E1EVEN R1VERS
VOLUME 5
Eleven Rivers Review Palo Alto College Student Arts and Literature Volume 5 Spring 2019 Cover Art Warrior Actual Miguel Chavez
The Eleven Rivers Review is an annual student-sourced publication that highlights the creativity of Palo Alto College’s diverse student community. Our name pays homage to the Texas rivers from which our campus buildings take their names. The works selected for Eleven Rivers Review represent the views of the student contributors, not necessarily the views of Palo Alto College. All selections are printed with the permission of the authors and artists cited. Copyright reverts to the authors and artists immediately after publication.
Table of Contents A Moment
4
Alexandra Johnson
Alive
5
Bertha Sevilla
They Don’t Care About Us 6-7 Miguel Chavez Daydream
8
Danika Enriquez
Flowing
9
Yeritzia Sat
Growth
10
Deanna Estrada
Purpose
11
Bertha Sevilla
That Feeling
12
Joseph G. Bueno
Eyes in the Sky
13
Yeritza Sat
Seaside Rendezvous 14-15 Erendira Nolasco Dr. Pepper
16
Krystal Zigmond
Bad Hair Day
17
Krystal Zigmond
Dr. Funky board
18
Savannah Evans
The Guardian 19-20 Cassandra Davis Dead Beauty
21
Michelle Miller
Simple Beauty
22
Dalia Castellanos
Revolution
23
Emily Harmon
Mirror 24-25 Kendell Price Thank You
26
Ana Pina
Working Galaxy
27
Kendell Price
Atlas Moth
28
Faith McGinty
A Strong Ethic Passed On 28-31 Esmeralda Campos A Dilemma in the Thought of 32-37 Christian Aguilar the Modern Social Environment Tsunami
37
Ryan Miller
Echoes From the Void
38
Steven Markowski
Hope 39-40 Joseph G. Bueno Role Model 41 ElissaGallegos In Dreams
42
Amber Esparza
Not So Cool 43-4 Anissa Triano Annoyed 47 Veronica Ambrose Wybie 48-49 Erendira Nolasco The Tejano Generation 50-53 Joe R. Alvarado A Changing Perspective Cosmic Passage of Time 54-55 Steven Markowski A World Within A World 56 Maryjane Garza Excelsior
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Emily Harmon
A Moment
Alexandra Johnson
4
Alive Bertha Sevilla
Mother Earth is full of God’s children, but I still feel alone. A smile can hide many sad, lonely emotions. It is like a flower that looks beautiful, but underneath the roots it is dry and hollow. l feel dry and hollow. I need butterflies that drink nectar and lay their eggs so I can feel alive. I am not just a beautiful flower smiles and all. My roots and leaves need water and care. There is much I need to see and give; I hope tomorrow rain will water my roots.
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6
They Don’t Care About Us
Miguel Chavez 7
Daydream Danika Enriquez
Flowing Yeritzia Sat
Growth
Deanna Estra
Purpose Bertha Sevilla
As I looked outside my window a cold winter December I saw you struggling, shaken and sad. I started to notice that your beautiful green leaves have all gone. Why are you trying so hard to survive? Is it because birds make their home on your branches and give birth under the watch of heaven? I recall the day you were born; it was cloudy. I held you in my hands and placed you inside Mother Earth like a woman giving birth to her child. It was a beautiful spot next to my window, so I can see you grow. My heart is full because of all the happiness you give to the heavenly creatures.
