Balboa Academy's SCALES - 6th Edition (June 2023)

SCALES

Title

Policymaking

Sitting Down by Peter Hall

Nervous System by Emilie Mendoza

Could Not Say No by Alexandra

Cohen, Paloma Chaia

What is Inspiration? by Milan

Cohen

My Dad's Cigarettes by Julia Choi

Dear Younger Me by Daniela

Chavarria

Cogitate by Isabella Fergunson

Art(ists)

Masthead

English Prose and Poetry Editor:

Emilie Mendoza

Spanish Prose and Poetry Editor:

Emilia Salazar

Layout Editor:

Francesca Calvosa

Art Editor:

Daniela Chavarria

Editor's Note

This issue of Scales comes at the end of a rollercoaster of a year full of art, writing, music, and theater. Scales has always been dedicated to providing a safe community of creative individuals dedicated to creating and this year we've been grateful to see this goal actualized more than ever. This issue is home to incredible essays, engaging stories, book reviews, slam (and other) poems, as well as stunning art all made by the members of our community. It is for that reason that we are proud to present our sixth issue of Scales.

Your

editor, Emilie Mendoza

english & spanish english & spanish

fiction/nonfiction

Prose

fiction/nonfiction

Emilia Salazar - Class of 2023

Mi infierno

¿Agnóstica? ¿Atea? ¿Perezosa espiritual? Llámese cómo sea mi condición de creyente, no es relevante a la hora de describir un infierno definido por su propósito más básico: el de castigar Tal fin se cumple en cualquier espacio en donde haya personas puesto que cada palabra, cada mirada, cada acción, y hasta silencio tiene el poder de hacer al otro sentir un retorcijón en el pecho, leve o fuerte, que se disipará eventualmente antes de volver a atacar con otra arma. De esta manera, si se reconocen al reino de Hades, al sótano de Dios o al purificador de Gehinom por lo que parecen ante ojos burdamente escépticos––pesadillas diseñadas por líderes religiosos para establecer su hegemonía en la sociedad––es razonable pensar que el infierno pueda estar aquí. En la Tierra que pisamos; en el hoy que experimentamos; en la vida que a través de los sentidos percibimos.

¿Dónde más, si no en la única realidad que verdaderamente conocemos, encontraremos infiernos temibles que haya que

evitar a toda costa? Ninguno de los que describen los libros sagrados tiene tanto potencial para el castigo como las dinámicas que en la Tierra causan sufrimientos capaces de hacer que aquellos que caen en ellas, “¡oh, …abandonen toda esperanza!” porque afectan a los que todavía ven, trabajan, y sienten, cargando a cuestas el recordatorio más amargo: aún se pueden librar, pero puede que no tengan la fuerza para hacerlo

Onetti, en su cuento El infierno tan temido, prueba esta tesis con un infierno producto del sentimiento que, si ya no lo experimentan, siempre lo buscan los seres humanos: el amor. Gracia y Risso se encontraban entre los segundos––los buscadores––y en el otro hallaron una solución para el deseo de descansar de la lujuria y la falsedad del teatro, y de la soledad de la viudez, respectivamente. Juntos se complementaban: “Gracia César, hechura de Risso, segregada de él para completarlo, como el aire al pulmón”. Sin embargo, al no verse

realizadas las fantasías de pasión con que ambos llenaron sus cabezas camino al altar, aquella gloria que ante otros ostentaban haber alcanzado, se tergiversó y se convirtió (para Risso principalmente) en una pesadilla segmentada en cartas enviadas desde toda Sudamérica. El mantra que repetían en su lecho––“todo puede suceder y vamos a estar siempre felices y queriéndonos”––se hizo una realidad condenatoria. Se siguieron amando de una manera enfermiza, jugando Risso el papel de víctima y Gracia el de victimario, cuando llegó el “recuerdo de Bahía”, el sobre de la mano de Policiales, la captura de una sensual cuadrúpeda, y la cuarta adición a la “colección Risso”. Como un pecado en el cristianismo que proporciona placer en la vida, pero después castiga, el amor que compartieron estos personajes los satisfizo cuando seguían juntos en Santa María para martirizarlos seis meses después. Las fotos eran la daga que se enterraba cada vez más profunda en el pecho de Risso, ya que, tal y como sucedía con los incontinentes, maliciosos, y locos bestiales del Infierno de Dante, el efecto pernicioso de una se seguía inmediatamente de otra dosis,hasta que el alivio entre una cuchillada y la otra se redujera a un momento,

un pestañeo, un sueño, un recuerdo. Nada de lo que él hiciera “podría debilitar la locura, el amor sin salida ni alteraciones [para el cual] todo estaba condenado para servir de alimento”, y así habrían seguido de no tocar fondo. Puesto que, en el infierno terrenal, la muerte sí puede suponer un descanso si se le pone el punto final ahí a la historia y se amarra a la imaginación. Gracia, habiendo amedrentado al máximo a su esposo bajo el pretexto de un amor inagotable y subliminal por él, logró que él asumiera la culpa que supuestamente lo condujo hasta esa dinámica castigadora, accediendo finalmente a la absolución que el aguantar una eternidad de sufrimiento garantiza: para Risso, la muerte.

Terrible, ¿verdad? Ese infierno tan temido se dio sin reparos en la vida que supone ser el preámbulo para el “verdadero castigo”, por lo que no es extraño señalar otras dinámicas, aparte del amor, que puedan transformar el día a día en una fosa de pez, caliente, burbujeante, y vigilada por demonios listos para sumergirte de nuevo Dos son tales situaciones: el vivir sin reflexionar y el hacerlo a la merced del juicio ajeno.

La primera puede parecer débil

para acondicionar tan terriblemente la vida de un individuo, sin embargo, lo logra al comprometer el desarrollo de la segunda mitad más importante de la persona: su esencia. Tal padecimiento lo hace patente el narrador de La Tribuna al dejar en evidencia a su protagonista, Amparo, ante las inocentes pero críticas preguntas de su amiga Carmela, la encajerita Esta última le cuestionó la base de todos sus ideales revolucionarios al formular, “¿y qué significa eso de república federal?” La cigarrera replicó con “significa…lo que predicaron ésos…que haya honradez, paz, libertá, trabajo…[el Gobierno] chupa y engorda y se hace de oro y nosotras, infelices, lo sudamos”. Su respuesta (o falta concreta de ella) demostró la profunda incomprensión que la limitaba. Amparo diseñó los persuasivos discursos que compartió con las demás cigarreras a partir de la regurgitación de los periódicos regionales sensacionalistas que leía, además de los discursos que escuchaba durante sus incansables paseos por el pueblo. La inestabilidad que trajo la Revolución de 1868, la intención de nombrar a Amadeo I como rey, y las dificultades de establecer una república federal en un país notable por la arraigada tradición monárquica suponían detalles

fundamentales para argumentar una posición política fuerte y estos simplemente se le escapaban. Era más fácil para la Tribuna el aceptar la última versión de lo que exclamaban, y de quiénes lo hacían, con más fuerza––“honradez, paz, libertá, trabajo”––en Galicia. Por supuesto que su falta de educación obstaculizaba su potestad de criticar los ideales que tan seductoramente le vendían esos “hombres…que miran por el bien del pueblo”, pero la suya––su manera de dejar una huella en el mundo––sigue siendo vacua. Si asumimos como cierta la postura de la filósofa Hannah Arendt de que la libertad de cada persona reside en su habilidad para innovar y hacer lo inesperado solo por haber nacido, el no reflexionar, el no amoldar a nuestros propios procesos mentales los mensajes que nos rodean, nos lleva a fallar inmediatamente en la misión de vivir. Actuar como un ventrílocuo es una condena al volver insignificante nuestro paso por la Tierra, reduciéndonos a un cuerpo más que comió, creció, profirió ruidos, y murió, sin más huella que una lápida que eventualmente nadie visitará Así, como en el infierno de Dante, el olvido supondría una segunda muerte, y con ello, cualquier esperanza que pudieron albergar, personajes tan capaces

de “ruido y pocas nueces” como Amparo, de marcar una diferencia. De cierta manera, la incapacidad de hacer suyo el discurso de la república federal limitó el alcance de su mensaje y personaje, confinándolo a los oídos ávidos e igualadores (valían tanto los ¡barquilleeeeé! del padre como los ¡viva! de la hija) de sus vecinos. Jamás sería la Libertad, solo se le parecería porque, al no haber una interacción personal entre lo que sus sentidos recogían y cómo su mente lo procesaba, sus esfuerzos de mobilizar a los gallegos en pro de una España más justa siempre serían en vano. Así, ella, y aquellos que tras sus pasos también evitan la reflexión, están condenados sin saberlo a traquetear en zapatos prestados––¿qué castigo más terrible puede haber que una vida carente de sustancia como esta?

Siguiendo la lógica de un infierno terrenal, llegamos a su segundo acto: la existencia vivida a través de los ojos de otros. Con esto no me refiero a personajes como la arrendadora del poema The Landlady de P.K. Page, quien se valía del trajín y las conversaciones de sus inquilinos para llenar la monotonía del silencio y de la soledad que la acosaba. No. Me refiero a personas (o personajes, ya que la literatura nos sirve de marco

experimental) que permiten que opiniones y pensamientos ajenos a ellas dicten su vestimenta, su cabellos, sus palabras, sus expresiones, sus posturas, sus comidas, su rutina, sus amistades, sus enemistades, sus alegrías, sus tristezas, su autoestima…en fin, su existencia. Tal es el caso con el trío que protagoniza la obra de teatro, A puerta cerrada, de Jean-Paul Sartre. Garcin, Estelle e Inés buscaban en el otro una satisfacción que no podían proveerse mutuamente al ser producto del deseo de no querer reconocer, a sí mismo, los defectos y las carencias propias. El primero deseaba que reconocieran su abandono del periódico revolucionario como un acto de cautela y no de cobardía; la segunda, que la confirmación de que su belleza rindiera irrelevante la podredumbre de su alma infanticida y egoísta; la última, que se reconociese como a una homosexual merecedora de amor y no como a una condenada por un gusto irremediable. Ninguno fue capaz de hacer las paces en vida con su manera particular de navegarla (sea correcta éticamente o no) por lo que, al llegar al infierno fabricado por el filósofo francés, seguían atados a las palabras de terceros, incluso completamente ajenos en un principio a ellos. Los

tres temían el fervor de sus sentimientos en vida por lo que se revestían de indiferencia, glamour y maldad, respectivamente, para que la verdad que les revelaran los ojos de aquellos que ignorantemente los juzgaban fuera agradable. Sin embargo, esta búsqueda siempre sería para ellos, y será para quien la asuma, insaciable porque se vale de sombras y humo Entregarle a otro la antorcha que ilumina el camino que recorremos durante nuestra estadía en la Tierra significa quedarnos a oscuras en las partes más empinadas de la ruta––nos caemos, nos embarramos, nos traicionamos y erramos por insistir en no desarrollar un criterio propio para definir la nuestra en el mundo. Si lo ponemos en un contexto banal, enfatizar la palabra de un tercero es como que un hispanohablante que desconoce otros idiomas construya un mueble en alemán, por ejemplo Se sentará en él si es una silla, comerá en él si es una mesa, acumulará en él si es una estantería, pero, ¡qué precaria va a ser la estructura de cada uno!

