Claro Que Sí - Edition 1

CLARO QUE SÍ

EDITION I

YALE’S PREMIER LATINE UNDERGRADUATE MAGAZINE

Letter from the editor

¡Hola a todos y Bienvenidos a "Claro Que Sí": Yale’s Latine Undergraduate Magazine!

The Latine experience is one that continues to melt and mix into new states, forms and varieties, while still maintaining its very distinct Latinidad. However, many Latines, especially in largely PWI’s often feel cultural isolation or displacement that deserves its own recognition. Having experienced a majority Latine public high school for 4 years, I found myself always feeling like I wasn’t Hispanic enough, and clearly not white enough for the non-Hispanic kids. The mere idea of a Latine only student magazine would have been bizarre in a Miami public high school, given that this was basically just our school newspaper. Once I traveled up the coast, suddenly the people from my background were not represented in every club, class, form of media and publication. Where did the Latine voices go? Was the overwhelming nature of that voice just a norm in Miami? In a place that's supposed to equip us to make our own impact on the world, how can it be that we struggle to even find visibility on our own campus? Where did our voices go? But, that is where I went wrong. We just had to bring them together.

My papi used to always respond to our immature child-like requests with a simple, “Claro que sí,” reinforcing that we speak more Spanish with him at home. However, as a college sophomore, his words have taken on a new meaning for me. My latinidad is an asset, not a weakness. Le ving my Miami bubble made me realize that a majority Latine community is not the reality for most U.S. cities, but our presence – 1 or 500 – still has the same impact and importance in any space. Whether born and raised in Latin America or working to reconnect with your heritage in the states, each of our voices can amplify our larger community in a place that can often be stifling. At Claro, Latine “enough” does not exist. As a whole, our mission is to increase the inclusivity of the Latine community through the multifaceted world of the arts.

Claro is here to showcase the diversity of Latin American art, perspectives, experiences, and writing at Yale and beyond. Of course we are already here. Our voices are ours. Now we have the platform to amplify them, making them louder and stronger. ¿Entendido? ¡Claro que sí!

Welcome to our first edition.

- PALOMA VIGIL ‘25

four-letter word

During the hot and humid summer days, I’d wander the streets of Cartago with Tita and my sister. We’d walk through Basílica de Nuestra Señora de los Ángeles, stop at panaderías, and run errands at the ferreterías. I would trace my fingers along the bark of big trees Tita said were there en aquel entonces. Then, when the sun would dip below the clouds and day turned to night, we would sit around the dining room table in my great-great aunt’s house. My sister and I would sip tea and catch whatever Spanish of the conversation we could understand, waiting to slip away to play video games. Summer days moved slowly, and we were there for weeks. We made this trip to Costa Rica every year for several years. My sister and I got a sense of the place my grandma, Tita, called home.

It’s been seven years, and if I were to return, Cartago would feel unfamiliar, perhaps unrecognizable. Since the last time we visited, relatives in Costa Rica have passed away, sold their homes, and moved to the capital, San José. A train runs through the city, making it a hub that it never was, filling the centers with people in place of trees. (And a scroll through Google Maps shows Burger King, Taco Bell, and Starbucks on street corners—what better metric of change?) Seven years have changed the place. I wouldn’t know where to go, who to see, or what I could consider a home base for the trip if I were to go to fly into Juan Santamaría and make the two hour drive to Cartago . The Cartago Tita knows and calls home is from before she migrated to the United States—56 years ago.

faucet is broken, a new laundry machine has been installed, and the dining table placemats are different—when I see mom is growing jalapeños, and dad is selling the Mazda, and my sister is turning my room into her extended closet, my concept of home liquifies. This image of a tree with long roots sprouting through the unchanged sturdy soil of home melts. Home is a puddle of water waiting to happen, a substance fragile and fickle without form and never firm. I am skeptical, deceived, betrayed, frustrated by home.