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That Feeling Joseph G. Bueno
Who knew that I’d be here… Looking back to when a smile was worth it all. The way our bond was impossible to break. How in the worst possible times All that was really needed was the warmth of you. When together it seemed as though I felt it, Concluding my thoughts, igniting a fire That was full of possibilities Like the moment you realize the breeze in the Distance wasn’t caused from the trees swaying. But only from the moment two Young lovers expressing the one thing That will keep anyone’s heart seized In the state of Absence. In the end, no matter how deep the roots held The tree gave in for dear mercy of… “That Feeling”
12
Eyes in the Sky
Yeritzia Sat
13
Seaside Rendezvous
Erendira Nolasco
Dr. Pepper
Krystal Zigmond
Bad Hair Day Krystal Zigmond
Dr. Funkyboard 18
Savannah Evans
The Guardian Cassandra Davis
Where am I? Have I died? No. I do not remember dying. Though I do not remember living either. Who am I? Do I have a name? Yes! My name! Jack Antony Cloutsman, Sr.! Wait—senior? Well then there must be a junior? So, I must have a child—a son! Though I do not remember having one. It seems that I cannot recall a lot of things, As I sit here and think—yes! Things! Where is everything? Why am I sitting here without robes? Though…I do not feel unclothed. Hello? Is anyone there? God? Perhaps I am only dreaming? Though I do not remember sleeping. I sit here alone, But I do not feel an ounce of despair. I do not hear anything, no sounds, Yet I do not feel the need to frown. Should I stand? No. I guess I can’t. It is dark here, But still I am able to see. Could this be Hell? Heaven? Purgatory? I suppose my mind is slightly confused, But strangely I do not feel afraid. I do not feel sadness either, Perhaps I should stay. But wait!
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What is that? Who are they? Hello? Can you hear me? My name is Jack Antony Cloutsman, Sr.! No. This woman, a boy, and three girls, They cannot hear nor see me. Where are they? They are not here, and I am not there. What must this place be? As there is no one here to answer me. But this woman—with eyes full of grace, There, with no man in sight, She stands in her place. Though I swear I cannot remember her— Still she looks familiar to me. But how? Perhaps a wife? My wife? No. Not mine. I do not wear a ring, And nor does she. The children at play, All appear to be hers. Though only two resemble her features. Their lives, like a memory, Except not seen in my head. Poor woman—she cries, As if someone she loves is dead. Though I do not know them, Their mere presence brings me peace. The woman, the children, their sweet faces, Like twilight in Greece. So for now I will just watch over them, Until they all close their eyes. For perhaps one day we all shall speak?
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Oh yes! This thought—the utmost of highs! How that would be the most pleasant surprise.
Dead Beauty Michelle Miller
Simple Beauty Dalia Castellanos
Revolution Emily Harmon
Freedom an ideal this nation stands for The ground is stained from good men We think we are the heroes for the voiceless Yet they are ignored Once a beacon in the dark and the world followed Older and this country shouts the same Realizing this pride is a sham The American dream is just a dream Something has to give eventually History has seen its dictators And all the people who have suffered The mob has crushed monarchies The heads of kings have rolled People don’t realize their power When they remain divided We should not wait Till it is too late Together we may solve our problems Apart we fail The truth is hidden We remain at odds for naught The same old stupidity History has made its case Our leaders, you better pay attention Or we will Replace you.