Cualquier peso excesivo o movimiento brusco hará que se desmoronen y se tornen obsoletos. De igual manera ocurrió en la obra y ocurre en la sociedad contemporánea: guiarse con las palabras de otro que no nos

entiende yergue pilares débiles sobre los que tomamos decisiones, construimos nuestras vidas, y, por consecuencia, nos definimos como personas––¿qué castigo más terrible puede haber que una vida inauténtica como esta?

Si se enfoca el paso del individuo por la Tierra, a través de un lente escéptico y crítico, como la primera y única certeza que tenemos, es fundamental reconocer lo que podría hacer de él un martirio. Según lo expuesto, defino que la vida sin reflexionar y aquella guiada por manos ajenas, suponen dos circunstancias que castigan al individuo al hacer su contribución en el mundo irrelevante y su conducción irreconocible, para él mismo y para los demás. Las tendencias, la presión social con sus expectativas, y la opinión de quiénes admiramos forman parte del paisaje terrenal; sin embargo, no tienen por qué componer la mano que guía el trazo del lienzo propio. Cuestionar los ideales más preciosos o valorar el instinto propio por sobre los demás es tremendamente difícil y siempre estarán las posibilidades de hacerlo limitadas por el contexto aleatorio que rodea nuestras vidas. Pero, una vez que la cabeza emerge de esta nebulosa, no puede volver a absorber estrofas sin añadir sus

propios versos o a seguir el patrón de un gorro que le quedará grande.

Como muestra final de lo infernal de ambas circunstancias quedan personajes como Orlando en la novela del mismo nombre de Virginia Woolf, quién una vez que criticó las expectativas del segundo siglo en que le tocó vivir (el siglo diecisiete), no pudo dejar de hacerlo, incluso como mujer décadas más tarde. O como Tove en la Trilogía de Copenhague de Tove Ditlevsen, quién nunca más pudo separar su lápiz del papel una vez que le hizo caso a las interminables palabras que componían poemas en su cabeza a pesar de que su familia y la sociedad danesa del siglo veinte no creyesen en la habilidad femenina de escribir buena literatura Ninguna de las dos, una vez que sus cabezas estuvieron fuera de la pez, permitieron que los demonios circundantes las sometieran de nuevo. Con esto expiaron el pecado que fácilmente se comete al faltar el primer mandamiento de lo que debería ser nuestro Segundo Testamento para la Vida Moderna: sé rebelde.

Bibliografía

Bazán, E. P. (2019, 19 junio). La Tribuna (Spanish Edition). Independently published.

Ditlevsen, T., Nunnally, T. & Goldman, M. F. (2021, 26 enero). The Copenhagen Trilogy: Childhood; Youth; Dependency Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

Hannah Arendt (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy). (2019, 11 enero). Recuperado 2 de octubre de 2022, de https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/arendt/#CitAgeColIde

Onetti, J. C. (2016, 18 julio). Cuentos completos. DEBOLS!LLO.

Pardo Bazán, E. P. B. (2021). La Tribuna (2.a ed.). Alianza editorial.

Sartre, J. P. (2016, 6 febrero). A Puerta Cerrada (Spanish Edition). Van

Haren Publishing

Woolf, V. (2020, 30 julio). Orlando (Penguin Modern Classics). Penguin Classics.

THREE WITCHES FROM MACBETH- MARIE SHWARZ-CLASS OF 2023

Three Witches From 'Macbeth'

In this creative piece, I am portraying Scene 3 from Act 1 where the three witches are telling Macbeth what his three prophecies entail. This exact scene is the beginning of a long journey down the feelings of dangerous ambition and greed, and even the dark acts of manipulation and murder. Through the usage of colors such as red, black, grey, bronze, green and brown I was able to captivate the tones of this scene which were sinister, dark and, finally, morbid For starters, I began by setting the background, a mixture of grey and white, which symbolizes Macbeth’s already morally grey characteristics which will later on prove to harm his previous “purity” in his overall person Then I moved on and covered the edges of the piece with a material that resembled clouds and thus suggested that the three witches had the power to cloud Macbeth’s judgment with said prophecies. These three prophecies encompassed Macbeth––already being the Thane of Glamis––would

also become the Thane of Cawdor and then the King of Cawdor, however it also detailed that Banquo would be father to kings to come.

To portray what these prophecies truly meant, I used objects such as a bloody sword, a crown, and coins. The coins showcased the feeling of greed that Macbeth encountered when it came to the prophecies about him, which were closely illustrated by the crown, and finally the bloody sword conveyed the lengths that Macbeth was willing to go to, just for these prophecies spoken by the three witches. Furthermore, the three witches are illustrated in a way that their faces are covered in a layering mix of dark colors, emphasizing on the foreboding mood of the scene. This points out that at this moment Macbeth was doubtful of this prophecy, but as soon as he was informed that he was the new Thane of Cawdor his feelings towards this prophecy

shifted. Following this, the capes of the witches which are the color black project the sinister tone of the scene however the ombre mix of red portray the morbid tone of the scene

Additionally, Macbeth’s eyes are clouded with white and hints of blood which further hint that these prophecies clouded his judgement and were the sole reason of his future actions regarding the murder of Duncan, Banquo and more. Lastly, the blood prints behind Macbeth suggest that his previous, mostly pure, character, with morally grey characteristics, will slowly be flooded by bloodthirstiness and greed, towards the prophecies said by the three witches

However, in this scene Macbeth isn’t aware that all these efforts will amount to nothing simply because of the last prophecy, which details that Banquo’s son would be the future king, and so Macbeth would be throneless, and eventually, later in the play it would be discovered that to his dismay he’d be sonless and wifeless as well.

Emilia Salazar - Class of 2023

Suspendidos entre real e irreal: el realismo mágico y lo real maravilloso son distintos

Si bien la literatura no necesita categorizarse para ser buena, los géneros, sub-géneros o movimientos a los que pertenece cada uno de sus ejemplares se cuestionan a la hora de pasarlos de un par de manos a otras. Pues, a la hora de recomendar, ¿cómo explicar que no es solo Haití, sino que es un Haití con metamorfosis, ritos y dioses guerreros, o que no es solo un departamento en el Austria de la posguerra, sino que es uno que contiene una cucaracha hija, hermana y portadora de una manzana en su espalda? Con el fin de socorrer a estos lectores, desesperados por compartir tales textos, pero desprovistos del vocabulario necesario, surgen dos conceptos: el realismo mágico y lo

real maravilloso. Son parecidos pero distintos––ambos exploran la irrealidad dentro de escenas extraordinariamente cotidianas–– y son estas diferencias las que exigen el desarrollo de los párrafos siguientes.

El ejercicio de clasificar debe partir de la comprensión absoluta del significado de los elementos a ser encasillados. En el caso de estos términos, la Real Academia Española propone lo siguiente:

Mágico, ca

1. Adj. Perteneciente o relativo a la magia

2 Adj Maravilloso, estupendo

Y, Maravilloso, sa

1.Adj. Extraordinario, excelente, admirable

Ambos términos están relacionados, pero es importante destacar que solo el primero tiene dos acepciones, una de las cuales la acerca a maravilloso en condición de sinónimo, mientras que el segundo tiene solo una que lo mantiene (por decirlo de alguna manera) fiel a sí mismo. Entonces, ¿por qué mágico se puede definir como maravilloso, pero lo maravilloso no se define como mágico? La lógica apunta a que, aunque lo relativo a la magia sea “extraordinario, excelente, admirable”, lo “extraordinario, excelente, admirable” no tiene por qué provenir de una fuente inexplicable; no tiene por qué ser ajeno a lo secular. Tal distinción es casi nimia, pero a la vez, su casi imperceptible naturaleza––similar a la de distinguir un verde agua de un verde jade, o un fucsia de un rosado intenso––sugiere que la búsqueda de la misma, al sumarle “realismo” a cada uno de los términos, es compleja pero necesaria para reconocer en su totalidad a los textos que caen bajo el umbral de cada uno.

El lector atento se ha dado

seguramente cuenta de que al enfrentarse a libros de autores latinoamericanos y de los demás continentes que contengan una mezcla de lo real con lo irreal, el método es esencialmente distinto pues los primeros logran fusionar los dos planos, mientras que los segundos tienden a superponerlos. A finales del siglo XIX surgió en Europa esta nueva tendencia rebelde de comunicar a través del arte una versión distorsionada, o poco convencional, del entorno, pues las cámaras se habían adueñado de la habilidad de replicarlo con la exactitud que siglos de pintores, escritores y escultores habían hecho de su vida una finalidad. En 1925, el historiador y crítico alemán Franz Roh, acuñó el concepto de realismo mágico para denominar los productos de los pioneros europeos de este movimiento artístico que asumió distintos enfoques: el impresionista, el expresionista y el post-expresionista. Sin embargo, la atrevida idea no tardó en cruzar el Atlántico y en incomodar a los artistas latinoamericanos––de todos los medios, pero para este ensayo, pintores y escritores, principalmente––quienes buscaban hacerse de una voz propia para expresar las ideas de un continente emancipado, poseedor de una identidad rica y de patriotas a la

par de los antes inigualados creadores europeos. Partió como una adopción––tal y como el continente adoptó la democracia francesa o la religión católica liderada por Roma––, pero en 1940, según las fases del realismo mágico de Roberto González Echevarría, Alejo Carpentier hizo de esta un movimiento infusionado con el aroma, el sabor, los colores de Latinoamérica. Así, durante las tres décadas posteriores (1950 a 1970), la ficción del continente y la del Boom literario se hicieron equivalentes al concepto introducido por Roh.

Autores como Carpentier, García Márquez, Rulfo y Fuentes inauguraron y desarrollaron, diligentemente, un capítulo nuevo en la literatura de sus tierras, pero––y aquí entra la discordancia con la costumbre de usar realismo mágico y lo real maravilloso de manera intercambiable––la transición de préstamo a acuñación permanente merece un rebautizo del nombre del movimiento. En Europa, en Asia y en Norteamérica los creativos locales siguieron mezclando los elementos reales con los irreales a la par de los latinos; sin embargo, los orígenes y contextos socioculturales únicos de cada uno no permiten que los productos de todos ellos reposen

bajo la sombra de un mismo paraguas mágico-realista. Es por esto que el término lo real maravilloso se debe reservar para las creaciones de latinoamericanos que, en palabras de Gloria Bautista en su libro Realismo mágico, cosmos latinoamericano, cuenten con “precisión en la narración realista relacionada a un asunto sobrenatural o mágico , preocupación por el estilo… sencillo, preciso y claro…[y] sorpresa [a través] de la mezcla de elementos reales o irreales”; para que los productos de autores europeos, asiáticos, norteamericanos (en fin, no latinos) que quieran seguir provocando a través de este enfoque, lo sigan haciendo bajo el término de realismo mágico que nació lejos de América y que se necesita para reconocer que una misma técnica ha dado lugar a obras totalmente distintas, ya que las realidades base con las que trabaja son fundamentalmente distintas.

