22 West Magazine - 2024 Mental Health Issue

CONTRIBUTORS

Madelynn Dodds, Writer

Cooper Jones, Artist & Writer

Alberto Juarez, Writer

Mfanisi Norman, Writer

Angel Nunez-Pabico, Writer

J. Quinzelle, Writer

Nayomi Resendiz, Writer

Eric Ceja Ruiz, Writer

Caroline Smith, Writer

Vivien Gray Valoren, Writer

Ariadne Avila, Artist

Gerricka Dacpano, Artist

Krizzha Dee, Artist

Madison Hoiby, Artist

Leyna Nguyen, Artist

Samuel Olvera, Artist

Abihail Ortega, Artist

Leslie Villamil, Artist

Alana Yu, Artist

MAGAZINE STAFF

Jensen Puckett Editor-in-Chief editorinchief@22westmedia.com

Gia Krupens Managing Editor managingeditor@22westmedia.com

Caroline Bae Art Director artdirector@22westmedia.com

Alana Loinaz Lead Copy Editor copyeditor@22westmedia.com

Tulasi Napolitani Distribution Manager distributionmanager@22westmedia.com

Panhavatey Bun Advertising and Sales Manager advertisingmanager@22westmedia.com

Payton Smith Advertising Associate advertisingassociate@22westmedia.com

COVER DESIGN

Leslie Villamil, Illustrator @entheo.5537

CONTACT US

Email: info@22westmedia.com Mail: 1212 Bellflower Blvd, Suite 108 Long Beach, CA 90815

Disclaimer and Publication Information: 22 West Magazine is published using ad money and partial funding provided by the Associated Students, Inc. All Editorials are the opinions of their individual authors, not the magazine, ASI nor LBSU. All students are welcome and encouraged to be a part of the staff. All letters to the editor will be considered for publication. However, LBSU students will have precedence. Please include name and major for all submissions. They are subject to editing and will not be returned. Letters may or may not be edited for grammar, spelling, punctuation, and length. 22 West Magazine will publish anonymous letters, articles, editorials, and illustrations, but must have your name and information attached for our records. Letters to the editor should be no longer than 500 words. 22 West Magazine assumes no responsibility, nor is it liable, for claims of its advertisers. Grievance procedures are available in the Associated Students business office.

LETTER FROM AN EDITOR

Welcome to 22 West’s Mental Health Awareness Issue! We are so grateful to be able to share incredible stories and perspectives with all of you. This is the month to remember that awareness should be raised every month. We all have different backgrounds, interests, needs, and lives. Whatever you are going through, validate it. No one has ever felt the same exact way you do even when facing similar situations. We shouldn’t expect one solution to serve everyone. If you are struggling right now, the first step towards recovery is to accept help. Find what works for you! Long Beach State offers some resources for students who are experiencing any mental health conditions. Some important contacts on campus include Counseling and Psychological Services, Student Health Center, University Police, Women and Gender Equity Center, Project Ocean, and more. They all serve different issues with the same purpose of helping out those who are going through a tough time. If your mental struggles are associated with physiological needs, make sure to check our CSULB Basic Needs Program as well.

There’s a big sense of community in mental health activism, and I love it. If your way of coping is writing, you can always come by the 22 West Media office in the USU and talk to a magazine officer to start volunteering. I hope this month’s articles and art pieces inspire the writer/artist in you and make you reflect on important themes. Enjoy!

TRIGGER WARNING: Anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and sexual abuse.

ALANA LOINAZ LEAD COPY EDITOR

Recovery of CPTSD: Life in a Broken Reflection

WRITTEN

BY

VIVIEN GRAY VALOREN

ILLUSTRATION BY GERRICKA

DACPANO

To experience Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is to experience an event so awful it shatters the individual underneath. Complex PTSD, or CPTSD, is to experience many traumatic events over a period of time. This in turn shatters an individual over and over and over again. Trauma like this in turn creates layers upon layers of traumatic memories, repressed emotions, and a litany of comorbidities, all of which can take a lifetime to manage if one does not succumb to despair. This was my childhood, and now, in my adult life, I am learning to heal, to live, and to love again after being hurt for so long.

I was born to a mother with an anxiety disorder that manifested itself as hoarding, and a negligent father who rarely, if ever, showed any emotion besides anger. They raised a total of four children, and one of my siblings would physically and emotionally abuse me throughout my childhood. They sexually abused me when I was 2 years old. My mother would routinely threaten us with “getting into trouble,” but she never actually followed up on

our disruptive behavior. She would also buy new furniture regularly, and I have a memory of myself crying and begging her not to replace the furniture in my room because I had grown attached to it. I would regularly tell her we didn’t need new furniture because we had no room. Conveniently, there was always space outside for her last purchase to sit and bake in the sun. I remember all her furniture falling

“It became apparent to my best friend I had to leave, and they were right.”

into disrepair, and the smell of mold after rainy days. My family tip-toeing around my mother’s hoarding whenever new tables or shelves were bought was a common occurrence. My father would yell at us or spank us with a belt for things such as being caught

in his room or wetting the bed when the threat of “getting into trouble” wasn’t enough to get us to behave. My abusive sibling bullied me throughout my entire life, to the point where I regularly went to my eldest sibling since she would comfort me more than either of my parents. All of this occurred from people who would tell me they loved me and that, since they were my family, I had to trust them. Each time they would tell me this I felt a part of me break as the child version of myself would try to reconcile what they were told and what they felt. Over and over and over again. This was my life until I came to Long Beach at 26 years old.