Mirror Mirror Kendell Price
Kendell Price
Thank You Ana Pina
Today is your day Today you shine brighter than the rest From your blank stare and your round glasses To your nose scrunch and quiet giggles Today I think of what makes you remarkable Your questionable cuteness Your deep eloquent voice Your value of literature Your way of caring for others The way you don’t eat seafood The way you play games The way you feed all the stray cats in the neighborhood All of it makes me feel happy You are a witty person You are the only garden fairy in my book You are the one that makes me happy So, today I want to only think of only your happiness And say Thank You
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Working Galaxy Kendell Price
Atlas Moth Faith McGinty
A Strong Ethic Passed On Esmeralda Campos
Reading the current book by Maceo Montoya, “Chicano Movement for Beginners� has brought back a lot of childhood memories. Reading the book elicits feelings that I had no idea I had. I feel anger, I feel pride, I feel sadness after every chapter I read. I am reminded of my family. I realize over the years my family has been passing on our family history and legacy through either spoken word or by daily plodding. My family does not have a book where our history can be reflected on. We pass it on when something happens and there is a need for a poignant story. 28
Working for something, for anything was instilled early on. If I wanted something, I had to earn it by working. If I wanted something that was out of price range, I had to save in order to get it. I was not entitled to anything! I grew up in a very conservative and traditional Mexican household. Trabajando, meaning working is how my family measured success. Graduating from high school was an accomplishment and as far as my family saw education. My two grandfathers were the patriarchs and sole bread winners to the families that both my parents came from. My father’s father, Antonio, grew up working in the Labores, the fields. From sun up to sun down, that was the daily work schedule. My grandfather Antonio had twelve children. It was not uncommon in those days to have large families. It would be romantic to believe that having so many kids was because my grandparents loved children. The sad truth is that the more hands available to help harvest the crops, the better the pay was at the end of the week. My mother’s Father Agustin worked in las minas, the coal mines. Just like my grandfather Antonio, my grandfather Augustine worked from sun up to sun down. My grandfather would say later in life that for many years he forgot what the sun looked like. He would leave for work in the morning when it was still dark. He would work all day underground. When his shift was finished, he would leave for home and it was once again dark. My mother was born in Mexico, and was the second oldest of five children. She says that early in
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life she realized that she wanted more than what my grandparents could provide. My grandfather Augustine would swim across the Rio Grande river to the United States whenever work in the mines would slow down. He would tell my mom stories about all the rich gringos, white people. These stories would motivate my mother and hope for an opportunity. A family member approached my grandparents about crossing her into the United States, my mom pleaded for approval. My mom was thirteen years old living in the United States and her first job was as both a maid and nanny. My father was born in South Texas in the Rio Grande Valley—McAllen, Texas to be exact. My father was the tenth child out of twelve born to my grandparents. As a child, I remember hearing how my grandfather would wake up all the boys early in the morning a couple of hours before school. The boys all had a job and they all worked in the fields as a team. By the time they were done picking whatever produce was in season, my grandmother would have breakfast ready for them. Once the boys were cleaned up and fed, off to school they went. This was the daily routine. I grew up an only child. By the time I was old enough to appreciate the value of a dollar, I wanted to work. I remember I was fifteen and back in those days, I had to go from business to business to fill out job applications. I came home one day excited telling my mom how Bill Miller BBQ had hired me. My mom with a stern tone says “ESMERALDA, pero como?” How? Mind you that my mom calls me Esmer or Yayis.
When she calls me Esmeralda it must be bad. My mother explained that I must be sixteen to work. I was disappointed but not discouraged. A family friend needed a nanny to help with her children while they were on summer break. The regular nanny had recently had a baby, so she need time off. I accepted the job! I worked Monday through Friday and stayed the week at our family friends’ home. The job was a dream! One night while I was getting ready for bed, I realized that I was not much older than my mom when she came to the United States to work as both a maid and nanny. For my mom it was for a chance at a better life, for me it was for spending money. As I sit here writing about this memory, I cannot help but tear up. Maceo Montoya’s book just reiterates the struggle of Mexican Americans. It strikes a nerve in me because my family has always been about hard work and about rising up. It took coming to college to hear more about those who share my roots. Aside from my family speaking about historical facts that have affected our family personally, I was never really taught about Mexican Americans as a child in school. As I continue to read the book, I still have that anger, that pride, and the sadness. The history of those that share my blood and my roots were judged and are continued to be judged because of the insecurities of others. I believe that civil rights is far more than just black and white—it’s also about brown achievement. 31
A Dilemma in the Thought of the Modern Social Environment Christian Aguilar
The internet is what is called home now; it is what takes care of us, informs us, entertains us, and preserves us. There seems to be no end of life for the new technological world. A common goal that most young adults share is the desire to make a difference in the world. They wish to make change, but do not know anything other than their echo chamber of ideas that they and other peers hear many times over. Life for us has become a routine controlled by: we get up, look at the internet, get informed, listen, laugh, and obey. The only ways we know how to change the world are the ways that they taught us to do so. Influencers across all types of websites, apps, and entertainment make works that appeal to our basic level of enjoyment. If entertainers can make us laugh, then we can feel comfortable with what they have to say. The videos are relatable, easy to digest, and most of all, entertaining to the common audiences. The showmen of the entertainment industry are fun to watch and always appeal to our personal lives. They create funny scenarios that mirror those that we experience in our lives, which communicates the narrative that they are very much like us. They give prizes to lucky winners and the enjoyment we get out of this is thinking about one day becoming a winner of another person’s show so that our lives