La declaración de que Latinoamérica es “especial” merece pruebas ajenas al vivir en el continente porque quien no haya visto camionetas cargando––precariamente atados, por supuesto––sofás y colchones durante el único día de verano en que llueve o las hordas de jotes que

se disputan los restos del último ritual vudú de un área no comprenderá a buenas primeras la singularidad de esta tierra Carlos Fuentes, a través de su guardián de México en La región más transparente, Ixca Cienfuegos, verbaliza este rasgo:

“Ve, sobre todo, a los hombres y las mujeres de todos los días––oficinistas, pasantes de Derecho, comerciantes, vendedores, choferes, mozos, mecanógrafas, repartidores––; blancos, mestizos, indígenas, algunos vestidos con saco, otros de chamarra y camisola, ellas con su aproximación a la elegancia impuesta por el cine subrayando el gusto local––senos, caderas––…, pero con los mismos ojos duales presentes en el origen y en el destino…el día de agosto en el que el anciano lastrado como un roble viejo escondido detrás de las gafas azules y la gran barba crispada, entre al frente del ejército constitucionalista…la noche de mayo en que la independencia se viste de carnaval para que un sargento imperial y su turba oscura y su gente decente…alumbren al Momo…y, más lejos, por fin, el lejano día de agosto en que las agua se dividen y todo es confusión y escudos y silbos y penachos y estruendos de arcabuces y bergantines y el señor Malinche se

asoma a la azotea de una casa de Amaxac…Y desde entonces son dos…, el del origen y el del destino, los dos plantados sobre la misma avenida, fuese de agua o de cemento. Del Yei Calli al 1951. Siempre dos, el águila reptante, el sol nocturno”.

De un solo vistazo, Ixca Ciefuegos nota la sinfonía de historia y gentes que hacen de Ciudad de México––y, por extensión, a las demás ciudades latinoamericanas––espacios vibrantes y, hasta cierto punto salvajes, donde lo indígena y lo colono, la superstición y el escepticismo, la costumbre y lo importado, la ignorancia y la educación trabajan en unísono para darle forma a la realidad única del continente dentro del cual todo es posible pues “todavía no se ha terminado de establecer…un recuento de cosmogonías”. Ante esta riqueza es imposible estar en desacuerdo con el prólogo de Alejo Carpentier de su novela, El reino de este mundo, y no querer proclamar un término específico para las obras de los hispanoamericanos. Su estadía en Haití de 1943 le demostró esta singularidad, ya que “a cada paso hallaba lo real maravilloso” al estar en una tierra donde lo histórico es sinónimo de insólito y mítico al contar con figuras como Mackandal, quien

poseía el don de la metamorfosis gracias a la “fe de sus contemporáneos” e instigó con ella “una de las sublevaciones más dramáticas y extrañas de la Historia” (Carpentier). La mitad oeste de La Española encapsula lo que Carpentier considera la diferencia fundamental entre “disfrazarse de magos a poco costo” y ser autores de lo real maravilloso, ya que permite crear a partir de un espacio donde “lo maravilloso lo sea de manera inequívoca cuando surge de una alteración de la realidad (el milagro), de una revelación privilegiada de la realidad, de una iluminación inhabitual o singularmente favorecedora de las inadvertidas riquezas de la realidad, de una ampliación de escañas y categorías de la realidad”. Fuentes lo vio tiempo después y en una obra realista, pero la particular viveza de Latinoamérica que hace que lo maravilloso venga de la magia y de lo secular es la misma, haciendo imperativa la reserva del concepto real maravilloso para los textos que le rinden homenaje a su complejidad al tantear con los límites de la realidad.

Terminaremos por corroborar las aseveraciones de Alejo Carpentier con un simple ejercicio comparativo. Este involucra a los

realistas Claudio Bravo (Chile) y Antonio Berni (Argentina) además de los surrealistas Roberto Aizenberg (Argentina) y Mario Carreño (Cuba-Chile). Todos ellos hicieron parte de sus estudios pictóricos en Europa y produjeron durante el siglo XX, a la par del florecimiento de los “-ismos” y de los movimientos literarios preocupados por mezclar técnicas––el realismo mágico es el que nos preocupa por excelencia ––para generar una ficción “más totalizante”, en palabras de Vargas Llosa en el prólogo de Cien años de soledad. Partamos entonces observando creaciones de Bravo y de Berni El arte del chileno se clasifica dentro del hiperrealismo pues los personajes que en él retrata dan la sensación de que en cualquier momento saltarán del lienzo––en el caso de Vanitas, para espiarte o para inspirarte sopor. Su formación fue, en su mayoría, autodidacta y sus estudios los enfocó sobre todo en las técnicas de la España del siglo XVII: de Velázquez, Zurbarán, Cotán y otros. Así, por distante que parezca la conexión a Hispanoamérica en las obras que no son ni retratos, ni imágenes de Marruecos, ni paquetes, lo importante es esto: Claudio Bravo recrea escenas curiosamente cotidianas junto a personajes del clero que no

desentonarían en ninguna casa parroquial o sacristía chilenas. Antonio Berni, por su parte, supone otro perfil relevante pues sus cuadros insignia, los de su clímax profesional, son los que se enfocan exclusivamente en la Argentina de su época a partir de una preocupación social. Sus colecciones más famosas son las de Juanito Laguna, un niño que crece en una “villa miseria” del Gran Buenos Aires, y la de Ramona Montiel, una prostituta en la misma ciudad. Las dos se clasifican como collages, ya que Berni se dedicó a recolectar basura de los alrededores de las villas para comunicar la pobreza, el agobio y la precariedad de sus personajes a partir de los desechos reales, de personas reales. Antes de llegar a esta técnica, Berni jugó con la misma fidelidad al entorno, pero sin elementos ajenos al acrílico––Manifestación y Desocupados son las dos obras que de esta etapa se destacan. Sin embargo, lo clave de su evolución profesional yace aún más atrás, entre las memorias de su educación en Europa durante la década de 1920: Antonio Berni se inició con los surrealistas––Breton, Magritte, de Chirico, Ernst––, pero su camino se bifurcó del de ellos al retornar a Argentina pues la realidad turbulenta que allí se encontró era más interesante,

colorida y apremiante que un sueño cualquiera. Tanto Bravo como Berni se dieron cuenta de esto, de la singularidad de su entorno, y se lanzaron a retratarla, cada uno a su manera, con elementos humorísticos o físicos, respectivamente, pero hispanoamericanos de igual manera. Desgraciadamente, no todos los artistas del continente tuvieron la misma iluminación que estos dos, y sus productos, lejos de sorprender, sirven––¡qué suerte la nuestra! ––para reafirmar que la realidad hispanoamericana es muchísimo más valiosa que técnicas europeas que rebuscan por debajo de ella Tal es el caso con la obra del argentino, Roberto Aizenberg, quien se dedicó al surrealismo abstracto al retratar, casi exclusivamente, figuras geométricas (angulares o curvas) de tres dimensiones. Su combinación de colores es interesante, ya que las formas se destacan ante fondos de colores opuestos en el espectro. Sin embargo, no hay mucho más. Por precisa que sea la maestría con que materializa sus objetos, los cuadros no transmiten más que una técnica de por sí un tanto agotada para cuando los comenzó a pintar en la década de 1960––René Magritte, por ejemplo, un ícono en la manipulación de volúmenes dentro

de un espacio concreto, ya llevaba entre treinta a cuarenta años trabajando con este acercamiento al lienzo Por último, tenemos a Mario Carreño quien cierra el ejercicio con la evolución que tuvo su arte. Habiendo nacido en Cuba para después educarse principalmente en Madrid, a la par de íconos de la abstracción geométrica como Piet Mondrian, sus cuadros pasaron del realismo curvo y colorido del Caribe a una versión más abstracta hasta alcanzar la precisión lineal e impersonal de sus compañeros de estudios.

Él continuó por la senda representada en Recinto alucinante hasta que se asentó en Chile durante la década de 1960. Llegado a este punto, como artista había ejercido en México y en Estados Unidos por lo que su círculo consistía en otros pintores exiliados que leían el manifiesto de Breton por las mañanas y se dormían después de haber participado en tertulias enfocadas en las nuevas grandes técnicas para ir más allá de abstracciones extremas como el suprematismo de Málevich. Sin embargo, el volver a plantarse en Latinoamérica le permitió reconectar con la vibrante naturaleza del continente; cambio que supuso el preámbulo para la

forma final de su estilo que sí se distingue de sus pares europeos a diferencia de Roberto Aizenberg––una abstracción rica e interesante gracias a que su inspiración provino del continente. Mujeres y corales es prueba de este último paso en la evolución de Carreño, así como Árbol tropical o Mujer en la selva tropical. Gracias a la obra de los cuatro artistas pudimos comprobar que el retrato de Hispanoamérica a través de la técnica realista, o incluso a través de un punto intermedio entre esta y la abstracción geométrica, resulta muchísimo más atractivo que una aproximación surrealista o totalmente abstracta El continente “por la virginidad del paisaje, por la formación, por la ontología, por la presencia fáustica del indio y del negro…[y] por los fecundos mestizajes que propició, …está muy lejos de haber agotado su caudal de mitologías”, lo cual rinde inútiles a los “-ismos” que de él se alejan pues ignoran su riqueza en pro de sueños difusos que ni siquiera recuerdan a la hora de sentarse a esbozar sus ideas (Carpentier).