Whenthe new year rolls around, my family sits in Tita’s sala and talks about travel. Among the chattering of the new places we want to see and the regions we want to visit, someone suggests Costa Rica. Tita mumbles yeah and stares at the floor. I see hushed hurting for home. She pulls out a travel magazine and flips through it. “How about the National Parks?” she whispers.

- MICHAEL PAZ ’25

Igrasp

at piles of twigs towering high, looking for the meaning of that four-letter word home. It’s been two years since I left home for college. When I go home and the kitchen

Abuela. Grandmother. Warned me She told me I’d miss the heat, The way it sits heavy on the spine, sweat dribbling down Between my shoulder blades it itches where my hairline disappears at the back Of my neck. I hold her and say I’ll be fine.

HOMESICK IN JULY

The winter is longer than I thought it would be. The summer is quiet. And there are never children around. I think about how the sun made me feel like a child. Maybe the cold makes everyone freeze into the adult version of themselves.

She tells me that she too knew cold. Northeastern winds bullied her, Taunted her feet till they turned purple Hardened her breasts tried to make her forget Caribbean breezes and the taste of Coconut water spilling from her mouth Onto her chin.

It is too quiet here.

I miss the sound of cars on the street. Why did I stay past winter? I want hot soup even at 89 degrees with 100 percent humidity. No one here smiles at you on the street.

Depression. I don’t want to believe Her words, but they are true. I know Because I felt it too. We are more the same Then I think I know. Spent my whole life running from home

To dream of rubbing my back Against a palm tree.

My fingers go numb in June. Hiking in Vermont

That’s when I start to think that I was not built for this. Abuela is right. The tropics run in my blood. We were made of the stuff of hot sand and spiced meat.

End of July.

Is fast approaching. When it does I will be back home under palm Trees. My Abuela will watch me as I run toward the ocean. She will hug and warm me with the force of a hurricane.

- DANIELLA SANCHEZ ’25

HAVING THE GANAS

Beingin ensemble has its perks. I relaxed backstage, scrolling through my phone, sitting in one of the few chairs in the men’s dressing room. I still had a couple of minutes before I needed to go back on stage. We had just pulled off a great opening performance of In The Heights earlier that night, and I was confident that the rest of the performances would go off without a hitch. While the tech week we just had was hell for many reasons, I had always believed that the magic of theater somehow makes things come together before opening night. Luckily, that belief held true. I sat back comfortably in my chair, humming along to the catchy songs that I could hear all the way from the dressing room. I looked up from my phone as I realized that the music onstage had come to a complete stop. Someone later came into the dressing room to explain that our show was being shut down because of a miscommunication on curfew.

Iwas in a really sour mood the rest of the night.

It was so frustrating to know that you had helped create a piece of art that touched so many people on such a personal level, only for reality to come stepping in. For those couple of hours between our opening performance and the shutdown, I had let myself hope that theater could be

a welcoming space for Latines at Yale.

I’ve had many moments where I felt deep down that I wasn’t going to get any part as I left an audition room. Not because I thought I did badly, but because the director was a little too pushy with his notes, or gave notes that didn’t really make sense. Or, the dismissive tone in their voice as they wished me a nice day made it clear that I was going to be reading a rejection email soon.

At the end of the day, I had learned that I’m not supposed to take stuff like that personally. But I’m only human, so that nagging doubt starts to set in. I start to wonder if there were other reasons why a prod team seemed so eager to get me out of the audition room as soon as possible. They often say that casting is up to whether the director can realistically see you in a role or not. Is it that they literally couldn’t see me in a specific kind of role?