could be worth living. Other influencers often just show us their lives in very interesting ways; they talk about things that are relatable to their fanbase. The followers, so passionate under the influence of their shepherds, defend their idols from any form of critique. Some that do have problems with what they do or how they influence others are deemed as know-nothings. The herd of thought becomes so strong that even lies become truth in the eyes of the mob. The critics become the haters by rule of thought and their opinions are often dismissed as the rambles from a madman. This new way of thinking has plagued the way many people view critics and people who only wish to improve what can and should be. Not only is criticism being mistaken for slander but now debates are more of a name calling contest than an actual search for truth. A large proportion of the population probably has been or is cynical to an extent. The common way people deal with cynics is to ignore them or to pity them for probably having a small ego and that is why they choose to slander them. Methods such as these give no room for the improvement of prosperity and thought by actually trying to reason with it, but instead choose to simply disregard it as rubbish opinions. If one chooses to avoid a problem, then it will always remain there. But to label someone as a know-nothing or hater depends on what is considered hate. 33
But what is hate and how does one identify it? There is a difference between slander and criticism and many are blind to those differences. It is very easy for anyone who experiences any sort of criticism to label it as mere pathetic attempts from a cynic to get a reaction out of them. To merely disregard any type criticism is the most inefficient way to improve on life. One scenario is an aspiring singer who sings out of key and labels audience members that tell the singer to go and get singing lessons as mere fools. The danger from this way of thinking stems from those who receive criticism and do not attempt to reason with the person or prove them wrong. Many people are afraid to be critiqued and develop a defensive style of thought when they fail to get the praise they desire. The truth of the matter is that many young adults have adopted this sense of thinking towards critics. For one to improve, it is recommended to hear what others have to say, so it does not matter whether they love you or hate you. The true challenge is deciphering the good from the bad and then to evaluate whether to take that advice into consideration. Even if someone does give you constructive criticism, the terrible thing to also do is to dismiss yourself as incompetent because you received it at all. It is easy to feel pathetic when facing failure, and a lot of people do give up when they fail to reach their goals. People are used to getting everything at the speed of light and when it does not happen in an instant, we get frustrated and give up. This doubt in one’s own
abilities is when the biggest cynics in our lives come from within us and the way of thinking from earlier makes us disregard ourselves as fools as well. But many forget that reaching a certain goal does not happen in an instant, and for many, it can take their entire lifetime to reach a dream. Of course, it is easy to view those at the top
of the ladder of life as mere people who played their cards right at the right time. Seeing people born into achievement can dwindle the hope of another who was not. There are countless people who did achieve their goals and have had a really difficult past. For the people who did succeed through hard work also had to battle with messages that told them that the journey was not worth it. Disheartening comments can have an effect on the person’s desire to reach their ambitions. However, there are ways for criticism not to become a weakness but a strong point of the whole journey to greatness. Passion is what determines what the critics and cynics are to you. If your passion for something is strong enough, then the critics will become the most important way of improvement because it is seen that they only wish for you to progress. There are those who wish for us to succeed and the only way for them to do that is to break away from the comfort zone many of us have grown accustomed to. Practice and work is what should be seen as more important than simple praise on performance. Not following the norms of the social environment can be seen as blasphemy by others who are so used to being accepted. But this view only secures
faulty methods of life where there can otherwise be improvement. People who follow the norms will always be normal, never to change even when their views are challenged. To be an individual with individual thoughts is the true sign of understanding the differences between good and evil. Those who explore the different, the wrong, the famous, and the infamous have a better understanding of the world than those who chose to never open their eyes. It is why one should never look at the influencers and follow them simply of because of their numbers. The most original ideas can come from the simple introspection of one’s own thoughts. They can neglect the individual, but that individual will always be free because they look to themselves for comfort and not the crowd. Society is always developing new and more deceitful methods to influence the crowds, making uniqueness a simple continuation of someone else’s ideas rather than your own. It can be difficult to find uniqueness in a world so devoid of individual thought there will always be a crowd and they can try to dictate the realm of understanding. But there are always people who go against the norms of society and in return, find new ways to live. True freedom is when you are free to discover and share everything the world and its inhabitants have to offer. To be different and creative even in the wake of an opposing rule of morals and etiquette is the soul ambition of human progress. In the mind of the mob, the outsider will be seen as sacrilegious. There is a part in the human body
that no matter how many times an outside force tries to manipulate and destroy it, will never break; it is the will of mankind. Even when engulfed by the trenches of coercion and containment, as long as the will is strong, the fire of freedom will always radiate through the depths.