Con esta singularidad presentada, comprobada y aceptada––ojalá––retornamos al término que lleva esperando en los márgenes: el realismo mágico. Para algunos críticos––Fernando Alegría o Miguel

Ángel Asturias––el término también aplica para la mezcla de planos reales e irreales fabricadas por escritores latinoamericanos. Sin embargo, tal aglomeración pone a la par obras que comparten poco más que el adjetivo “curioso”: Cien años de soledad de García Márquez con 1Q84 de Murakami, Viaje a la semilla de Carpentier con Marble de Smitho El reino de este mundo de Carpentier con La metamorfosis de Kafka. Cada una de estas historias tiene un valor intrínseco, pero si nos enfocamos en la combinación de los planos, la segunda de cada par es inferior a la que le precede. ¿Por qué? Pues porque las “pequeñas personas” que tejen la “crisálida de aire” o el embarazo de Aomame inducido sin sexo por un ente inidentificado desentonan crudamente con el Tokio cosmopolita, dinámico e impersonal en donde se presentan; la repentina suavidad y las inesperadas pulsaciones de una escultura de mármol que se lanza a la vida obsesionada con la escultora danesa Anne Marie Carl-Nielsen resultan incongruentes con la esterilidad del Copenhague de donde surgen; la cucaracha que se debate entre la confusión, el deber y el implícito rechazo de su familia desencaja demasiado con el departamento austriaco en donde despierta. Cada autor empuja los límites de lo que quieren comunicar

con los elementos mágicos o fantásticos que introducen––por algo lo hacen––, pero estos no se integran con la realidad que se les asigna, respectivamente. Quedan por encima de ella como cuando a las galletas se les pone una capa de sal de mar: le aporta sabor, pero este es superficial y, a veces tan intenso en el primer bocado, que el consumidor se debate si dar el segundo. Lejos están del arte, de la facilidad, con que García Márquez entrelaza la prehistoria de los Buendía con el genuino miedo de dar a luz iguanas, la lujuria

desvergonzada con la habilidad de Petra Cotes para canalizar su fertilidad en la multiplicación de su ganado y la muerte con la vida misma al regresar Melquíades a Macondo por no soportar la soledad del más allá En un grado menor, Carpentier parte dándole vida a los objetos inertes que compusieron la que era la casa de su protagonista en Viaje a la semilla, Don Marcial, pues solo una reconfiguración de su hogar a través de impulsos mágicos––Las piedras, con saltos certeros, fueron a cerrar los boquetes de las murallas…

levantadas por el esfuerzo de las flores, las tejas juntaron sus fragmentos para caer en lluvia sobre la armadura del techo. La casa creció, traída nuevamente a sus proporciones habituales, pudorosa y

revestida…––podría reconstituir una prueba tangible del Haití colonial que había pasado a ser otra parte más de su convulsa historia. Y solo unos años después, el mismo escritor cubano, pronto a apoderarse del título de prócer de esta técnica, expandiría su magia a los míticos dioses del vudú y a los legendarios personajes como Mackandal, Bouckman y Henri Christophe cuyas insólitas historias estaban sujetas a la fe de un pueblo: metamorfosis y resurrecciones, invocaciones dotadas del “poder de pasar sin transición del registro grave al agudo” y favorecidas por fenómenos naturales como el trueno y apariciones de espíritus recriminadores como el de Cornejo Breille cuya visita en la misa de la Asunción auguraba un violento cambio.

No se pueden comparar los tejidos que suponen las obras de García Márquez o de Carpentier con los que le dan forma 1Q84, Marble o a La metamorfosis. Sus elementos de lo real maravilloso––llámense mágicos, milagrosos, míticolegendarios o fantásticos, si seguimos la clasificación de Vargas Llosa––no tienen costuras al aire de las cuales el lector pueda tirar para exclamar, “¡Sabía que esto estaba plantado aquí! ¡Qué fácil fue sacarlo pues no me convencía!” La realidad

de Latinoamérica, con su ignorancia, caos y relativa novedad se presta para que tales elementos se entretejan con ella––supone una dinámica de por sí maravillosa. Por lo que aquellos escritores ajenos a ella, como Haruki Murakami, Amalie Smith y Franz Kafka, pueden y deben seguir haciendo uso de la magia cuando su entorno no les permite evocar las emociones o transmitir los mensajes que quieren. Su magia, como “pequeñas personas”, esculturas que de repente viven o cucarachas psicológicamente humanas, es un elemento más. Sin embargo, los productos de tales autores deben pertenecer al realismo mágico mientras que los de García Márquez, Carpentier y demás latinoamericanos que ejerzan la técnica de manera similar dentro del continente deben ser parte de lo real maravilloso. Solo una distinción así permitirá que se reconozca la singularidad de Hispanoamérica, propensa a abrazar los elementos irreales, frente a las historias ubicadas en los espacios más estériles de Europa, Asia o EE.UU., las cuales quedan suspendidas entre escenas demasiado cotidianas para ser irreales y otras demasiado extrañas para ser reales.

Bibliografía

Alejo Carpentier. El Reino de Este Mundo. México, D.F. ; Miami, Fla., Lectorum, 2013

Fuentes, Carlos. La Región Más Transparente. Edición conmemorativa, Alfaguara Real Academia Española Asociación De Academias De La Lengua Española, 18 Oct. 2018.

Fundación Mario Carreño “UN SOPLO de LUZ ” Fundacionmariocarreno com, fundacionmariocarreno.com/?page id=22. Acceso 9 Feb. 2023.

Gabriel García Márquez Cien Años de Soledad Madrid, Alfaguara Real Academia Española Asociación De Academias De La Lengua Española, 2007.

López, Alberto “Claudio Bravo Camus, El Maestro Del Superrealismo Que Nunca Pintaba Vacas.” El País, 8 Nov. 2019, elpais.com/cultura/2019/11/08/actualidad/1573169289 068133.html? event log=oklogin. Acceso 9 Feb. 2023.

Lucie-Smith, Edward Latin American Art since 1900 (Third Edition) (World of Art). Thames & Hudson, 14 Apr. 2020.

Ministerio de cultura argentina “Antonio Berni, El Collage de Un Arte Comprometido.” www.cultura.gob.ar, 14 May 2020, www.cultura.gob.ar/antonio-berni-y-el-collage-de-una-vida-comprometida9014/ Acceso 9 Feb 2023

Ministerio de cultura argentina. “El Surrealismo de Roberto Aizenberg.” Www cultura gob ar, 20 Aug 2020, www cultura gob ar/el-surrealismo-deroberto-aizenberg-9391/. Acceso 9 Feb. 2023.

Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile “Mario Carreño Morales ” Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile, www.uc.cl/universidad/premiosnacionales/mario-carreno-morales/. Acceso 9 Feb. 2023.

Real Academia Española. “Mágico.” Diccionario de La Lengua Española 23a Ed., 2023, dle rae es/m%C3%A1gico Acceso 6 Feb 2023 [versión 23 6 en línea]

Real Academia Española. “Maravilloso.” Diccionario de La Lengua Española 23a Ed , 2023, https://dle rae es/maravilloso Acceso 6 Feb 2023 [versión 23 6 en línea].

EMILIE MENDOZA- CLASS OF 2024

TITLE 42

Emilie Mendoza - Class of 2024

Title 42 and Cowardly Policymaking

Caitlyn Yates, anthropologist and PHD candidate at the University of British Columbia wrote in a 2018 Time Magazine piece, “For migrants who recount their journeys from the U.S., the Darien Gap is often remembered as the most difficult section of the entire journey.” The current plight of migrants through the Americas is often characterized as a physically dangerous one – as a pilgrimage to a land of easy-access to opportunities through a collection of different geographical boundaries (ranging from the Darien Gap to the Rio Grande). The immigrant is the one that gets past these treacherous obstacles and gets past the gang violence of the Americas and is therefore able to reach a better life in the United States. But while that may be the case for thousands of immigrants arriving in the US every year, it is not the case for all In fact, it ignores one of the biggest obstacles that immigrants trying to enter the United States face today; the anti-migrant legislation embedded into the American legal system and culture. Immigrants face life-threatening dangers and inhumane conditions when migrating to the United States because of anti-migrant legislation like Title 42.

Title 42 is one of the best examples of anti-immigrant legislation in America because of how benign it appears on the surface Title 42 was a provision of the Public Health Service Act of 1944 (García, 2022) with the intention of preventing the entry of communicable diseases to the country through human migration. However, it’s most notable use was in early 2020 when the Trump administration invoked it to limit the spread of COVID-19 in immigrant detention centers (García, 2022). Title 42 was later expanded by the Biden administration at the US-Mexico border until its expiration on May 11th, 2023 Under this policy, authorities had the ability to expel migrants back to their countries of origin, or the countries they were last in, without due process. Often, this resulted in the expulsion

migrants who had illegally crossed the border without allowing them to request asylum. As written by Alejandra Oliva in an opinion piece for the New York Times, “…these days the door to stability, much less economic growth, has been shut against asylum seekers even before they’re allowed to enter the country.” (Oliva, 2022).

Title 42 came particularly to the public eye in October 2022, following an increase in reporting of Venezuelans migrating through the Americas towards the US. That month alone, the number of Venezuelans crossing the Darien Gap reached its peak of 40,593 migrants recorded (Migración Panamá, 2022) These migrants were met with the news of Title 42’s expansion to include the expulsion of Venezuelan immigrants, leaving them in migratory limbo. As a Venezuelan migrant described to CNN, “After so much pain, so many obstacles we had to overcome, now we’re stuck.” (Pozzebon, 2022). The effects of this expansion were also felt miles away in countries like Panama, where about 900 Venezuelans were forced to return to the home country, they had fled on charter flights after losing hope on the rest of their journey to seek asylum in the United States (Associated Press, 2022)

Anti-migrant legislation like Title 42 demonstrates how deeply ingrained xenophobic sentiment is the American legal system. Consistently, US politicians have treated migrants as political pawns, tools to further agendas. Incidents like the flying of asylum seekers in San Antonio to Martha’s Vineyard by Florida Governor Ron DeSantis (Caputo, 2022), and the continued harsh conditions in detention centers holding migrant children (Jordan, 2021) demonstrate how – across the board – the United States government holds immigrants in contempt and is structurally designed to further marginalize groups of people that were already force to flee precarious economic situations, gang violence, and/or political persecution.

It is worth reiterating that Title 42 was not an immigration policy, it was a provision of a public health act Yet, despite this, Title 42 and other policies that limit accessibility for asylum seekers continue to be pervasive. Even though Title 42 has now expired, the newest immigration policy implemented since the beginning of 2023 has kept requesting asylum largely inaccessible. Migrants at the southern border are now required to

book an asylum interview before being able to physically enter the United States through a cellphone app. This app has been reported to have many glitches, separate families, be unable to recognize certain darker skin tones, etc This is aside from the biggest issue stemming from the lack of Wi-Fi access for the migrants forced to remain in overcrowded, lowresource migrant camps in Mexico (Beaumont, 2023).

As the Editorial Board of the Los Angeles Times wrote in a piece titled President Biden is using Title 42 against Venezuelans. That’s Cowardly Policymaking, “Politicians on both sides of the aisle are treating migrants as objects to be ferried around — and dropped at the doorstep of political rivals — or demonized as health risks instead of treating them as human beings.” This rings true, as anti-migrant legislation transcends party lines and administrations. It is fundamental to the structures that hold up the American immigration system and creates situations and conditions that ultimately endanger and further marginalize immigrants. America, as a country founded by immigrants with the promise of equal opportunity for self-actualization, is presently a country that structurally pushes away migrants seeking out the ‘American Dream’ The danger of these policies comes from the intent behind them; intent fueled by a deep-rooted forgetting of migrants’ humanity. Only with comprehensive reform and a striking change in the culture surrounding the treatment of migrants by the law can America break free from policies made by cowards.

