Pasos Journal Issue #4

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Pasos Program The Pasos Program brings together motivated educators and a community that view our location, population, and stories as assets to student success. Pasos is dedicated to advancing our US/Mexico border community through family engagement, equity in the classroom, inclusion, and social justice. We will increase civic engagement through creative educational creative projects, service learning, and community activism. Office of Student Success, A 2414 Valle Verde Campus (915) 831-3377 [email protected] https://www.epcc.edu/Services/pasos 2

El Paso Community College Dr. William Serrata, President Board of Trustees Brian Haggerty, Chair (District 2) Dr. Carmen Olivas Graham, Vice Chair (District 5) Bonnie Soria Najera, Secretary (District 7) Christina R. Sanchez (District 4) John E. Uxer, Jr. (District 1) Belen Robles (District 3) Nina Pi a (District 6) The mission of El Paso Community College is to provide accessible, quality, and affordable education that prepares students for academic, professional and personal growth and advance our regional workforce. The El Paso County Community College District does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, national origin, religion, gender, age, disability, veteran status, sexual orientation, or gender identity. 3 ̃n

August 2023 Dear friends and colleagues, On behalf of the EPCC PASOS Program faculty, staff, and the editorial team it is our pleasure to present the Fourth Edition of the Pasos Journal, 2023 Issue. In these pages is the work of our students; we are so proud to share it with you. Please share it with others. Every year we put out a call for student entries and every year we are fortunate to receive wonderful stories, poems, recipes, and art that are reflective of the talent in our community. The students’ written words and artwork will leave readers inspired, impressed, and moved by the familiarity of our shared experiences across generations and traditions. Students’ reflective expressions offer insight into their life experiences, their joys, fears, determination, creativity, and hope for the future. Thank you, students, for contributing your work to the Pasos Journal, 2023 Issue! We are proud to showcase your work. Our students get the beauty of our border, they witness traumas of living on the border, and they embrace living here, growing here, and making a difference here. The Pasos Journal celebrates our community and demonstrates how our location, population and stories are assets to our students’ success. Pasos remains committed to advancing our US/Mexico border community through education. The Pasos Journal is assembled by a talented, dedicated team. Thank you to this year’s Managing Editor, Richard Helmling and the team of Editors Natalia Arreola, David Atilano, Denise Soto, Jamie Vega, and Vanessa Zuñiga. Thank you for gathering, editing, and shaping this annual collection. Gracias! Con Cariño, Lucia M. Rodriguez, M.A., MPA PASOS Program Director, EPCC Office of Student Success 4 


Credits Office of Student Success Director Lucía M. Rodríguez Office of Student Success Administrative Associate Robin Simmons Pasos Lead Faculty Melissa Aguilera Alexis Anderson Crisol Escobedo Marco Ortigoza  Crystal Robert Arturo Valdespino Richard Yañez Managing Editor Richard Helmling Editors Natalia Arreola David Atilano Denise Soto Jamie Vega Vanessa Zuñiga Special Contributions Yasmín Ramírez Michael Merritt 5

Pasos Journal v.4 2023 Table of Contents Merciless God & a Believing Non-Believer by Andrea Lara.......................................................9 Truman Apartments by Denisse Estrada ................................................................................13 The Jungle by Leslie Soto .......................................................................................................18 Red Lips ck by Briana Rios ....................................................................................................21 12 Hours by Sherlyn Juarez ....................................................................................................23 Broken Heart by Honystee Tuialuuluu ....................................................................................27 Empanadas, Música, and Chicano Love by Genesis Padilla.....................................................31 Hello Again by Vivian Munoz.................................................................................................36 La Sangre le Llama by Adalberto Soto....................................................................................42 Bleached in all my esh by Janice Lechuga ............................................................................47 The Hidden River by Aaron Daniel Saucedo ...........................................................................48 Barriers by Kiara Sanchez ......................................................................................................49 Forgo en Memories by Amy Villanueva ................................................................................50 Distrac ons by Breanna Gonzales..........................................................................................51 A Mother’s Journey by Diego Oaxaca ....................................................................................52 “I am not a terrorist.” by Makayla Manssor...........................................................................53 Cloud 9 by Yunique Puente ....................................................................................................54 Border Crossing by Daniela Galloso .......................................................................................55 El Perdon by Mia Cruz Ramirez ..............................................................................................56 El Paso by Vivian Muñoz........................................................................................................58 The market between two lands by Anna Rivera .....................................................................59 Red Enchiladas by Claudia Gamon .........................................................................................61 Homemade Classic Lasagna by Pamela Harris .......................................................................64 Abuelita’s Churros by Angel Mar nez ....................................................................................67 Chilaquiles Verdes With a Side of Strained Maternal Rela onship by Andrea Lopez...............69 6 it it it tt lf it

Pon le Salsa a La Vida by Adalberto Soto ...............................................................................72 Tor lla Soup by Angelina Olivo..............................................................................................74 Flautas de Pollo by Giselle Frausto.........................................................................................77 Pollo en Crema de Chile Chipotle by Lucia Tejada...................................................................80 Champurrado by Vivian Muñoz .............................................................................................83 Un tled by Camila Galindo....................................................................................................87 Cautus by Ivana Delgado.......................................................................................................88 Neglect of a Complete Mind by Leslie Molina ........................................................................89 Clear Your Mind by Ethan Ruvalcaba .....................................................................................90 7 it it

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Merciless God & a Believing Non-Believer by Andrea Lara Cold suffocated the room. Ester jolted awake. She checked her phone and squinted at the beaming screen that glared back at her. “Great. Two hours of sleep,” she mumbled. Ester always thought being up so early in the morning was unholy. She sat up and her feet dangled from the bed. It was a painful reminder of her small stature. “Ay Dios, I have to stop drinking,” she thought. Drinking always made her come back, and the guilt would come back too. She stared blankly at the wall across from her, trying to ignore the pounding coming from her head and the taste of regret in her mouth. The picture her mother had hung years ago stared back. It wasn’t a blank stare. No, the paint stared back with pity in its eyes. Every Catholic knew exactly what this picture was--what it meant and how it disguised damnation as protection. Ester tilted her head to the side and studied the ángel watching over the two kids on the old bridge. “I wonder where her guardian angel was,” she scoffed. She briefly considered praying like she used to, but--“What’s the point? There’s nothing good to pray for anymore.” Flashes of her prayers played in her head, like vintage film rolling, a movie of when she was a little girl dressed in her Sunday best on the screen. Anyone who knew the Ester from before would never be able to believe the Ester she was now. She was a good Catolica who took religion seriously. No one knew it was because she was terrified of crossing the God she was taught about, the one who was supposed to be her savior. She didn’t want to go to Hell. “Is it pathetic to sleep in the guest room on this shitty bed?” she asked out loud. She wasn’t talking to anyone in particular. The room replied with silence. Esther started this habit soon after she had died. Ester couldn’t stand the stillness of the quiet. She finally stood up from the creaky bed and placed her feet on the ice-cold floor. She stretched, her joints popping. The springs from the mattress dug into Ester’s back every night, but she didn’t care enough to do anything about it. She didn’t deserve to have a good rest —at least, that’s what she thought. The cold floor bit at her feet as she walked over to the window. It was still pitch-black outside, which didn’t surprise her. Winter meant nighttime in the morning and nighttime in the afternoon. “Christ, it’s freezing.” She brushed her fingers across her arms, feeling the bumps on her skin. Pellejo—her mom used to call it. Not that Ester remembered her saying it fondly. The empty bottles rattled when Ester threw them out. “I definitely have to stop drinking.” She walked around to the front of the house to go 9  