My recovery initially started after I told my bestfriend my repressed memory of being sexually abused by my sibling. The awakened traumatic feelings were awful, even more so because not only was I still living in the family home, but I was also living in the room it happened in. My abuser was also still living in the household, and I grew so scared of seeing them I would lock myself in my room only to come out to eat whenever they left

for work. It became apparent to my best friend I had to leave, and they were right. I had nowhere else to go, though. I called every shelter in Palm Springs and Los Angeles, all of which were full. There was a strong possibility I’d be living in my car. I had met a stranger online a month and half prior and hung out with them once or twice before I asked if I could sleep on their couch until I moved into the dorms. I was scared of what would happen to me once I moved in, as I barely knew this person. But once you’re used to hell, an oven doesn’t seem so bad. This was the beginning of unpacking my trauma, though not the beginning of my recovery.

However, I did not have a full breadth of mental health services until I started attending CSU Long Beach. I attend biweekly trauma counseling, take antidepressants, and regularly use Cannabis to help process repressed emotions. And though life is leaps and bounds better than before, there is still a part of me that hurts. My trauma has permanently changed my life and my perspective on the world, and even though I get better, it can’t undo what’s been done. But there is relief in seeing what’s changed about me. I can actually sleep without having awful, sexually explicit trauma dreams and no longer feel in constant danger when I’m outside my room. A part of me felt like I was an awful person, because how else could my young mind comprehend why so many awful things were happening to me? I felt like I was a creep and would constantly keep my behavior in check, insofar as to even feel guilty for having intrusive thoughts. Now, I realize I was a child who endured too much as someone so small and helpless by the hands of those who were supposed to protect them. My healing is continuous, as each issue that is healed reveals another facet of my upbringing I buried away to stay alive. But the best part is the fact that I now have the ability to live, rather than just survive. It was easy to say “I love you” to my family even though I knew it was a lie. After all, they had taught me love was something you could say without meaning it, because I based it off their actions.

But after I became estranged from my family, love was an emotion I was easily willing to give to others because I had so much to give that I couldn’t give to my family. So when it came to friends, chosen family, and romantic partners, it felt so easy loving them. But being loved by them felt so… strange. Quite frankly, I didn’t know how to be loved. The only reference I had were the people who said they loved me but treated me poorly. I put up walls and told myself I shouldn’t let them get close because if I did, they would hurt me. I fantasized about telling the new people in my life something so awful they would stop loving me. That way, I wouldn’t be hurt. The truth is I wanted so dearly to be loved and to love others, but I thought none of this love could exist without some aspect of pain. That was what love was for me. But after many sessions of therapy and reading the experiences of other people with C-PTSD, I realized these walls were only hurting me. Many struggles of my life were defense mechanisms my mind had conjured to protect me from my abusive environment. I still struggle with this part, but I know now the love I have for others and the love others give to me is honest. I cherish all those that would have me in their lives, even for a short time. For I know what it is like when one’s existence is taken for granted.

My childhood was a struggle riddled with trauma and defense mechanisms that placed emotional barriers around me. As an adult, I learned to finally let go of what was holding me back from being emotionally fulfilled. Though I still struggle with my trauma, I will forever be grateful I have even gotten to this point thanks to the support of my therapists, medication, and my chosen family. This has given me a unique understanding of trauma and grief as well as a deep compassion for all those who struggle with mental health issues. I’m still picking up the pieces of my life but at least when I look in the reflection I see someone who deserves to love, be loved, and know it.

“So when it came to friends, chosen family, and romantic partners, it felt so easy loving them.”

WRITTEN BY ANGEL NUNEZ-PABICO

ILLUSTRATION BY ALANA YU

Iflick the light switch three times, turning it off, then on, then off again. This is what I have to do every time I have to turn the light on or off. I go to watch TV, turn the volume up. It’s at 14. I cringe and turn it up to 18—not too loud and it’s a multiple of three. I’m asked to get bread, so I go outside and lock the door, pulling the door once, twice, thrice, before going about my day.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or more commonly known as OCD, is a disorder that can last for years or be lifelong. It usually presents itself late in your childhood or early into your adulthood. Many people have obsessions, compulsions, or both.

Unwanted thoughts flood my head, and I can’t stop them. They’re loud, violent, and of grotesque nature. I slam my head into the pillow in an attempt to quiet them. I play loud music. I read a book. Nothing seems to help it.