Sources

Beaumont, Hilary. “‘It Doesn’t Work’: Migrants Struggle with US Immigration App.” USMexico Border News | Al Jazeera, 16 May 2023, www.aljazeera.com/news/2023/5/15/it-doesnt-work-migrants-struggle-with-usimmigration-app.

“Editorial: President Biden Is Using Title 42 against Venezuelans. That’s Cowardly Policymaking.” Los Angeles Times, 4 Nov. 2022, www.latimes.com/opinion/story/202210-28/la-ed-venezuelans-expelled-under-trump-era-rule.

García, Uriel J. “Here’s What You Need to Know about Title 42, the Pandemic-Era Policy That Quickly Sends Migrants to Mexico.” The Texas Tribune, 29 Apr. 2022, www.texastribune.org/2022/04/29/immigration-title-42-biden/.

“IRREGULARES POR DARIÉN 2022.” Migración Panama, 31 Mar. 2022.

Jordan, Miriam. “‘No Place for a Child’: Inside the Tent Camp Housing Thousands of Migrant Children.” The New York Times, 31 Mar. 2021, www.nytimes.com/2021/03/30/us/texas-border-facility-migrants.html.

Long, Colleen. “Title 42 Has Ended. Here’s What It Did, and How US Immigration Policy Is Changing.” AP NEWS, 12 May 2023, apnews.com/article/immigration-biden-bordertitle-42-mexico-asylum-be4e0b15b27adb9bede87b9bbefb798d.

“Migrants Who Landed on Martha’s Vineyard Were Tricked by Misleading Brochure, Lawyers Say .” NBCNews.Com, 19 Sept. 2022, www.nbcnews.com/politics/immigration/migrants-landed-marthas-vineyard-trickedmisleading-brochure-lawyers-s-rcna48390.

Oliva, Alejandra. “The U.S. Has a Legal Responsibility to Those Seeking Refuge.” The New York Times, 5 May 2023, www.nytimes.com/2023/05/05/opinion/title-42immigration-usa.html.

Pozzebon, Stefano. “Venezuelan Migrants in Shock and Limbo after New US Immigration Plan.” CNN, 15 Oct. 2022, edition.cnn.com/2022/10/15/americas/venezuelanmigrants-title-42-expansion-intl/index.html.

Press, Associated. “Venezuelans Stranded in Panama by U.S. Policy Change Return Home.” NBCNews.Com, 27 Oct. 2022, www.nbcnews.com/news/latino/venezuelansstranded-panama-us-policy-change-return-home-rcna54280.

Yates, Caitlyn. “How Panama Became so Dangerous for u.s.-Bound Migrants.” Time, 25 July 2018, time.com/5340697/migration-america-panama/. 26

ISABELLA FERGUSON- CLASS OF 2025

Good Artists; Bad People

Ernest Hemingway is one of the most famous American novelists. He is the author of The Sun also Rises, The Old Man by the Sea, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and many more. Many of his admirers, however, are unaware that he was an awful person. He was disloyal to his wife, a narcissist, an alcoholic, and a carless father So, given that he is such a despicable man, is it still correct to enjoy and read his work? Is it possible to separate the art from the artist? Yes, you can. It is possible to admire one’s work without idolizing the person who created it. So many important artists were lacking in their personal lives. Though just because the artist is unpleasant, does not mean the art is so. Artists aren’t their art, and in cases where the art is important to history and the evolution of art, we cannot simply ignore the existence of prominent works. You can praise art while acknowledging the actions of those who created them Not to mention that the hardships, life experiences, and phycological problems of an artists – which make them horrible people – could also be what makes their art so amazing.

Picasso was a sexist man who would verbally and physically abused women. This does not mean that the art he made was bad, it just shows that he was a bad person. The actions and personality of an artist do not make them untalented Why should we consider art to be disturbing just because the person who created it was? People tend to dislike things associated with people they dislike. It is not logical to attribute your feelings about a person to your opinion about their work. Someone’s art should not be disapproved of just because the person who created it was malicious. Knowing and being aware their actions and personalities is very important; however, it is essential to accept that the person they were, does not affect the quality and caliber of their art pieces.

It can be argued that admiring and exhibiting the art is an act of supporting the artist. Some people believe that artists who committed crimes or whose actions are appalling should not even have their art

displayed. For example, people have tried to get Ariel and Prospero by Eric Gill taken down given that he was a pedophile. There was even a protestor who took a hammer to the sculpture. Having his art on display isn’t the same as forgiving his actions It is simply appreciating the art It is possible to view the art as an entirely separate idea. Acknowledging that the art itself has value does not mean that one is condoning the actions of its artist.

Caravaggio was known for his dark and gory art. He invented chiaroscuro, a technique where one manipulated light and shadow to create the illusion of light coming from a certain source in paintings He created the masterpiece Bacchus and many more. Caravaggio, as talented as he was, was very violent and would have many drunken fights. He was even once accused of murdering someone in the town he lived in. These aspects of his personal life should not take away from his artistic abilities, especially not when art pieces have historical value. These art pieces must be displayed and taught about regardless of who made them given that they provide insight for the period in which they were created or show a certain style. The art should not be ignored; it gives us important information for the history of art.

It is entirely possible to separate the art pieces from their creator. Attributing the actions of an artist to one’s overall opinion about their art is irrational. Appreciating the art piece does not excuse their actions. Although it can be argued that it is immoral, the appreciation of the art of a detestable person is not the same as forgiving or shutting aside a person’s actions. It is being able to acknowledge the quality of the art piece, separate from the person who created it. Art with historical value cannot be ignored; we need it to help us understand the art of a different time. It is not feasible to ignore the kind of people some artists were, though it is not a crime to continue to appreciate their art. Separating a person from their abilities is viable.

Daniela

Chavarria

- Class of 2025 Heart in a Box

The box is transparent. It maintains awareness of its existence and it has a strong build that surrounds it in every aspect. The box is tightly shut as a protection from the dangers in the air, it survives on two simple tubes and an external pump, they assure its beating, maintaining it alive, and containing the leftover warmth But a heart in a box can't have the same experience as one connected to the body

One without walls that protect it, without depending on outside sources to survive. A normal heart is healthier and stronger. It feels and loves harder, a normal heart beats faster through excitement. It lets people in with no fear of opening doors. It overcomes challenges and learns to live with bandages as the existence of an overwhelming warmth can be felt. This heart is scarred, but it healed well Its muscles are strong and prepared for the future ahead. It appreciates feeling, and living.

The heart in a box can survive the anatomical aspects. The heart beats and pumps and keeps it alive, but the heart cannot live.

Living is not breathing, it is not beating. Living is loving, it's crying and laughing Living is growing, it's creating never ending memories It's experiencing new things It's learning, it's falling Living is the most important aspect of the human experience.

The overwhelming warmth of love and joy surpasses blood. Memories and Experiences surpass oxygen.

But so many don't live. Some choose to, some don't get to.

A heart can not learn to be alive in a box because it won't survive. Its existence will deteriorate.

Living outside of the box must be a goal. Learning to be grateful for accomplishing so must be too.

There is no sense in being alive if one cannot live

Self-Destruction

He told me to come here. I walked down the hill as usual. The pitch-black sky let only the long grass to be seen. I felt my bare feet touching the pricks and leaves fallen from trees. “Isn’t this so much more peaceful?” I heard Denton say and turned around to look for him. “I can barely see you, come closer” I said, and he pointed ahead of me Up front was the river I had seen my entire life but had never put much attention to I assumed he was suggesting we get in, so I walked down the mud path and felt the cool breeze on my face, the hairs on my arm stood up as I got closer to the water. Now I was close enough that drops of water landed on me and I could fully hear the fast current. The water felt cold when I stepped in, so I slowly backed out. “Isn’t the cold water so refreshing?” said Denton who was next to me already halfway submerged in the water. This changed my mind, it did in fact feel refreshing I started to step in deeper when I felt a buzz in my pocket. A call. “Hey” it was my mother “can you come home please? Dinner is ready, where exactly are you?” I had completely forgotten about dinner “Mom in in the hill, well a little farther, I am in the river” I heard a gasp “Leni what are you doing there, get out immediately, you can’t be alone there.” This was weird to me considering she always let me do what I wanted if it had to do with nature “Mom its fine I’m just going for a little swim, I realized I have never gotten in the river and I’m not alone I’m with-” she cut me off immediately “I forgot to tell you, last week two boys drowned in the river, it has an incredibly dangerous current, come home now.” With this I got out quickly and told Denton I had to go. He seemed disappointed and got out too, after all he had always wanted to go in.

Dinner was the usual questioning of how school was and what my daily activities outside of the house were I hadn’t acknowledged Baxter sniffing my feet, so when I noticed him, I reached down and felt his soft fur on my fingers. His collar was tight on his neck, so I loosened it, and he thanked

me with a soft bark as he walked to his little bed. “Leni, we want to talk about you being in the lake today” I looked up to see my dad pursing his lips while staring at me intensely. My face felt hot “It really was not a big deal dad, I would have never got in if I knew about the boys, who were they anyways?” The warm smell of lasagna was filling up the air “It was that Fernandez boy you used to hang out with when you were little, I still don’t understand why you stopped” my mother said, “oh and Luis’s little brother.” My heart dropped when I heard this, that kid could not have been older than nine years old. I remembered that time I almost died when I was seven, it was in my old town. I admit I was not a normal kid; the others never seemed to like me or feel comfortable around me I seemed to always have something to say that freaked them out. It was a normal day under the California blazing sun, kids went out and drove their scooters, I had decided to ride with my friend. As we passed the hot rough pavement something inside of me told me to jump off, I cannot explain where it came from, but it had a strong persuasion over me. I jumped off and felt my skin craping from me and burning all over my body. After that we had to move, apparently kids thought I it made me weird. “May I be excused?” every time I remembered that occurrence I needed to breath

Outside on the porch I watched as Baxter smelled the same flowers he had his whole life. The pink tulips and orchids were his favorite, smelling like freshly cut grass. “You busy?” a raspy voice said, “Denton, how many times do I have to tell you to stop sneaking up on me like that.” He laughed and my heart felt warm, his smile made me forget every thought that was bothering me before The stairs of the porch creaked as I walked down them towards him. “Actually, do you think we can go in? I am a little hungry and am craving one of your special sandwiches” this excited me, he never accepted my food was good, and he was right most of the time I must admit. I almost left Baxter outside and had forgotten completely he was there. He usually barked when visitors came, yet he seemed to like Denton. My kitchen was empty which meant my parents were most probably asleep. Denton always seemed to be shy when it came to them, in the three years we have been friends, he still had not met them I always assumed he liked me and wanted to make a good impression, but I’d never tell him that. “My knife is gone” I whispered, he heard me “Use that one.” My mother’s sharpest knife was on the counter, I was completely forbidden

to use it, the real reason I was such a bad chef was that I might end up leaving fingers in the food. Yet, it was Denton, so I tried to be careful and used to cut a tomato. The floor barely sounded as he walked to the bathroom “What the hell are you doing?” my wide-eyed mother was staring at me in complete shock. When I looked down the tip of the knife was touching my chest, inches away from my heart. “Wait” I tried to say as she walked over to me and abruptly took the knife from my hands. She screamed at me “I THOUGHT WE WERE PAST THIS, IT’S BEEN, NINE YEARS AND YOU ARE STILL WITH THESE WEIRD INTRUSIONS LENI, ITS NOT OKAY!” I cried as she said she’d take me to the hospital first thing in the morning so without a second to think I ran out the door

