THE OUTOBER ISSUE
THE MAGAZINE TEAM
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
JENSEN PUCKETT
LEAD COPY EDITOR
ALANA LOINAZ
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PAYTON SMITH
MANAGING EDITOR
GIA KRUPENS
ART DIRECTOR
DISTRIBUTION MANAGER TULASI NAPOLITANI
CAROLINE BAE
MAGAZINE STAFF
Jensen Puckett, Editor-in-Chief jpuckett@22westmedia.com
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Caroline Bae, Art Director cbae@22westmedia.com
Tulasi Napolitani, Distribution Manager tnapolitani@22westmedia.com
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Tina B. Hung, Illustrator @tinabhung www.tinabhung.com
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LETTER FROM AN EDITOR
Happy October!
Welcome to fall… I hope you’re all enjoying your pumpkin lattes, candy corn, and scary movies. Personally, I’ve had my “autumn leaves” playlist on repeat and am stepping on every crunchy leaf I see. However you welcome the season, I hope it brings you joy this month.
The OUTober issue is extremely special and so fun to create. This issue holds some amazing work from our volunteers. There are some beautiful poetry pieces and a testament to being queer in the literary space. We are thrilled to use this space to celebrate our LGBTQ+ community on campus during LGBT History Month. I hope you find a safe space within these pages as well.
If you feel inspired by this issue and want to volunteer, we’d love to have you! Come stop by our office on the first floor of the USU across from the pool tables, join our discord with the QR code, or email any of our staff to get involved.
Welcome to the OUTober issue, we’re so happy you’re here!
GIA KRUPENS MANAGING EDITOR
CONTRIBUTORS
Cooper Jones, Writer
Eric Ceja Ruiz, Writer
Jacqueline DeBlase, Writer
J. Quinzelle, Writer
Leyna Vu, Writer
Nayomi Resendiz, Writer
Rebekah Rudder, Writer
Theo Tang, Writer
Thuy Verndara/Keanu Hua, Writer
Beatriz Da Silva, Artist
Daniella Martin, Artist
Eric Ceja Ruiz, Artist
Leyna Nguyen, Artist
Mika Huynh, Artist
Ruben Diaz, Artist
Tina Hung, Artist
BORN AND RAISED IN LA,THE AUTHOR DIDN’T EVEN LEARN THE WORD
UNTIL AFTER
THEY’D
STARTED WRITING “queer”
WRITTEN
BY
THEO TANG
TILLUSTRATION BY RUBEN DIAZ
he problem with being queer in nonfiction workshops is that they’re all so goddamn personal. Write about your childhood, write about an experience that really affected you, write about your relationship with your parents, and so on. Every time I start a new one, I’m faced with the same decision: do I come out right away or do I wait and slap ‘em with it in my first piece? It would be easier if I could just write about different types of swords or the history of Helvetica without it looping back around to So, uh, I’m gay. But good nonfiction incorporates, connects, and binds. I can’t let the components of my identity drift disparate without being a poor writer.
The problem with me is that my parents raised me in an Evangelical Christian church that reinforced the harsh gender roles that undergirded our household. Hand me those prompts! Let me tell you about my mom, who said I’d learn to love my boobs because God made them; or about my dad, who told my brother, “Don’t say ‘sleepover.’ That’s girly. Say ‘stay-over’ instead.” The first time I got my hair cut short, I had to tell myself that I was still a good Christian; I was just taking short hair back from the lesbians. And I’ve got multiple sermons condemning queerness on tap—I was thirteen when I heard them.
In my youth group’s dim room, the stage lights tinted the walls magenta and made the dust in the air glint garnet. The chairs were plastic, bodyheat warm, and aligned in neat semi-curving rows in front of the carpeted stage. Sitting on one of those chairs, I clung to “Beautiful Things,” a song I’d been learning to play on my guitar in the hopes I could audition for the worship team. God makes beautiful things out of our dust, the song whispered. My callouses ached as I absorbed everything the preacher said about those homosexuals. I wondered if anyone could tell I was the dust described in the song, flaking to garnet too.
The problem with being queer, an ex-Evangeli-
cal Christian, and a writer, is you don’t stop hiding. Sentences circle truth instead of crashing through it. Feedback says, be less opaque. We’re sitting in that workshop circle, and after I finish reading, I feel the silence expanding. Someone speaks just to say what I most dread: “I liked it, but I’m not sure what it meant.” My writing is stuffed with subtleties, the type of answers you give to relatives at Thanksgiving: no, haha I’m just really focused on school, right now. No one’s really caught my eye; I guess I’m picky! Oh well, people are starting families later so I still have time.