Obsessions can range from fears of germs, intrusive thoughts, or aggression directed at others or oneself. Compulsions can be excessive checking (having to check three times if the door is locked, having to check if the garage is closed, etc.), eating foods in a certain pattern (eating trail mix by consuming the peanuts and cashews first, then the almonds, then the peanut candies, then the chocolate candies, etc.), or excessively counting actions you do (making sure the volume on a device is at a certain number, flipping on a light switch a certain amount of times to turn it on/off, making sure there is a certain number of examples used to describe something, etc.). However, it’s important to note that not every habit is a compulsion, and not every reoccurring thought is an obsession. I take the last bite of rice, my stomach already

MULTIPLES OF THREE

MULTIPLES OF THREE MULTIPLES OF THREE

full from the carrots and broccoli. I’m saving the salmon for last—not because I want to—but because I have to or else my house will explode. I go to take a bite, and before it reaches my mouth, I realize that I’m full.

Even though some people with OCD know that their obsessions or compulsions are irrational, they usually cannot control it. Although they may feel a temporary relief from their anxieties when

“I’m saving the salmon for last— not because I want to—but because I have to or else my house will explode.”

doing compulsions, they don’t enjoy doing so. Their obsessions or compulsions may take up a part of their day, and they commonly experience significant problems in their daily lives due to their intrusive thoughts, compulsions, or obsessions.

I strategically place my pens in the box so that each metal pin on the pen caps touch each other. I’ve been doing this since I was old enough to collect pens, because if I don’t do this, my mom will die. This is totally logical, right?

Children with OCD might think that everybody has these thoughts and behaviors and will fear the worst if they do not perform compulsions. Luck-

ily, most adults recognize these behaviors, which allows for those with OCD to get help. If untreated, however, OCD can affect the child’s daily life.

I hide under my blanket until the clock strikes 4:00 a.m. because there’s ghosts flying in my room for the whole third hour. It’s hot and it suffocates me, and I can barely breathe, but it keeps me safe. I wonder why I haven’t fallen asleep yet.

Many adults with OCD acknowledge that their thoughts and behaviors don’t necessarily make sense. While there is no cure for OCD, there are several treatments for it, such as psychotherapy (exposure therapy and cognitive behavioral therapy) and medications. As a student at California State University, Long Beach, there are resources like CAPS and Student Health Services.

My therapist told me to ignore these thoughts, compulsions, and obsessions. It’s only been an hour since I’ve woken up, and I turned on the light by pressing the switch once. I ate the chocolate first in my trail mix. I drown out the loud thoughts in my head with even louder music. I ate the protein with the grains. Every fiber in my body is telling me that I’m going to explode and everything I know will explode; I will have nothing. I ignore it.

I go about my day. Checking if the door is locked once. An itching feeling tells me that the oven is on, so I go to check it. After that, I leave it as is. I hold conversations. I mess up my pens. I read a book and stop on page 152, because 152 isn’t a multiple of three. It’s a terrible feeling, really, but I hope it only gets easier.

Turning off the light by pressing the switch once, I pull the blanket over me and go to bed.

ART OF ALBERTO

WRITTEN BY ALBERTO JUAREZ

ILLUSTRATION BY COOPER JONES

My mother’s words to me, a child scared of the dark, come to mind from time to time. In order to comfort me, she told me that God lived inside my heart so that if I felt that I was alone, especially in the dark, I didn’t need to be afraid as He was there with me. I thought about that in different perspectives. As a child, I didn’t know if it was meant to give me courage or to be taken literally. Was she saying that she was inside my heart as well? Was it vaguely about love? I felt serious about it, even considering that I didn’t believe in any god. I thought angels and demons were creatures that lived in the corner of your eye.

Now, when I reflect on it, it is humorous. What even is courage without fear? Was that comfort some altruistic affect of a parent caring for their child? What does it even mean for me now, as an adult without religion? I have an itch to call it foolish, or to call myself foolish. I realize now that this memory–-followed by an obsession with questions that don’t have a single answer—proves that I have the mind of a writer. It doesn’t feel like I chose this: it doesn’t even feel necessarily good when I write, but I identify with it. Damn, is it hard to write. It is what I’m good at, if anything.

As vain as it is, my relationship with writing really started when people told me my writing was good. Like in middle school, when my teacher said my piece was well-developed. All I had read by then was The Lightning Thief, a fantasy book about Greek mythology. What did I know about writing? Ha. Later, this weird thing about being a writer came up a lot more in high school, where I felt my work was evaluated. Two English teachers, a science teacher,

a clapping audience of peers, and my friends, all told me what I wrote was good. And it felt good. Good enough to abandon game design as a “passion.” Do what you’re good at, was enough for a while. Mostly, I was afraid of having nothing to be good at.

Around the time my adult life began, I became estranged with the art of writing. I hardly wrote on my own. It had become reduced to a major; I believed that my lack of enthusiasm for it deter-

“It gives me so much comfort to hear stories about darkness and the human condition. I want to recreate them, make them, and bring them into the world.”

mined everything I felt about it. But that wasn’t a reliable perspective from someone going through a young life crisis. “Figuring it out,” all the grown adults said, “that is what life is.”

