Animo Pat Brown Charter High School Los Angeles

Transcripción

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 MFARR
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.
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
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 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.
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 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.
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 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 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.
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 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 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
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.
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.
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 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 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
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 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
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 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
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 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 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
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
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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
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
familia
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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 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.
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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.
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.
That’s how many shots he indulged.
The thirst of vengeance does unfold,
the thirst of a father ending a life.
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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
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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.
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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!
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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 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 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
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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 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 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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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…
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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.
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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.
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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 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
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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 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 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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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…
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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.
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“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.
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“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
little kids curse
and grown-ups act like children
people smoke pot
and drop out of high school
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 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
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 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 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
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
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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.
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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,
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,
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.”
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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-
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?”
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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
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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
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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…
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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 —
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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…
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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?
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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
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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!
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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 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 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
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 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 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
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Animo Pat Brown Charter High School Los Angeles

Transcripción

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