Feedback urging me to be more explicit elicits a feeling that is equal parts rage and despair. I want to shake my classmates and ask them which they think is easier: to tiptoe, voice hushed, as I poke at
“Feedback urging me to be more explicit elicits a feeling that is equal parts rage and despair.”
the seal of heteronormativity that pervades most writing spaces, or to burst through that seal with my chest flayed open while I shout I’m trans, can’t you see? Don’t make me scream it like this! Sometimes the rage wins out and I clamp my lips shut, cross my arms, and dare to ask my reader why I should build a ladder up to their world when they won’t hold their breath and jump into mine. I’m tired of my word counts laughing at me as I spend paragraphs building up the tension and fear I experience every day, just so my straight cisgender reader might catch a glimpse of what I wake up into.
The problem with post-Christian queer writing is that it echoes with pious expectations that halt honest confession. When my youth pastor asked
me if I wanted to join the youth leadership team, a truthful “No, I don’t” landed me at lunch with the female pastor. She had asked if we could go out, just to catch up (to ensure I was okay— that I wasn’t drifting— because I wasn’t all-out enthused for church). Wearing a nice pink blouse and skinny jeans, I answered questions about how my life was going, and I was so nervous in the booth with her that I spilled curry on that blouse, right over my damn boobs.
Honesty and vulnerability contradict the image of the Good Queer Student I’ve crafted in the absence of being a Good Christian Daughter. Am I actually allowed to be angry? Am I a negative representation of queerness for both those that don’t see their experience reflected in mine, and those that already look down upon being queer? And most importantly: if the purpose of writing is to communicate and connect, does being bitter and close-mouthed make me a bad writer? Sometimes I wonder if my workshop-mates leave their honest responses unsaid. I’m afraid those responses go something like: Oh, great, another gay whining about religious trauma or if this is what trans people are like, no wonder everyone hates them, and I worry that pretty lies are still more appealing than the truth.
I want to be ugly. Incorrect. Brash. I want to talk about everything. To testify without feeling like I first have to tiptoe to the page’s pulpit and whisper Can anybody hear me? Am I doing queerness right? If workshops are only a preview of a wider readership, then before I can even dream of writing a book, I have to confront the culturally-mandated author’s biography flap that’s flipped up, stark white naked blank, and flipping me off. So I write this essay instead. Then I feel like I can finally turn the title page and actually get into it: I don’t hate my church, I do love my parents, and I prefer bastard swords and Garamond.
WRITTEN BY LEYNA VU ILLUSTRATION BY BEATRIZ DA SILVA
platonic kiss
What is love?
Love is sunny-side-up eggs with a pint of milk.
Love is light that pours in my bedroom at 5:00 PM.
Love is… I don’t know.
Truthfully, I never saw the appeal in romantic relationships. Crushes came by and went away, but they never took up real estate in my head. I was boy-crazy once, but looking back, a part of me was trying to compensate for something that wasn’t there.
I never saw the appeal of romantic love. I knew it was something I lacked, which was why I wanted it back then. But as a sophomore in college, I was certain I could never feel that way about anyone.
Until my junior year.
I prided myself on my asexuality. If there was one thing I could say I loved, it was my independence. I adored my friends profusely, but not having a sole person occupying my mind brought me peace. I wanted to keep living like this: just me, my friends, and my sunny-side-up eggs with a pint of milk.
So, I stopped thinking about guys. They all knew I was asexual, so dating was always out of the question.
But then, I was late to my stats class. The most convenient, available seat was next to this guy who had a fun sticker on his laptop. I had to ask him every other minute what was going on because, of course, I forgot to bring my glasses.
He messaged me a few hours later asking if I got something the professor wrote down. I regretfully told him I didn’t, but somehow, we clicked. One thing led to another, and we started talking every day.
At that point, I couldn’t discern the romantic from the platonic, but I knew I wanted him in my life.
Despite being asexual, I knew what girls liked to hear and was resolute on finding him a girlfriend—it was something we’d joke about often. But for some reason, he never wanted to act on it.
I didn’t understand. How can you want a girlfriend but choose not to talk to anybody? He never wanted to go on Hinge, never wanted to speak to the girls who were interested in him, and never wanted to pursue anyone. He was very peculiar to me.
But it made sense why girls were interested in him. In my impartial, unbiased view, he was very handsome and equal parts endearing. He always waited for me after class and always offered
to call in the evening when I had trouble with the homework.
And he was still so kind to me after knowing my sexuality.