Outside on the porch I watched as Baxter smelled the same flowers he had his whole life. The pink tulips and orchids were his favorite, smelling like freshly cut grass. “You busy?” a raspy voice said, “Denton, how many times do I have to tell you to stop sneaking up on me like that.” He laughed and my heart felt warm, his smile made me forget every thought that was bothering me before. The stairs of the porch creaked as I walked down them towards him “Actually, do you think we can go in? I am a little hungry and am craving one of your special sandwiches” this excited me, he never accepted my food was good, and he was right most of the time I must admit. I almost left Baxter outside and had forgotten completely he was there. He usually barked when visitors came, yet he seemed to like Denton. My kitchen was empty which meant my parents were most probably asleep. Denton always seemed to be shy when it came to them, in the three years we have been friends, he still had not met them I always assumed he liked me and wanted to make a good impression, but I’d never tell him that. “My knife is gone” I whispered, he heard me “Use that one.” My mother’s sharpest knife was on the counter, I was completely forbidden

The screams of my mother could be heard from almost a mile away. The damp air of the night tingled against my bear arms and legs. The forest carried all the humidity from the afternoon’s rain and the precipice next to the road looked cold I could not understand what was wrong with me and frustration flourished through me. “Leni what was that!” I jumped and turned around to see Denton running behind me. “Oh my god I am so sorry I don’t understand what is wrong with me” Denton looked at me with pity “I do” he said and stepped closer to me. I felt his warm skin against mine as

he hugged me. In that moment, any negative feeling had left my body or mind. He was all I needed, the only person that had ever understood me. That is why when he pushed me past the edge of the road confusion stroke me before realization I held on for dear life and felt my fingers burn against the rough pavement. I must have screamed for help for what felt like an eternity before my arms gave out and only my will was saving me. Sweat drops filled my face and the wind pushed dirt on to it face, making me cough and lose balance. I let myself go and felt my body drop through the depths of the precipice. Denton was not there. There was no one there. There had never been.

Emilio Pinzón - Class of 2025 Schwarzschild

It was the third night in a row. Once again, Rian had stayed up working until he felt he could collapse. Life hadn’t been especially kind to him lately. His wife and his only child had been gravely injured in an automobile accident just two weeks prior. The medical bills kept piling up. He’s never felt emptier in his life, working overtime to barely support his family The sound of the ticking clock could be heard reverberating around the empty, dark room he now considered his prison. The air conditioner had been powered off to save energy causing an uncomfortably hot environment. Sweat was beading on his forehead. Glancing up from his computer, he looked at the time, looking at the time. 3:46 AM. Rian wanted more than anything to go back to how it was before, so much so that he felt as if he couldn’t bear it. And then the thoughts came back. It’s not enough, he thought It’s never enough That’s when he saw it

Perhaps Rian was just seeing things, but that wasn’t exactly reassuring. He could’ve sworn that he had just felt a movement, but he dismissed it and attempted to go back to work, shifting his view towards his now computer screen. It wasn’t worth the effort to get worried. However, when he did look up, he saw something reflected back at him. It was erased a second later when the screen filled with color once again, but he didn’t brush it aside this time Rian did what he previously thought unthinkable and stood up from his desk to head to the bathroom. Not a second was meant to be wasted, but strange occurrences like these required a second to compose oneself. He washed his face with cool water, feeling the same temporary calm he knew was soon to be followed by the dreaded apathy and mediocrity of his current life. The calm was cut short, however, for when in the mirror there was something but not somebody.

It was gone after a blink. Taking a step back, Rian became increasingly worried about what he continued seeing. The silence was somehow more terrifying than any semblance of sound. Hit with a dizzying wave of nausea,

he struggled to walk. He opened the washroom door and peered into the dark room. The presence of something could be felt. Something dark and ominous. However, it was still not a good enough excuse to stop working. Returning to his stiff chair, he opened his assignment with a shaky hand. It was to be done by next morning, and he wasn’t anywhere close to being done. The stress had finally overwhelmed him, and with a final sickening wave of nausea, he emptied his stomach into a nearby trash can. Just then, the faintest noise could be heard. Rian’s heart stopped, no longer able to ignore the happenings any further. Shaking all over, he stood up and walked towards the window, where he as if all the heat from his body had left him. With his heart pounding in his ears like distressingly loud bass drums, he identified the true nature of the sound.

It was a strange, distorted growl, almost like the sound of a technological error. The strange, shapeless black mass slowly creeped its way towards his house, like a predator catching its prey in a trap. Reality shifted around Rian, with the room slowly becoming covered in a pitch black, ink-like, corrosive substance that burned to the touch. Rushing to the other side of the room was to no avail, with the substance quickly overtaking the whole room, leaving him in searing pain. The pounding in his ears was becoming louder, eventually sounding like sirens. Hearing what sounded like a chemical reaction of some sort burning from the other side of the room, he moved his gaze over to the door and saw that the wall had been seemingly melted off into the darkness. The growling grew to a deafening roar. It’s here… he thought. It’s here and it’s going to kill me. He could hear the voices of his wife and child crying to him, but nothing could save them now. Not even him.

The ticking of the clock rang deep into his ears as Rian opened his eyes. The room seemed relatively normal. No hellish destruction or corrosive substances were present. With a sense of deep confusion, he stood up and looked at the clock. 5:23 AM. The roaring he had heard had been replaced by a deafening silence, except for the ticking. He sat back down at his desk and reread the assignment. There was no point in trying. It was impossible for him to finish it now. Overcome with stress, he buried his face in his hands and wept, with the horrible understanding that the current events had brought him past the frigid edges of his sanity to the point of no return. His internal horrors had manifested that night, locking him in his own personal, psychological prison. And it will happen like clockwork.

Te Recomiendo que Leas...

El libro EL AHOGADO del autor panameño Tristán Solarte ha sido para mí, una de las mejores historias que hemos leído en clase. No solo por los personajes entrañables, sino porque la trama es entretenida y el final te deja con ganas de saber qué pasó (aunque en el epílogo se explique un poco).

¿Quién mató a Rafael? Esa es la gran pregunta. Me encantó cómo el poeta fue mostrado de forma tan inocente al principio, pero mientras avanzaban los sucesos, se veía que no era así La manera de describir el paisaje de Bocas del Toro y las formas literarias que usó Solarte son un poco complejas, pero se hace fácil imaginar todo lo que quiso transmitir. Resulta interesante cómo el autor pudo unir la leyenda de la Tulivieja con la historia de los padres del protagonista y los relatos misteriosos de Boca del Drago, mostrando la cultura panameña.

Por eso, recomiendo este libro, ya que la historia es única Me gustó cómo cambió el tema del asesinato del poeta Rafael a investigar si lo que contaban al doctor Martínez sobre la víctima fue verdad.

RAFAEL Y LA TULIVIEJA- ALEXA PAREDES- CLASS OF 2025

I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS- MAYA ANGELOU

An eye-opening emotion evoking novel that brings to light a variety of complicated issues like racism, sexual assault and misogyny. Ms. Angelou expresses the hardships in her life through the beautiful metaphor of a caged bird

Maya lived a childhood of trauma. She was shipped off to live with her grandma at an early age where it all began. Young Angela phases unimaginable scenarios of racism, in a sacred state without being able to find a safe haven. When she returns to her mother, the unimaginable happens, her mothers boyfriend rapes her at the age of eight. As a result of this incredibly traumatic event, she becomes mute. She is frightened of words She eventually find a love of writing and books through her teacher and mentor Mrs. Bertha Flowers.

Maya navigates a world that is nothing but unjust to her. Describes a path of growth as she dares to find confidence in her struggles. As she succeeds as writer, and becomes the first ever black screenplay writer whose movie is produced. This book is a literary work of art, as Angelou pioneers in the creation of literary autobiography, blurring the line between one and the other and bringing tears to our eyes, and teaches us hard lessons about humanity.

It's a novel that every young person should read. It gives a glimpse of the worse with a mirrored love for life, through the eyes of a legend.

A raw recollection of the traumatic events in Maya Angelou's Life as a lesson of endurance and tolerance as well as the hardships in mankind.

GIRL LOOKING AT HER FUTURE - ANTONIA GUERRA - CLASS OF 2024

Poetry

Joint Prayer

Bless me, father, for I have sinned. My last confession was two nights ago.

At three, the hazy divinity the Seraphim beside me turned to me and asked if I believed in god.

Holy is he, whose ringlets of hair are weighed down by Tanqueray sweat Holy are the bodies that push into and away from us. Holy is the girl that recited the Hineni before Mussaf, still reciting the lines “Here I am” at her altar for pretty boys. Holy is the tongue the DJ extends to receive his square- paper communion.

Holy is the Eucharist, rolled in pink paper and passed through the latenight mass.

“Here I am”, “God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob”

Omnipotent and paradoxical God.

Bless the gin and tonic and the hands that prepared it. Bless our piousness. Bless the mouth that tastes like cheap vodka against mine.

HaShem I implore you to bless the prophet, now passed out on my bathroom floor.

Forgive me, lord.

Forgive my confession of lack of belief

Forgive the Angel Dust Redeemer for kneeling in anything other than prayer for his piousness.

Forgive the Narcotic Divinity that moves closer to me with every collective movement to disco music.

Forgive every mouth on the dancefloor for all they have said tonight.

Forgive the holy habits that die harder than the lamb.

Perdóname, mi divinidad, por no pensar en el pecado cuando me hablan del infierno.

For thinking of when I yelled at my friend, lied to my mother, and apologized to my brother.

But most of all, bless and forgive all the versions of my essence. The holy ones that have never once believed.

Here I am.

He leído tus palabras, HaShem, tus milagros y hazañas.

Here I am.

Praying for the impossible

If you are all-powerful and forgiving, I hope you pay no mind to the doubt of your existence where all I hear is music reverberating in my ears. Forgive the lack of communion wine and the presence of Absinthe Angels. Excuse the doubt of afterlife when I go to my paradise every Friday night.

And in the bodies moving as one under the flashing lights, I confess in not believing in the one that will hear this prayer

Here I am.