Setting that aside, I was developing other interests without knowing it. I began watching several TV shows and movies, getting into video games, and taking things more seriously than before. I’d talk to myself while watching a deeply written show and try to define the characters I saw on the screen. For a while, my friends and family knew me infamously

for pausing a movie or show so I could work out the scene with them. Video games too: I sat on an idle section of the gameplay to understand everything about how it was made and—most especially—how the overarching story was made up. I was intrigued, but a little confused.

Writing to me no longer means literature. It no longer means texts on a white page. Writing to me became objects, bodies, and moving pictures. I did more than I thought I would: writing in a mock TV writing group, writing for the campus magazine, and sharing my stories with other writers. I voiced my opinion, as opposed to my non-confrontational and introverted nature. My middle school principal once said I was “as quiet as a church mouse.” Now I say things about authors and stories in class that my professors at times find “profound.”…Well, I suppose they are. While I do regret that inaction in writing against the white page, I feel that I discovered more in the art of writing. That passion is real and big. It is something—perhaps the only thing— I’d like to work my life into mastery. It gives me so much comfort to hear stories about darkness and the human condition. I want to recreate them, make them, bring them into the world. I am a child who wants to understand. I want to turn my childhood experiences into meaningful stories. Being afraid of the dark as a child has taught me that it matters to have a particular thought about a particular situation, with particular feelings. Having a mother tell you to not be afraid is equally a global occurrence and an original experience. I would know. And you would too, if you only let me tell my story.

“I think the reason for this mental burnout primarily has to do with the ‘hustle culture’ present in today’s world, amplified by the presence of social media.

HBURNOUT

ave you ever felt exhausted no matter how much sleep you get? Feeling like you’re going through an endless checklist? Maybe you can’t remember the last time you gave yourself a chance to relax? If you answered yes to any of these questions you might be burnt out. Simply put, burnout is “a state of complete mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion as a result of overworking yourself,” and it’s something everyone has gone through at least once in their life. According to the American College Health Association (ACHA), 76% of undergraduate students experienced moderate to serious psychological distress and about 51% say that they sometimes experience moderate to severe burnout. Burnout is inevitable with full-time students taking four to five classes every semester, being part of clubs and other school organizations, and often working jobs on top of all of this. It’s no wonder this is the case, especially during this home stretch of the semester.

I remember my first semester at Cal State Long Beach when I decided to take five classes because I was told that’s what I was “supposed” to do. Looking back, I think burnout was inevitable. I’m not saying workload wasn’t doable, but going to class, studying, and writing essays was my whole life; when I wasn’t focusing on my classes, I remember feeling constant exhaustion and even dread, thinking about all that needed to be done and how I was being so unproductive and lazy for not having the energy to complete anything. Unlike other forms of mental stress like anxiety and depression, burnout is often hard to recognize. It may make us feel like we’re just extra tired or have a constant feeling of discomfort, but more times than not this is in fact burnout. I think the reason for this mental burnout primarily has to do with the “hustle culture” present in today’s world, amplified by the presence of social media. Essentially hustle culture is the idea that

always working hard and constantly striving for success is the best way to live. Harmless, right? Well, not always. While on the surface it may seem like a positive and even healthy way to live one’s life, it can easily become toxic for someone’s mental health if taken too far. Have you ever seen videos on Instagram or TikTok documenting someone’s perfect morning routine that starts at 4:00 a.m., or their ultra efficient 16-hour work day? This is the type of content that feeds the mindset that if you’re not overwhelmed by work every waking hour of the day, you’re doing something wrong. After repeatedly being exposed to this content, it’s no wonder why people feel that this is how they’re supposed to be acting all the time. There’s also a sense of comparison in that when you ultimately fail to maintain these impossibly high standards. You may feel a sense of guilt or inadequacy. You might have thoughts like, “I’m not going to work, am I just lazy?” or “Why does it seem like everyone has her life together except me?” Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to strive for success and work hard for your goals, but when it becomes your entire life, burnout is unavoidable, which sadly is the case for most people in a college setting.

You might be thinking, “Wow all this really sucks but how to not get burnt out? I have so much work to do?” The short answer is: you need to try to understand that relaxing is, in fact, productive. Maybe not in the same way as studying for a test or working a shift, but productive nonetheless. Taking time for yourself allows you to clear your mind, making you more productive when you get back to work. It doesn’t need to be that long either, it could even just be a 20-minute break to watch a show you really like or sitting down with a quiet cup of coffee, but it’s completely necessary in order to avoid burnout. It’s all about finding a balance between work and relaxation that works for you.

