truth, however messy or painful or difficult, Amy inspires us to find material in our own past. To Amy, the personal is universal. Ironically, by looking inward and being completely honest about our own lives, our mistakes, and fears, we’ll actually communicate most powerfully with others because we’ll tap into emotions, longings, and dreams that are universal. Amy taught us a great writing exercise that I now use regularly in all my classes. First, draw a circle on a piece of paper. In the center of the circle, write what’s most important to you — names of people you love, places that mean something to you, a cherished memory. Then, toward the outside of the circle, write names, places, and memories that are less important but still matter. Using that map, you can start to visualize the elements of your life in a new way. What matters? Why? Is there a story there? Amy also challenged us to write on separate slips of paper five things or people we couldn’t live without. This was hard enough, but then she made us tear one off and throw it away. And then — you guessed it — she kept going until we each had only one slip of paper left. It was a nightmare! Luckily, what happens in creative writing stays in creative writing… 163 The Brothers With No Last Name T ALEXIS VALDOVINOS he Pit was being good to us today. No fights between my brother, Joe, and his lowlife, drug-addict friends. Jasper, the head of a well-known gang in our town, wasn’t trying to start up some trouble, since he seemed to think the Pit, a nickname we gave to the alley, was his territory, but Joe, being the stubborn jackass that he was, wouldn’t give in. There were no drugs being inhaled, snorted, or injected into the unvalued lives of the careless, alcohol was nowhere to be found, and, most important, it was just Joe and me all alone in the comforting quiet of the center of the Pit on the old, rusted, stained, memorable couch we had made our own. It was a runaway night for us again. Joe had been planning this for three weeks, and we had finally made our escape. The orphanage home wasn’t so bad — well, not for me at least. Joe made it seem like hell, something I would expect from my brother. He’d been on a rebellious streak ever since our parents had died; he must have taken it to heart. Now, at seventeen, he was useless, had turned to drugs as his life savior. As for me, well, to be honest, as his younger brother, I’m only seen as his bitch who follows him wherever he goes. As a fifteen-year-old, I pretty much can’t depend on myself for anything, so I look up to my brother; he’s the closest I’ve got to a parent. Anyway, back to our escape. Back at the orphanage, Joe had noticed that one of the bars from our window had become loose after so many nights of Joe pounding it with his concrete leather boots. He’d loosened it a little more, and when he felt it was ready, he pulled with all his force, falling down to the floor with a big bang. He got back up with pain in his eyes, which brought a warm feeling in my heart, seeing that his cold, dull heart could still hurt. Joe, hiding his pain, went toward the hole in the bars for freedom, slipping himself in to see if he was all right for the size. His body slipped right in like a glove, considering the fact that his nasty habit of sniffing crack 164 made his skin cling to his bones like a leech, making him almost look lifeless. Inside, I heard a scream from Joe outside and then my name, “Kenny, Kenny!” Joe said, excited, laughing. “Hurry up, you pussy.” I had a feeling of excitement, yet there was another feeling haunting me from within, creeping out of my heart and into my mind. It was the same feeling I’d felt the year before when we’d escaped from the orphanage, a feeling I didn’t like, because I knew being with my brother was where I belonged, but the feeling didn’t go away, an effusive feeling of uncertainty. Leaving the orphanage felt precarious; I’d felt at home here for so many years and had become accustomed to that way of living. Long ago I’d high goals and dreams, dreams that were never realistic even when they wandered in my mind every once in a while, but, in a quick second, all of this just disappeared in a flash as the voice of Joe viciously scolded me from outside the window. I stuck my head through the one broken piece of steel bar that kept every single inch of my body safe from harm. I was already halfway out, vacillating about whether I should go the other half out the window or stay in the place I know I could get somewhere in life. But, finally, skeptical of my decision, I leapt from the window with full force, landing straight on the palms of my two bare hands, then falling on my head with the sound of a hammer hitting wood. I felt blood racing to my head, groaning, but the thought of my brother seeing me in pain came over me, so I got up dusted myself off with no emotion, just as he would have. Joe patted me on the back. I don’t know whether it was to encourage me to keep moving or if it was a pat because I fell, ate shit, and sucked it up. We headed for the front of the gate that must have been about six to seven feet high. It was a tough way up considering the tight black pants I had on, which were holding me back from flexing my legs. It was impossible to figure out how Joe was able to move when his pants were just as tight as mine, yet he moved up with such energy and speed. He was up and over the fence less than a minute while I clutched on for dear life, moving with precision, each hand 165 moving slowly after the other, grasping on, grasping in my hand each piece of stern metal. I finally reached the end of the gate, flipping my leg over to the other side carefully so that my leg didn’t get caught. I made my way down gradually and calmly, trying to keep myself from falling, finally making my way to the pavement. With embarrassment written all over my face, I walked confidently forward trying to play it off while Joe stood behind staring at me as if he had spent an eternity of his life waiting for me. The streets were familiar to my feet, guiding them along the gray, smoky pavement floor. They moved one step after another, along streets big and wide, some small and narrow, curving like streaks of paint on a canvas. They walked long hours, controlling my body as if they knew of our destination, as if a navigation system were installed in them. We turned on the corner of Ashstone, long and narrow with trees that escalated the look as if they thought they could reach up to the heavens above, a street well known in the bottom of my brain, though I didn’t want to remember. Each house became more familiar, holding within the memories of familiar faces and memories that were now faint. We walked in the darkness of the night, under the black ashy shadows of the trees following us, with the strong, overpowering scent of pine trees enriching my nose all along the path until we reached the address 7367. It was a house most familiar to our eyes, an unstable, crippledlooking house — well, what was left of it. Burnt black smudges were left against the tips of broken wood sticking up after the whole roof had buried itself, reaching into the concrete floor. The windows had been shattered where the fire had leapt out, desperate for air. The front porch was still left in one piece; the front steps unharmed except for the second to the bottom step that was toppled over from the whip of Joe’s first guitar ripping into it. I could still hear the deep, stern voice of my father making its way out the screen door, screaming out with its fullest strength, causing my brother to run so fast 166 his feet were leaving without him. It was memories