Tsunami Ryan Miller 37
Echoes From the Void
Steven Markowski
Hope
Joseph G. Bueno There was nothing left, the choice was already decided. He sat there looking at the sky, wishing it was really just a dream. His eyes were shut, tears pouring out of him. He painted the words around inside him. Allowing the loss to disintegrate him, he looked deep down inside of himself. As the doubts consumed him, the only thing that kept him from falling was the memories, thoughts, and the urge to prove to the universe that he has indeed failed. He stood there wishing it were a dream, little did he know his salvation was no longer a solution. His Feelings… Absorbed His Emotions… Mislead His Touch… Decayed His Vision… Lost His Purpose…Annihilated His Voice… Whispers His Soul… Consumed His Nightmares… Reality
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His Love… Stolen His Mind… Dust His Punishment… Living His Life… Ruined His Lungs… Drowned His Savior… Pain (His thoughts continued.) As his eagerness to jump failed. The moment he wasted ended him. When his eyes full of tears opened, his heart split in two. She began her to flow into her path of life without him, only difference now is her independence. Falling, as though it was endless, he was abandon, left to survive the chaos day-by-day for eternity. The limits he possessed were chained down by fear, he had nowhere for his pain to be released. Shaking, in his sleep, the monster had consumed him from the inside-out. But when he saw his reflection… he saw the unimaginable… himself… at peace and full of happiness. In his guilt and negativity, he created… “Hope” 40
Role Model Elissa Gallegos
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In Dreams Amber Esparza
Not So Cool Anissa Triano
My name’s Everett. I was the leader of a notorious gang called The Pool Players. We were a small group. There were seven of us to be exact. Clara was my girlfriend. She was a small petite thing, but boy did she pack a punch. Leo was a tough guy; he loved a good challenge. Rosie was a sweetheart. She knew how to make the boys swoon. Vera, she was something else. Boy did you not want to get under her skin. Max wasn’t too bright, but he’s always been loyal to us. Last but not least, there’s Theo. He’s a small guy, the youngest of the group. He always wanted to get into fights with the wrong people at the wrong time. Despite this, he had a special place in my heart. He really was like the younger brother I never had. We had our usual hangout. It was a little pool hall called The Golden Shovel. As I said previously, we were pretty notorious. There were few places that would actually let us in. They were always worried we’d try to fight someone, or we’d drive off customers. The Golden Shovel was different. This was our place, our home. The owner was a man named Mr. Bradford. He’d always seen us together in here. He’s the one that gave us our name, The Pool Players. He said it’s because he never saw us do anything but play pool. He also said we were pretty good at it. He was right, we had nothing else to do and we liked it that way. It was a bleak November when we were making our way to The Golden Shovel. Then Rosie noticed something. “Who’re those people?” she said, as we saw two men in suits walking out of the entrance of our pool hall. “I ain’t ever seen anyone like that around here,” Theo exclaimed. After making sure the people left, we headed into The Golden Shovel and saw Mr. Bradford, lying on the floor clutching his chest.