A FRACTION OF MY ANXIOUS MIND MOM, I’M

WRITTEN BY ALANA LOINAZ

Mom, I’ve been eating more than I should. Is it a phase? It’s been going on for years, though. I’m gaining weight. I see 400, 700, 1200, 3000 calories everywhere. I want 0. I want to starve, but I can’t. I physically can’t, but I want to. I want to starve myself so I can lose weight and feel worthy. “People go through surgeries to have your body.” I don’t care, I want less. Less of everything I have and more of everything I don’t. I want a social life, and I have a great one. I want straight A’s, and I have them. I want to be good at what I do, and I am. I want to have a supportive family, and I couldn’t have asked for a better one. So, what’s wrong? Is it selfish of me to deal with an insanely intense panic disorder? Is it? Am I not being fair to the thousands of people who would kill to have what I do? Am I not supposed to feel like this? Tell me, because I can’t come up with an answer. I wish I could be responsible for it all. I want my dad to stop traveling every two days to provide for me, I want my mom to achieve her biggest dreams, I want my brother to find what he is truly passionate about, but I want it to be easier than it’s been. I want to go back in time to when I didn’t feel like nothing was good enough, except I can’t remember ever living during a period of time like that. I genuinely can’t. I was not alive for that. My life has never been a “go with the flow” one. I taught myself to expect at least 100% of everything I can offer everyone every day. There are no bad days in musical theater, am I right? You wake up, pray that your director doesn’t notice your not-so-flat-stomach, and move on. It’s okay, therapy will fix it. It will fix the old scratches until it prevents new ones from forming. And this process taught me a lot, I think.

ILLUSTRATION

BY ABIHAIL ORTEGA

Reflection has made me validate my feelings, which is great – or at least it should be. I now validate my feelings until they silently eat me alive; until they make me eat more and more; until they make me rely on Lexapro. I validate them; they are real. So real I want to throw my discipline away and take even more meds, but I won’t. Not today, at least. The only sedative I will accept is my own adrenaline; the feeling of my blood rushing through my veins and making me powerful. Climbing, surfing, skydiving… I have done it all. And what a journey this has been. Four years of a diagnosed fight against my own subconscious and I have yet to be victorious. I haven’t lost, I am winning by a lot, but the judge hasn’t whistled; the game is still on. It is, however, less crowded. There’s less people watching. The uncertainty is gone. Everyone knows who will win; it just hasn’t happened yet. For every five points I score, my opponent scores one. It is an incredibly unbalanced match, and I know it, but every step my rival takes feels like we will have to restart the whole thing. I can’t do it again; the hospitals, the crying, the shaking, the eating, the breathing, the hating, and… the… medication… that… makes… me… completely and groggily knock out. I just can’t, and while this match is on I can’t seem to get the possibility of facing it all again out of my head. This whole mess crosses my mind way more often than I’d like. It stays for the same amount of time that it took you to read all of this, and I couldn’t be more proud. I hear a whistle in the background telling me I’m almost ready for a new match. The players know it, the field knows it; now we have to wait for the judge to make it official; to catch a breath and blow it out.

“I don’t care, I want less. Less of everything I have and more of everything I don’t.”

Accepting Neurodiversity And How It Affects Me Today

WRITTEN

BY

MADELYNN DODDS

ILLUSTRATION BY PANHAVATEY BUN

Finding out I was neurodivergent in high school was hard. After years of struggling and masking, I finally had an answer to why I couldn’t sit still for more than three seconds and why I was struggling with my working memory. Accepting it was something entirely different.

I was diagnosed at fifteen after failing my entire freshman year of high school. I was unmotivated, constantly exhausted, and had no idea what was happening at the time. I would daydream constantly and space out during conversations. I would always lose things like my sparring bag, lunch box, and homework (if I even remembered to do it all). “Can I borrow your ___?” I would ask so often that people would get annoyed.

If I could focus, I would ignore everything and anything around me. If I was watching an interesting TV show, I could not hear my parents screaming at me to come out of my room to do whatever they wanted. I would constantly get scolded for it and be told, “You need to pay attention.” Other people could not get my attention if I were doing something interesting. I would get so irrationally angry when that hyperfocus was broken. I still do today, but it is much more controlled.

When I got to college, my symptoms only got worse. I decided to go the medical route. I have had the same therapist since I was fourteen. I called her up and told her I wanted to try medication again. I had tried it in high school and hated it. I got matched with a psychiatrist and was prescribed

the same medication that I had previously tried when I still hadn’t accepted that I was neurodivergent. The change was indescribable. I was no longer constantly exhausted and in need of three-hour naps in the afternoons regardless of how much sleep I had gotten the night before. I could focus on conversations, remember what was being said, and reply. I could remember the information being

“I was completely on autopilot; conversations became harder to follow, and I couldn’t study or do homework without it taking longer than it should have. I was barely surviving.”

presented in class and would not forget assignments anymore. Homework was not taking three hours out of my day when it could only take twenty to thirty minutes of focused attention. Everything was going great! Until there was a nationwide shortage of my medication. There would be months where I would order a new prescription, only to realize it wasn’t in stock, and have to go to different

pharmacies to see if they had it. Sometimes, I would go to another pharmacy only for them to say, “Yeah, we don’t have this medication in stock,” despite me calling ahead and confirming that they, in fact, did have it in stock.