like these that made me want to hold on to the past, even though I knew they were slipping out of my hands. The house was a tragic beauty, even more beautiful than the last time we had come to see it after escaping the orphanage. It had been exactly two years, four months, and three weeks this coming Sunday since the house was a solid puzzle. I could see Joe’s tears forming in the creases which hold the cornea, the iris, the pupil — in the eyes that had held back so many tears and released such great hate. Those eyes could conquer anything if they had the hands to do it. Tears hadn’t been seen in the eyes of my brother since September 6, 1999, when the news of my parents’ death had brought him to a complete shutdown, washing away the purehearted, lovable, charming creature I’d once known, the Joe I now miss. Nonetheless, I was glad to see a hint of it was been left behind. But then reality struck. In the flash of an eye, this memory of my brother became a fantasy. His eyes turned blank, his eyebrows turned inwards going down at the center as he bit his lower lip, making the blood rush to the top of his skin, almost making it rip through and gush out, all while focusing his attention on consuming in every ounce left of water to dry on his eyelid. It was such a transformation that it’d make your spine ache having to transfer such information to the brain and make your mind strain itself having to think about how quickly a change like that could be made. I stared in confusion at Joe, then at the house, and then once more at Joe with anxiety. I closed my eyes, jamming them shut, trying to hold the impact of what was trying to escape from them. Clenched fists. Grinding teeth. Bold tears. I could feel one drop conceived from an angered mind and a hurt heart, then relaxed my jaw. My fists blossomed and pouring out my eyes were the bitter, sweet tears rippling down, stinging as if they were burning, stinging against the flesh of my face, one drop after the other. Everything I had tried to hold in and keep inside so I would be spared the embarrassment of my brother seeing me, all was coming out at that very moment, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass if my brother’s eyes were fixed right on me. 167 I am a human and I feel. I have a heart that beats according to my emotions. I am not the tin man in The Wizard of Oz, just a piece of hull metal. I am a masterpiece painted by Picasso, and I release emotions that have no logical reasoning behind them — all of these thoughts, all of these mixed emotions rushing in all at once gave me a feeling of emptiness that shriveled through my spine, as if something was missing, and it wasn’t too hard to figure out what. The orphanage, a place where opportunities flourished right at the tip of your feet, opportunities that, unfortunately, I wasn’t going to get anywhere else, not even with my brother. The thought of going back sickened me, just thinking about the reaction I would get, but I knew if I didn’t go back I would end up a lowlife living off of the little money we had, eventually being forced into doing illegal things to survive, things that weren’t necessary if I just went back. The though was clear and solid: I was going to go back. Silence remained for a few seconds until Joe broke in: “Kenny!” jerking his head to the side, a gesture for me to follow. I wanted to resist listening to him, but I couldn’t, so I followed him, thinking of how I was going to tell him I wanted to go back. As we walked, the thoughts of his reaction were piling up in my head. I wanted to just tell him and get it over with already. We walked for what felt like days until we landed in here, our final destination: the Pit. So there we were, in the Pit, in the dead of the night in complete silence on an old couch. Everything at that moment seemed so right, yet everything was so wrong. I wanted to bury myself in this couch and pretend I was back in the orphanage, but right when I was nearly about to close my eyes, my friend, Tiny, jumped out of nowhere; I could’ve sworn if Joe didn’t recognize him in an instant, Tiny would have been the spec of dirt under my shoes. Tiny squeezed himself in between Joe and me, catching us up on the things we’d missed while we were gone, until the conversation turned to where Joe and I were going to stay. Tiny: “So how does it feel to finally be free, my boy?” 168 Joe: “It feels pretty fucking good, I can tell you that much.” Pulling out a cigarette and his lighter, Tiny turned to me.” What about you, kid?” patting Joe on the back enthusiastically “How does it feel to finally be out with your big brother here?” I could’ve said so many things at that moment, but what came to mind first was what came out that very instant. It might have come out unexpectedly from my mouth, but it wasn’t a mistake. What came out of my mouth was, “I want to go back.” My response led to opposite expressions. A breakthrough of silence, which was expected from me. Blank stares, silent, but physical loud expressions, and then it stopped, and all I heard were words releasing out into the atmosphere like fire spreading in a forest on a windy day. I want to remember exactly what those words were, but there’s a blockade in my memory keeping me from hearing words that were only being said out of hate, coming into my ears as a big blur. It was a sign, a cue for me to leave and finally take my first steps into a real future. A couple of hours passed until the gates of the orphanage came into view. Admiring all of the great qualities it held behind it, things that I would call luxuries, I ran with all my might, jumping onto the gate, putting all my strength into it, climbing with desperation to make it to the other side, finding it easier than when I had done it earlier. I guess when you really want something, you find it easier to pursue than when you don’t want something. Once my feet hit the ground, I took off running to reach my window, and as soon as I got there, I took a breath and leapt for the window bar, slipping myself into the hole where Joe had broken the bar, landing straight into the center of my mattress. I swarmed into the covers, feeling the soft texture in my hand, embracing its warmth, which made me think of nothing more than sleep. Morning came quickly. I heard great murmuring coming from the halls. I made my way out into the hall, trying to find the voices of the many people making a commotion, which led me to the main 169 office. Pushing through the crowd, I took a closer look, only to see a familiar face through the window. It was Tiny. He looked like a walking horror film, bloody. My heart was racing. The minute I saw him, I knew something was wrong, and, without hesitation, I barged into the room. Jittery, I said, “Tiny, what’s wrong?” Without giving the administrator a chance to speak, Tiny flung his body at me, crying and mumbling words I couldn’t quite comprehend. With both hands I forcefully grabbed him by the shirt, tears already springing from eyes and repeated, “Tiny, what’s wrong?!” Quickly getting himself together, he started to say, “It’s Joe.” The sound of my brother’s name releasing from his mouth made every bone, every muscle, every limb in my body ache. Tiny continued onward. “He was going to come back, Kenny. He didn’t want to be without you. He told me he couldn’t leave you out here on your own; you’re the only family he’s got now.” Desperately I grabbed Tiny, shaking him by his shoulders, telling him, “You’re not telling me what happened!” Through sobs he said, “He was just about to leave the Pit to come back here when Jasper and his friends come out from around the corner. They was