WhenI would walk home from a particularly messy In the Heights rehearsal, it still felt satisfying to know that you were working with so many others who wanted to tell a meaningful Latine story. While the show wasn’t perfect, no show is, and it was an experience that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Ihadnever directed anything before, but I wasn’t going to let experience stop me. I quickly typed up an audition packet, and submitted all the show information to the Yale College Arts page. The next 10 weeks were a blessing and a curse. It was anxiety-inducing to have to be that assertive in a room with such a large cast. While it was a lot of pressure to be the person to make the decisions and to have a vision for a show, it left me with a new perspective. I gained a lot of empathy for other directors I’ve had at Yale, understanding what it must feel like to have a full room of people waiting on you to decide what’s next. During early rehearsals, I looked blankly at my blocking notes, wondering if I was actually going to be able to pull it all off. But whenever a scene came together or an actor took a note really well, I felt more stable. I started to let myself quietly hope again. Come opening night, and that anxiety was still floating around. I had found a quiet confidence in myself as well. I remember talking to a former suite mate of mine who saw the final performance, and he told me that a certain character’s monologue made him cry in the theater. Then and there I knew that for all the flaws in the show, or the doubt in my own abilities as a director, we were able to create something that touched people dearly. I had never performed in a show with such a receptive audience before. They would laugh so hard during

funny scenes, or gasp out loud during a dramatic scene, or snap their fingers whenever they agreed with something a character said. I don’t think I could’ve put into words the experience of those performances until now.

IwantLatine theatermakers in the years to come to feel welcome in a Yale theater space. But that only happens when the theater being made speaks to them on a level that reaches their shared identity and culture. My goal now is to continue to be a part of that carved-out space for Latine theatermakers at Yale. I am happy that this generation has started to carve it out, and that I get to be a part of that.

- KEVIN CHABLA-PIRUCH ‘25

STEPHANIE MONTEALEGRE ‘26

Translations

My mother, she says there’s no way to feel something If you don’t have a word for it, and maybe she’s right Because sometimes I feel in Spanish— That language, my language, the one that Catches in my throat when I eat too much chocolate And I’m left empalagada

Sits by me on those nights I stay up way too late

And is still there the morning after When I wake up trasnochada

Tells me to ponerme las pilas and stay on top of things

When they’re about to get peluas

Offers up an alternative when I forget a word—

Uh, it’s the vaina, that vaina, no vaina, que vaina esa vaina

Wraps me up along with all the layers I put on in winter

Because I’m so friolenta and there’s burda de wind

Slips into my smile when that’s more than cool, it’s chevere

When I realize my friends have become panas

When I realize I have a dictionary of emotions

That I can never really describe in English, No matter cuantas ganas I have to try, No matter how much eso me aturde—

When I realize that there’s a way to feel in two languages

Within the cracks where things get lost in translation

God, Seraphim, Woman

Hips, lips, legs, and thighs, the altar in your religion, she is the mother of your God. From holy lips she tells you to go f**k yourself, vete a la mierda.

Pour soil into her palms and she will hand you back the Garden of Eden only to be overtaken by your honeysuckle.

She now hides behind your cigar smoke and makes your coffee in the morning to sober you up. She is your woman, but she is not your wife, and you won’t swear sanctity but you will suck on her skin and bite her bottom lip.

She looks like roadkill these days, limping home by herself, now praying to empty bodegas and alley cats to be revived.

- ANGELICA SANCHEZ ’25

- AMANDA BUDEJEN ’25

MICHELLE FOLLEY ’25

Bailar, bailar y bailar.

The beat and the rhythm subconsciously activate the muscles in my body and the movement of my feets to start following the beat. Using the beat to create patterns, movements, and steps. It's an ongoing movement and enjoyment.

That is what dancing means to me. It’s joy.

Being born and raised in the Dominican Republic, I was constantly surrounded by music. At home while my mom was cleaning, in the colmados, from the cars passing by. The music was always there. The fast paced rhythms and clear sounds of instruments shape the movements that bring dance to life.

No family gathering would be complete without the blasting music and dancing. No matter how old you were, you were going to end up dancing with your aunts, uncles, cousins, and any family friend that was there. My core memories come from being at family gatherings and getting pulled to dance. Being in the streets on a weekend night blasting Zacarias Ferreiras from my uncle’s white car, defined my childhood.

As I moved to the U.S. and found myself looking for ways to stay connected with my culture, I found myself going back to dance. It’s when I found myself admiring the art. I didn’t realize how much dancing means to me, and the appreciation I have for my culture, until I found myself in spaces where dancing merengue, bachata, salsa were missing. I did not always see dancing as a talent that I had or something that I chose to do, it was simply an activity that brought me joy and kept me connected to my culture.