For some months, I would also go a week without my prescription. Without it, the change was instant. I was exhausted and couldn’t focus at all. To cope, I would drink two grande coffees from the Caffeine Lab on campus. I was still exhausted and struggled with my working memory, but at least I wasn’t falling asleep in lectures. I was completely on autopilot; conversations became harder to follow, and I couldn’t study or do homework without it taking longer than it should have. I was barely surviving. This shortage still affects me today. Every month, when I order a new prescription, I don’t know if I will be able to get it and, thus, function acceptably. It’s humbling to know that a pill is what helps me be a neurotypical human and other people just exist and function without going through extra effort. Other people don’t need to be reminded to eat, shower, or brush their teeth daily. I have reminders to stand up when sitting for too long. I must be reminded to eat more than a toasted bagel for the day and drink water.

I only accepted it when I hit rock bottom and had no other option but to deal with it. I thought I could ignore and mask it. It worked until it didn’t anymore.

BATTLEFIELD OF CONTROVERSY

ILLUSTRATION BY

TULASI NAPOLITANI WRITTEN BY ALBERTO JUAREZ

Many of us are familiar with controversy. It is an American custom to point out what is different about ourselves, be it good or bad. As exposed as we are to the nature of controversy, many of us — perhaps the majority of us — do not know how to navigate this battlefield. What are our objectives in these debates and arguments grown out of proportion from the simple conversations we were having beforehand?

I don’t see it fruitful to micromanage how to have a discussion nor what a good point might be; the point I wish to make is that depending on how you engage with controversy, it’ll damage you. Some of us won’t see that it causes damage or that it requires a sacrifice to be held in the guise of righteousness. Will you cut off everything to see yourself alone with your righteousness? Much worse, you might find a group of people saying the same things you are and never realize that you gave up your friends and family. How much does it matter that you are right, and they are wrong?

Around the time of the 2020 election in the US, I became extremely political. I saw everything with color. I told everyone to vote for the “right” candidates. I was watching a lot of political media that sided with a few of my previously held beliefs, and they also gave me new things to blindly follow. “How the other side of the political spectrum is somehow even more wrong and why you should be upset,” was essentially the point of every video. There were also a few documentaries that triggered emotions about unfortunate events. I was riled up, and I made sure people knew that.

My father had involved himself with politics too,

about the political atmosphere in Mexico. We’d often talk together and relate our issues, conflating a political issue with another. But that wasn’t the worst part. It was when my mother decided to participate in these “discussions.” My mother held different opinions from us — different opinions than me. Just as I was thoroughly convinced by the media I consumed, and emotionally fueled, she too was guided by ideas given to her rather than thought up on her own. Conspiracies, ideas led by fear and anxiety about the world. She listened to a strange spiritualist who said Democrats were full of pedophiles and murderers. I don’t think she quite believed that to the fullest, but it did put us at odds. For months to a year, we would argue on every occasion. We’d yell, cut each other off, and try to get the righteous upper hand in the debate. We’d always come in saying we wanted to understand each other and come to an understanding, but like a lot of Americans during this time, we just couldn’t. “But Trump hates people that look like us.” “Biden is a pedophile.” “You are so stupid for believing that.” “Where are you getting those ideas from?” “This is what is destroying America!” “Your ideas are dangerous!” “I don’t want to listen to your stupidity anymore.”

This went on for far longer than I expected.

I thought I would have convinced people. I even convinced myself that I considered every point of view and understood the opposing argument with a fair perspective. I was starting to get tired of arguing. It felt strange being on guard about talking to my mother in the morning, or attempting to get away from the conversation when my dad started talking about corruption in Mexico. I knew I was right, so why did I have to let everyone know?

One of my closest friends tried to calm me down during that time of my life. Since politics were his concentration in academics, he had been far more accustomed to it than I was. I asked him if he could be so calm with so many immediate issues and so much controversy. He said what he had been saying for months, “I don’t really engage with it. And if I do, I just listen. People are going to react a certain way depending on what you respond with. It’s just the way it is. I act with curiosity.” For a while, I used to think that it was a cop out. “But what if I have an opinion? Should I keep shut? It doesn’t make sense to just let the other person take control of the conversation and leave you out of it.” He would just let me continue and nod at me after that. I didn’t quite understand it until now. He was doing exactly as he said.

I felt so selfish and so vain for always trying to

take control of the conversation. I realized that I was just as indifferent to new perspectives as my political enemies — and what did it do for me? I don’t speak to my parents, I’ve made it all I talk about with my close friends, and I’m angry and worried all the time. Did I even discover anything new about the topic? No. I didn’t. I was thinking the same things over and over again like some twisted purgatory of the mind. It was like pushing a boulder up a hill and expecting a different result every time I pushed it up. It always comes crashing down.

There are still some things I haven’t changed my position on. There are things that I feel are worth talking about. But now, I’d rather just listen first before anything else. Ask questions before a misunderstanding. Understand a perspective before deciding to bash it. Seeing people as people rather than enemies. Because what if your “enemies” are your family and friends? Will you throw them away — throw away years of friendship or love? I wouldn’t; I don’t think it’s worth it. It doesn’t even mean anything to be right. You don’t convince anyone that way. If you are truly righteous and believe in your cause, you should be turning your enemies into your friends. You’d convince people by listening to them and encouraging a better perspective. We don’t need to be perfect; we just need to be better.