drunk, looking for trouble. Looks like they’d just come from a party or something like that; you know how they are. They came up to us. Jasper went straight for your brother…” Tiny broke out into tears. “Kid, I tried to stop ’em, I really did, but I had two of them suckers on me.” His words became murmurs, then groans, and then a deep silence fell upon me. I felt completely alone. One thing — one thing done differently can make a huge impact in the future. I had a choice; I could either have stayed with my brother or left for the orphanage, and I’d chosen to go for my own selfish reasons. Until then, I’d never actually understood the real meaning of why they called the alley the Pit. Such a silly name, I’d always thought, but it had revealed its true colors, the 170 meaning of its identity: it was because the gates of hell, or, may I say, the Pit of hell, was centered in this very alley, an alley full of spiteful, malicious hate, crime, and injustices. Every good memory in my life was like a flower flourishing before my eyes, and, in an instant, dying like everyone that I’d ever loved. To be continued… 171 Unheard, Unknown Boy E ANGEL IRIBE very day felt the same; problems at school, problems at home. I was always seen as a failure by my teachers and my parents, a student with no intelligence, a son with no future. They never had any idea what was going on in my life; the pain and the fear I lived with. I was different from my classmates. I couldn’t fit in with them. By the time I was in the third grade, people were calling me names: “Fat bastard,” “worthless trash,” and “ugly unknown animal.” That’s when I started starving myself. I battled anorexia. My hair fell out; I was depressed. I didn’t feel as if I was even alive. I had few friends; the target of many, the laugh of all. I was bullied. All I felt all day was a pounding heart and fear that made me gasp for air, fear of walking outside, and trapped once again between those bullies as they dragged me around the cafeteria, threw me in the trash cans or threw food at me. I couldn’t defend myself or tell any adult because they wouldn’t have believed me. Every night I cried myself to sleep. All I wanted was to have someone by my side telling me life would get better, telling me that they would put an end to my tears. My parents never showed an interest in me. All they cared about was living the good life. Even though I was their only son, they were never there to help me fight for my health. My parents passed away in a car accident a year later. Even though they’d never shown any interest in me, I still felt love for them. After months of fighting anorexia, I started to see changes in me that soon led me to realize I needed to live. The fear I’d felt toward those who had mistreated me, the thoughts that had kept me from living, all that vanished. After winning the battle against anorexia, I felt like a different person. That’s when I made a promise to myself that I would never let anyone stomp on me again and that it was time to prove everyone wrong. So here I am today, standing in front of hundreds of families 172 who feel proud of their graduates, raising my honor roll diploma in my right hand and my medal in my left hand up high. Tears of happiness pour from my eyes. I wish this story to scream out to everyone who underestimated me. 173 Cuts And Scrapes IRMA SANCHEZ As a five-year-old child I fell flat on my face. I scraped my right arm, and I watched as the blood dripped, as it trickled down my arm like water; the way it flowed down, like my tears, only red. As a five-year-old child I cried for my mom. I thought it was the end. I thought my heart would gush out of this small open wound. I needed my mother to hold me, to remind me that I would be okay, to stop the bleeding and pain. At the age of sixteen I fell flat on my chest. My heart shattered and torn, and I swore that was the end. My tears flowed like blood. I watched my shriveled soul as it became sour and bitter with hate as a companion. At the age of sixteen I stood on my knees, begging my mother to take the pain, asking her to hold me the way she did when I was five. 174 First Day JESUS DE JESUS Green covers the land, the wind brushing my cheeks; I blush as I look only in one direction. The sky painted in blue with white smudges creates the harmony. But my eyes focus on her. Her long straight hair carried by the wind, her white sunhat moving slowly in a wave formation, covering her eyes. Her white sundress with a crimson line at the bottom sways with a slow, smooth rhythm. I slowly walk toward her, unconsciously, and then our new story begins. 175 The Rose In My Hand HEIDI AMAYA “She has beautiful skin,” a love story I didn’t believe. I hold you in my hand, The beauty of a rose; this one is red, with dangerous thorns, they crave my skin, making thin cuts, beautiful and fragile, yet I still hold you as if I never wanted you to die You grew under these thin branches. Attach yourself again! I should have trusted my thoughts: It was too beautiful for forever. My flowers won’t bloom anymore. Every flower dies; the beauty falls apart. I lost the faith as the petals fell to the ground. Now I watch you disappear as the wind starts to blow you away. You don’t seem to remember, stranger, you were attached once. I’ve forgotten the feeling of believing since you left and walked away. I planted a stronger branch, and the roots are growing beneath the ground. Nothing will stop me now. I became that branch. I will bloom again. 176 More roses will grow, as beautiful as you were. But this time there will be no wind, only sun and light, and I will grow again. 177 The Letter My Friend Can’t Write ALEXIS VALDOVINOS I’m not the one to be accused, only the one to say I’m being abused. Bloodshot memories of a certain place where I would scream and those to help were out of trace. You swung like a pro in the baseball league. One strike, two strikes, three, I’m out. Lying stripped of my happiness, unconscious and wondering about how that once-beautiful face of yours turned into such a tragedy and how the problems you held inside were not spoken, so you took them out on me. 178 Love DANIEL TORRES Love is modeling clay; you hold it close to your heart and allow the two to speak to each other. The beat of your heart does not lie to love. Once they finish speaking, you start to model the clay. You decide how to start. Then, slowly, the clay changes into something new. Sometimes you cannot control what occurs; some things cannot be changed, but with love, there is always some light in the darkness. Do not pay attention to the darkness. Look toward and around the darkness and find the light. Remember: love is modeling clay — you can make it a dream or a nightmare. 