back in, but she stopped to admire the abode. This house used to mean something. It was gorgeous. The interior had an open floor plan; it was cozy, not too big but not too small. It was a home, one to start a family in, to make memories in. Now, it was cold and depressing. The creaking of the “For Sale” sign on the lawn snapped Ester out of her trance. The house had a dozen offers, and she had to finish packing it for the future owner. She was practically done. The only thing she was missing was—her stuff. On the second floor, in a room behind a locked door, lay a perfectly untouched room. It used to be their room, and it was no mistake that Esther had left it for last. She looked up at the room’s window, and maybe it was the alcohol that she drank too much, or maybe it was her imagination, but she saw her. She was glaring back, her eyes piercing Ester’s skin. It was only for a second. She disappeared as fast as she had appeared. “I am definitely not drinking anymore.” Back in the house, Ester stood before the closed door. Her arms were locked at her side. She stayed like that, completely paralyzed, for what seemed like forever. She had to move. The realtor would kill her if the house wasn’t packed up by tomorrow. She saw how the realtor looked at her. She pitied Ester. Memories of who Ester used to be were scattered throughout every square foot of the house. The new Ester was also among the clutter, covering the old, with bottles and empty takeout littering the rooms. The box in the corner of the living room was packed to the brim with the religious memorabilia she had spent so long hanging around her house. Ester rearranged her stance, shifting her weight. She shook the feeling and raised her arm to open the door. “Open the freaking door, Ester. It’s just a stupid door and a stupid room.” Suddenly her hand was on the doorknob, gripping it tight; it felt familiar. She blinked in surprise, half because she was able to do it and half surprised because the doorknob didn’t burn or hurt her. She turned the knob, only it wasn’t her. Ester couldn’t feel the twist of her wrist, the metal on her fingertips, the forward push. She couldn’t feel that it was actually her doing it. It was almost like someone had placed a hand on hers and turned the knob for her. She wasn’t in control. The door creaked open, and she stepped in. The smell hit Ester first, her nose recognizing the air. The notes of vanilla and cinnamon, notes in her perfume. It’s what she smelled like. It felt so relaxingly warm. The whole house was freezing, but not here. Here, it felt like her, comforting and soothing. The room was a campfire in an arctic blizzard. The sudden burst of warm air overflowed Ester’s lungs. She couldn’t breathe. She was hyperventilating. Her eyes brimmed with tears as the memories came flooding back. She wanted to run until she was miles from the house or at the nearest bar. She didn’t want to remember her or who she was before she died, before the ‘merciful’ God Esther was taught so 10

much about ripped her from her hands. She turned to run but, again, was completely paralyzed. Something was stopping Ester from launching herself out of the house. She had to face what was coming. She had to pack up her things and pack up who she used to be. Ester fell to her knees. Gasping for air, she screamed and pleaded with whatever divine force trapped her in the room. “I can’t do this,” she croaked. Only an instant later, she stood up. The snap from sorrowful and dejected to engulfed with rage surprised even herself. “I’m not doing this,” she screamed. Starting from her side of the room, she threw everything she had ever bothered to put up to the floor. Pictures from their wedding. The crosses her mother had gifted her. The glass shattered as the shards flew across the room. A poet could draw the metaphor from the glass to Ester’s heart. Ester didn’t like poetry. She tore up the room, flipping over the furniture in a blind rage and ripping every memory she could get her hands on. By the time she was finished, her hands were covered in scrapes and scratches, bleeding. Her voice was raw from the screaming, and she was exhausted, absolutely drained of the surge of furious energy. She collapsed in the center of the room. “Why did you do this to me?” she whispered in a soft tone. There was something under the bed that caught her eye. Ester furrowed her brows in confusion. There shouldn’t be a box under the bed. There was never anything under the bed. She would know—she did most of the cleaning. Everything in Ester’s body tried to stop her from moving. Her bones ached, and her wounds stung. Somehow, she pushed through her physical pain and was able to crawl and reach for the box. She snatched it from its home and held the box in her hands. She sat up and brushed her hair behind her ears. It was a brown shoebox. It barely had a scratch or a dent, perfectly kept, as if it had never been opened. Ester had never seen it. Was it hers? Why would she keep it a secret, keep it hidden? Unlike with the rest of her belongings, Ester was gentle with the box. She carefully placed it in her lap and raised her hand to uncover its secrets. There was only one thing in the box—a rosary. It was her rosary. Not hers. It was Ester’s from when she was a child. The very first rosary she ever held and owned. Ester had cared for it like a child. She went everywhere with it, wielding it like a shield. Ester’s biggest secret was her opinion of La Virgen. She memorized the Hail Mary weeks before the Our Father. She never told anyone that. She was afraid, even now, to admit that out loud. God was an envious and merciless god. Ester feared that if he somehow knew she didn’t memorize his prayer first, she’d be sent straight to Hell. The truth was that Ester never feared La Virgen. She was her motivation to keep going with religion. Ester never wanted to disappoint La 11

Virgen. Maybe it was the feminist in her. Or the deeply traumatized daughter whose mami never learned, or at least spoke, the word ‘proud.’ Ester only told her about the rosary once. She had lost the rosary before she even met her. So how, in any sane world, could the rosary be in a box under her side of the bed? Ester grasped the rosary until her knuckles turned white. “I can’t be this angry person anymore. I can’t carry this guilt anymore, but I can’t go back to who I used to be,” she wailed. “Hail Mary—” The words came out of her mouth before she knew what she was doing. “Full of Grace—” “The lord—” She hesitated and skipped the line. “Blessed are thou amongst women. And blessed is the fruit—“ She skipped that too. “Holy Mary, Mother of god.” She blinked the tears away. “Pray for us sinners now...” “And at the hour of our death.” The sun burned Ester’s eyelids. She blinked awake. She jolted up and whipped her head around the room. She had slept in the room. It was on the floor, but still. Everything was as it had been. Before Ester’s ‘tantrum.’ She felt strangely rested—lighter. It felt so real. It couldn’t have been a dream. It was real. Ester had torn the room to shreds. She tore her to shreds. She stood up. She felt good for the first time in a long time. “Ay Dios, I have to stop—” Ester’s hand burned, and she winced in pain. She dropped the rosary. 12

Truman Apartments by Denisse Estrada Walking home from school at 3 p.m. on a hot summer afternoon was something I did not look forward to. Some of my friends also walked home from Hillcrest Middle School, but their apartments were much closer. My apartment complex was further, but the walk was calm and quiet, and I always felt a fresh breeze by Yucca Park. The sprinklers were always on, and they kept me cool for that short walk. Dragging my feet, looking down as I walked to not see the long distance I still had to get home—I suddenly remembered Mami said she was making tacos de pollo and sopita for dinner. I pretty much sprinted the rest of the way. Out of breath turning on Meraz street, I finally saw my apartment. “Why is it so hot, and why can’t get I get home already?” Truman Apartments was a community where everyone knew everything about everybody. Especially Mami. She talked a lot to the vecinas. She always stayed outside late at night talking to them. Papi didn’t like that. “Nadamas te meten puro chisme en la cabeza,” Papi always told her when she finally came inside. “Oiga chavala! Venga ayudarme a cortar el zacate,” a voice called out. “I can’t right now, Rodolfo. I have homework to do.” Rodolfo was the old man that lived in apartment #79. I passed his place every day before getting to mine, and every other day he asks me to help him cut the small patch of grass he had on his porch. He would forget that maintenance had just cut it for him two days ago. Then there was apartment #61 where the “cholos de la esquina” lived, as my mom called them. They were always outside, smoking and drinking a tall bottle inside a paper bag. One guy was always leaning against the wall with one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cigarette and the other guy was sitting on a white bucket, resting his hands on his knees. Both always wore a black bandana around their heads. Mami always told me to ignore them and just pass them quickly. They never seemed to pay any attention to me when I passed by them, so I wasn’t afraid. “I’m almost home, just a couple of apartments.” My apartment was the last one in our section. There was Gary’s apartment, then one of Mami’s amigas Erika, then Amalia’s, and finally mine. “Hi, Liz!” 13  

“Hi, Gary!” Gary was a tall white boy that hung out with my friends and me sometimes. He was a junior in high school. I never understood why he preferred to hang out with us rather than older kids. We were only in 7th grade. But I didn’t mind at all; he was funny, sweet, and almost like a big brother to us. “Can you hang out later?” Gary asked me as I rushed home because all I could think of was biting into those crunchy tacos de pollo Mami was making. “Sure, I have to finish my homework first.” “Cool, see you later, Liz.” “Mami, ya llege.” Mami only spoke Spanish. She grew up in Juarez and married Papi there too. Papi then brought my brothers and her to El Paso so they could go to school and learn how to speak and write English. Mami didn’t have an education. After elementary, she never went back to school. She married Papi really young and dedicated her life to taking care of us. I still speak to her in English at times and she understands, sometimes. “Como te fue mi amor?” “Bien Mami. I’m hungry, hiciste tacos de pollo y sopita?” “Si, lavate las manos para que comas.” “Papi!” I dropped the rest of my taco on my plate to run to my dad and greet him. My mouth was full, but I didn’t care, I still gave him a kiss on the cheek, and he didn’t mind either. He gave me a long hug, longer than others. Then he grabbed Mami and gave her a long kiss on the lips. I covered my eyes and giggled. Mami laughed. Papi made his way to the dining table where I was already eating Mami’s yummy food. He let out a long-tired breath. He always smelled like food and grease when he got home. Papi was a cook at Wyatts Restaurant. Once in a while, he brought desserts, or leftover food. My favorite was mac and cheese. “Que paso mija, como le fue en la escuela?” “Bien Papi, nadamas tengo tarea de matematicas.” “Okay, pues termine de comer para que la haga.” I nodded my head agreeing with him; my mouth was full, again. I had been starving and Mami’s tacos de pollo were always delicious. 14