“Mr. B!” Vera shouted, “What happened?” “Are you okay?” Clara asked, as she rushed to help him up. Mr. Bradford shakily stood up,” Ugh, I’m fine. Just a little frightened is all.” “Who did this to you?” I asked him, already sure I knew who it was. “Mr. June wants to buy the place again. Seems like this time he might not take no for an answer,” Mr. Bradford answered. Mr. June was a wealthy business man who’d been trying to buy The Golden Shovel for a while. Mr. Bradford refused because he had bought the place with his hard-earned money and he knew that we wouldn’t have anywhere else to go if he didn’t have it. “That’s ridiculous, Mr. June needs to stay in his lane,” Max said. “Don’t worry Mr. Bradford,” Leo started, “we’ll make sure to get to him before he gets to you.” Leo only understood violence so naturally that’s how he wanted to resolve any issues, and sadly at the time, I felt the same. I didn’t like the idea of anyone messing with Mr. Bradford, let alone anyone messing with The Golden Shovel. We may seem like nothing but misfits, but we make sure those we care about stay safe. Before night fell, we devised a plan. We figured we’d give Mr. June a little scare, the way he did to Mr. Bradford. That’s all it was supposed to be. A reason for him to leave our home alone. Mr. June was notorious for working long hours. He claimed that’s how he got so wealthy. We figured we’d get him then. His office wasn’t exactly hidden. It was biggest building in town and had the letters J-UN-E going across the top. We’d always be out late, so all we had to do was wait for the right time. We all felt confident that nothing would go awry. The only issue we felt we’d be dealing with would be going through his bodyguards.
While lurking around the building entrance, the guards were in sight. We decided to send Vera and Rosie in, hoping that they could “distract” them for a bit. While the two girls were busy at work, Theo, Max, Leo and I decided to go in ourselves. Clara was keeping watch from afar, texting me whenever Mr. June would leave his office, and to tell me if there was anyone else in the building. “Mr. June’s gonna wish he didn’t mess with us,” Max said. “Calm down,” I said, “it’s not like we’re gonna kill him.” “But what if we do? What are we gonna do then?” Theo asked nervously, “He’s an old guy, what if his heart can’t take much.” Leo handed him a flask, “Stop worrying about it. Have some liquid courage.” Theo grabbed the container and two big gulps from it. Max then grabbed it out of his hand and did the same. “C’mon Everett, its tradition,” Leo told me. He was right, Theo would always get nervous before doing something big and we’d calm him down the only way we knew how. Gin. I grabbed the flask and proceeded to drink. I didn’t know how to tell them I had a bad feeling in my stomach. I figured it was just nerves, and I didn’t want to freak Theo out anymore than he already was. We easily made our way through the door and found Mr. June’s office. Obviously, it was locked so Leo kicked the door down. “Wh-who are you? What are you doing in my office?” Mr. June asked, standing up from his chair, obviously frightened. “Your worst nightmare,” Max said confidently. Leo walked up to the older man and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, holding him up. I slowly walked up to him and explained why we were there. “You seem to be…,” I paused to think of how I wanted to word what I was going to say, “bothering, our good friend Mr. Bradford. You see, he has no interest in selling
The Golden Shovel. He’s made this apparent to you multiple times, but you just can’t seem to listen.” As I was talking to the man, Max and Theo were doing what they could to wreck the place. “B-But the property is worth much more than he’s letting it be used for,” Mr. June said. “You’re gonna leave him alone. You’re gonna leave The Golden Shovel alone. And if you don’t, we’ll be back. Next time, we won’t be so nice,” I said. “Okay okay, I understand. I’ll leave him and his place alone. Just please put me down.” “Leo, let him go.” Leo forcefully threw him backwards and he released his grip. As Mr. June scrambled on the floor, we were all getting ready to leave. We felt proud of what we had done. Little did we know, it wasn’t over yet. We heard Mr. June fumbling around, but we didn’t realize what was coming. As we were walking through the doorway, Theo was the last one out. Before he could leave the room, I heard a gunshot go off, and suddenly blood was slowly pouring from Theo’s chest. In