That was why for me, coming to college I knew that I wanted to have dancing be my safe space. My time to enjoy myself and be connected to home. It wasn’t until then that I realized how important dance was to me. I did not realize that it was one of those things that I would miss once I stepped out of my house.

I’ll always appreciate the comfort and happiness that dancing brings to me. It’s one of the best de-stressors, giving me time that I can take for myself to forget about everything else that might be going on in the world around me. I’m grateful for having a culture that embraces such an art and that makes dancing a core part of who we are, together.

- MICHAELL SANTOS PAULINO ’26

REFLECTIONS IN J21

“Un Verano Sin Ti” is not only the title to the Bad Bunny album but the name of the first party I had ever attended that permitted more than one song in Spanish. See, although I attended a high school that was roughly 50% Hispanic, it was my white classmates and their parents that vehemently opposed music in Spanish from being played at school dances, events, and even house parties.

So, when I venmo-ed my five dollars to Ballet Folklorico for their party, I had expected a sweaty God Quad with a couple of songs in Spanish here and there. I was prepared for the usual: “Pepas”, “I like it”, and of course “Tití Me Preguntó.” But when I entered J21, it felt as if I had left New Haven and was back in Colima, in a safe space for my culture to prosper without prejudice.

However,I had never felt more out of place in my life. It was my people, community, and music, but I felt lost. I knew a maximum of two songs. But how could I feel upset at myself? Could I have made a better effort to create Latinx spaces around me? I was a product of my environment. My teachers, coaches, and classmates in High School instilled in me that in order to succeed I needed to abandon everything in myself that made me Latina. I needed to be white so that my dreams could become victories and my victories valued rather than taunted. Whiteness

became my vision of success. I truly believed that in order to achieve my ambitions I had to assimilate.

Irememberfeeling so embarrassed when my best friend laughed and looked at me mumbling, pretending to know the words. She said “you need to broaden your range to more than Bad Bunny.” Little did she know I only knew the Bad Bunny songs because of Tik Tok. My face immediately turned from my normal pasty white self to bright red. Someone had noticed what I had already known — I was an imposter. I did not fit in. I did not know the songs.

At the same time I looked around in awe, completely enamored and unable to comprehend that I could take part in this. For the first time in my life, it was acceptable to have a Latino social space. A space in which I was not judged for my bachata, love for Shakira, and unhealthy obsession for reggaeton.

Thissocial space made up of about forty other Yalies allowed me to break my own toxic ideology that my success was attributed to my “whiteness.” I can make my silly little playlists titled “Arroz con leche” and “Que lindo es mi canto.” I can speak Spanish in public places.

- ROSA ALCALA ’26

The Main Character, Center-Stage

“Do you think we can pull it off?”

I bite into my quesadilla, waiting for Erick to combat my apprehension with his infectious confidence.

“I mean, what’s stopping us? Don’t our stories matter too?”

How does a casual conversation held in the Silliman buttery about Latine representation in theater turn into a passion project that would become both my heaven and hell in the Fall semester? In The Heights, a musical that pays homage to Latine resilience and community, tells a story that feels like a piece of home.

Santa Ana, California. She raised me in her warm embrace, offering me consejos when I needed them most. She was the first to congratulate me when I got accepted into Yale University. I hugged her one last time before stepping onto the plane to Connecticut. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.” I smiled. “Don’t ever forget where you come from. People over there may not understand your background or your experiences, but you know who you are. Siempre estoy contigo.”

Back in the Silliman buttery, I finish my quesadilla and smile at Erick.

“Let’s f***ing do this shit.” It’s easy to get hyped over theater. I trace my theater kid roots back to the moment my eighth grade history teacher played the Hamilton soundtrack, for some educational-but-cool ambience. Theater back home was not only fun; it was freeing.