Mami served Papi his dinner, and I picked up my plate to clean it. Papi started giving my mom chisme from work, and they continued talking and laughing the rest of the time Papi was eating. I did as he told me and went to my room to do my homework. It was 7 p.m. and if I was done with my homework, my parents let me go outside and hang out with Carol and Gary. They were both outside already. “Hey Liz!” “Hi, guys!” “Did you finish your homework?” Gary asked. “Yes, my parents don’t let me come out unless I’m done with it.” “I didn’t finish mine,” Carol said. “You never do,” me and Gray said at the same time. We all laughed and kept laughing and talking until it was time to go inside. I was the youngest, so Mami always called me inside first. “See you guys tomorrow.” Inside, I kissed Mami and Papi goodnight and went to bed. “Goodnight, Liz.” “It’s finally Friday!” I got ready for school with enthusiasm because the weekend was finally here, and my classes were going to be easy that day. Mami kissed my forehead, “Dios te bendiga corazon.” “Love you mom, see you later.” Papi left to work really early, so I never got to tell him bye in the morning. Getting to school, Gabby and Steph were already at our usual morning spot. “Buenos dias chica!” Gabby greeted me. “Hey girls!” “Hi Liz! I brought some pop tarts, you want some?” Steph offered. “Sure, I’ll eat them in class, thanks Steph.” We talked for a bit and then the bell rang to go to class. 15

I was in art class, focusing on my assignment when my teacher’s phone rang. “Liz, grab your things and report to the office, your brother is here to pick you up,” Mr. G said to me. “My brother?” I thought to myself. He never picked me up; it was always Mami. I made my way to the office, and I saw my brother pacing back and forth. “Hurry Liz, we have to go!” “What’s wrong? What happened?” I asked him. “Dad is in the hospital. He had a heart attack at work, but everything is going to be okay.” My stomach sank. I felt like throwing up and I didn’t hear anything else he said. Tears immediately started falling effortlessly. He grabbed my arms and pulled me to him, “He’s going to be okay sister, I promise.” We drove to the hospital in silence. Neither of us said a word. I couldn’t stop thinking about Papi and how painful it must have been. I couldn’t wait to see him and give him the biggest hug. I could tell my brother was trying so hard not to cry in front of me. My brother and I had a really close relationship, we told each other everything, we never missed an episode of Laguna Beach, and he smacked my head all the time and ate all my snacks. Just like any older brother would. But this time, I could tell he was worried, sad, and too lost in thought to even speak to me. Walking inside the hospital made my stomach turn. I was anxious to see Papi and remembering the long hug he gave me last night made tears fall again. We got in the elevator and my brother still hadn’t said a word to me. As the door opened, I saw Mami sitting in the waiting room by herself, her hands over her face crying. She looked at my brother and me and for a slight second, she stopped. She moved her head, saying “no,” and at that moment I knew, I knew Papi was gone. My heart sunk again, I felt the room getting smaller and I couldn’t breathe. I ran to Mami and started crying, then my brother came and hugged us both. My brother asked her what happened, “No lo pudieron ayudar, el ataque fue muy fuerte, le afecto su cerebro y su corazon no lo pudo tolerar.” I couldn’t believe it. Papi was gone. I couldn’t kiss him when he got home from work anymore. I wasn’t going to be able to play basketball Saturday nights with him anymore. He left me too soon, and I needed my dad. 16

It had been two days since Papi left. I wasn’t going to school for a couple of days and my brother was taking some time off work. The apartment was quiet and sad. The vecinas had been coming to offer their condolences. Gary and Carol came and gave us a pot of warm soup made by Gary’s mom. All our close neighbors knew that Papi was no longer here. I walked into my parent’s room and my brother was there, sitting on the bed staring at a picture of Papi and him fixing one of his first cars. I sat next to him and held him. “Remember this car?” he asked. “Yes, you wrecked it a week later after Papi fixed it.” He laughed, wiping the tears from his face. “I’ll never forget how angry he got. I thought he would never help me get another car.” “I don’t know why he did. You’re a terrible driver,” I responded. He looked at me and smiled. We held each other for a long time just looking at that picture. Looking at Papi’s big smile. Mami walked in and sat in between us. “Todo va estar bien mis hijos. Su Papi siempre va estar con nosotros, el nunca nos va dejar.” A fresh breeze came in through the opened window in the room, it made the cologne that Papi had sitting on the table by the window stand out. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and saw Papi’s face. I didn’t know how things were going to be from now on, but I knew that Papi was always going to be there. 17 


The Jungle by Leslie Soto The yellow house. The one second from the corner. It’s unassuming at first, with its rusty white gate and dingy state. Splotches are still noticeable from when the drunk neighbor splashed an entire bucket of darker yellow paint on it because he had extra, and it was, “Close enough.” My mother seemed to agree since she never bothered to fix it. However, it’s the inside of this house where I often find myself in dreams. Banana trees, toucan birds and jungle vines. A giant waterfall where the deer often stop by to quench their thirst. Two rusty metal swings with the perfect view, but that would knock you over if you didn’t sit in them just right. Now you might be thinking, “A jungle? In the middle of a city in the desert?” And you’d be correct that it sounds a little preposterous. It sounds magical and impossible and like maybe I’m lying to you. And you’d be right, but also wrong. I grew up in this jungle. Only it was made of concrete and paint. A small signature that I could never really make out was hidden behind the only real tree out in the farthest corner. A miniature palm with sharp fronds. The house was a gift from my grandparents to my mother before they left for another country. My grandpa built it himself and commissioned an artist for the mural. They didn’t travel that far to be honest… An hour or two on the worst days. All they had to do was cross the bridge and they found themselves on the opposite side of the river. The yellow house was perfect in my eyes. It was quiet. Cold on summer days and even colder during the winter which forced us to huddle together for warmth. It was a big house. Three and a half stories. Sort of. More like two full floors with two extra rooms and access to the roof. My mother is the one who was always adding something. A fountain for the turtles or a room for each of us scattered around the house in a haphazard manner. It’s not like we needed all the space. There were only three of us and all three of us would end up living with my grandparents. Across the river. I think my mother needed something to distract herself. It must’ve been very lonely being in that big house all by herself. I figure the toucans wouldn’t have made for good company. If it had been up to me, I never would have left that house. I would have spent my days tending to the flowers in the garden or lazily swinging on the hammock outside. I wouldn’t have minded the mosquitoes, or the cockroaches, or the flies. I would simply go about my day and help my mom eat an entire tub of her homemade ceviche. I would lay in the sun and take my laundry all the way to the top floor to dry. I would have countless 18  

sleepovers on the roof and only wake up when the sun reached my eyes. I would have done my homework on the black dining table, on the chairs my mother refused to throw out no matter how many times she had to fix them. The ones that had been blue, and brown, and yellow, and all the other colors of the rainbow at one point or another. I would keep my mother company and help her with her restaurant out back. I would walk barefoot down the street to the corner store to buy myself a coke and chips. I wouldn’t have minded the dust or the broken glass on the side of the road. It wasn’t up to me though. My parents decided that it would be better for my siblings and I to go to school in the States. They also decided that they hated each other and got divorced. This meant living with my grandparents from kindergarten to high school and only seeing the yellow house on the weekends and summer vacation. We saw my mom once in a blue moon. I’m sure they had good intentions. I did learn English and how to add and subtract. I had the best grades in my class. Yet, I was miserable. My grandparents were lovely, up until they weren’t. Along, with Algebra, I learned how to make myself small. How to say “Yes, Sir” and “No, Ma’am.” How to avoid all eye contact unless it was necessary and to never speak out of turn. My sister became fierce. My brother became sarcastic. I became delusional. I buried myself in books. If I couldn’t escape to the jungle, I could at least pretend that The Magic Treehouse was real, and Jack and Annie were my friends. I longed for the weekends. Wished for them more than anything. My mom kept building even after we left. She tore down the fountain and replaced it with a pool. She added an entire floor with its own bathroom. She began collecting animals. A few songbirds, a couple of turtles, three dogs, two chickens, one rooster, and some rabbits. I think at one point she also had ducks. The kind that you get on Easter. The ones that come in pastel colors. Pink and Purple and Blue. The yellow house became even more of a jungle. When I asked her why, she told me a story. A few months after I was born, I became extremely ill. She didn’t think I would make it. She prayed and prayed and prayed. Next to the songbird in its cage. She told me that the next morning the songbird was out of its cage. Dead. And me? A whole lot better than the day before. She told me, “Leslie, that bird couldn’t have gotten out of its cage on its own. As long as you have animals in your house, Santa Muerte will ignore you and take one of them instead. Always make sure you have at least one and give them all the love you can for as long as they’re here.” I’m not sure I believe her. I think she was lonely, and the animals helped. She needed to fill the space around her. She needed to feed 19