addition to this, we hadn’t realized the button under Mr. June’s desk that called the cops. I remember Theo falling on his knees, and I fell too. I grabbed him and applied as much pressure as I could, but the blood just wouldn’t stop. Obvious anger filled Max and Leo, at least until we heard the sirens. Clara was texting me to get out of there, and Max and Leo were trying to grab me, telling me to go with them, and that the cops would give Theo the help he needed. I wasn’t about to leave him. I told them to go. I wanted them to find the girls and leave. I hadn’t realized the tears streaming down my face as Theo kept talking about how cold it was. The last thing I remember wasv when Theo stopped shaking, stopped talking. His body went limp in my arms. All I could hear was sirens in the background. The rest is just a blur. One I don’t want to remember. 46
Annoyed
Veronica Ambros
Wybie
Erindira Nolasco
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The Tejano Generation — A Changing Perspective Joe R. Alvarado
Tejanos and Tejanas are inherently creatures destined to live on the fringes of society, inhabitants of a land that was considered vacant property. Neither brown enough for our neighbors to the South nor too brown to fully assimilate ourselves into American culture, the status of one person is at the crossroads. Destined to remain invisible to support a narrative that appeases the status quo. My entire adolescence was that of a youth who meandered about oblivious to his standing in society. Until my nineteenth birthday when I met a young man from Southern California who would change my perspective as we became adults tempered through the rigors of combat. As a child, I remember sitting in my grandparent’s sala watching John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and other roughnecks glorify the Old West. I would steal my grandmother’s broom, saddle up with my cap, guns in hand and ride alongside my theatrical heroes. What’s so significant about a Brown boy from the Southside playing cowboys is that I always saw myself as white. Growing up I identified as an American never a Mexican or a Mexican-American, always just plain American. All the while oblivious to my own rich heritage and ties to the land in which I inhabited that rooted deeper than any Texas Live Oak. Then, on September 11, 2001, nineteen terrorists changed my life and forever transformed the face of this nation. On this day close to 3,000 people lost their lives when hijackers flew planes into The World Trade Center, The Pentagon, and a fourth crashed into a field in Pennsylvania. By no means am I intending to attribute
my enlistment into the United States Marine Corps with some desire to patriotically serve my country. My destiny had already been predetermined two months prior when I signed my intent to enlist. This was merely the case of another Texas boy who had no foreseeable way of attending an institution of higher learning without some help from my patriotic “Uncle.” On January 3, 2003, my recruit training had completed, and The United States officially had another member of its armed forces. I came home walking taller, feeling stronger, and the air smelling sweeter. Your perspective changes when you spend three months in close confines with 96 young men from all walks of life. What was amazing about the Marine Corps is that everyone was a Marine first, the only color was green and the only thing that mattered was the Corps. I reveled in the simplicity of it all which further perpetuated the image I had of myself as white or pure American. Then it happened; my proverbial bubble was popped at my first duty station when a sergeant, who shall remain nameless, uttered the phrase so many of us Tejanos and Tejanas hear during the course of our lives. The magic soul-crushing phrase being, “You speak so well for a Mexican. You can’t even hear your accent.” That was the first time I ever questioned the image staring back at me in the mirror looking at a face unrecognizable. Shortly after that, I stopped hanging out with people that had prototypical Anglo-Saxon surnames. My mission was to embed myself with other Marines who had Spanish surnames because if I wasn’t white then I had to be Latino. My only conundrum was my Spanish was horrendous and my conversational understanding was even worse. Once again, I was on the outside peering in. Gazing into worlds filled with culture and wonder people in those worlds knew where they came from and had rich historical backgrounds.