While leaning on his shoulder in the backseat of his car, I showed him something I wrote about wanting to take my cosplay more seriously. I told him it was because I wanted to be the prettiest girl in the world, and dreams have a better chance of coming true if you write them down. I repeated the former in my head, but in truth, cosplay made me feel like I really was that pretty.
“Well, I think you’re pretty.”
People have called me that before, but hearing it from him made me inadvertently hold my breath. He said it with such sincerity that I couldn’t help but smile.
When people compliment me, I always return
“I see it in my reflection. I see it in the soon-to-becouples who’ve met in my classes. I see it in the existing couples holding hands on their way to the USU.”
the compliment. I hear it’s a sign of insecurity, but it never felt that way to me. Yet, hearing his candor made me want to respond differently that day.
“Thank you.”
After our first platonic date, we started to platonically kiss.
Truthfully, I told him I didn’t feel anything. But that didn’t stop us from kissing every day.
There was something about the way his eyes would soften every time we parted our lips. He would look at me with a gentle patience, as if waiting for me to understand the gravity of what we were doing. Despite knowing how I am, it always felt like he couldn’t wait to kiss me.
What makes him so eager?
To find the answer, I kissed him again and again.
On occasion, guys would try to flirt with me in
my classes. However, I’ve been told that I’m terrible at picking up on this, so the flirting would never go anywhere.
Staring at my ceiling, I told him about this guy who, supposedly, tried flirting with me the day before, but his response caught me off guard.
“You know, if you and that guy started dating, I would have been really jealous.”
Looking back, I felt silly questioning the obvious, but at the time, I wanted to understand why he would have felt that way.
We had a similar talk after our first kiss, but he said something surprising back then.
“You have such a way with words. I’m not as articulate as you, but if I could just show you how much you mean to me, we would do way more than just kiss.”
I thought about that in approaching our discussion, and I felt this urge to be brave, even if the thought of being in a relationship scared me. We became official that very night.
I was always a skeptic when it came to romance. There was no way it was as meaningful as the movies made it out to be.
A few months ago, I went to the theater with my mom and sister. We saw a romance movie that took place in ancient Vietnam. While I would’ve been indifferent about it a year ago, I was strangely engrossed in the plot. Why was it that I saw us in the main characters?
I didn’t understand what love was, but I didn’t think I needed to know. Ironically, I met someone exactly like in the movies.
While I still think love is sunny-side-up eggs with a pint of milk and light that pours in my bedroom at 5:00 PM, it is so much more than that.
I see it in my reflection. I see it in the soon-tobe-couples who’ve met in my classes. I see it in the existing couples holding hands on their way to the USU.
The world itself didn’t change, but I now see it in everything.
We aren’t together anymore.
But what are the odds that two people with completely different dreams, values, and experiences find each other this early in life?
To my first love who is definitely reading this, thank you for accepting me as I am. Thank you for the happy memories and for encouraging me to join the magazine. Look what became of it :)
RISE F TICKET PRICES
RISE F TICKET PRICES
WRITTEN BY COOPER JONES
ILLUSTRATION BY DANIELLA
MARTIN
One of the biggest hits for music lovers everywhere has been the skyrocketing prices of concert tickets in recent years. This rise is nothing new, but in the past five years or so it’s gotten to the point where venues are charging a minimum of $200 just for a three-hour show, a price most people are uncomfortable paying to say the least. In the 90s, it wasn’t uncommon for
popular bands to charge just 25 bucks for a show., In fact, Nirvana, one of the biggest rock bands at the time, only charged about $17 to $19 (1).
As a 20-something college student with not a whole lot of money, I’m one of the first to say that the outrageous ticket prices make going to concerts a constant mental struggle. Is it really worth the money? Is it a band I need to see or should I pass? Could I just save my money for something better? These are all questions that I and many in my generation need to ask ourselves whenever a new concert comes around, and more often than not we have to pass. I remember a few months back I wanted to go see the band Pearl Jam play live for the first time, not one of my favorite bands but still a band I wanted to see. I expected to pay maybe $100 to $150 at the high end but when I found out that even nosebleed tickets were starting at 200 bucks and any halfway decent seat would be $400, I had to put away my wallet and move on. Crazy how in 30 years the price of tickets has
risen tenfold. Why is this the case? Well, there are a couple of reasons for it.
