Catcher Zine: Issue 4

C AT C H E R

Without Pomade. by Cohlton Mendoza

Cover art by Kelly Erdenebaatar

Sometimes words aren’t enough. With a concept as complex as identity, language alone often fails to convey all the layers of our personas — how our culture, family, heritage, interests, and experiences blend together in a distinct shape. Our identities make us unique, which makes us innately human.

There’s something so beautiful about that.

Art — in its many forms — is a tool to tell infinite stories. And in our own stories, we are the artists: aligning the perspectives and shadings and colors and boundaries. In mapping out identity on a canvas, the real question is: where to begin?

When tracing from infancy and childhood to adolescence and adulthood, there is constant evolution to explore. Often, we take to a camera lens, brushstroke, or poetic verse to capture a glimpse of such transformations. Identity, ever-fluid in form, offers new angles to consider, and thus endless opportunities for creative expression.

For this issue of Catcher Zine, we invited Burlingame’s creatives to share their work surrounding the theme of identity. The expressions of 10 student artists delve into this topic in a personal, authentic style, bringing an essence of vulnerability to these pages.

As you flip through our final issue of the 2021-2022 school year, we encourage you to consider what identity means to you.

Enjoy,

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Restraint

By Shepard Baytan

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As a biracial person, I have felt out of place for my entire life, not Asian enough and not white enough. I began this photo series as a discussion about my personal relationship with race, in hopes of encouraging understanding of biracial people. However, as the project went on, it morphed into a tangible connection to my Chinese culture, proof of my Asianness. This development pushed me to my limit of vulnerability, as I realized that I was not only performing Asianness for my white community, but for myself. I felt like a traitor to the self-love I had been preaching, so I considered fabricating a happy ending to it all, one where I reconnect with my heritage and finally feel acceptance.

Rather than scrap the project or make it disingenuous, I continued to push it, and it ended up serving two purposes: self-exploration and creating an understanding of biracial people.

GREY

AREA

BY MADDIE GILLETTE

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Photos by Maddie Gillette

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By Shareen Ahamad

Your shadow no longer covers me, And the sun on my face feels warm; But then I start picturing a life without shade, And all sense of logic is gone.

Who am I without you?

How do I cope with this grief?

I don’t want to be ok without you, Or even try to feel relief.

I’m terrified for my future, And jealous of our past.

My heart can only write, In the shadows that you cast.

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Between the Lines

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By Cate Cattano

Black is Beautiful

By Cate Cattano

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She is

I am

silly sarcastic empathetic open-minded

cowardly needy ungrateful vain

She loves

I hate

midnight walks semi-sweet chocolate to smile her culture

the many marks scattered on my skin how I freeze when my nerves overwhelm me the way I overthink every interaction my need for validation

She wants

I wish

to see you for who you are to hug you when you are in pain to listen to your laugh to be that source of laughter

I was more ambitious I was more confident I could trust myself I could love myself.

She is human.

I am a mistake.

She may be lost, but her paths have not dwindled She may be perfect and flawed and more

how many have I hurt? how many have I disappointed? when will the noise in my head stop?

but She still is.

what is left of Me?

She and I are one of the same She is all I am and all I am not and i adore Her. i sit between two worlds that both resemble “i” sometimes the line blurs most of the time i am trapped, clawing a path from I to Her i am all She is and all She is not and from here, I grow.

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I want to go back in time and ask for Change, but isn’t that just what life is?

Wasn’t there someone Shaking your shoulders and begging you to remember That it only gets harder and harder to be Human?

Love is forever, a little bittersweet: I’m afraid of the word “forever” now, So I’ll say “usually” instead.

I suppose never is it’s own form of forever too: “I’ll never forget you, l’ll never forget myself.”

It all seems to blur together: Your favorite candy and your phone number and you laugh.

It all seems so trivial and all-consuming.

I didn’t expect this, I don’t think I ever will.

I hope you remember me fondly.