mouths other than her own. A mother denied the chance to raise her own children, so she resorted to raising others instead. I know she feels guilty. She tells me so all the time. “I shouldn’t have sent you to your abuelitos,” she cries. Tears filling her eyes. “We should all have gone together or not at all.” I don’t really know how to respond. To agree or disagree? Which would hurt her more? Which would hurt me more? She knew how my abuelitos were. Experienced them firsthand and a million times worse. She tells me horror stories of her childhood. The beatings and the scoldings and the yelling and the scars. It scares me that despite all the pain they caused her, she was still willing to trust them with us. Today, she begs me to forgive her, and it hurts. It hurts a lot. But, I understand. Of course. Of course, I forgive her. She’s my mom. The year of my seventeenth birthday, the jungle was gone. Covered completely in white paint. I had noticed the cracks of course. The way the toucan had already lost its left eye, or how the waterfall seemed more grey than blue. Still, it hurt that my mother had taken it upon herself to destroy the rest of it. To erase it, rather than fix it. The green jungle of my dreams gone in a single weekend. “It was too expensive to fix,” she lamented to me. “If you want, though, we can start saving up for another mural.” I said no. It hurt too much to think about in the moment. Realistically, I knew our time in the yellow house was coming to an end. I was about to graduate and head for college. My mother was already applying for a green card. There would have been no point in fixing it. Now, five years later, we are finally in the same city. Living a few blocks apart from each other. I’m still in college, and she gave birth to two more children. Ones who will never truly know the meaning of the weekend. The yellow house now houses strangers. Invaders. I’m sure they are nice people, but I can’t help but hate them just a little. Why do they get the flowers in the garden? Why do they get the painting of la Virgen de Guadalupe that’s right underneath the stairs? Why do they get the rusty green swings and the golden butterflies that decorate the walls? I miss my home. My haven away from everything. My mother wants to sell it, but I tell her not to. I tell her that when I retire, I will be heading straight back for the jungle. 20

Red Lips ck by Briana Rios Being raised in a border city such as El Paso, Texas along the Mexican border, has influenced the way I view myself in more than one way. Most people who live in Mexican households know there are roles within each house; roles that don't stray away from tradition. The mother typically stays at home to cook and clean and care for everyone but herself, whilst the father/ husband goes to work to ensure a roof stays over his family’s head; however, he spends a little too much time doing that, so he forgets to care for the ones waiting under that roof. Nonetheless, Mexican homes have a system that has flowed through the bloodline since its creation. This isn’t a story about several Mexican-Americans' tragic life growing up, but more so the roles women have been forced to play. To be a woman is to play the game that society has thrust upon them since the day they came out of the womb and the doctor declared “It’s a girl.” Though you didn’t know much as a kid and truly believed the only thing that could hurt you was a scrape on the knee, life quickly turned bitter. From being forced to sit down and get told what to do if someone tries to touch you, to sitting in the principal's office because your bra strap was showing, life for every woman became contaminated with the cruelty of society’s perception of them and its desire to keep us quiet. Personally, I could go on and on about how society is programmed to take away a woman's voice; however, I still don’t believe the words which I and every woman express could encapsulate the reality of it all. For it is truly unfathomable for someone to comprehend what it’s like to live in a body that is built to have curves and divots. It is this shape that we had no say in the sculpting that has put us into situations where we have no control. Not only do people only consider your physical appearance to be their reward, but it is also something women have to be ashamed of. From being catcalled to being called beautiful by the creepy, old male teacher, women continue to be put in positions where they never have control. Even when they shared their stories of said catcalling or being touched inappropriately, most people around them, including women, just warned them to “avoid that area” or even worse blame them because they “shouldn’t have been wearing such a promiscuous and teasing outfit.” Every day, a new story of yet another woman being harassed or assaulted gets added to the list of thousands already there. A never-ending cycle that gets worse as it goes around. 21 t i

How bad does society have to be that when you were born, your mother’s smile faded when she heard you were a girl? To already know how much that little girl will go through. Someone so young had no time to be a kid, for all the color is filtered out from the moment in which you decide to put on a dress or heels or red lipstick or even baggy pants and a baggy shirt. No matter what one wears, we continue to be scared of the world that was “designed against our own beliefs,” which just so happens to be a Clairo lyric where she describes hardships she faces throughout the course of her life. Within a world of hate and so many voices overlapping each other, constantly, a large percentage of people continue to be silenced. Moreover, not only are women silenced in situations of sexual assault and harassment, but also in politics, at school, and simply in everyday life. It is the tedious cycle of a woman moving up in life to get a voice for herself that exemplifies the vicious and competitive nature to fight for what is rightfully yours. However, it is simply the role of the woman to be put down and put everyone’s needs before her own, even if her need is to speak out. This idea of what it means to be a woman has molded who I am for all my 16 years of living. To look back on memories and realize that when I share stories with my brothers and male friends, they didn’t and continued to not notice things that women do. From noticing a man looking at you and not breaking eye contact to feeling the constant pressure of making sure you look “right” each time you go out, even to go to the store down the street, men could never comprehend the intricacies of womanhood’s everyday life. In nearly two decades of living, I continue to face the issues my mother and grandmother faced. Despite society advancing so much culturally, every mother fears when her daughter goes out to a party, and every daughter doesn’t understand why she has to be home exactly at 10 pm. The cycle is never-ending; however, it is what we as women make of this cycle to create a fork in the road so that the ongoing loop of the same issues happening to the mother, to the daughter, and so on, comes to a stop. We must turn what everyone sees as weaknesses into our strengths, for we are not vain if we wear red lipstick, and we are not sluts if we wear skirts; we are simply being people who express ourselves. This expression can then cause a ripple effect to change the story of the people of the future. All I know is that I do not want my future daughter to live in the same world I did. I must make her story one that is her own, not one written by a bunch of men at a table who can’t even put “women” into the Constitution. 22

12 Hours by Sherlyn Juarez College Acceptance letters were not far from arriving and my nerves were killing me. High school was four years of torture and hard work. I made myself get straight A’s and studied since my freshman year for the SAT. I needed to get accepted to UCLA, as it’s near the ocean, somewhere I’d like to be. I enjoy the sound of the waves hitting the shore and the mew seagulls make. It brings me comfort and makes me feel self-contained. As if my worries leave my mind. I wanted to get as far as possible from El Paso. It’s not like I hate it, but I need something different from Texas. I feel out of place, and everything is the same. There was nothing much to do in my town and the people were ignorant. I needed to be where I can meet anyone who are trying to get away from their own hell, where I can be myself and explore my opportunities. I didn’t want to be tied down here and be relied on by my family. As the oldest, I had responsibilities, like taking care of my little sister Esme and making sure my mom was alright even when she wasn’t. I mean I love them, but I’m my own person, and they don’t get that because I’m just seen as a daughter. As a possession who needs to be THERE 24/7. My thoughts got suddenly interrupted when I heard my mom yell, “Julia ya apurate! el camion de Esme esta a punto de llegar!” She made me take my little sister to her bus stop and I wait for mine across the street. I ran downstairs and sighed at the door waiting for Esme and we were already running late. Every day like clockwork she yelled at me to take Esme to the bus top even though it was only half a block away. “Gracias Julia” my little sister shouts at me while she gets into the bus. As the bus left, I saw my friends walking towards me and I saw Camila’s bright smile from afar, “Hi Julia!” Camila yells as she runs towards me with a big hug. My friends are Camila, Aaron and Olivia. We’ve been friends since middle school. Except for Oliva, she moved here during our freshman year. We all had a class together and Olivia was by herself since she didn’t talk much so we started joking around and would talk to her and she eventually budge in with us. It’s been us four ever since. As we rode to school, Olivia hit me with the question I’ve been avoiding. 23