179 Battlefield FAVIOLA HERNANDEZ Chapter 1 Tuesday night, January 5, 1992 Middle East — Undisclosed location My dearest love, I’ve been sent here to the Middle East; everything is dry, and there’s no sense of life from where I’m standing. I keep thinking about us. Remember when we went to the beach? Played in the sand? Look at the sunset? Kissed under the big bright moon and glittery stars that shone like millions of diamonds? I do — I’ll never forget that moment. Now I’ve slipped away, and I am here in a desert, feeling like I’m the only girl in the army and I’m only eighteen. I can’t let go of the moment when I lost my brother, Chris. I cried for hours and hours after I lost him. I keep wondering why I didn’t save his life. It started when Chris was shooting at the enemy. We were hiding behind a bush, wearing camouflage clothing. I felt wrong. I kept thinking, it’s not right to take another man’s life; it’s like taking away somebody’s best friend. Chris was looking at other men getting shot all over their bodies. Some bodies ended up drowning in the lake and others getting buried by their own blood. I had my left eye on the scope, looking at an enemy doing the same thing. I saw him spotting me, planning to shoot either Chris or me. I backed away, scared. “Mason, what’s wrong?” Chris asked. “Mason, answer me!” “I can’t do it, Chris. I can’t take another man’s life.” “Mason, look at me. We are fighting for our lives! You have to kill him before he kills — ” Silence grew, blood out of his mouth, a tear out of his eye — 180 that’s when I knew that he was shot. Chris fell on top of me, and I slid out, away from his dead body. I kept shaking him, but no words came out of his mouth, even though his eyes and mouth were wide open. “Chris…Chris, this isn’t funny! Speak to me! Chris…! Chris!!!” Tears slithered down my cheeks, my heart was racing, and I started to weep. I held his dead body close to me and cried hard into his chest, where I’d heard his heartbeat before. Taking a man’s life isn’t worth it, but taking my brother’s life…is different, I thought. I grabbed my sniper gun and started shooting down every sniper on the enemy side. It hurts me more than it hurts you. Taking away my brother’s life is like taking away my own life! Now, whenever I shoot a man, it’s as if my brother is doing it for me. It’s not me who’s doing it. This is isn’t me, but I’m doing this for my brother. Just couldn’t believe that an innocent human being would become a ruthless killer… Right now I hold his tag in my cold, bare hands. No matter what happens, I’ll never let go of the day where Chris is killed, the day I became a killer too. Yours truly, Private Mason, U.S. Army To be continued… 181 Help Me JOSE DEL TORO I t was dark and lonely. I was scared, but I didn’t know why. In my dream I was looking at a window. I noticed that there was a long crack in it. I looked at that simple, deep crack, wondering how it got there. It looked so realistic, but it was still a dream. Looking out my window, I saw evil. Thick, black smoke was falling from the heavens. There was no sun. Everything was dead. I noticed corpses in the streets, all over the floor, inside of cars, hanging from trees…guts everywhere. It seemed there had been a great battle between two nations. I saw a beast eating these dead bodies, a beast that had once been a loyal pet, looking so hungry, so determined to survive. It was a world in which no man could live, a world no one would ever see but me. I panicked, wanting to wake up. I closed my eyes, hoping to wake up, but I didn’t. Why couldn’t I? Everything was blank and quiet until I heard a voice screaming, “Why did you try to beat the red light, man? Why?” And I remembered that I’d been hit by a car. Nothing made sense. I remembered going home, driving…or had I gone home? At last, for a slick second, I heard my mom crying. “Is he going to make it, doctor? Is he, for God’s sake?” I wanted to ask my mom what the hell was going on, but I couldn’t. I was screaming in my head, “Mom, help me! Please wake me up, Mom! I’m scared, Mommy, please!” But after so many tries I gave up, knowing it was useless. My mom’s voice started fading away, as if she was giving up on me. That’s when I realized it was true: there was an accident. I can’t speak or move. I’m stuck in this motionless body. I don’t know if I’m dead or alive. When will I wake up? Tomorrow? Next week? A year from now? Never? 182 What’s The Name Of The Janitor In This Building? I NADINE ARENAS Custodian ..grew up in San Tecla, El Salvador. My father was an engineer who measured streets. He went from town to town working. When I was two, he met someone else and left my mom, so I was raised by my grandmother. When I was sixteen I fell in love with a guy who wanted to marry me, but my grandma said no, I was too young. In El Salvador, if you’re a married woman, you have to cook, iron, and wash, you know? The slave thing. And my grandma was afraid I’d run away with him, so she decided to send me over here to the United States to stay with my cousin in Chicago. But they didn’t have much money, so they sent me on the bus. Well, instead of taking it to Chicago, I got off the bus in Los Angeles and I stayed there. I wanted to be free; I wanted to have fun! That’s where I made my big mistake. I should have gone to Chicago; I should have gotten an education! But I didn’t. And in Los Angeles I needed money, so this guy, this older guy, he got me a job taking care of a family, housekeeping. Twenty-five dollars a week. And then I met a man and lived with him like a couple. Next thing I knew, I was pregnant. And he started drinking, he smoked marijuana, he treated me badly, he hit me. It was terrible. I ran away, but he found me. He actually grabbed me by the hair, and I went back to work, this time in a factory. Three dollars an hour. But he was still hitting me, still drinking. I decided I couldn’t handle it anymore and went back to El Salvador with my daughter. But in El Salvador nothing was ever going to happen! So my aunt said, “Leave your girl with us and go back to the United States.” So I went, and this time I worked at a printer’s shop. That was a really good job. I made a good wage and learned English there. I kept wanting to go back and finish my education, but I was always working so hard, I 183 never had time. My mom came to live here; she married a man who had papers, and she was able to get us papers too. She had no education, couldn’t read or write, but she was smart enough to be able to get us all papers! I had another daughter too. Finally, in 2007, I ended up here at APB as the janitor. I think about my cousin, who did get an education. She went to teaching college in El Salvador. On their final exam, the last question was, “What’s the name of the janitor in this building?” Because if you don’t know the people who are around you, what do you really know? Maybe we should put it on the final exams here! My parents both passed away a while ago. Now my kids are grown. One of my daughters lives in New York and the other lives in Century City and works in a legal office. My granddaughter is thirteen. I tell her to stay in school and finish her education — that’s what I should have done. I’ve had fun in my life; I’ve had a blast, but if I had an education, I could have done anything! I wanted to have freedom so I didn’t finish my education, but an education would have given me more freedom. I should have listened to my grandmother! 184 TRAVEL WITH WORDS A PEN workshop with Denise O’Kelly O ur most recent guest speaker was the Irish poet Denise O’Kelly, who delighted us with her lovely, almost magical presence — particularly impressive since she’d taken an hour-long bus ride to get here. She told us about growing up in Ireland, attending a strict Catholic school until her family sent her away to live at a boarding school where she learned the Irish language. We asked her to teach us a few words in Irish, and they sounded beautiful to us, even when she was just asking where the door was! Denise had us closely read two poems, “Mid-Term Break” by Seamus Heaney and another by Cornelius Eady titled “The Gardenia.” We’d read the poem aloud, written a poem in response, talked about it, then read the poem aloud again. Each of the poems was haunting and difficult; each poem took on a new, deeper meaning with each reading. Though not all of us understood the poems the first time around, by the third reading, working together, all of us experienced a much more complex understanding of the meaning of each one. Several of the poems in this book were begun on that day in response to our in-class reading. Every guest speaker has filled our room with a new perspective on writing, another window into creative work. Unlike science or math, writing offers no one right way to solve a problem, no single method or answer. Like love, like hope, like faith, writing is a form of continual discovery, a map of a land whose terrain will only exist in our imaginations. Thank you to all of our guest speakers. You’ve taught us so much more than your techniques — you’ve given us a sense of possibility. And, by working side by side with us, you have brought us into the 185 larger creative community outside of our school. Thank you for your time, your talent, your unique voices, and your belief that all of us — no matter our age or our native language or our neighborhood — are writers. 