“The point I wish to make is that depending on how you engage with controversy, it’ll damage you.”

WRITTEN BY MFANISI NORMAN

ILLUSTRATION BY LEYNA NGUYEN

IFAMOUS AND BROKE

t may surprise you to find that many of your favorite Hip Hop creators are economically struggling to survive. In the music industry, there is an often-used phrase: famous and broke. Unfortunately, in the Hip Hop community, to be famous and broke is very common. Google search your favorite songs. Find the owner of the publishing and master recording rights for those songs. If the performers of those songs do not own the publishing and master recording rights of the songs, it is more than likely that those performers are economically broke. In high schools throughout the United States, there are young men and women who discover an inner passion to express themselves artistically through the medium of music. Since the 70s, these young people have overwhelmingly chosen the Hip Hop community as a base for cultural expression; either as a rapper, deejay, graffiti artist, dancer, or writer. Many in the Hip Hop community will recognize this list as the five elements of Hip Hop. Since the 70s, the Hip Hop community has grown from unorganized parties in New York City parks to a highly capitalized industry filled with thousands of fans, marketers, hundreds of support staff, and various performers, lyricists, composers, writers, artists, producers, and engineers (Hip Hop creators). These Hip Hop creators find themselves victims of an unregulated and unrepresentative community where they are abused economically, sexually, physically, emotionally, mentally, and culturally. Their only recourse is to either leave the Hip Hop community, remain a victim, or choose to become exploiters themselves. After “50 years of Hip Hop,” it is time for the Hip Hop community to reorganize. Performers, lyricists, composers, writers, artists,

producers, and engineers who create the Hip Hop artform and intellectual property should be compensated fairly and protected from exploitation, various forms of abuse, and political oppression. This community reorganization will include: labor unions and the expansion of accredited production jobs.

Labor unions have existed in the United States since 1794. In 1902, New York City based labor union leaders worked on behalf of Italian workers to eradicate extortion by padroni middlemen within the New York City construction industry. In the past, the US government had not been a supporter of labor unions. Laws, regulations, and political lobbying have strengthened United States labor unions and the workers they represent. In 2023, President

“A quality song is the result of a collaboration between creators ... that work together as a songwriting team.”

Biden joined the UAW picket line during its strike against US auto manufacturers (Viser, Matt. “Biden, in historic but sensitive move, joins UAW picket line.”

The Washington Post (2023): NA-NA). This move by President Biden showed a shift in the US Government’s support of United States labor unions. Today, there are thousands of Hip Hop creators that work within the Hip Hop community without protection from extortion, low-wage pay, and the

threat of physical and/or sexual violence. It is time that the Hip Hop community organize labor unions in the following manner: Performers (Rappers, DJs, Dancers), Writers (Lyricist, Composers, Artists, Writers), and Producer/Engineers (Music Producers, Vocal Producers, Recording Engineers, Mix Engineers). These unions will work on behalf of its Hip Hop creator members to set standards in pay, work conditions, safety, legal education, and political advocacy. Once a Hip Hop creator joins one or more of the labor unions, that creator will receive access to the type of information and resources that will help them to make good decisions regarding their career. Labor unions will assist Hip Hop creators to negotiate contracts, resolve disputes, and advocate for political policies. Labor unions will give its Hip Hop creators confidence that they can be fairly compensated and maintain ownership of their publishing and master recording rights without fear of negative retribution from the large music distribution corporations, the major record labels, production companies, or nefarious individuals. Most importantly, Hip Hop creators will have the political power to develop a moral and ethical value system based on truth, justice, balance, and harmony.

Have you ever heard the terms “Ghostwriter” or “B-Producer”? It is an open secret that many Hip Hop performers get help from unknown Ghostwriters (lyricists) and Hip Hop music producers get help from unknown B-Producers (composers). From the start of the Hip Hop community, there was an unwritten law that performers wrote their own lyrics. In fact, during the 70s, 80s, and 90s, it was considered a crime to use the rap pattern

(flow) or exact words (lyrics) of another performer. In the 1980s, when some Hip Hop DJs transitioned into the role of music producers (composers), the Hip Hop community naturally assumed that these music producers were creating original Hip Hop music. Even when music producers used samples, originality remained the expectation. In this current era of Hip Hop, it is not unusual to find recording studios filled with Ghostwriters and B-Producers who are creating lyrics and music for Hip Hop performers and music producers. There are some Ghostwriters and B-Producers who have recently revealed themselves to the Hip Hop community. But they are the exception; not the rule. The practice of hiring Ghostwriters and B-Producers is a problem when these Hip Hop creators are exploited, underpaid, or uncredited for their work. It is time that the Hip Hop community expand the types of accredited jobs within the Music and Vocal production process. What the Hip Hop community wants is quality Hip Hop music. A quality song is the result of a collaboration between creators who are lyricists,

composers, arrangers, orchestrators, musicians, vocal producers, and music producers that work together as a songwriting team. When teams of creators work together, the resulting songs not only sound better, but represent the spirit and values of the Hip Hop community. The Hip Hop community must expand the type of production jobs to prevent the exploitation, underpaying, and unaccredited work of Ghostwriters and B-Producers.