“Did you tell your mom you applied to UCLA yet?” Aaron and Camila turn to look at me, trying to see how I react to the obvious question. “No, I haven’t had the opportunity to” I say without looking at any of them. My friends knew that I applied to UCLA without letting my Mama know. She’d go ballistic and made me feel bad about leaving this place to go study somewhere far away from her. I played an important role in my house. I helped my Mama with my little sister Esme and kept the place tidy while she worked. Even when I got sent to the doctor because I was struggling with an eating disorder and lost an insanely amount of weight. I was struggling with my meals and depression. I always had an ideal for my body and with social media, it passively got worse. I would stay awake for hours trying to finish schoolwork and would forget to eat because I cared more about my grades than my mental health. My mom would tell me to just eat because there wasn’t a good reason for me to be acting this way, that I was asking for attention which only made my relationship worse with her. Which is normal in our culture. Most Mexican parents don’t believe in mental disorders, they just say we should just stop being sensitive and lazy. As we arrived at school, I looked at my friends and knew they understood and with their eyes. They showed that it was okay. “I haven’t even gotten my acceptance letter yet. I won’t tell her till I get it, I would feel like a fool to just tell her, and I end up staying here and go to UTEP” I said embarrassedly as I felt my face going red. “A lot of others haven’t either, even Rosa. We were talking during English, and she told me she applied there but she was still waiting. So don’t feel bad, it’s just patience” Aaron told me as he puts his arm around my shoulders. “You’ll get away from me soon enough” He yells at me while laughing and leaving to go to his first period. As I sit down next to Olivia at our first period, Ms. Rodriguez walks in and starts the class. She looked around the classroom and her eyes met me, as she was looking for me. “Julia, have you heard from UCLA yet?” Ms. Rodriguez asked me while we were doing our assignment of the day. “No, not yet” I answered with a frown on my face. Ms. Rodriguez knew I applied to UCLA because she was the first one to know. She was there for me when I reached for help about my problems, and she encourage me to apply to schools. She wanted me to have a bright future and go somewhere I’d enjoy, and I applied to UCLA. 24

“I heard some students are getting their acceptance letters already, so keep an eye out. You might get yours soon” Ms. Rodriguez said to me in a low voice, while she smiled. After hearing that, I was feeling more thrilled wondering If I got in. As the day went by and I got in the school bus to go home, my mom texted me all the sudden. “Julia, cuando llegues temenos que hablar de algo importatnte.” I suddenly got anxious and felt a pit in my stomach. My mom is never home by the time I got out and if so, she’d let me know beforehand. And then I thought. What if my acceptance letter arrived? I still don’t know if I was rejected or not but still. If she needed to talk to me, it was for a reason. The whole ride home I was overthinking, either I was going to have the biggest fight with my mom, or I was going to be relived to her being happy for me. Once I got home, I checked if the mail but there was nothing. That meant she went through it already. I went inside and saw her seating down in the couch with a paper right next to her. I instantly knew. “Porque no me dijiste que aplicaste para la Universidad? Aparte hasta California? Estas pendeja?” She yells at me with widening eyes as she stands up and walks to me. “Estas enojada porque aplique a una escuela buena?” I say as tears formed on my eyes. “No Julia, lo unico que quiero es que tengas un buen futuro pero porque tan lejos? Te necesito aqui para que me ayudes con Esme. Sabes que no tengo a nadie mas. Tienes 17 anos, no puedes irte asi nomas” she said. “En serio solo eso te importa!? Mama, me aceptaron a una Universidad buena. No importa que tan lejos este. I didn’t work my ass off for nothing. No sufri tanto para que al ultimo me digas que no puedo ir!” I yell at her with my eyes wide open. I was shocked at myself. I noticed my mom became pale and appalled. I understood how taken back she looked. I’ve never yelled at her like that before. “Sufrir? De que? Tienes todo, una casa y tienes la oportunidad de ir ala escuela. Nunca te falta comida en la boca pero ni siquiera quieres comer. Solo te la pasas quejandote de todo y te encierras cuando acabas de hacer cosas en la casa. Tienes todo. No necesitas irte de aqui. Puedes ir a un colegio aqui. No entiendo porque te quieres largar.” “Me quiero ir porque necesito algo diferente. Salirme de esta cuidad y conozer nueva gente y opotunidades. Quiero algo mejor y algo bien para mi. Solo son 12 horas de aqui, estas actuando como si me voy del pais. Estoy haciendo esto por mi y mi salud mental. Como esta convercasion, por eso me quiero ir. Porque no tratas de entenderme y nomas te importa tus cosas. 25

No me importa si lo aceptes o no. Me ire de aqui y no puedes hacer nada al contrario. Solo trata de estar feliz por mi.” I said to her in a firm voice. I wanted to end this conversation as soon as possible. I never intended to make it this way, but she didn’t seem to comprehend that I’m human too. My mom didn’t say anything, she just walked away and went inside her room. As I stood there in the middle of the living room, I knew if I say something, it would be like adding fuel to the fire. That’s why I hesitated to tell her. Once she left, I picked up the letter that said “Congratulations.” I stood there alone, with the paper that defined my future. I felt as if I committed a crime. Putting my feelings and myself fist wasn’t like me. As much as I wanted to be happy, all I thought was about the confrontation I had with my mom. But I couldn’t let myself get down because of this. I got accepted to my dream school. I’m going to UCLA. “It’s just 12 hours away, I can do it” I whispered to myself as tears ran down my face. 26

Broken Heart by Honystee Tuialuuluu Failed attempts to be together, red flags, excuses, lousy communication, all going on for three years. I knew it was time to move on, but I had wanted the talk to happen two days before. Stacking up the dirty dishes on the recently emptied table, I realized I needed to focus on work instead of that dumb boy. The dumb boy whose name was Damien. I'll be okay, I thought. Letting out a small sigh, I continued to clear off the dirty IHOP tables while keeping an eye on the entrance for incoming customers. The Weeknd's \"Save Your Tears\" played through the speakers around the restaurant, the only noise besides the clanking of dishes I was piling up. My nose scrunched up as I picked up a plate with half-eaten buffalo chicken strips, the vinegar and spicy scent filling my nostrils. My manager, Matt, had come out from the kitchen and glanced around the empty dining area, noticing how slow it was. \"Hey, Honeybee,\" he began, turning his attention toward me. \"Whatever happened with that guy you told me about? Did you ever talk to him?\" My heart dropped a little. \"No, he never showed up that day,” I explained. “After texting him, asking if he was coming, he never replied until the next day.” I then told him how his reply said how he supposedly “couldn’t use his phone the entire day.” His nodded, and we continued to finish the tables, thanking God that he didn't ask anything else about that boy. All I had to focus on was work today. I nodded to myself as more people started coming in. It was a routine I put myself in as the shift began to pick up. Seat, take orders, serve, cash out, clean, repeat. Luckily, it started getting busier as the sun outside began to set, creating a soft pink, orange-ish hue in the sky. My mind kept trailing back to that boy with his dumb face, dumb words, all of it. “Which one should I wear?” “I like options one and two. One makes you look pretty. Two makes you look more mature. You’ll look fine regardless of what you choose. Trust me.” 27   

\"Can I please get a refill for my drink?\" a customer asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. I smiled at them, grateful to be able to keep myself distracted. \"Of course, you can,\" I replied before rushing to grab them a new drink. Servers working the graveyard shift arrived, which meant that my shift would end soon. Red shirts and black aprons continued to walk in and out of the kitchen towards their tables, me included. As the restaurant became busier, I realized just how helpful it was. The busier it was, the more distracted I was. The fresh and delicious scent of omelets, pancakes, hashbrowns, and other food flowed through the kitchen as I stepped through the doors to get a quick sip of lemonade. \"Hey, sweetheart,\" Andy, one of the other servers, greeted me. \"I forgot to ask, but how'd your talk go with that one guy?\" There it was. The same question my manager had asked me earlier. My stomach clenched, and my thoughts began to race again. I couldn’t be upset with him for asking since it wasn’t his fault that I tended to confide in more than one person about anything that’s bothering me. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.” “Oh, shut up.” “Ha-ha, but it’s true. Look at how red your face gets just from being close to me.” I let out my hundredth sigh of the day before picking up a small plastic cup and filling it with lemonade that gave me a small boost. Filling him in with the same story I told Matt earlier. He nodded before giving me a small pat on the shoulder. He didn't reply, but I just gave him a tiny smile to let him know that I'd be fine. And I truly was. Plus, I was there to work and make money. Not to be hung up over some guy that couldn't seem to hold a proper conversation through text and tried to belittle my feelings for him. I threw the cup away and got myself back into work mode, wanting to finish my shift strong despite the heaviness in my eyes and my aching feet. A big party was sat in my section, and Matt gave me the green light, letting me know that they would be my last table. Thank God. As people continued to trickle inside IHOP, I was moving nonstop back and forth making sure that I fulfilled all of the final table’s needs. I made sure that I kept their orders split like they had asked so that it'd be easier for me to print out the split checks later. Made sure their drinks stayed filled and that 28