186 Hands-On Accepting I EDUARDO MARTINEZ ..always noticed I was different in my family. There was no one like me, no one else who was gay. I wasn’t going to tell my parents; I thought they were never going to talk to me again. I thought maybe I’d have to move out — it was just the way society treated people. But I felt like I was lying to the whole world, like I was on a stage and I was playing a character. When I was fourteen, I decided to tell my mom. We were sitting on the couch and I was like, “I’m gay.” And she was like, “What?” She looked like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. She asked me how I knew. She said, “You’re just a kid, how do you know?” And I said, “This is inside of me; I can’t change it.” And she was hands-on accepting. She was like, “Okay. This is who you are.” She told me, “Don’t tell anybody, keep it just between us. People like you get beat up in the streets. I don’t want people judging you because I love you.” I couldn’t even talk because I was crying so hard. And then there was a long silence. I kind of liked it. I’d told my mom who I really was, and it was a big weight off my shoulders; she knows me and she finally understands me. I didn’t tell my dad until I was sixteen. My dad’s a traditional Mexican man. He’s very machisto. He’s like, the man of the house does this, he wears that, he provides for his woman. He was going on about how the man of the house has to provide, men are like this, women are like that, and we started having a big dispute, and in the middle of it I told him I was gay. And he didn’t even say anything; he just walked away from me. I thought it was going to be the end of everything. I was crying. I thought our relationship was, like, done. I was there all by myself, 187 sitting there crying. And then he comes back in the room again and sits next to me. He tells me, “I love you.” He hugs me and we cry. I know that a lot of LGBT kids are afraid to tell their parents. I understand how they feel, but they’re not going to know until they try. My advice for kids is to trust yourself. I want to tell the LGBT youth that it’s okay to be who you are. Just because people bully and harass you, stay true to yourself. Don’t jump into coming out of the closet just because people tell you that you should. One thing my mom told me is, “Don’t go out and tell everybody, don’t yell it to the world. I mean, straight people don’t have to go around yelling, ‘I’m straight!’” Honestly, the first step, I would say, is tell your parents. Now that my parents love me for who I am, that’s all I need. 188 I’m So Jealous RAQUEL GUEVARA They are so small, and many times they look like a rainbow. Their skin is covered with delicate, multi-colored feathers that feel like cotton every time your hands reach them. Why do they have the ability to fly and we don’t? I mean, they don’t have to wait if they want to escape. Life is so unfair. They don’t go to school; they rest the whole day. They don’t do homework, and if they get lazy, that’s okay. Life is so unfair. The sky is theirs. They don’t know what it feels like to wait for a train or to write about a stupid bird. 189 I Never Thought About My Dreams EDUARDO CONTRERAS Father of Cruz Contreras I grew up in San Vicente, El Salvador. I remember it being a beautiful place. As a child I lived with my mother and father and my four other brothers. We lived in a house of bricks with a roof of clay shingles; we had a lot of property. My family was known for owning property, crops, and cattle. I remember we had a horse, cows, chickens, pigs, and two bulls to help us plow. For crops we used to grow corn, rice, and other tropical fruits, like mangoes, on our property. For money we would sell some of our crops, and for food we would also eat some of our crops. I remember there was a river by my house, so close it was less than a block away. At times when my brothers and I wanted to eat, we would go to the river and catch fish to cook later. My childhood was perfect; we never went hungry, and we had everything we needed. I never really thought about my dreams because I thought I was going to stay in El Salvador on my property forever. Then the civil war started in 1980; I was fourteen, and it was a war between the government and the people that called themselves “La Guerrilla.” When someone in our village would see the soldiers coming, they would run through the streets and warn everybody. When that happened, my brothers and I would run to the mountains and hide, or sleep on the rooftops of houses so the military wouldn’t find us and take us away. Then, one night, the military knocked on our door and just took my father away from my brothers, my mother, and me. I didn’t see him die, but some people who knew my father told our family that the soldiers had tied him up, then beat him, then tied him up to a truck that was ready to drive off with him, poured battery acid on him, and drove off, dragging him to his death. Once he was dead, they left his body where it lay, with his partially melted flesh, unburied, left for others to discover. I was devastated to find this out, but as time went on, we learned this was only the beginning. 190 About two years after my dad had died, my brother, Alberto, was killed by the soldiers at age eighteen. He’d been taking our cows to eat grass in a valley close by, and the soldiers had thought my brother was a guerilla. They told him to put his hands up and they shot him. After my brother was killed, that same day, the soldiers came looking for me and my younger brother, Gerardo, and attempted to kill us. They shot at us, but they missed. At that instant, we ran to the mountains to go hide. We were lucky. That still wasn’t the end of all of this. Two years later, I was sixteen and my brother, Cruz, was eighteen. He’d taken our cows to go eat grass when the soldiers found him; they beat him with a long knife, known as a machete. When our family went to go look for him, we found him with his face beaten and cut with the machete. Shortly after the death of my brother, the soldiers came looking for my mother. This all happened when my mother went to go visit some of our family members. She didn’t come home that night, so I waited. Once five days had passed, I went to go look for her, and a friend of my mother told me that the soldiers had come for her. She said that she was refusing to go, and the soldiers had forced and pushed her into a car. I never saw my mother again. After my mother was gone, my brother, Gerardo, and I went to go live with our uncles. We were left with nothing, so we were actually considering joining La Guerilla to help fight in the war, but when my older brother, Jessi, who was living in America, found out, he didn’t want us to join, so he sent money for me to come to America. Three years later I had saved