My peers would regale us with tales of their lineage or feats accomplished by their ancestors. Now that my psyche was completely shattered, my only recourse was to do what most young adults do in this circumstance, I called my mother. My situation is not typical of most Tejano or Tejana households. My mother is retired from the United States Naval Reserve in which she served over twenty years. In this particular moment in time, she had been in for almost eight years and she was stationed in Japan. All I wanted was for my mother to make the world go away even if it was for a fraction of a second. Instead, she was using me to vent about how no one took her seriously she was just a dumb reservist woman that nobody respected. This stunned me; I had never heard my mother speak so frankly about her feelings. That’s when the light bulb turned on and my feelings of isolation were not inherently confined to just me. Like a torrential flood, memories began to rush towards me and my mind became fixated on one in particular. Suddenly, my twenty-year-old manly frame was that of a prepubescent awkward twelve-year-old. I could see my mother, with her short Betty-Boop style haircut and her 90’s pastelcolored attire, sitting in our home on Ellor Street. She was conversing with the Navy recruiter and having to assure her husband at the time that the Naval Reserves would not interfere with her wifely duties. Like a flash, that memory was gone, and the flood waters carried me further downstream this time. My mother was being told that the military was no place for a woman, and she belonged with her children at home. Just like that, the memories faded and my conversation with my mother ended. I told her that I was proud of her and I continued on. In that instance, during my mother’s state of vulnerability, I realized she did not belong either. If she stayed home, women with careers would think she
was lazy and if she worked people would shun her for abandoning her family. The Duality of being a Tejano or Tejana was becoming clear to me. My mother and I have since served our country with honor. My time in the service was punctuated with a combat tour in Iraq. On December 12, 2005, my friend’s vehicle and the vehicle I was riding in was struck by an improvised explosive device. In a flash, one life was claimed, seven lives were spared, and twenty-four will never be the same again. The aforementioned youth from Southern California was our casualty. His name was David; he was my friend and I miss him every day. David and I bonded because we shared the same invisible bond—neither of us belonged to any group. David would refer to himself and I as “beaners.” To David, that word signified acknowledgment and transcendence; acknowledgment of the way we were viewed by some of those around us and transcendence through defiance because we no longer cared. We understood that our skin color placed no limitations on the things we could achieve if we aspired to achieve them. As I held him in my arms that day, all these memories raced through my head a deep feeling of despair enveloped my body and stayed with me for more than thirteen years. After years of therapy and because of David, I now understand that this Nation belongs to those who are willing to march in the face of adversity. It belongs to those who are willing to sit where they shouldn’t and stand firm when they’re told to move. Walls and cages will not solve our problems the world is changed by the invisible who fight to gain relevancy. David’s sacrifice makes me proud to be a Tejano belonging to no one but fighting for everyone. Ours is a rich heritage veiled in the secrecy of history, 53 waiting for today’s youth to discover its vibrancy.
Cosmic Passage of Time Steven Markowski
A World Within a World Maryjane Garza
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Excelsior Emily Harmon
Ever upward Stanley Martin Lieber never stopped moving forward Striving higher No one saw this coming From the Comics to the silver screen We all began to Marvel The lessons he taught Allowed us to dream A true hero need not be super powered Just someone who cares And willing to stand for what’s right and fair The loss is felt by all who were touched by his light He became Hero and Legend. 2018 . . . But his story doesn’t just end His stories prevail and the world may blend Heroes in everyone’s reach That with the right help Will live to become A great person like him 57
Acknowledgements The Eleven Rivers Review would like to give special thanks to everyone who made this issue possible. Jessica Barnes, CollegeEvents Coordinator Dr. Robert Garza, President Vicente Guillot, English Department Chair Patrick Lee, Dean of Arts and Sciences Shirley Lejia, Financial Aid Associate Director Thomas Murguia, Tutoring Services Coordinator Elizabeth Tanner, Vice President of Academic Success PAC Public Relations staff PAC Fine Arts and English faculty
Editorial Staff Student Editors Brenda Abilez Amber Esparza [Designer] Savannah Evans Emily Harmon Ana Pina Anissa Triano
Staff + Faculty Advisors Hunter Bates Karen Mahaffy Rita Ortiz