The first and most obvious reason for the skyrocketing prices is simply a change in the music industry, specifically how artists get paid. Before services like Spotify, Apple Music, and even Napster came around, artists made most of their revenue from physical album sales, often splitting profits with their label and/or manager. This was a benefi-
“Is it really worth the money? Is it a band I need to see or should I pass? Could I just save my money for something better?”
cial system for everyone involved in that an artist of a certain caliber could live a relatively comfortable life on just record sales alone, and the fans could listen to their favorite artists’ newest releases for a relatively low cost. However, this all changed in the late 90s with the birth of the internet and the music streaming services that would soon follow. Building
upon the primitive music streaming services of the past such as Napster and LimeWire, modern music streaming has quickly become the standard for music consumption. In fact, according to Explodingtopics.com, 78% of people prefer to consume music through streaming platforms such as Spotify
“While you’re not likely going to see the Foo Fighters at one of these shows, it’s definitely a rewarding experience in its own right.”
and Apple Music, and this shows no signs of slowing down. As a result of this Monopoly on the music industry and the near extinction of record sales, artists can no longer stay afloat just by selling their music; Artists are having to rely on other means to stay afloat, and this means hiking up concert ticket prices.
While the previously stated reason comes from a place of necessity, with artists simply trying to survive in a quickly changing musical landscape, the other more controversial matter comes from the astronomically high costs and fees from one of the biggest ticket distributors in the world, Ticket-
master. While naturally something so convenient is bound to come with a relatively high price tag, Ticketmaster has taken it to an extreme. How have they gotten away with this? You might be asking, well in essence Ticketmaster has monopolized the online concert ticket market, making it possible to practically charge anything they want. It’d be easy to say that we should just boycott Ticketmaster and any similar sites but that’s just not doable with the current climate of ticket sales done almost exclusively through these online sources. As it stands, if you want to see your favorite bands in concert, you’re gonna have to go through them , but that doesn’t mean there aren’t alternatives.
One common workaround amongst younger generations is going to festivals. On the surface, it may not seem worth it since festivals have the same or even higher price tag as traditional concerts. While this is true, you get a lot more bang for your buck with festivals. While most concerts might just have two or three acts for a one-night show, festivals are multi-day events with dozens of bands playing through out the entire day. While most of these bands probably aren’t on your bucket list to see, you’ll definitely be able to see the bands that you love and discover some awesome unknown bands at the same time. Without a doubt, if you’re looking for a more economical way to see your favorite bands, festivals are the way to go.
Within that same vein, another great alternative to traditional concert-going is going to support local bands. I get it, it’s not the same as going to a full-blown concert at say the Forum, but while a very different experience, smaller shows can often be just as if not more exciting. The first and most obvious upside is the low price range. I’ve never had to pay more than $25 for a local show and I’m rarely disappointed with the bands. That’s an eighth of
most concert ticket prices, and they typically last a good couple of hours longer too. Another benefit is the immersive experience. With smaller shows, it’s common to be right up in front of the stage if you want. I don’t know about you but I’m not going to floor out a couple of grand to be at the front row of a concert, but with a smaller show it’s almost always the same price, you just have to be willing to get your hands dirty pushing your way to the front. Beyond all that, I’d say the best part of going to small local shows is experiencing new bands that you may have never otherwise seen. While you’re not likely going to see the Foo Fighters at one of these shows, it’s definitely a rewarding experience in its own right.
And there you have it, while ticket prices show no signs of lowering anytime soon and there seems to be nothing we can do about it, there are some alternative routes to getting your music fixed in more cost-effective ways. At the end of the day, however, the experience of going to a concert is something that can never be fully replaced. If there are bands you’ve always been dying to see, It’s probably worth shelling out a couple of hundred dollars a couple of times a year to get the experience.
WRITTEN BY REBEKAH RUDDER
ILLUSTRATION
BY MIKA HUYNH
She smiled today. It was the second time this year that I saw her smile. The first time was when she came home after cutting her hair short. It had reached the longest it had ever been, curving around her butt. She had that same cut for almost 21 years. But when she started folding up her hair to test a different length and brushing her bangs to the side, I realized it wasn’t her anymore.
It really began after she started dating her girlfriend Beth. I noticed her style changing. She wore baggier pants, oversized t-shirts, sports bras, polos, and button ups. Occasionally, when she didn’t have anything to wear, I would catch her stealing her brother’s clothes.
Then her hair began to change and Beth encouraged her. The two love birds would face my reflective skin and Beth would deliver a kiss on Blake’s cheek with the words “you should cut it”. Blake would look deep into her eyes and say “you think so?” and the subject would be dropped till the next time Blake brought up how she hated her hair. One night in April however, Blake came running into the room scrolling through her phone. “The school is having gender affirming hair cuts in the middle of the quad tomorrow. I really want to get it cut.” She turned to me, her eyes alive with excitement. “I don’t know what haircut I should get”. The next day I waited on the edge of my hinges for her to walk in and show off her haircut. But she returned with her long brown hair and a pin that mocked her everytime she looked at it. “I am not afraid” it would tell her. The truth is, she was afraid. Afraid of what her family would think and afraid of what they would say.