up enough money to send my brother, Gerardo, to come. When I came to America, I had to cross the border illegally. I took a bus to TJ and then ran across the border into a car known as “El Coyote” to help me cross. Once I got to America, I thought that the buildings were beautiful; I had never seen houses so tall. I used to just stand in front of buildings and admire how tall they were. Once El Coyote dropped me off in the city of Wilmington, where my older brother lived, a friend of his got me a job at a Denny’s restaurant as 191 a dishwasher the very next day. I thought it was so soon — I didn’t even have time to adjust to this new life! When I started at Denny’s, I didn’t even know that paper money existed. People would give me dollars and change as tips, but I would only keep the coins and throw the dollars away. Then I saw the waitresses digging in the trash for the money I threw away. The busboy, who spoke Spanish, explained to me that it was money, and so I stopped throwing the bills away. My life is different know because I have more work than I did when I arrived. I’m happy now that I have a family of my own, with a wife and two kids. 192 I’m Slipping EVELIN ZAVALA I’m slipping like a jellyfish on the windshield who has no chance of holding on. I’m slipping like the flesh that wants to take hold of a slippery pole. I’m slipping like a dog’s fingernails on the wooden floor. I’m slipping like a sled crushing through the ice. I’m slipping as if I’m water running through the drain in the sink. I’m slipping and I’m ready to fall… on my feet. To fall on my feet, with chin up high, with a chest ready to pop, with shoulders straightened out wide, ready to rise to my next challenge. 193 Let The Blood Run Wild EDITH GONZALES Cut the pain cut my soul cut my heart cut my flesh. Peel it off, for that’s where his hands have been, that’s where he would gently caress me, would smoothly feel me. Cut my lips, for that’s where I passionately kissed his, that’s where I would taste his hot breath, that’s where I would shape the words “I love you.” Cut my neck cut my ears cut me into little pieces. Squeeze out all my blood squeeze it with anger and hatred squeeze out all his stupid lies his stupid hugs his stupid kisses. Squeeze out hard all the poison of his stupid love. Cut me. 194 Her MARIA LOPEZ I remember the frustration in her mother’s face the day they came back from the doctor’s place. I remember the sadness in that little girl’s face after she knew she had to cut all her hair. Her little brown eyes grew darker. Her smile no longer shone. She stopped playing with the rest of the kids; the disease that bound her to her bed made her weak and believe there was no point in trying to live. She used to come home with tears in her eyes telling me everyone had called her a freak. Little by little, she started to give in; she started to believe there was no reason to live. She told her mom that maybe God had other plans. Slowly with time she got worse. Her skin turned a yellow pale tone — her skin grew tighter to her bones. She grew weaker and weaker every day. No longer was she able to walk. She spent her last days lying in a hospital bed. So many things died along with her. The sky grew darker every day. The birds no longer sang, the sun no longer shone. I wished I could’ve done more. I would have given my life for her. 195 No Love CYNTHIA RODAS I know you raised me. Just because you are hungry, ask us, “Do we want to leave?” “Judge” is your favorite word because you are a critique. You only use negative words to explain. Stress me out and stress you out. I am curious, what goes through your head? Sometimes I fight. I fight for the tears. I ignore the truth about you. You are best that way. Thank you, I guess, and sorry. 196 Your Eyes YRIDIANA LOPEZ I can see my reflection within your marble hazel eyes. I can see hummingbirds singing and dancing, the way your eyes dance with me on the dance floor, the way I can see my smile within your eyes. At night your eyes are as big and bright as the moon taking care of me as I walk away. 197 It Hurts YRIDIANA LOPEZ You may not care about the sour words I’ve been saying about you. The way you’ve been acting lately — like beef jerky! But guess what? The feelings I had for you are gone. They no longer exist, the same way you and I no longer exist. Thanks to you, I no longer carry a heart. You put me through fire, and, to this day, I still feel those flames rising up through my thin skin, my heart feeling as if it has been stabbed with needles. It just hurts. 198 Guiding EVELIN ZAVALA I shout at everything. Well, not everything, but you should once in a while let it all out. Let your emotions rise. Let them follow you; let them guide you the right way. Guide your soul to the path of decisions. No one can stop you. The only person who can stop you is yourself. Life is too precious to let it go to waste; don’t throw away such a rare object. Never try too hard, because things will fall into place easily; if not, it’s not meant to be. But never give up, because giving up makes you weak. 199 I Am EXSCARLET MALDONADO I am curious and confused I wonder if I’ll ever go to space I hear Jonathan’s soft voice I see the stars and moon from above I want to be able to cure sickness I am curious and confused I pretend that everything is going to be fine I feel alive I touch the stars from above I worry that no one will ever really understand me I cry, looking back at my life I am curious and confused I understand that life will always be complicated I say I’m going to be a better person I dream that one day I will be on the moon I try to realize who I am I hope someday my worries will all be gone I am curious and confused 200 The Heartless Man H JORGE ALVAREZ ave you ever been saved from somebody you don’t care about but who has feeling for you? Well, if you haven’t, I’ll tell you a story. It takes place back in 1942 during World War II. The guy’s name was Miller. He’d been a soldier in World War I, when he was a respected soldier, but the only thing he’d ever cared about was power; he always wanted to be on top. He’d won a lot of medals back then, but all he needed now was the K-9 medal. He’d do anything to get that medal. Miller started breeding dog after dog, searching for a dog he’d consider brave enough to train in the academy. During his search, if a dog didn’t meet his standards, it would be put down; he wouldn’t care about the dog, only about reaching his goal and becoming the next K-9 leader. He’d reject dog after dog, putting them all to sleep until he realized he was running out of dogs and juice. The squad needed him and his dog; he was getting desperate and mad, unable to find the right dog. One day, he went to the back of his house, to the pile of dogs he’d put to sleep that day when, suddenly, he saw something moving in the pile. Poor little dog. Miller thought he’d poisoned him a week ago. Desperate as always, he went running to get his gun so the little dog wouldn’t poison all his healthy dogs. But the little dog went running for him, looking for help and food. Miller pointed his gun at the little dog when he remembered that the academy was going to start in a month. The little dog was old enough the start the academy. Putting his rifle down, he picked up the dog and took another look at him. “Lucky bastard. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you. I might need you.” Frightened, the dog started crying. Miller laughed. “I’m gonna call you Lucky, ’cause you are one 201 lucky bastard.” He took Lucky to the facility where he killed the dogs and put Lucky in a cage. He started taking care of Lucky, but not paying much attention to him because he knew Lucky wasn’t going to survive. He was much more interested in the new litter he was waiting for, purebred dogs he was sure would be better for his purpose. But, a month later, the birth mother dog died of an illness the very day the academy called Miller, telling him they were about to begin. Where was he? Where was his dog? Miller started yelling and screaming, angry and desperate — then he remembered Lucky. By then Lucky was healthy. Miller had no choice but to take him to the academy the next day. There, in line, Miller was nervous, but the academy needed everyone and accepted Lucky on the spot. Miller was thrilled, not because he cared about Lucky, but because his eyes were fixed on his goal: one more medal. Weeks passed. Miller trained Lucky day after day in the academy, teaching him how to attack soldiers in a variety of ways, until, one night, as he made Lucky jump extra fences to build his ability, Lucky landed wrong on a jump, injuring his front paw. Miller saw his dream fall apart before his eyes and began yelling at Lucky to get up. Lucky staggered to his feet, barely able to get up. Miller called him back to the tent and they fell asleep. But later that night, there was an explosion; the academy was invaded by the Germans! Soldiers ran from the tents, evacuating. Hurrying to safety, Miller left Lucky behind, running for his life when a German soldier hit him in the back of the head with his rifle. Miller fell to the ground, but just as the soldier was about to pull the trigger, Lucky ran and took the soldier down, taking the shot for Miller. Miller stood, punching the soldier to the ground, taking the soldier’s pistol back, and shooting him in the head. Once the German was dead, Miller ran to check on Lucky, picking him up, crying. “You saved my life, but it’s all my fault,” he sobbed. He took the gun and put it to his own heart. “You lucky bastard, you got saved,” he 202 said, realizing that all he’d ever cared about was his own life, his own medals, his own self. What had it all been worth, anyway? He pulled the trigger. 203 I Can’t YESENIA REYES You don’t know my favorite colors and I don’t know yours. You act like my friend but I don’t want to be yours You say it’s your job — no, it’s a responsibility. You say you’re good at it — no, it’s all in your head. I can’t tell you I love you without regretting it right afterwards. You say it to me and it’s like looking at my reflection when I say it to you. I can’t have a conversation with you. You can’t have one with me. All we ever do is tear each other apart until there’s nothing left. You try to throw me down, blaming your misery on me; I try to look at you without imagining your death and you drowning right along with me. I know you don’t love me, and I don’t think I can ever get there, either. I can’t love you and I never will. 204 Let Me In OSCAR DUQUE You are a burning rose; you have everything: family, friends, and a scar. Him. That scar is a parasite; you are now infected with his poison. The rose that was always smiling at the sun is now blue. Can’t you see that he never cared? All he wanted was flesh. You rose of passion, you lost your color. I can’t bear to see you anymore. Empty, you are a hole in my heart. You no longer care. You lost your way when you and he met. I’ll open your eyes, so open the door and let me in. Give yourself some light and hope. Love yourself as much as I love you. 205 Where I’m From SARAH VASQUEZ Where I’m from, families are broken. You see her running to her mother, confused as to the whereabouts of her father. “He abandoned us,” says the mother. “Don’t waste your tears on filth.” Broken and confused, tears run down a five-year-old’s face. Tears take over; now she’s disgraced. Mommy won’t listen, she doesn’t have time; Daddy won’t listen, he’s left her behind. Broken and confused, where I’m from, friendship is a gift. Do you see his shoulder? That’s where she could rest her head for comfort. When Daddy’s not there and Mommy won’t listen, he’ll be prepared and give you attention. Trust and honesty, tears run down a fourteen-year-old’s face, but he’ll always be there to wipe them away; the years go by and their friendship grows stronger. Could this be something more, I wonder? Trust and honesty, where I’m from, love is the answer. That guy, who was always there for her, well, he is the one. Mother says, “You don’t know what love is.” But she doesn’t listen because her mother never did. Body and soul, Tears run down a seventeen-year-old’s face. 206 She’s scared to lose him because he can’t be replaced; both are scared, yet she waits and she won’t lose faith. Where I’m from he’s the one who understands body and soul. 207 Sola ROSA LOPEZ Director, ARC After-School Program La noche no descansa. No. Contigo y conmigo, ya no puede respirar. Los dos en un mundo imaginario bajo la luna llena. Tu boca me encuentra, y me desenvuelvo entre tus brazos y mi corazón no tiene razón. En tu pecho busco pero no encuentro. En tus besos siento pero no entiendo. Y en tu mirada nos vemos, pero no nos reconocemos. Una y otra vez es nuestra cita con la noche, sin saber cómo parar. No más fingir amar. Cada día amanezco llena de pensamientos, preguntas, y de dolor. Lo que hoy son mis compañeras fieles, Las únicas con las que puedo contar que siempre viven conmigo. Porque contigo siempre me encuentro y regreso S-O-L-A. 208 Alone Translation by Rosa Lopez The night fails to rest. No. With you, with me, she cannot breathe. Both of us in an imaginary world, underneath the full moon. Your mouth finds me, as I lose myself in your arms, and my heart struggles to reason. Within your chest I search but do not find. In your kiss I feel but do not understand. We see ourselves but fight to recognize. We continue to indulge the night, time after time. Without knowing how to stop, only knowing how to fake a love. Every day I wake up clouded with thoughts and questions covered in pain, who are now my faithful companions. The only ones I can count on and always live within me. Because, with you, I always find myself and return A-L-O-N-E. 209 Brother KATHERINE CHAVEZ I bruise for you. I would defend you in every battle for those pink lungs to constantly expand for that heart to be parallel to mine for those eyes to glisten at the tiresome yawn of dawn. This love is pure sweet honeysuckle. I remember those days of you and me when our innocent hearts pumped the same blood for adventure and discovery for the roar of the dinosaurs to become once again; when if you cried, I would be there to protect and heal you. From the ignorance that is delivered from the angry child within a body of an adult. I became you and you became me, conjoined until death’s craving for the tear. Now you don’t need me, but I still need you. I have fought and defended for merely a hologram. I reach for your fingers, but they disappear 210 The Beginning Of The End T JESUS DE JESUS he man — or child, to those who believe that they are still children at this age — walks forward into a world where only darkness grows and death approaches. This is the world that Yasu Takuma believes in as he continues his long, dreadful walk toward a destination unknown even to himself. This world is near its end. Such things as race, origin, and religion do not matter to humans anymore. All recorded wars have finished long ago; all that’s left is limitless sand. No matter where you look, the brilliant brown will always be there by your side like a persistent parent who has promised his child that he or she will never leave. If you were to count the year using the Gregorian calendar, it is 4012, but neither year nor