Theater is not a historically welcoming space for Latines. Let’s be real, Yale isn’t a space meant for Latines. If we’re lucky, a show will include a feisty Latine best friend to the white protagonist, or perhaps a maid who serves a well-off family that views her as a commodity. Despite all of its flaws, In the Heights is one of the few mainstream shows that creates an opportunity for us to be the main characters for once. We are not just props for a white storyline; we are the storyline. Self-doubt is hard to shake off, especially when people make it known that you occupy a space that isn’t built for you. This doubt only grew as the proposal of the show was met with condescension. Every comment thrown at us doubting our ability to pull this off served as a reminder of why we were doing this in the first place.

I could say the rehearsal process was fun and easy, but that would be a lie— a boring lie at that. The show was draining,

anxiety-inducing, and often, it really fucking sucked. But somehow in the end, it surpassed every expectation that I had. During every performance, I would see tears in the audience, mirroring those that fell from my eyes. It was beautiful. It was intimate. It was perfect. Then, our show was interrupted and shut down. All the doubts came flooding back in. Did we miss something? Could we have done something to prevent this? How the fuck am I powerless over this decision? Dramatic irony has never had such good timing: this had to happen during a show that deals with Latine communities being powerless against a society that works against them.

Finishing the performance a cappella became a beautiful form of resistance. I was reminded of the strength we have in unity.

I don’t know the answer to “what’s next?”. Still, the question inspires me. If we tell our stories, people listen.. Latinidad is nuanced and complex, and it deserves to be explored, center-stage. Theater as a space isn’t perfect, and it never will be. But when the final curtain is called, I just hope I can smile and remember that all I ever need is the ganas.

- MONTSERRAT RODRIGUEZ ’25

“Can You Play Bad Bunny?”

I am willing to admit I have spent dozens too many nights on High St. long after I should have gone home, holding out hope that if I just stay for one more song the music might get better, or people might start dancing. But I’m always waiting just one more song for a night that isn’t coming.

Some white guy I barely recognize just spilled his drink on me and didn’t apologize. Everyone is sort of standing around, maybe pumping their fists. My best friends have gone home, and I’m still at the party with music so bad that it sobers me up. I look around, and it feels like I am the only person in the room. I see a girl hold up her phone with a desperate plea to the frat DJ: “CAN YOU PLAY BAD BUNNY?”

I know how that ends—he says no. Not a big fan of music with words. He waves her away, she leaves. I swallow my pride, jump up and down, and pump my fist, trying to internalize the words “fake it ‘til you make it.” I mean, if everyone else is having such a great time, why can’t I?

Some nights, I can. I can get another drink from the bar tended by pledges. I can flirt with someone who doesn’t know my name. I can promise to get a meal every day of the week ahead. I can shut out the question ringing in my ears: why the f**k am I still here?

Then, I can wake up and tell myself it was worth it to stay out until 2 A.M. for a party I wasn’t even convinced I was having fun at. I’m perfectly capable of doing all these things! In fact, I did it twice a weekend for my entire first year. I’m an expert at it. If you ever see me on High St., you’d never guess how loudly “why the f**k am I still here?” is ringing in my ears.

Most of those nights, I was chasing one specific moment. After hours of EDM, or maybe intermittent anthems like Mr. Brightside or You Belong With Me, it would finally happen. The first few beats of a reggaeton anthem would play, and the entire world fell away.

Paso muchas noches pensándote…

Una noche más, y copas de más…

Se acostó temprano, mañana hay que estudiar…

Tití me preguntó, tengo muchas novias…

Suddenly, the fact that everyone at this party is standing around couldn’t matter less. A few drinks in, it feels like the best moment of my life. And trust, every Latino at this party is now my best friend—we’ve found each other in the center of the room before the lyrics even start. God, wouldn’t life be so much better if every party felt like this?

Yes, it would. Throwing parties has become a life-saving outlet. From suite parties until five in the morning, to finding any reason to turn a Ballet Folklórico event into a God Quad after-party, to the Saybrook 12-Pack, to Sabrosura x BF formal—every party is an art. The preparation, the playlist, the drinks, the invites, the hype, and finally watching a hundred people try to find room to dance bachata in a room that really only fits fifty in the first place.