they had enough napkins, chairs, etc. Noticing that the group stopped needing my help at one point, it allowed me to get my side work started and to take care of everything else. Since they combined three tables for their party, I asked each table individually if they were okay. Each of them asked for their checks, and when I got to the end of the last table, a man asked me if I could get him a quick refill. Repeating the things I had to do in my head for the table while walking toward the kitchen, I hadn't realized that people were waiting to be seated. I scanned the lobby, realizing that it was just a couple waiting. My gaze swept between the guy and the girl, but then my breath caught in my throat. Crack. I heard the slight chip of my heart as I caught the guy’s stare. He stared back at me with the same widened gaze I gave him, but his filled with guilt. No way, but- Why- What- I became overwhelmed as I slowly trailed my attention to the girl holding his hand. Crack. Crack. I couldn’t help but start comparing myself to the girl. She was pretty with her long brown hair and her face with minimum makeup on. Maybe she’s more of his type than I am. The sudden thought of my table and my job flashed—and interrupted my insecure thoughts. My focus was torn away from them and onto more important things. My chest felt heavy when I walked into the kitchen to grab the refill. I shook my head, closed my eyes, and took two deep breaths before heading towards the computers in the dining area to print out the checks to give to the table. All of the tasks I did, cashing people out, getting to-go boxes, were always accompanied by the flash of the look on his face when he saw me and that damn handhold. As I did my last checks on my table, I would have to pass by the booth Damian and that girl were sitting in. From the corner of my eye, I could see her resting her head on his shoulder as they looked all chummy together sitting side by side. After everyone from the last table had paid and left, all my emotions came crashing down. My eyes started to tear up and my knees began to shake. At first, I thought about texting him something, but decided against it. I sat down in the back room, out of sight from those who were eating and quickly dialed my sister's number. Tears streamed down my cheeks as the 29

phone rang on and on. Choked sobs escaped my lips when she finally answered. “What’s wrong?” My sister asked. \"He brought another girl to my work…” 30

Empanadas, Música, and Chicano Love by Genesis Padilla After a long six hours of hell, Aurelia sat down and stretched her legs out on the bus stop bench. She leaned back and sighed heavily before looking at her phone, pulling up the bus schedule to see when the next bus would arrive. She looked at the colorful array of cars that zoomed by before noticing bus 11 pulling up. Her doe eyes widened before grabbing hold of her bag and running towards the bus door. Once she was on, she saw two empty seats at the end of the bus and shuffled through the corridor to the old multicolor seat. She turned to her neighbor and noticed his shirt covering his nose as he looked out the window avoiding eye contact. \"Uh- are you okay, sir?\" she asked while she leaned forward to catch his attention. “You smell like onions and grease. It’s disgusting.” “E-excuse me?” “Do you mind moving over to the other seat? I wanna enjoy my bus ride.” She looked at him up and down, furrowed her brows and scrunched her nose. She pointed her finger at him as she opened her mouth to respond. “Sir, that is very disrespectful.” She turned around and noticed a tall figure hovering over her before looking at the male's face. Her features softened as she saw him inches away from the older man. “Her smell is disrespectful.” \"She seems to be coming from work, so she really can't control that now, can she?\" Aurelia stared at this guy's profile as his eyebrows stayed furrowed, but a smile wide and mischievous crossed his face. The older man scoffed before standing up and walking towards the bus doors to get off. The stranger jumped over me and relaxed in the seat that was now unoccupied. “Th-Thank you. I really appreciate what you did.” 31   

His hazel eyes met mine as he scoffed, \"Pfft, don' worry 'bout it. He was being an ass anyways.\" He leaned over slowly with his eyes closed, keeping his nose inches away from my shoulder, \"Plus, you smell delicious.\" Aurelia pulled away and pushed him towards the window before furrowing her brows again, \"Excuse me!\" He held his hands before him as his eyes widened in shock, \"Woah, woah! That's not what I meant, lady! I meant you smell like enchiladas. It’s delicious!” Her eyes widened as a rose color flushed through her cheeks, and she pulled on her shirt and smelled it herself. She scrunched her face in disgust before looking at the guy rubbing his arm, \"I'm sorry. I really did just get out of work. It's di— “ “Hey hey, don’ worry ‘bout it. Again. You smell good. I shoulda been more careful with my words too. So, I’m sorry.” He gave her a small smile before holding his hand out before her, \"Name’s Thiago.\" I hesitated to take his hand before placing my hand in his and nodded, \"Aurelia.\" “Beautiful name, for a beautiful girl. Well-suited indeed.” Her breath hitched in her throat then she hung her head and smiled as she tucked her brown hair behind her ear, “Well aren’t you a flirt.” “Not at all. I just say it how I see it.” Before Aurelia could respond, the bus intercom mentioned her stop coming up. She gathered her things and stood up before looking back at Thiago and giving him a smile as warm as honey, “It was nice meeting you Thiago. And again, thank you for earlier.” “The pleasure was all mine. Have a safe one, Empanada.” “Why Empa—” she was cut off by the sound of doors closing making her eyes widen before she ran towards them and got off. She sighed heavily as she started walking towards the dorms. “You smell like that too!” Aurelia paused before turning around and seeing Thiago with a giant smile hanging his head out the bus’s window. “You smelled like enchiladas! But the empanadas were mi parte favorita!” 32

Her face glowed red like a traffic light as she watched the man waving at her while the bus pulled away. She stood a few feet away from the bus stop with her mouth hanging open in awe and processed the event she experienced. Is that what having a crush felt like? Like her heart was going to burst out of her chest and scream at the top of its lungs? She shook her head like a maraca and slammed her hands against her cheeks making her yelp at the sting from the impact. What am I thinking? She gathered her composure before continuing to the campus dorms. She made her way down the dorm’s hallway, which she always compared to an old mental institute. She scrunched her nose and furrowed her brows as she looked at the tacky stickers on everyone’s doors, before finally reaching hers. The sight of Jason Voorhees and Ghostface positioned like they were about to battle made a smirk creep onto her face as she reached for her keys. She slid the key into the slot and turned it till a click rang through her ears. As soon as she opened the door, she ducked before a flying shoe could hit her. She looked up and noticed the room looked like a tornado had just hit and left everything out of place. She looked over at her roommate and saw her throwing around clothes and shoes looking for something with furrowed brows. “Oakleigh, what the hell is this mess?” Oakleigh turned around and looked at Aurelia as her eyes softened at the sight of her, “Oh, I’m so happy to see you! How was work? How was school? Have you seen my bow rosin?” “Your what?” “Bow rosin dear. Focus. I’ve been looking all over for it.” Aurelia sighed over the sound of the TV playing classical music before walking over to the kitchen and reached for the cabinet. She grabbed a box of trinkets and popped the lid off before reaching in for a little caramel- colored block. She turned back to the fidgeting redhead and flung the rosin at her. “You slid it in here while we were cleaning.” “I—oh. You’re my hero, Elia!” “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome.” Oakleigh plopped down on the couch and reached for her bow before rubbing the rosin across the white strands. Once she finished, she stood up and caressed her violin before placing it under her chin like a gentle kiss and 33

began playing the melody to Unravel. Aurelia rested her elbows on the counter and closed her eyes, letting the music consume her. Silence filled the room once Oakleigh brought her bow to her side and turned with a smile brighter than any star in the sky. Aurelia returned the smile and tilted her head, “You picked the right major babes.” “Thanks Elia.” Oakleigh placed her violin back in its case, along with the bow and the rosin as if she were caring for a baby. She proceeded to put her instrument away, then ran over to Aurelia with soft steps. “Anyways! Why are you blushing?” “Wh-what? What are you talking about?” “Oh, who are you fooling? It’s me! I know you better than anyone on this campus! Even better than those plastics you call your besties.” “Oakleigh, they are my besties.” “They are snobby bitches that won’t accept that you’re a beautiful Latina.” “Please. I’m American. We’ve been over this,” Aurelia said as she walked over to the couch and sat down and crossed her legs. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. But seriously—what happened?” “Nothing happened.” “Riiight. And that’s why you’re face looked like a tomato when you walked in.” Aurelia smacked her hands against her cheeks as her eyes widened. “I —no it wasn’t!” “See there it goes again! What is it! What happened?” “Nothing happened! I was just—embarrassed. That’s all.” “Whyyy?” Aurelia sat in silence as she thought of the events on the bus and about Thiago. A warm smile crept onto her face, and she hugged herself as she imagined thanking Thiago all over again. “Because some guy stood up for me on the bus today.” “Oh my god! Was he hot?!? Why did he stand up for you?” 34

“He—he’s handsome. Yes. Handsome and stood up for me against an old guy complaining about the way I smelled.” “What a hunk,” Oakleigh said as she wiggled her eyebrows at Aurelia. Aurelia scoffed and shoved Oakleigh with a delicate touch, “Oh shut up.” “Okay, but seriously. Who is this mysterious hero of yours?” “I- I don’t know. All I know is his name is Thiago.” “Hot name for a hot man.” Aurelia went quiet as she thought of who Thiago might be and where he came from. How did he get to her in time to step up for her? Why did he help her? Thoughts flooded her head about Thiago that she wanted answered. The smell of enchiladas snapped her out of her daze as she scrunched her nose before pinching it shut. Her eyes widened and a smile stretched across her face from ear to ear. Great idea, Aurelia. Food. 35