On April 18, 2024, I attended a lecture given by Dr. M. Keith Claybrook, Jr. Ph.D., an associate professor in the Department of Africana Studies at California State University Long Beach, named “The Black Freedom Movement and its Organizations.” In his lecture, Dr. Claybrook described the goals of the organizations that were founded during the Black Freedom Movement period between 1955 and 1975. The goals of these organizations included: civil rights, self-naming and identification, political power, and an end to exploitation and social degradation. The organizations and their goals of the Black Freedom Movement are powerful blue-

prints for the why and the how to organize successful labor unions to benefit Hip Hop performers, lyricists, composers, writers, artists, producers, and engineers. Getting rid of Ghostwriters and B-Producers as well as other non-accredited production jobs will benefit the Hip Hop community economically, politically, and morally. Imagine a day when the Hip Hop community will include creators who generate a fair and equal income; free from exploitation. A day when Hip Hop creators are righteously accredited and maintain ownership of their publishing and master recording rights. Most importantly, Hip Hop creators must have the political power to protect themselves from exploitation and develop ethical codes that represent the values of the entire Hip Hop community as performers, lyricists, composers, writers, artists, producers, and engineers. The success of the Hip Hop community will require reorganization that include labor unions and the expansion of accredited production jobs.

That early morning

A text was sent without warning

You did not want my friendship any longer

You left me feeling like a monster

Is it because you didn’t understand?

Where and why I hid all those nights

When I was looking down from those heights

You didn’t understand

The tears I shed

When all you wanted was to go to bed

You didn’t understand

My intense feeling of not belonging here

When all I wanted was to disappear

You didn’t understand

The blade I would eye

When I felt like wanting to die

You left me alone

To deal with this monster on my own

monster

WRITTEN BY NAYOMI RESENDIZ

ILLUSTRATION BY KRIZZHA DEE

In my jaded kelp curtains, embellished with barnacles and brittle stars, I peek into the blue.

Light fissures through the rippling surface above bejeweling the seafloor. Coral on top of coral, life on top of life.

Do you know what real patience is?

In and out.

Ebb and flow. There and back.

Water passing through gills, Time passing through me. Each breath linking to the last, knitting the shimmering cloth of life.

I’m beautiful, you know?

My scales orange and red with bands of gold. An iridescent sheen in the light of the sun rays. My tail and fins—sails to move me, cutting through water. water, clear and cold. A gash in my lip, from when my breath was last attempted to be stolen away.

My body.

My scaly, slippery fish-body. It will cease movement when I will it.

I live only to live.

from I, the Fish

WRITTEN BY CAROLINE SMITH

ILLUSTRATION

BY MADISON HOIBY

unhappyuneasyunstable

WRITTEN BY J. QUINZELLE

ILLUSTRATION BY

ARIADNE AVILA

are we unhappyuneasyunstable

walk past us

s p r a w l e d on the street. tossed the dollar.

we are the neglected reflected regretted

here today, arrested tomorrow your cousin their mother our neighbor myself... ...of order out.

we, the [shame] we, the excesssss we, the BLAME!

we, the (lockedaway) we, the inter rupted we, the Suffer-Ring we, the expen$e we, the lie-ability

can we please get a cigarette?

call us affected a bad day gone wrong call us sick a brain’s misfired message don’t call us crazy lunaticmaddamagedderanged! DON’T call us the police that’s not the answer

.fiftyONEfifty... ...my perception our trauma their assumption your prejudice

sedate today, discharge tomorrow. we are the broken token choking look at us cry i ng for social mercy. right the prescription.

unstableuneasyunhappy we are

memories from the back wall

WRITTEN BY

ERIC CEJA RUIZ

PHOTO BY ERIC CEJA RUIZ

Friends, lovers, strangers, and well the universe knows.

I merged you all in my mind.

Removed you from the pedestal that stood so high.

So that I could get this off my chest once and for all.

Brought you to eye level so I could air everything out to retell, as I recall.

You used to form constellations.

In the darkest parts of my mind.

Laughter like shooting stars in the middle of the night.

Stood beside me as I blew out my candles.

I’ve kept an eye on you, the ones I called my friends.

Celebrating your victories and whims.

But you set fire to my stage as I celebrated my wins.

So, it’s time for this chapter to see its end.

I got butterflies in the winter.

But their wings left behind sharp splinters.

I fell to my knees.

Hoping to escape and my heart to seize.

Before it shattered across the sea of stars.

I fell and slipped past the solid ground.

The person I once loved was no longer around.

My heart sang in alto.

As it veered from its tempo.

Tried to favor strangers.

While putting my life in danger.

The rage is gone, and my stage has become undone.

As new scenes prepare to see the sun.

Discovering what it means to be in love.

While in the garden I run.

Leaving behind the ones who have done me wrong.

As I reach the person who I want to become.