On February 18th, I looked around at over 200 people screaming the words to Atrévete-Te-Te at a formal I had been working on for weeks and laughed at the idea of explaining this to the Isa who arrived at Yale in Fall 2021 and prayed for nights like this.

Creating Latin party spaces is so much bigger than any single event. It is celebrating Latinidad loudly and unabashedly somewhere that can be as stifling as Yale. It is creating community and love until we are all familiar faces. I have no shame in saying that some of my closest friends were made on the dance floor, or that I’ve embraced people walking into a party I helped organize before I knew their names.

I’ve come to appreciate my less frequent nights on High St., knowing that there is a world beyond where I feel seen and celebrated. I don’t stay on the dance floor until the last song because I’m chasing a feeling that may or may not come, I stay because I want to stand in that joy for as long as I can. (And because I probably have to clean up).

I rest easy at night knowing that in the rest of my time here, I won’t need to beg anybody to play Bad Bunny.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I’d rather be on aux.

La Misión

Helen struts the block in her black pantsuit and red-bottom Louboutins, leaving behind traces of her Baccarat Rouge-scented aroma. When she crosses the street, her hands firmly clutch her clutch, and she buries her head deep into her chest as she anticipates walking past the group of compadres standing outside the corner laundromat.

Helen finally arrives at her favorite coffee shop, a recently-established open-air market whose staff consists of the hippie white man and the blonde with arm tattoos. As she orders her vanilla iced latte with 2 pumps of caramel, 1 pump of pumpkin spice, and light ice, she is approached by Pedro, the Mission’s local unhoused man who spends his time collecting empty soda cans and finding refuge on park benches. Helen unbuckles her clutch with her perfectly-manicured nails and reaches for a $5 bill.

Helen leaves the coffee shop, latte in hand, and continues walking. She approaches La Mexicana and opens its doors, the scent of freshly-baked bread engulfing her every sense of being. Staring at the plastic display in confusion, she asks, “What should I get? Which bread tastes the best?” She goes for a vanilla concha.

In her final strut, Helen enters her modern apartment complex, which sits on stolen land that once served as the foundation for family-owned businesses and nourished the development of brown kin. Helen’s realtor neglected to tell her this during the open house,

but he didn’t have to— she already knew and signed the lease anyways, cementing her presence within the fabric of my home.

Mornings in the Ayala household are glimpses of heaven on earth. As my mom drops me off at Mama Acha’s house en la madrugada, I click the numbers on the dial box, wait for Mama Acha or Papa Ayo to let me through the gate, and ascend las escaleras in soft pasitos. Right outside the door of Apartment 10, I am greeted with besos y abrazos before I go to my room y me acuesto una vez más. Después de cuántas horas, Mama Acha entra al cuarto y me dice que vamos a lavar.

We gather all our clothes and the suavitel into the laundry basket and carefully descend the stairs. As Mama Acha and I walk towards the corner, we encounter familiar brown faces along the street and saludos cordiales are exchanged. Cruzamos la calle y entramos a la lavandería que reconoce nuestros pasos al ver chanclas rosadas. Routine is routine: Washer. Dryer. Folding our clothes on the long, gray, metal table. Ya hemos terminado nuestro quehacer.

On the walk back home, Mama Acha and I see Pedro cruzando the street, and I bury my head deep into my chest, knowing that I have no money to give. As we approach home, Mama Acha y yo estamos cansadas. Papa Ayo nos abre la puerta y lleva la canasta de ropa arriba. Mama Acha firmly clutches the rails as she follows closely behind. I sit on the steps and wait for Papa Ayo’s return.

As we walk to La Mexicana, Papa Ayo and I gaze in awe of our surroundings. The murals that tell the history of our people. Las taquerías that feed us cada vez que no queremos cocinar. Música mexicana that engulfs our every sense of being and manipulates our vocal chords to let out a fine tune, a grito of sorts. The rhythmic pulsations of our barrio’s breeze. La Mexicana is packed today, but I already know where the best bread resides. Everytime I come here, I get gusanos de canela—with the yellow filling of course. The best bread in the City.