Hello Again by Vivian Munoz Subject: Memories Anson R <[email protected]> 8/2/22 2:26 AM To Emi.miliovulcan Dear Emilio, Dear. I know that’s an old way to start an email. I honestly don’t know how to write these things. I hope I still have the right address. I’m sorry if this is coming off as inappropriate. I just have not been able to stop thinking about you. This email should probably be more formal but fuck that. We know each other… or knew each other. I know it's been years, and I don’t know if you still even think about me. Anyways, I was looking through our old yearbook when I was cleaning out my closet and saw a note you left me written in that obnoxious green glitter pen that you once stole. You didn’t even write anything profound or funny it was just “Have a nice summer ;).” It made me laugh. I did have a nice summer… with you. It was the best summer of my life because we spent nearly every day together. And considering all the detailed cliche notes you’d slip in my locker or backpack or journals, it was amusing to me that you left such a basic note. Okay, I know it's been years, and we sort of lost contact. I just genuinely miss you. And now I’m kind of stuck in a state of just looking through an old shoebox full of our high school memories; the pictures you took of me, the notes… everything. Pathetic, I know. God. This is embarrassing. You know, if you do get this and don’t want to respond, it’ll be easier if you just act like I got the wrong email or don’t reply at all. So… how are you? Do you still have the bike, the Vulcan? How is it on the coast? No pressure to write back. I just wanted to get in touch. -Anson 36  

Re: Memories Anson R <[email protected]> 8/5/22 5:17 PM To Emi.miliovulcan Emilio, It’s been a couple of days. The suspense is killing me. If this is the wrong email, I hope this email doesn’t mind acting as my therapist. Because of that note I found in my yearbook, I dug myself deeper into remembering that summer after graduation. I can still smell your worn-out leather jacket and the inside of the helmet you lent me that carried the scent of that cheap cologne I bought you for graduation. I have such a vivid memory of hanging out on top of a hill we found in the middle of the desert, just cloud-watching next to you. Out of all the things we did that summer, that was my favorite memory. Let me know if these emails get too sentimental or emotional. I’m just going to update you as I go through the mess of memorabilia that we shoved in my closet that year. -Anson Re: Memories Anson R <[email protected]> 8/6/22 2:22 PM To Emi.miliovulcan Emilio, So, an update on my life. I still work at the university I went to, and I work at the bursar’s office. I wasn’t kicked out when I graduated, so it’s been a nice stable job to stay in. I still have the old Corolla you helped me fix. Well, the car you fixed up on your own while I watched. I gave it a new paint job- it’s all black now instead of that crappy run-down blue it came in. I use it for my second job as a delivery driver. That money goes into helping Eva and Aiden with college applications and other shit they have to buy as seniors. 37

My mom is the same. Less tired now that I have jobs to help out with bills at home. She’s been able to live off of less hours, and I’ve been paying what I can. Everything at home has calmed down. I’ve seen your Tio every so often to help with the car. He hates how old it is, and he keeps trying to sell me some other not-as-old cars. But I like my car. You made it for me. I don’t think I can ever get rid of it, honestly. Speaking of your Tio, he found a box of your old photography and let me look through it. I found the photo you took of me when I first hung out with you at your Tio’s place. I remember how pretty it made me feel. I wasn’t used to feeling that way, feeling in any way attractive. I felt that feeling again, looking at it. I kept the picture. I hope you don’t mind. It’s really important to me at this point, and I’m glad your Tio found it. Hey, maybe I can make a more giant box of our stuff by combining what your Tio found and what I have in my closet. Maybe we can look through it all together one day. I’ve said a lot. I hope you find this email soon. -Anson Re: Memories Anson R <[email protected]> 8/8/22 3:09 AM To Emi.miliovulcan Hey, It’s really late or early. I can’t sleep because of these emails. Those past emails are pretty embarrassing, honestly. Just disregard them all. Have a nice day. -Anson Re: Memories Anson R <[email protected]> 8/10/22 10:36 PM To Emi.miliovulcan 38

Hey. I know I said my previous emails were embarrassing, and at that time, they were. But now, after I reread them all, I realize I didn’t even tell you about everything I found in that box like I planned to. Sorry, I just went on and on about myself and didn’t even do what I said I planned to. After reading my emails, I went back to that box and looked through it a bit more. I found a lanyard you gave me to carry my first set of keys for the Corolla. I don’t use it anymore (sorry). Do you remember it? It’s a Dragon Ball Z lanyard that you bought for me when we went to a thrift store over the summer. It’s all worn down now and faded. Well-loved, I guess. I got you a futbol keychain in return that I found later for your set of keys for the bike. Do you still have it? It’s okay if you don’t. Another small thing I found was an old note from my locker that you wrote for me. I’m gonna embarrass both of us and write it out verbatim: “C U after class qt. Cant wait to show u what I bought for the bike. I had a lot of fun last night. Can’t wait to do it again. P.S. Your lips r rly soft. ;)” I genuinely don’t remember what day that was from, or what you even got for the bike. I do remember always turning red in between classes whenever I found a note of yours. So, thanks for that, I was all red reading it again when I found it. I’ll try to see if I can remember anything else that’s associated with what’s in the box later. I hope you’re well. -Anson Re: Memories Anson R <[email protected]> 8/11/22 4:36 PM To Emi.miliovulcan Hi again, I just got home from work. Work is work. Eva and Aiden both have after- school activities, so I won't have to pick them up for another hour or so. These days I usually just stream Game of Thrones or whatever anime I'm watching at the moment until I have to leave for the kids. 39

Well, instead when I got home, I remembered I found something else I wanted to write to you about. It's a small ring you made out of coated wires from your electronics class. It's red, blue and black. I don’t know if you remember, but it's the three colored wires braided together and soldered shut into a ring shape. I remember how I over-romanticized it. I thought black was for me, blue was for you like your futbol uniform, and red was for love. It's so goofy just thinking about that but also endearing. Such a simple little cheap thing you made for me meant the world to my deprived self back then. Thank you for that. I hope you don't think it's weird that since finding it, I've been keeping it in my wallet. It's the first gift anyone outside my family gave me. It’s the first romantic gift ever given to me. The first ring, the first handmade gift. First of a lot of things. I can see why I kept it. Anyways, I hope I haven't made a joke out of myself yet. I'll get back to you later, Anson. Re: Memories Anson R <[email protected]> 8/12/22 1:32 AM To Emi.miliovulcan After finding that ring and writing about it, I found myself getting more attached to it. I’m not trying to be weird about this, but I kept taking it out of my wallet and then putting it away, then putting it in my wallet later. Over and over. I just couldn’t decide whether I wanted to hold on to it or put it back. Well, I ended up keeping it out. I turned it into a keychain because I think that’s pretty cute. It really means a lot to me. It’s no wonder why I kept it. Everyone says you never forget your firsts. It’s annoying that they’re right. I can’t forget you, and it’s impossible to. You were my first for many things, and I know this is cliché, but you were the first to make me truly happy, to make me feel confident for the first time. Ever since we separated, I feel like I carried that happiness and confidence you gave me. Thank you for that. I hope you still think about me the way I think about you. I'm really going out on a limb here by writing this. You made such a positive impact on my 40

life. I still listen to that 80s rock playlist we made together. Whenever I find it on my saved playlists, I just listen to it and remember you. I just want you to know I’m glad we knew each other. Even if you don’t respond to my emails, it was nice to just remember us. I hope your week is going well, Anson Subject: Hello Again Emilio Cobos <[email protected]> 8/14/22 9:31 PM To Ansonblack2016 Anson, First of all, hi. Wow. Thank you so much for all these emails. I had such a great time reading them. Please don't be embarrassed. Sorry about the late response. My laptop has been broken for the past couple of weeks, and I never bother to check my emails on my phone. Can we meet up soon? I’ll be in town next week. I really want to get back in touch. I'll be honest, I miss you too. I remember where your mom lives. If you still live there, I can pick you up, and we can go get drinks. Maybe we can look at the box of our stuff together. LMK when you're free. With adoration, Emilio P.S. I do still have the keychain you gave me. I’m glad you kept the ring. I also still have a small old polaroid of you in my desk drawer. It’s nice to know you’re still as weird as I am. 41