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In my Garage I pass the time

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HEN MILDRED GAVE BIRTH TO HER SON, THERE WAS GREAT ELATION AND EXPECTING CONSTERNATION. NEW LIFE WAS PRECIOUS, AND PREPARATIONS FOR THE TUMULTUOUS FUTURE WERE ENACTED AT ONCE. Even before the child was born, and before there was a sign of things to come, Mildred and her husband envisioned their offspring’s future with chariness comparable to the forethought of one’s own future. Within bounds of reason, the property in which the child would remain was furnished with provisions to ensure his healthy facilitation. Beyond bounds of reason, Mildred and her husband conceived unique and contrasting envisages of their offspring’s characteristics, manicuring his profile and details like they would shape a caricature, with mendable and suitable details to the very discretion of its creator.

“By my own forecast I see the curiosity in his eyes ever-growing. His mind is ambitious, but he lacks the habitual aptitude to effectuate his skills. He’s but an infant, but It’s my presumption he’ll suffer through an absence of contrivance.” The father appraised his son, monotonously stratifying the lamentable and curious details of his progeny through self-satisfying grandiloquence. He watched his son from a distance, so as to not disturb the crucial first years. Mildred and her husband hadn’t yet agreed upon a name for their son despite his parturition being many months ago. On his birth certificate was the name Jacob, although only the mother acknowledged him with this name, and in private. The father hadn’t yet spoken to his son, but remained in a personal and critical ratiocination, concluding with ambivalence his satisfaction with the child. Every infantile, even puerile movement, noise, and action in his presence were assessed and considered by the father. With every minutiae interval of time constructed by his father, the

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Anonymous depravity of the son’s existence became more apparent.

The first year of his life was a perpetuating undulation, bifurcated by the incongruous nature of his parents who remained firm in their contrasting envisages for the son. By the father’s standards, depravity was an unpalatable instillment that would encourage a veridical perception of the world, understanding its wonderful and terrible contours. He believed that ceaseless joy was an antipode to intellectual triumph. A moment spent in rejoice could be a disorientation that temporizes an epiphany to a hallowed place in the mind filled with development that could’ve been. He’d been unsuccessful in becoming the computational tool he’d sought to become, and made it his singular intention to achieve greatness through the infant that was legally his own. His mother differed from his father. She filled the aperture of depravity with affection and love, calling him Jacob. She was a supplanter for the father; she was everything he wasn’t. But the moments were short in which she could speak sincerely given her inability to contest the father’s dogmatic rule of the house, the child. When the short moments in which Mildred caressed and loved him were over, Jacob was no longer vibrant. He ceased to be Jacob. These times were numerous, and the depravity of the infant grew. And despite this, by the father’s forecast the curiosity in his son’s eyes was ever-growing.

His mind is ambitious, but he lacks the habitual aptitude to effectuate his skills.

After a year of depravity, and after a year and a day of life, the father moved the wheelchair-bound child into a blank room, almost as vacant as the mind that the father intended his son to possess and maintain. As he lowered himself in front of his son, the light of the room was obstructed. The father removed a metallic object from his pocket and caressed it with as much affection as he’d bestow upon any object. Swiftly, he activated the object, letting an orange light take the place his finger was a moment ago. The two watched the light as it was perturbed, then ultimately, extinguished.

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Arctic

Tess Dakin

I wish I knew who you were, even who I was. I wish I had some way to tell be told. A strong hand in the dark reaching out toward me and a whisper in your ear. What if it were that easy?

It feels like the wrong whispers... the ones we hear. Why are they so loud? Coming from so many directions. What I SHOULD be is such an exhausting subject. I am supposed to be this, to say that, to act like this, to not do that. I have to look like this, but not like that. So many voices to create an image of who I am supposed to be.

Who are you to tell me who I am? I don’t know you, you don’t know me. In all honesty, I don’t know myself.

Up until this point, life has been a series of people’s commentary. I feel eyes on me every day, expecting me to be a certain way. It can be hard. It can feel like a piece of myself is missing. It’s hard to figure one’s identity when the world relies on you to perfect your image. To cater to a perfect girl or boy.

I believe in myself to be whatever I should and can be. I believe in you too.

I don’t know my full identity. Or yours. But we can work on it... together.

By Julianna Oliver

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Photo by Krishna Nagarajan

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