Papa Ayo and I make our way back to Mama Acha and once home, I help her put our clothes away.

Though we walk the same streets, Helen and I live in different worlds.

- KASSIE NAVARRETE ’25

MICHELLE FOLEY ’25

Iam Brazilian, but I never felt or was regarded as Latina—until I came to Yale. I don’t mean I don’t identify with being Latina, but growing up in Brazil, there was never a development of Latina identity and pride. I don’t speak Spanish, I don’t dance salsa, I don’t opt for quesadillas or fajitas (and I’ve never tried them until coming to Yale). So what makes me Latina?

This identity crisis only began when I was distant from my home country. People would group me with others who grew up in different cultures and speak different languages.

One year into being called Latina, I forced a culture on myself. I convince myself that I love spicy food- not a typical Brazilian diet. I listen to Bad Bunny. I speak loudly and run late because I am Latina. This identity reflection is a part of a larger question: What elements connect Latin America? If it is not through race, language, or even common history, what exactly makes us “us”? Is the definition fair? Or does it overlook their country’s uniqueness? I underwent an identity investigation to find out if Latin America was “real,” or another Western imposition — here is what I found.

A Brazilian Perspective

The division and term of “Latin America” was first created by a French geographer in the 19th century—Michel Chevalier—to divide the people of the Americas into Anglo-Saxon and Latin people. This definition is incredibly problematic, however, because it doesn’t take into account the multiple indigenous languages of the continent. Additionally, it imposes a classification solely based on colonialism, rather than honoring the region’s native origins. In other words, most countries of Latin America speak Spanish today, even though this language was enforced upon them by colonizers. Thus, taking this factor as the defining characteristic of Latin America is following the premise that what all the countries have in common is a shared exploitive past.

Politically, it is sad how even the creation of the term Latin America was imposed through a Western perspective on us rather than a self-identified and proclaimed division. Despite recognizing how the foundation of this identity was a continuity of colonialism, the only way to revert this situation is by embracing the Latin American identity wholly and pridefully

Brasil is a vast country divided by 5 very distinctive regions. I am from Nordeste and proudly recognize how my culture is different from someone that lives in the South. However, my pride in my Nordeste Brazilian culture does not conflict with my general Brazilian identity. This is what I aim for with Latin America as a region as well. While the uniqueness of each country should be embraced, this celebration of individuality should also be balanced by acknowledging their historical commonalities.

Is Latin America real or was it created?

- LUA PRADO ’26

MICHELLE FOLEY’25

SOUP

I'm in the kitchen with my sleeves rolled up chopping vegetables. my tía leans towards me and whispers in my ear, y tu novio?

and my boyfriend?

tía, if what you were trying to ask me was do you derive your value as a woman from the sexual desire of college boys? the short answer is, sometimes. the long answer is, when Saturday sunsets slither by and I am in my suite tempted to sleep away the soiree my options look like I can either

a.) search for love on a sticky-slicked frat floor as I third-wheel at the heel of a slurred friend's fling

b.) ring up my old high school friends only to find out that they just got a different kind of ring or

c.) give myself bangs.

I choose d, none of the above, instead write-in a free-response answer: schoolwork on a weekend night and the fright of wasting my youth.

"you have to find love in college!" is an eternal lie and an ephemeral truth, muted in the music of a muffled moment. that said, it might be nice to be someone's favorite person. but loneliness is not the same as being unloved. the vegetables move from the cutting board to the boiling pot. or tía, if you were trying to ask me have you ever been loved by a man? the answer is,

I have since the day I was born.