time matter anymore. The only way people can tell “time is passing” is when they notice that pieces of the moon are slowly being chipped away by the hellish sun as the heat eats it away, just as a child who, refusing to eat his food, will eventually eat it — if not now, then soon. “I’m exhausted,” says Takuma out loud to no one in particular after about five centimeters of the moon had been swallowed by the sun. If you were to go by the twelve-hour clock system, four hours has passed since his journey away from civilization began; the time would be 4:30 p.m. Takuma tilts his head slightly to look up at the blood-colored sky as his hand slowly reaches for his pocket to obtain the last nutrients he can receive. His hand, now to the left of his waist, struggles momentarily to open the small rectangular pocket. He then lifts the canteen, removing the cork that blocks the sacred drink that humans cherish dearly, preventing it from falling to the burning sand. Takuma raises his arm, bending his elbow, pushing his hand with the canteen that has the holy drink to his mouth. He drinks out of it. Not even a piece of the moon is gobbled by the sun and already 211 Takuma has emptied the canteen, not because he is desperate to drink the holy drink, not because he is a fast drinker — no, as a matter of fact, he drinks slowly, taking his time to savor any drink he has, for all drinks are almost as rare as the holy drink. A drink from fruits or vegetables; he slowly drinks them, savoring every drop, stopping to watch the moon lose a few shattered shards before slowly continuing again. Why did the holy liquid disappear instantly? Did some of the liquid spill as he was moving the canteen to his hand? No, there just isn’t enough liquid. Takuma, dissatisfied, slowly returns the cork to its original position and returns the canteen. He stops, looking around the brilliant brown, pretending to hope to find shelter for the night. The blood-filled sky starts getting bloodier. More of the moon is eaten by the sun; the night is only a moment away. It’s common knowledge to humans that the moment the sky is nothing but blood, it is no longer safe to stay outside. Takuma, of course, also understands that, so he slowly moves his heavy legs when he notices a small, white, wooden house. “A mirage?” Takuma rejects what he sees, then sighs. If the moon’s disintegration was not happening… “I guess I have no choice,” he says tiredly as his heavy legs start to move slowly toward the direction of the mirage, his face neutral, expressionless. To be continued… 212 The Story Of Love IRMA SANCHEZ Once upon a time, Love climbed into a window and made the whole room shine. It turned the mood slow. Love’s voice was a blessing — Then, everyone was undressing and the bodies seemed satisfied. Love was beautiful! With all its rubies and gems — that’s how we knew it wasn’t a fling. It grew, turned friends into lovers, though it didn’t make sense because people were falling— Yes, they fell deeply for Love! It was wonderful, magical even! How did Love become powerful? It had been only a weak little thing when it climbed into the giant chamber, crawled into the window, and flopped to the floor. Love was an ugly little monster! Why did anyone want it? With its prickly thorns and all those faded red ribbons. The ending makes no sense. It was never greedy or jealous; Love ended up alone. Unclear but understanding. But even if it dies, Love never really disappears. 213 Yo Soy VICTOR M. CRUZ Father of Victor Cruz Yo soy muy fuerte de carácter pero bueno de corazón Yo pienzo que estoy haciendo lo correcto para que Mis hijos tengan un mejor futuro Yo escucho las voces de mis hijos diciéndome gracias per ser como eres Yo quiero en un futuro ver amig hidos ser unos profecionales Yo soy muy fuerte de caracter pero bueno de corazón Yo pretendo ser el major padre y amigo para mis hijos Yo siento que los consejos y las platicás que tengo con mis hijos Me han servido para que ellos estén por buen camino Al tocar las manos de mis hijos no darles un abrazo Es lo más hermoso que puedo tocar Me preocupo que el mundo se este matando por nada Y el futuro de mis hijos sea incierto Yo lloro cuando veo tristes o que algo malo les pasa A lo que yo más quiero que son mis ninos Yo soy fuerte de carácter pero bueno de corazón. Yo entiendo que la vida no es fácil pero ayudo A mis hijos para que no sea tan difícil Yo digo que para mi no hay mayor premio que tener a mis hijos Yo sueño ver un mundo diferente a este en el que Vivimos que no haya maldad ni guerras Para que mis hijos y todos tengamos una vida mejor. Yo trato diá a diá ser mejor amigo mejor padre mejor todo Por Victor y Adaena que son mi sol y my luna Yo espero que ellos realizen todos sus suenos Yo soy fuerte de carácter pero bueno de corazón. 214 I Am Translation by Victor Cruz I am strong in my character and good at heart I think I’m doing the right thing for my kids’ future I hear the voices of my kids thanking me for being who I am I want to see my kids be professionals in the future I am strong in my character and good at heart I pretend to be the best dad and friend to my kids I feel that the feedback and talks with my kids have kept them on the right path I touch my kids’ hands, and, as for hugging them, they are the most beautiful thing I could touch I worry that the world is killing itself and my kids’ future will be gone I cry when I see them sad, or when I see something wrong with my kids, with what I love, which is my kids I am strong in my character and good at heart I understand that life isn’t easy, but I help my kids so it won’t be too difficult I say that, for me, there is no better gift than my kids I dream of seeing a world where we won’t be having any wars so that my kids and everyone can have a better life I try day by day to be a better friend, a better dad, better for Victor and Adaena — they are my sun and moon I wait for them to realize their dreams I am strong in my character and good at heart. 215 Believe LUIS GARCIA To believe in yourself — to believe in others in a deity, in yourself, in your teachers in anyone approaching with a promise a promise to assist you through life’s greatest confusion guiding your feet in the reticent darkness running alongside you in the scorching heat of day past the storms of your mind and the valleys of your heart into the wide green meadows of clarity where tools await the day when you embrace them in your hands and in your own belief when you build the foundation in which your lineage may take refuge and await the day in which they, too, will believe. 216 Since 1995, 1&/*OɩF$MBTTSPPN1*5$ has proudly published the written work of thousands of talented youth. PITC sends professional writers into classrooms to teach creative writing residencies, in which students learn about contemporary authors and different literary genres, and develop a body of creative writing work. The resulting PITC anthologies are windows into students’ lives — their struggles, hopes, and the collective experiences of their generation. PITC is part of PEN Center USA’s mission to stimulate and maintain interest in the written word, to foster a vital literary culture, and to defend freedom of expression. PEN Center USA is generously supported by the Herb Alpert Foundation, California Community Foundation, City of Los Angeles — Department of Cultural Affairs, The James Irvine Foundation, Kayne Foundation, Los Angeles County Arts Commission, National Endowment for the Arts, Rosenthal Family Foundation, Dwight Stuart Youth Fund, UCLA Extension Writers Program, and Jamie Rosenthal Wolf & David Wolf. 1&/$FOUFS64"t10#PYt#FWFSMZ)JMMT$"tXXXQFOVTBPSH