La Sangre le Llama by Adalberto Soto La Mariposa Monarca (Monarch Butterfly) AKA: Milkweed Life cycle: 6 weeks Spring Generations: Travel north for breeding Fall Generations: Migrate south to the Sierra Madre Mountains in Mexico Week 1 It is a warm mid-July morning at the basin of Pines Peak, Colorado. Miles of green pine cover the base of the mountain range. Home to a vast variety of butterfly species of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Rafael y Alejandra Volaris, two Monarch parents, watch as their beautiful daughter Eva is born. She starts as a small green larva but quickly grows and hatches from her cocoon. She is now una Hermosa Mariposa Monarca (a beautiful Monarch butterfly). Her wings have the most extravagant and unique patterns; however, there is a unique characteristic to Eva. She gives off this wild sense of freedom and all the teen Monarch boys seek to catch Eva's attention. Eva entertains their attention for a bit, but her family values keep them at bay. Eva is free and enjoys the summer sun and all the flowers in bloom. As she and her parents make their daily rounds on the mountain, telling her stories of a home far away from home. They take a break to rest on a milkweed leaf as other Monarch butterflies soon join them. She hears their chatter and learns they are all talking about their journey. They tell her of the long trip ahead and how they must travel to Mexico for the winter. Her parents tell her of their journey when they were her age. They left their home in Mexico and traveled to Colorado for the spring. \"Eva, mi hijita, Mexico is the most beautiful place on earth. The Sierra Madre Mountains are so big, they make the Rockies look like small hills. There are orange trees and flowers everywhere. Es nuestro destino, our destiny to return home, and crucial for the survival of our species.\" Eva struggles with the idea of leaving her home. She has never been south of Pines Peak. She thinks of all the friends she will leave behind and how much she will miss them. Unaware of the despair in the week to come, her parents remind her of the importance of their journey. Week 2 Eva has lost her parents to time. They have both passed away, but their love and wisdom live on through Eva. 42

Her loss has left an empty feeling inside, and she wants them back; El tiempo y la marea no espera a nadien, time waits for no one. On an unexpected morning, Eva meets Juan, who migrated alone late in the season. Juan is tall with intense, piercing eyes. His wing span was so impressive, Eva instantly felt attracted to him. It was as if he was sent for her. She became completely mesmerized by him. The two spent hours together on the flower fields feeding and bonding with one another. Amor a primera vista, this was love at first sight and the beginning of their love affair. Week 3 In a week's time, they formed a family, hatching two baby larvae, Juan Jr. and Leticia. One morning, while out feeding their babies, she felt this dooming feeling inside of her. She had felt this before when her parents passed away. Desperately, Eva began to look for Juan and discovered Juan injured on the ground. He had been picked apart by crows during his morning rounds for food. Juan's wings were unrecognizable. Those long impressive wings were now torn to shreds and the only part of his body that remained was his head! As Eva stood there crying, she felt lost without her beloved family. Although heartbroken, she picked herself off the ground and tended to her babies on her own. Week 4 Eva's babies were hatch butterflies. Their wings patterns reminded her so much of Juan. She taught them what she knows best, her parents’ journey and the importance of their own journey. Eva's comadre (friend), a painted butterfly, half convinced Eva to stay and not migrate. \"Eva, chale, times have changed, you don’t have to go back. Stay with me, your husband has passed, and my husband has left to California. We can help each other here. It’s not worth the risk anymore.\" Eva thinks about this for a while and decides to stay a few more weeks as fall begins to set in. Week 5 Eva starts to feel the change in her body, the instinct to migrate. (La Sangre le llama) The call of the blood is what her father used to say. And with that, she hastily packed up her belongings as midfall nears, and the winter air starts to creep in. She bids her comadre farewell and starts her journey south to Mexico with Juan and Leticia. \"I am sorry comadre, but I must go. I cannot 43

risk the survival of my kids. Los ninos no nacen con un manual abajo del braso, I can only teach them what my parents taught me. All the Monarca familias have left already. The last thermal air current is near, and it is my kids’ last chance if they are going to make it to Mexico. I don't know how much time I have left to guide my kids.\" Week 6 The next morning, she sets off with Juan Jr. and Leticia into the warm morning air, leaving her comadre behind. Eva, followed by her children, feels a warm pocket of air hit her wings and the cool air behind them thrusts them towards down south. With the winter air chasing them down, they make their way down to El Paso, Texas. They set up camp there for the night, and in the morning, they find a large cold steel border wall. \"Let’s find a way around it. We can't let this stop us now.\" For days, they look for a way around the imposing wall, but find that it goes on for as far as the eye can see. There was only one way around the wall, and it was over it. Eva no longer has the strength she once had. Her colors were now pale and no longer as radiant as when she was young. Her body starts to give in, and she can feel her time running out. Eva doesn't have the strength to fly over the wall. \"Juan, Leticia, I want you to know how much I love you. You are the light of my life, and I am so proud that you will be the future of our family. Please continue without me; find a way over this wall and into Mexico. It would be best to find the Monarch sanctuary in the Sierra Madre Mountains. Leticia and Juan looked at each other with despair and fear in their eyes. They had never been without their mother, and now she was asking them to continue on without her. \"I don't know if we can make it without you mom,\" Juan said with a trembling voice, fighting back the tears. \"How will we know where to go or what to do?\" Leticia said as she started to cry. Eva looked at her children with all the love she had in her heart and said, \"La sangre llama, the call of the blood will guide you; although I have never lived in Mexico, I know in my heart that it is where we belong. Our people have been coming to Mexico for centuries. Your grandparents once told me that we would know when we see it. It is time for you to go now; I will stay here and try to hold off the cold as long as possible, but you must go on, and you can't stay here.\" The next morning, at the break of dawn, just as the Texas sunflower yellow began to peak over the east horizon. Juan and Leticia tearfully hugged and kissed their madre goodbye. Side by side, they flew towards and over the imposing wall, not knowing what awaited them on the other side. Taking the air current south, they knew they were on the right path. In three days’ time, they found themselves in the Sierra Madre Mountains, and as soon as they entered the range, they knew they were home. The Monarch Sanctuary 44

was as beautiful as their mom and grandparents had described. There were monarchs everywhere, and the air was thick with their essence. They had finally made it to Mexico. Eva had been right, the call of the blood had led them home. After a few weeks, Juan and Leticia had families of their own. \"Leticia, saluda tu sobrina, Eva, Juan said!\" 45

poemas 46

Bleached in all my esh by Janice Lechuga In all my flesh and all my bones I’m many things A father with no children of my own A son and sibling A sun and a sibling Brought up by cassette tapes and legos To textbooks and numbers And an unclear path I’m many things A giver who gives and gives and gives And never asks for anything in return Who aches in private So that those that carry my same flesh and bones Don’t have to ache in private too So I place my sun-bleached cap over my head Worn out from each time I put it on Into the public Back to give more Back to just being in my flesh and bones My sun-bleached flesh and bones 47    lf

The Hidden River by Aaron Daniel Saucedo The exquisite smell of tamales and Grandma’s cooking A deep darkened wooden spatula, creator of delicious delicacies Worn down on the tips due to its use over eons and eons of years I recall the sound of Caso Cerrado The ancient tv pixelating the riveting show Hearing the sound of laughter fill the house Joking around in Spanglish and playing with the family However, all good things must come to an end The Hidden River no longer welcomed the flock Empty rooms collecting mounds of dust The darkness suffocating the vibrancy that once was Ripples of events changing the dynamic My nana, my grandma, who brought energy and life to our family Gone too soon that one reminiscences of old times Weekend meetings at “Aajjjji,” lullabies sung to when asleep If I don’t remember, I fear they leave and fade away Life changed dramatically in a matter of months How did this happen, was it my fault? 2016; one of the worst years of my life Seven years later, aunt married, uncle left town, grandpa stays at home Pondering where time had gone and what we had become The spatula, the television set, the Hidden River all becoming just a thought 48  

Barriers by Kiara Sanchez A maze of words. Familiarity yet zero understanding. I’m supposed to know. It’s not my fault though, I was expected to automatically Find my way through. In a borderland it was common, It’s Hispanic culture, Yet I’m not a part of it. Sure I was welcomed with the warm, Comforting smell of gorditas from Abuela, But a singular blockade prevented me From connecting with my people. Am I a true person of my culture? A person of my descent, Speaks our native language, Embraces the culture to it’s fullest. Red, white and green Is supposed to represent me. But, is that really my identity? Can I relate myself with this Or am I just red, white, and blue? How can I say I’m Hispanic When I can’t understand the difference between “Buenos dias,” “Buenas tardes,” or “Buenas noches?” How can I connect with my people Without our morse code? 49   

Forgo en Memories by Amy Villanueva She no longer remembered The memories she once had Were no longer dear to her They were nothing but faint Recollections of her past Passed like an ocean wave She seemed to have forgiven Those who wronged her before What mattered to her the most Was hearing the laughter Of those she loved and valued She scrolls through the photobook photos She tries her hardest to recall However, she could no longer Recognize her younger self She looked and saw nothing but a stranger Their names were hidden in her consciousness Cautious to even call out their names She became what she had feared The end was almost near Afraid of turning into a lifeless doll She could do nothing but bawl As her identity disintegrated Into falling petals from an old tree 50  tt