Three months went by when Blake grew the courage and without her parents knowing, took the liberty of chopping it off. Her own barber, a family friend, had more fear than her. “Do your parents know you’re doing this” followed by “Your parents are going to kill me.” But she didn’t care. Not after
she saw the results. Besides, her parents had always been accepting even though the change had been hard.
For days Blake smiled at me, touching her hair’s soft nature, running her fingers through the top and letting it flow back down to her ears. Every time she saw me she couldn’t help but check herself out. I can’t even blame her. Her wolf cut gave her the confidence her bangs never could.
I thought this was the end, that I finally showed her what she wanted to see. But something still wasn’t right. There was something making her shirt bunch up on her chest and she didn’t like it. It was her god given mountains, her boobs. She would pull and tug on her shirt hoping the lumps would soften down. When this didn’t work, she would press her hands against the nipples of her boobs, squishing them in hopes they would morph with the rest
“‘I am not afraid’ it would tell her. The truth is, she was afraid. Afraid of what her family would think and afraid of what they would say.”
of her body. But it never worked. Even when she tried ignoring them, the continuous glances down at them never went away.
Sometimes she would try convincing herself she could love them. She would put on a push-up bra and skinny jeans to accentuate each feature; slap on some lip balm and go out with her friends for the night. A part of her felt good when standing before me looking at the fit, but a part of her still anxiously tugged at her shirt. It was as if her boobs had casted a shadow over the person she wanted to be. And that person banged on the reflection of my frame everytime she stared at me. Screaming to get out. One time she stood in front of me, unclothed and naked, shunning her body for it’s feminine curves. She sobbed the story of how she had asked her mom if she could remove these 2 masses of fat from her chest. How she pleaded to have her uterus torn out from the inside to make way for a different version of herself. But both were followed by a no.
And though Blake eventually wore her mom down to the point where she said “when you turn 18, you can do whatever you want”. Blake never did.
And then there were the comments. The ones that made her feel self conscious, made her frantically check the folds of her breasts to make sure they didn’t get bigger. “You know your mom and sisters have big boobs, one day you will get them too”. On days like this, I tried sucking in my frame, I tried to absorb her image to soften the curvature of her body. But some days I couldn’t suck in enough and her lips would fold and she would sob.
Her smile had become a one time thing, or so I had thought… until today. Today Blake was feeling herself. She had just gotten out of the shower and dried her hair like she normally does. Making her hair fold up and over with a downward flow like a landslide rolling down a mountain. She had a pair of light blue 90s jeans for her bottoms and a black ribbed polo shirt for her top. She stood in front of me with a small smirk in between her lips and posed back and forth looking at her new outfit. Her eyes fluttered from her hair to her breasts then down to her pants and then up again to her breasts, over and over again. She shifted the weight on her foot, played with her hair and then walked closer to me to try to see her body in a different light.
After moments of contemplation Blake walked away and when she came back she had a binder in her hand. Her breathing more rapid, her facial expression a little nervous. She walked into the bathroom and shut the door and a few moments later she walked out looking different.
Catching her reflection from my gazing eyes, her face lit up instantly with a smile so big it outshined the sun. She turned her body to the side as if she were trying to fit through a mail slot and checked out the outfit once more. She slid her hand from her chest to her bellybutton approving of her slim look! And then with a sudden change of her expression, her smile evaporated and she began to cry. A flash of a million thoughts ran to her head, her parents, her girlfriend, her friends, her happiness. She stopped crying just as fast as the tears came on and smiled again. She couldn’t help but be herself. Something in her had changed and though she didn’t know whether to be happy, relieved, or petrified, her breasts were masked by the person she wanted to be. And she couldn’t help but stand there smiling in the mirror.
THE SMILE BEHIND THE MIRROR
Love, Brock
WRITTEN BY JACQUELINE DEBLASE
ILLUSTRATION BY TINA HUNG
To my readers, this story is not one of heartbreak, but of reconciliation. Through my uncle, who passed in July 1987 due to HIV/AIDS, I hope to bring awareness to the epidemic and its movement. I do mention some sensitive themes around death, but for those who chose to take this journey with me, thank you. We honor the lives lost by feeling their absence and preserving their memory.
April 1987,
I am not dying with fear in my heart.