Amen.

WATERGATE - FRANCESCA CALVOSA - CLASS OF 2024

Sebastian Ramos-Esteban - Class of 2023

Poem

Every time an adult screams at you your 6 years old again just to realize that, that adult is you Have you ever been alive or just living Looking back at pictures I know you wish you knew them, but you never did

You just hit your glass three times after drinking, touched every door, every corner, every wall to remind you that your still here that your still alive Why you carry around broken things to remind you of when times were simpler

Why do you still care for it doesn't matter your safe, your done, your free Why, why, why, why do you

Pick apart ever piece of food to throw away just like you pick apart every flaw of who you are always picking always choosing always two sides when all you want to do is just be

Why, because if they saw the true you they would never understand so you hide and hide and tap your glass three more times because at least you know that your still alive

Emilia Salazar - Class of 2023

I Am Rich

I am rich. Yes, your heard that right. I am rich. Not as in “rica”, nor as in one-of-each-no-need-for-the-bill-here’s-the-card-and-a-lil-hundreddollar-tip. No.

My wealth comes from deeper inside, Sprinkled in my routine Or as I momentarily leave its grasp.

It looks like a lunch date by myself, cars driving past, as I wind down alone because the days have been just too much; and suddenly, ping! on my phone: there’s a friend knowing to ask if something is wrong.

It looks like my first time in Copenhagen, tourists crazily photographing a sight they don’t even see, as I sit in Nyhavn, cold feet, clammy hands, blinded as the winter sun heaves, and I think, here is where I might truly find home for me.

It looks like driving with my family after eighteen years of doing the same Different car, yes, and different images indicating us our way;

but deep down we haven’t changed––Maybe just the face––

still we seat in our corresponding place, discuss the latest life scheme at hand, terribly sing along with Lady Gaga or Miguel Bosé, or quietly share the minutes left of the ride at hand. That atmosphere of comfort prevails, in between the words, between the silences, and specially between the lives that as individuals we create in parallel

Lastly let me tell you how some days ago I felt rich!

It was a more special one indeed, and somewhat unexpected for past me. My friends and I are suddenly eighteen, and in a boat one of them celebrated this. I wished to speak no longer, my skin ached from the salt and the sun. The rest kept talking, planning, laughing, but I needn’t take part.

I was content with watching the waves we sailed past, their rhythmic swaying, their synched up and down. My mind was blank; it was all in my heart

Words felt unnecessary for I was there, with them, a connection having pulled us together to that moment in time.

I felt rich, I am rich. At every then, and even now. It is a state of mind, a state of heart, rather than a state of my bank account.

2008 FINANCIAL CRISIS - CELIA KURIAKUZ - CLASS OF 2024

A Poem about Time

II would like to stop Time on a dime

Snap my fingers and let the silence linger…

But Time, Time can’t be tamed by the magical wave of a hand

Or reigned in by the greatest of the land; It is an unruly beast that both cures and kills

Yet never stills

For like the thundering waves of an eternal ocean, It is a force of nature always in motion.

Time doesn’t bend to our temporary rules

And we are but fools

To try to refuse

And command how it moves.

Time is a train except its tracks are always changing;

Speeding up and slowing down before we can even start complaining

About our lives passing by in the blink of an eye

Heading to a destination we can never meet, Always a second ahead of what lies at our feet.

Time likes to care,

To stretch his arms out wide and hold us in tight

“There, there”, he whispers in our ears, “I’ll preserve those impressions of a second’s kiss”

Filling our hearts with hope and bliss

For a future we can take charge of, a destiny we can’t dismiss

Yet at the same time

Time shatters dreams, Cracking up mirrors of innocence

Leaving behind a fractured past

From which we struggle to pick up the broken shards of And piece together; the sharp edges carving rivers of blood

Of past mistakes, past heartbreaks

Leaving behind bloodstains on our hands that no amount of time Could ever wash away

Time forgives and forgets

It heals and upsets

But Time doesn’t wait

No, it doesn’t stop when the sun sets

It takes and it takes

And we, we take it for granted

Rushing through life without a second glance, afraid to look back Until its too late.

And we are bent on our knees begging Time

To lend us just a bit more time, please

There are too many

Apologies left unstated

People left hated

Families left devasted

Issues left complicated

These tears of regret gushing from our eyes, Our soaking hands desperately clawing for Time’s replies.

But Time doesn’t respond

It simply moves on For Time, Time stops for no one.

Peter hall - Class of 2023 Sitting Down

Sucede que me canso de ser alto sucede que entre las sillas chiquitas y las fotos con extraños estupefactos mis hombros se encorvan, mi cabeza se baja y mi inquietud aumenta.

Al ver un sedán, mi corazón se machaca ¡ay! Lo que daría por medir 6’ 5” (alto, pero cotidiano) o incluso menos sólo quiero pantalones que me queden bien, sólo quiero un abrazo que llegue más alto que mis abdominales.

Sucede que me canso de no poder sentir la cabeza de una mujer reposando sobre mi hombro sucede que me canso de ser alto.

Al mismo tiempo, es increíble clavar un baloncesto en el rompimiento rápido o bloquear un tiro de tres en el último minuto del partido sería perfecto poder hacer eso sin chocarme la cabeza contra la entrada de mi cuarto.

No quiero seguir torciendo mi espina para sentarme en la escuela, aprendiendo el arte fino de la tortura vertebral mientras escribo apuntes que jamás leeré.

No quiero tomar otra foto con alguien que ni siquiera me pregunta mi nombre antes de preguntarme cuánto mido o la talla de mis zapatos de payaso.

Por eso pongo una cara de cansancio cada vez que me veo en el espejo del otro, él que no conoce la verdad, ni siquiera cuando mi espalda grita al girar cada veinticinco minutos.

Mi altura me empuja a la cancha de baloncesto, empujándome a rodillas destruidas a los 40 años y tobillos rotos. las sillas se burlan de mí, compartiendo carcajadas con los interioristas que hicieron puertas tres pulgadas más pequeñas que mí.

Hay reglas de tamaño insuficiente que han tratado de medir la longitud de mis brazos, sin éxito, hay zapatos abandonados que me han traicionado hay espejos, muchos, en los que no puedo ver mi cara, sin agacharme hay camas que deniegan mis pies.

Yo me doblo en sillas, piernas saliendo debajo del escritorio con enojo, con dolor, me siento, y mi espalda busca una posición adecuada para no dolerme tanto trato de sentarme recto, pero el respaldo me abandona, y mi espalda llora por el rechazo de su amado.

ALEXA PAREDES - CLASS OF 2025

Nervous System

I wondered if perhaps you wanted this, or something adjacent to this, or maybe none of it at all. You look to me, and whisper, “Nerve of my nerves,” as if I know what that means. You had once said wounds open in anticipation - the blade doesn’t have to be touching skin - and I wondered if that was meant to be a reference to something. Were you simply saying it for the sake of saying it? If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking. I used to have all the answers, you know I used to write dreams and fold them into little envelopes and put the stack of them in the basket of my bicycle and drive through neighborhoods at 3am delivering them. Do you remember why I stopped? The wound opened in anticipation. Nerve of my nerves, vain of my veins, you wanted something yet you earned nothing.

VALENTIINA ANGIULI - CLASS OF 2025

Alexandra cohen Paloma chaia -

Class of 2025 Could Not Say No

Winners of the 2023 Balboa Slam Poetry Competition

Just married, what a blessing, after the party rushing home unworried what will happen next, you can start guessing.

1 month later

How was work my love, I prepared dinner. Distressing honey, I don’t like the food. Then he turned and hit her Something she never thought he would.

Yet the bruise stained her face

As the abuse became a regular case And something she could never erase

Hey Emma, how was your honey moon? Amazing Mary, we’re so in love

What’s that on your face?

I fell during our trip to Cancun

1 year together

Hiding under the cabinet

He got home drunk, again

I know you’re hiding, Baby I’m passionate Peek a boo, pulled me to the bed

Please stop, his face inanimate

Please stop, again I said He continued instead

Sitting in the bathroom nervous

Pregnancy test in hand

Scared he will hurt us

As I look at the parallel lines I come to understand

There’s no going back, a baby comes unplanned

20 minutes later

I told you to use birth control

I told you to use condoms

He starts losing control, Swings at my face

Then Stops and ponders

Im sorry love, Grabs me in an embrace

I promise it’s the last time, LIES

She thinks at least now she won’t be alone

Tears filling his eyes.

Suspicions

Hi Mary how are you dear

Emma, I heard the news, you’re pregnant!

Then she saw the bruise near her ear

Is there something you’re not telling me?

There is I fear

Oh no Emma you need to leave and be, take your child and flee.

Ripping my hair off my head I plead, I know he hits me, but he loves me, DENIAL.

5 years later

Time passed, lost contact, lost people. My son quickly grows and learns.

But just as my concerns

He keeps hitting him.

The evidence is in how it burns

My son grows very grim

I pull John and scream, DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH MY CHILD

My boy is bleeding my husband leaving the scene

20 years later

I am now a widow, But my son is soon to be a dad I can see his house through my window

His beautiful wife strolls about glad.

Once I noticed her being low and then I saw, Bruised, because of a man I was never able to leave. My son learned from his father and how I never stopped him My son came to believe in love violence is okay to receive.

YOU WONDER WHERE IT CAME FROM BUT ITS A CHAIN NO ONE EVER BROKE YOU WONDER IF HE LOVES YOU, ITS ALL HE WAS EVER TAUGHT YOU WONDER WHY YOU DIDN’T LEAVE BEFORE, WELL HE WAS NEVER CAUGHT

Stop it before it truly starts, here are the signs. They start with a hurtful joke

Then goes on to ignore. Will ridicule and offend you with folk

Until the controlling comes along The threats start to provoke

Breaking objects, hitting walls

Touches you against your will.

Pushes, kicks, slaps, you say no. But he forces you to have sex still.

If you don’t see these signs early on you can go from wife to victim one of third women will be domestically abused in their life time, Don’t tolerate aggression, REPORT HIM TO THE SYSTEM

BEATRIZ GONZALEZ - CLASS OF 2025

Milan Cohen - Class of 2025

What is Inspiration?

Inspiration is a leaf, That falls from a tall tree, If you reach for it too hard, The impact sways it away Or if you don’t try to reach at all, It falls to the ground And is stomped on, By the millions of other, Thoughts that you think, Every second,

Inspiration is beauty, Beauty so captivating, So fleeting, That one's first instinct is to capture it, Knowing that beauty like such Doesn’t last

Inspiration is anger

And sadness

And disappointment, So potent and all consuming

That your only option is to let it swallow you whole, Or transform it Let it guide you

Out of the shadows, Not to hide the misery

Rather to remind you of what came from it,

Inspiration is rare, Ambushes you, at the worst moments, And challenges you to make something of it A temporary dose of greatness, A short lived opportunity to create something beyond your wildest dreams,

Inspiration is a child

That appears in front of you, And your only options are to nurture it, Help it flourish and grow, Turn it into something astonishing Or abandon it, And allow it to wither away,

Inspiration is everything, If one is not inspired,

If one does not have the desire to transform & create amazing things, To take a seed of inspiration and allow it to grow, And nourish our minds and that of those around us, There is nothing,

There is no advancement, There is no innovation, The most revolutionary, And impactful achievements of mankind Start with a small dose Of inspiration.