If death had a simple explanation, I would do anything to let my art translate it. If I could charm the worlds I bring to life in my drawings to ease the loss my family is going to feel I’d create hundreds of them. Until my very last breath I would paint, draw, sketch, design; anything to prove how often I’m reminded of them. But death is never so simply explained, and the worry never fades.
That you can never prepare those you’re leaving behind for what happens next.
June 5th, 1981. The Los Angeles sky was lit up in golds and tangerines when the initial report came
out. ‘Previously healthy’ it said. Suggestions that the virus was associated with homosexual behavior or sexual contact lingered. They festered. Like a pestilence, the assumptions grew. A stubborn seed of social stigma planted in the soil.
Before it was AIDS, it was gay-related immunodeficiency, according to medical professionals. I desperately clung to my courage, but young men were dying, and diagnoses were doubling at rates science couldn’t catch up to. I believed claiming my sexuality was a newfound freedom from oppressed social standards, now it was a death sentence.
It’s hard to remember, but I know I was scared. Just a whisper of the word AIDS off your lips and
all the air left the room. Smiles dissipated, bodies tucked in on themselves, a sour taste lingered on your tongue.
How could I avoid this? How could I protect myself, protect my friends?
Will I be next?
What were the signs? Is it truly contagious? There were questions I didn’t have answers to, and I never felt more afraid.
I don’t feel sick, and I don’t feel like I’m dying but will I be next?
I didn’t know. When I did, I still didn’t feel prepared.
Within the next year, Human Immunodeficiency Virus was labeled as the malevolent creature exposing people to AIDS. I don’t know why people forgot that viruses don’t consider emotions. That they don’t consider humanity, only survival. Blindness, isolation, and paranoia surrounded us. You’re no longer a person when you’re HIV positive. You’re a meter running out of minutes.
I used to picture the life we’d live together, C and I. My lover, my partner, my husband. The man my parents would call son and my sisters would call brother.
I’d always remember the young man I ran that wonderful flower shop with. Hands that snipped stems on a dying plant were the hands that cradled a friend while we mourned their lover. A smile that greeted customers looking for unique bouquets was the smile grieving for those we saw lose their radiance. Those kind eyes that created beautiful arrangements were the same eyes that saved every piece of awareness art, watched every march that raised our voices, and remembered every soul that bought our white flowers.
Instead, I see the man who replays memories of our life. The man who holds me as I lose momentum to finish that last canvas, the one B will hang it in her future home. Her children will ask why the paint ran out.
She’ll look into their wondrous, blue eyes that remind her so much of mine, trying to explain why they’ll never know me. She’ll never quite know how to put it into words.
I find my mind wandering back to Bobbi Campbell as of late. He was just one beating heart of the AIDS movement, but he was brave. Standing proud in his diagnosis, he spoke out against the social death we’ve been handed. Campbell showed the world what it meant to be living with AIDs. He let them gawk and question his life choices, but he never stopped fighting for better education to prevent HIV/AIDS. Most importantly, Bobbi was kind. I look up to the example he set, the legacy he left.
The experience of being a gay man in the 80s is not one that I wield lightly. I feel these social pressures like needle-pricks down my spine. I know the risk I carry by loving who I love.
But I do it anyway, I did it anyway.
I’ll die believing it was worth it. I’ll die believing it was worth it despite my body being burned over fear of HIV/AIDS contamination. I’ll die believing it was worth it despite my sisters having to bury my ashes instead of laying me to rest within the earth, like my mother wanted. I’ll die believing it was worth it despite the shame I was made to feel being HIV positive.
My death will mark the beginning of something. The beginning of artistic expression united voices, the beginning of inspiration and community. I must have courage that the world will not let me
“ I know the risk I carry by loving who I love. But I do it anyway, I did it anyway.”
die unknown.
Brushing the veil, impressions of what’s to come for the queer community flood my mind. Systematic and social challenges I never thought we’d overcome and milestones I never thought we’d break are all I dream of.
I dream of nationwide campaigns like America Responds to AIDS, Prevention is Care, and AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power beginning conversations on safer practices to prevent HIV. I dream of smaller communities like my hometown getting the resources they need. I dream that voices of change will echo across the globe, building institutions that offer relief to unsuspecting mothers, the innocent lives they carry and marginalized communities.
By the year 2000, more than 24 million cases will be discovered in sub-Saharan Africa, and global organizations will pass legislation to support these countries as they fight the epidemic.
There won’t be judgment, fear, or hatred. There won’t be any wondering whether they’ve found out too late. There will be paint splatters, ink stains, portrait collections, and red ribbons that stand to defy the stigma. There will be no cure, but there will be hope.
Until then, I send my sisters flowers.
That’s all I can do.
I know how much M loves the sweet smell of tulips. I see her retelling the stories to her children, that even at the end of my life, I never forgot her favorite flowers.
B will gaze into the delicate pattern of her daffodils, the one she’ll see etched into her baby boy’s eyes. My nephew: the version of myself I never got to be.
This will not be the final thread for all of those with HIV/AIDS, despite it being mine.
Through the dryness in our throats, we will not be silent. Through the tears in our eyes, we will not be silent. Through the scars on our bodies, we will not be silent.
I have hope in the future, that the generations to come will be spared the fate mine had to set the example for. Without my hope all I have is fear, and I refuse to die with fear in my heart.
My legacy is being rewritten every day, drawing likeness to the sunlight I see in my older sister’s hair as age becomes her.
It shines forth despite what lies beyond the horizon.
Love, Brock
“Without my hope all I have is fear, and I refuse to die with fear in my heart.”
BLUE GLASS SKY
.
ILLUSTRATION BY CAROLINE BAE WRITTEN BY THUY VERNDARA/KEANU HUA
Summer break, a night market after high school, a hill shaded by ginkgo. I had planned for it: there was something I wanted to tell him.
But he had been the one to ask.
“Tom?”
I looked into the swirling circles of his robotic blue pupils, stuffing my face with a skewered squid. “Yes, Yeo?”
“Is what the Tom in the play said... about music and about not being realistic...” He gave a mechanical tilt of his head, a laborious blink. “Do you think that’s why Creator put that music in my head? And that color perception unlike humans?”
I laughed. “Maybe, but who knows?” I’d never seen her, but the robot boy at my side was her last gift. She had tasked him with living in her name, in honor of their lost home.
It was a city across the sea that my father and I fought to save.
We had failed.
He looked up at the night sky. “I miss home. I miss Creator. I miss flying in the night sky above the ocean. The ocean was beautiful.”
“You’ve got enough of her mind for her to be here, at least a little.”
“Tom.” He handed me his corn, then grabbed a dandelion and stared into its flowering seeds. “That is an empty platitude. Many people say that.” I lay down. “Would you have preferred silence?”
He imitated my motion slowly. “No. Silence makes me afraid. Like there is nothing, like we are leaving home, but at least I have music. Like Tom in the play.” A pause. “How do you think he memorized everything so—”
“It’s fiction. It’s not perfectly real.”
“So it is fiction amidst fiction, then, because Tom in the play...” He paused. My hand wandered close to his, but he withdrew. When I looked at it, I saw it was splattered with the juices and sauces from the corn.
“Something’s got you thinking more than usual, huh?”
“Glass. The unicorn. So strange.” Silence. His false breathing intensified.
Above us, I heard the first whistle of fireworks. “Incoming!”
“Wh—”
Cicada-like wings buzzing, him slamming me to the ground, and a glass sky of azure spiraled into form above me, while the blue of his eyes shut off.
“Yeo, it’s—”
Fireworks bursting, his eyes squinting in fear as two antennae sprouted from his fake hair and covered us in a beautiful glow. His other hand aimed skywards, arm-cannon searching the sky and powering up. “I won’t let you die!” he said. “Not anymore, not–”
“Yeo!” I grabbed his shoulder and his arm. “Yeo, there’s nothing—”
A gentle waltz started playing from him. “The sound— stronger than the mu—”
“Yeo, it’s okay.” His cannon powered down. “It’s just fireworks.”
The blue of his eyes came back. “Fireworks?”
“Fireworks.” I pointed above. “Turn around. We’re safe here.”
He didn’t turn, but he had a camera in the back of his head, anyway.
“What are they?”
I shuffled through my mind. “Artistic explosions. Bursting blossoms.”
“I understand.” The azure sky of his shield faded. “It reminded me of home’s final moments. Louder than my music.” He flew off of me. “Sorry. My algorithms run on memory.”
“Sometimes we need other people for us to realize anything.”
I smiled. “No worries. I’m sorry for taking you here. Do you want to go home?”
Instead, the color in his eyes faded.
“Yeo?” A glancing touch to his arm, but still, he didn’t reawaken.
I stared at the night sky, interspersed with fireworks.
“Tom,” Yeo said, “I feel like Laura’s unicorn. A strange burden. If I were nor—”
“Oh, don’t say that.” I laughed. “We’re friends enough that I’m here for you, ‘kay? Besides, your Creator wanted you to be here.” To learn to be human, she had said.
I shifted. “We’re both trying, right? That’s the truth.”
“Trying to do what?”