MARIANA ROBLES- ABSTRACT- CLASS OF 2025

My Dad's Cigarettes

I don’t like my dad's cigarettes

Every night outside I see his silhouette

He reaches inside his pockets and picks one out Lights it up and puffs a nasty smoke cloud

In the gloomy, murky night I see the cigarette end flicker

It’s almost like it gives me a snicker

When he comes back inside, the smell of it lingers

No amount of cologne can hide that stench on his fingers

I don’t like my dad's cigarettes

He makes and breaks promises, he thinks I forget

It started since he met my mother

“I’ll quit when we marry, and I’ll never smoke another ”

“I’ll quit when we have our sweet little daughter”

“I’ll quit when we move, I’ll be a good strong father.”

“I’ll quit when she asks me to, probably this summer.”

“I’ll quit when she’s in high school, you’ll see.”

“I’ll quit someday, stop asking me.”

I don’t like my dad's cigarettes

They make my dad an angry man

One day I decided to hide his cigs

Up in a dusty cupboard, next to the month old figs

“Tell me where they are”

He said

“TELL ME OR ILL SUFFOCATE”

He claims that he can’t live without his cigarettes

He states that he’s in utter distress

But while he says this, all on a whim doesn’t he realize, I can’t live without him

I don’t like my dad's cigarettes

They make me an angry girl

Sometimes I wish I can grab his cigarette

And burn the flickering end on my skin

“I’ll start smoking too, if you don’t stop it.”

“This is all your fault, just quit it”

“It’s us or the cigarettes, why are you in doubt?”

“WHY CANT YOU JUST SPIT IT OUT?”

But soon the anger begins to wilt

Anger turns to sadness and then sadness turns to guilt

Ill lock myself up in my room

Where the fumes cant reach me

Addiction

Addiction is scary

By my age is when he started smoking

How many years have passed?

10, 20, 30

I know you can feel your lungs fill up

I know everytime you cough, you know

Is this why you refuse to go to the doctor?

“My gums ache, my teeth hurt”

You complain

Is nicotine all that makes you sane?

Stop trying to lie, I can smell it on your shirt

Can you not see that your family’s hurt?

I don’t like my dad’s cigarettes

But I love you, dad

You gave me the best childhood, dad

One that anyone would ask for

You gave me my first drawing tablet

You made me the geek that I am today

Please accompany me into my adulthood, dad

Be there when I get my first heartbreak

Be there when I buy my first car

Be there when I buy my own house

Be there in my 10s, my 20s, my 30s

And more, if you can try

I don’t like my dad's cigarettes

I miss the days when I was always by his side

Buying videogames, treasure hunting, playing hide and seek

When he taught me how to multiply even if learning math made me cry

He wiped my tears away and said

“Don’t worry kid, you’ll get it in your head”

He used to grab my left hand, my mum holding the other

We were all so close, I didn’t need a brother

During stormy nights, we’d all huddle up and hug

“Don’t be scared of the lightning, my brave little bug”

I hate my dad’s cigarettes

If I'm a brave bug, why am I so scared?

I'm so scared of losing you, so scared to grow up

Let's go back in time when we’d listen to your rock songs

Teach me how to play guitar

Help me reach the honey jar

Let's look at the shining stars

And please put out your vile cigars

ABSTRACT- PALOMA CHAIA- CLASS OF 2025

Dear Younger Me

Dear younger me, slow down, take your time growing up, don't rush, Enjoy the small things, let your heart just glow.

Time's like a river, always moving fast, Hold on, let it flow, let the moments last.

Treasure them all, with pure delight

Don't rush through life, in worry or in fear, It's a journey, with chapters enjoy each year

Don't fear the unknown, it's just a part, Embrace new things, with an open heart.

Spread your wings, and take a leap without looking back

.Embrace the changes, and the secrets they keep.

Hold on to simple joys

Time may bring challenges, storms to face

,But also rainbows, with colors to embrace. Learn from the lessons that come your way.S

o, dear younger self, remember to be you, Live in the moment, smile a little more Forget the stress and anxiety.

For the time to grow up will come. So let yourself be a child and fool aroun

d.Dear younger self PLEASE don't force yourself ahead

There's a lot to come, let yourself be led

Because many parts of you I regret

Dear me, dear me today

It's time to face the now, Embrace the present and make your vow.

To let go of worries and doubt?

And trust that you will figure it out

“Don't shy away from the challenges you face,” It's an opportunity to grow, a learning space? Learn from your mistakes, they're lessons in disguise, All pieces of you that are supposed to help you rise? For everything in life's twists and turns, Is it ok to feel lost, confused or scared

But remember by not being alone you are never unprepared, Reach out for help, seek guidance when needed, Is there no shame in admitting you're not undefeated? Trust in yourself, your strength and your worth?

So, dear me, slow down and take your time, You're on a journey, With each step, you'll grow and evolve, Embrace the now, with open arms, With gratitude and joy, let go of harms, For you're capable of greatness, my dear, Believe in yourself, there's nothing to fear.

Because I try but it's a challenge

Dear future me, are you okay?

Have you conquered challenges along the way?

Did you find the answers you sought to find?

Or are there still issues lingering behind?

Did you take risks, and chase your dreams?

Or did you hold back, and silence your screams?

Did you prioritize self-care and love?

Or did you neglect yourself from above?

Did you learn from the lessons of the past?

Or are there still mistakes that tend to last?

Dear future me, have you found your peace?

Or do inner struggles still not cease?

Did you finally stop pretending?

Or do you still feel like you are undeserving?

Did you knock the walls down?

Or do you still hide the frown?

Are you anything I'd hoped you'd be?

But dear future me

In you I’ve got to believe I'm sure

You are strong and capable, my dear, With resilience to conquer any fear. Have they told you?

Trust in yourself, and take the lead, For you hold the power to fulfill your need. So, continue to grow, evolve, and thrive, With self-love and compassion to keep you alive. Remember, you are worthy and deserving too, Dear future me, I believe in you.

Dear me,

You may ask questions, have fears and doubt

You may feel the uncertainty and lack of control and want to shout But the truth is simple, you might as well give it a shot Because trying your best is all that you've got Because dear me the future is on its way. And there's nothing you can do to keep it away

Cogitate

On

My brain is like a light switch

When it’s on my thoughts, flow

My thoughts rush in, like a tidal wave

Always there so intense and suffocating can barely breathe

My thought they are what makes me

They are always their, so persistent

Wait how can my thoughts compose me?

Wait I have ideas?!

I can think!

There a funny thing, my thought you know… I know they are there

I’m conscious of them

Or maybe I’m not conscious.

That’s a question I find myself asking often

Thought!

Illusion!

They keep spiraling and I get caught, caught in the spider web I call my brain

Sinking me deeper into its darkest corners of it I like my thoughts, right?

They bring me comfort, right?

Off

Oh wow, look at that bird, so pretty it’s blue look at the pretty colors. It’s just flying around being free so beautiful I wish I were one being free, flying in the sky and looking at mountains and beautiful places.

On Theories

Surrounding me like sharks ready to attack Making me question every part of my existence

Wait am I conscious?

I can feel?

I can see?

I can breath?

Am I really here?

Wait no I’m thinking too much get me out here! No wait I need to find the logic behind this

No! There is no logic! Get me out now!

Off

Wow, your smile is amazing!

It’s almost perfect! It shins so bright it could almost blind me. And those freckles are so adorable!

I wish I had them!

On My thought

They are always threatening to trample me

The weight of them is so intense it lives me numb

Claiming my senses and body as their own

Making me feel like I’m not a real person

This feeling

I can’t tolerate it anymore

I’m drowning!

I’m drowning!

Please help!

Off

Today is such a wonderful day!

Look at the flowers!

They are all so pretty

The colors on their petals and their heavenly smell

I love flowers!

On

Why am I here?

Wait no I cat ask that, it's going to start again?

Why am I here?

Are we ever here?

Who are we?

No, you are nothing!

What, I can’t be nothing?!

I have to be something!

Am I something?

Am I feeling? Why am I feeling?

I can’t feel anything when my thoughts are on!

My thought

My thought

They make me feel like I know nothing!

Like I don’t know anything except them!

Because they are there!

Hunting me, they are a ghost

One so powerful that take over everything

Get me out of here!

Off

I love to travel

It’s so fun especially because of the food

Love visiting new places and trying new foods

It’s the best part of traveling.

On My consciousness…

I consider it to be the biggest curse to ever be placed upon me

Always bringing me back to the most taunting questions of them all…

Is any of this real?

Off…

ISABELLA FERGUSON- CLASS OF 2025

Class of 2025

Despedida al Poeta Ahogado

Rafael, víctima del destino. Tu vida fue como un laberinto Antes de encontrar tu camino, moriste por un vil asesino.

Tu destino era morir ahogado, pero en el mar, tú fuiste salvado. Aunque ese día fuese celebrado, tu corazón era el de un condenado.

Desde allí, por el diablo fuiste marcado. Por tu madre y su tan oscuro pasado. Tu triste destino fue predeterminado, lo que acabó con tu alma perdida en el pecado.

¡Rafael! de tu tragedia me despido Por la Tulivieja, tú has sufrido. El más miserable que ha vivido y todo esto por tu cruel destino

Gia Balarezo - Class of 2025

Vida Condenada

Del engaño y desconfianza un niño nació con el destino ya escrito y sin elección La batalla contra sus monstruos fue infinita, pero por siempre su vida estaba maldita.

Condenada a buscar a su hijo por los ríos, la locura en la madre tuvo muchos desafíos. Por esta razón el papá decidió la muerte haciendo que la maldad en Rafael despierte.

Era un ángel por fuera y diablo por dentro Hechizando a todos con los que tuvo encuentro. Nadie lo llegó a conocer en realidad y pocas supieron su sincera identidad

Desde joven sabía que pronto iba a morir a las manos de violencia iba él a sufrir. Nada pudo evitar esa horrible tragedia y sin culpa fue destinado a la miseria

ABOUT BALBOA TALKS

Balboa Talks is a student-led club focused on helping students express themselves and make their voices heard. We aim to promote the humanities among the student body and we give students an avenue to share their experiences, reflections, opinions, research, etc. in a semi-formal setting.

Scales is our semesterly literary magazine. It showcases the work of our fellow Balboa students and includes poetry, fiction, essays, research papers in both English and Spanish as well as visual art.