“Trying to be a little bit better every day. You’ll learn.”
“But will—”
A shrug. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we? But today, it’s just us. Besides, you’re doing a little bit better. Still feel a bit on edge, but at least you didn’t shoot this time.”
“That’s because your voice is so perfect with my music,” he said. “Neither alone would’ve done it, but now, I think I... something is different.” He hid his face.
My face flushed. There was something intimate about being the only thing that he could hear, and I took a bite out of my squid instead of responding. But he was still staring at me, eyes now empty of color.
“People seem to enjoy making things that hurt.” He tilted his head. “I mean... that woman next to us was crying, and she still saw the play. Why didn’t she leave? Therein, the play appears to function like an explosive more than a memory. It causes pain, but people still stay. Why is that?” He had scooted away from me, eyes looking away. One of his hands scrunched at his chest, while the other still held the dandelion. His mouth curled in pain.
The smell of smoke from the fireworks.
“Sometimes we need other people for us to realize anything.”
His eyes darted to me. “What happens when those words are never said?”
So that’s why he wanted just the two of us here. I set my skewer and corn down, wiped my hand with a napkin and grabbed his, feeling it curl in my grip, then reached for his other, pulling him up with me as I rose.
“Tom, what—”
A flicker of blue light came back to him. “If this keeps happening, I mean, how long will it be until you see the cinema, like Tom in the play? When will you tire of me?”
“You love me, too.” I laughed. “Don’t you?”
The buzz of cicada wings, the beautiful blue unfurling, reigniting in his eyes.
“Tom,” he said. “Let’s fly.”
“Like before?”
I smiled. “But better.”
He took off, cloaking the two of us in a beautiful azure as we sailed into the night sky, where all we had, all we knew, was us — the same us that would keep living on.
in another life
WRITTEN BY NAYOMI RESENDIZ
ILLUSTRATION BY TULASI NAPOLITANI
In another life, we went on a walk.
You overlap your arm with mine first and pull me closer.
You tell me sweet things I deserve to hear.
You care for me without being told.
You listen to what I have to say.
You hug me and cry when I cry.
You hold me tighter and don’t let go when I threaten to leave.
You don’t hesitate to choose me over him.
You say you love me and I believe it.
In another life, you loved me more.
Z
WRITTEN
BY
J. QUINZELLE
ILLUSTRATION BY LEYNA NGUYEN
1nce upon a dream i asked 4 a(n) brOTHER. .solitude. in aMplitUDe drift…ing MOThEr to FAThEr. @5, born from a wish
brOTHER’s gender was another FAThEr’s power wanted n0 Daughter fed me AGEnda doCtRInES & a glower soon the we^dge was deli>ered by the bitch.
1nce upon a ***ness I was a BrOTHER antAGONYzing the tROOTh of a FLOweR from tHIS bullisullied 2B mimic of a coward they sufffffered they hurt they gaslit.
HIS LIES DISSOLVED WITH TEARS i my weapon lowered my EGO.
AccepTEd the different 2 relEASE the CHAINgeS of who we r supPOSEd to b
a joy pleasure kind sweet caring Z my sister my hero my inspiration to C forever they are love and power to B n0 1 not even eye will hurt my sis.
like my Mother they r humble SWEEt & kinD like my FAThEr they are stubborn proud & LOUD like me they’r are a Hurt scAred & loVING soul they r meye sister inSPiRING w/ a heART of gold.
You’ll always be beautiful, Z.
Destroy the Butterflies
WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY
ERIC CEJA RUIZ
The string has begun to fray. I try to save it, but you’ve already begun to stray.
The moment our eyes met, poetry began to write itself again. But fear took the reins.
Lines no longer appear on their own.
My hand is sore, and my pencils are dull.
But even damaged, the art will be whole.
We identified the identity we chose to hide And kept the secret, identical like the wings of a butterfly.
They once used to be free and flew all around, But I began to lose ground as our identities began to blur.
Now I spend nights destroying all the butterflies.
Close to catching them.
Close to reaching the stars.
But I fell down as everything broke apart. I’m looking for the string, but it’s nowhere to be found—nothing around but the dark.
So now I cut the wings before they start to fly, In hopes that they might survive.
I can’t blame myself. I tried to help, but Your colors were fake. Even the roses bled blue.
You were supposed to be the exception, but acted like the rest of the world. Praise. Praise. Praise.
Until it was time to choose. Only then was I too blue.
But even if it were easier to switch lives with someone near, I would still choose the one in front of the mirror. Because I have my father’s heart and my mother’s emotions.
And with that, blue is brighter in the dark.