I have two dogs who sleep at the foot of my bed

I have a coworker who prepares fruit for me I have a roommate who tells people to shut up while I’m asleep I have a dad who lets me sit on his shoulders, swings me from tree branches, swears I soar through the sky, calls me chango, changuito, calls me “my little monkey.”

tía, a wedding will not wish away your worries. love is not just the person who fathers your childrenlove is in the peeled naranjas and the peaceful naptimes and the peculiar nicknames.

so I stand at the stove stirring the simmering soup.

tía, if you were trying to ask me do you truly believe you are worthy of being loved? the answer is, I am worthy of this love that is passed down through generations, I am worthy of this love that my creator molded me out of, I am worthy of this love that tethers me to the great timescales of the universe. peer into the mirror and the proof of love grows clearerthis is my face, given up for you, the face, ageless, the object of attraction for an enamored ancestor. this is my hair, given up for you, the hair that my mother ties tenderly in trensas. these are my bones and my joints and my muscles, given up for you, that carry me through the cosmos. this is my body, which I share with those who came before me, this is my body, proof that love defeats death, this is my body, given up for you, so love yourself in memory of me.

tía, the soup is done, and because I love you, I pour you a bowl.

- ANDREA CHOW ’25

LA POLLERA CHINA

Mypiece, “La Pollera China,” explores the nuanced blending of cultures and what it means to be mixed race in Latin America. Through my artwork, I aim to demonstrate an intersection of identities, both visually and conceptually. In Panamanian culture, a pollera is a traditional dress worn during festivals, symbolizing a woman’s strength and heritage. A pollera is embroidered with intricate images, such as flowers or birds, representing the virtues of the woman and her family history. Usually a family heirloom passed down from mother to daughter through generations, polleras are highly regarded articles of clothing. I am lucky to be the recipient of my family’s pollera.

My family’s pollera represents our unique ethnic history, commissioned for my Panamanian grandmother and her future daughters by my Chinese grandfather decades ago. The Chinese dragon motif, known for

its strength and power, is intricately woven into the cream-colored fabric of the pollera, creating a beautiful balance with the soft red and orange hues of the dragons.

Thisharmony of colors and symbols serves as a metaphor for the intersection of ethnicities and culture in Latin America. I have found, as a mixed race woman living in Latin America, that our diverse backgrounds and experiences are something to be celebrated, rather than a reason to be ostracized or dismissed. By showcasing the beauty of blending cultures through my artwork, I hope to inspire others to embrace their own identities. Ethnicity is not a set of boxes to be filled out— it’s a non-linear spectrum to celebrate.

- MADDY MEGAL ’25

Corazón comprimido

En la hora más oscura de mi poesía, cuando mis demonios me jalan hacia el alma y me conducen a la extinción humana, cuando las partículas de mi cadaver se evaporan o se trituran entre puntiagudas paredes, cuando los límites mundanos me incitan un vacío y las puertas no me llevan a ningún lado, cuando solo un sueño profundo me puede salvarpuede salvarme, o una ducha caliente de lágrimas, que es lo mismo, cuando mi existencia se pone en duda y mi pasado pierde sus dimensiones,

Otro cielo

El cielo era mi portal al mundo, la trama de mis mitos, la expansión infinita del universo y de mi vida,

Pero hoy, Ignorando que hay un cielo arriba mío, es el manto de mis problemas, el recordatorio de mi muerte, la avalancha de mi inquietitud.

Solipsismo optimista

En el espejo somos los dos, cuerpo y alma. En mis recuerdos solo estás tú, y yo no estoy, sino que soy ese recuerdo así como soy tú, así como soy él y ellos,

Falsas ilusiones

Un corazón desilusionado aún se siente en batalla, Pero el tiempo sabe que ya perdió y perdió más de lo que imagina. Pero el corazón ensangrentado, en el abismo de la muerte, recibe una señal de resurrección, un presentimiento sobrenatural entre el delirio y la razón. El corazón desilusionado nunca muere, Simplemente no deja de morir.

Compressed Heart

In the darkest hours of my poetry, when my demons pull me in, towards the soul and drive me toward human extinction, when the last particles of my skeleton evaporate or are crushed between walls covered in thorns, when human limits bring me to a void and no door is an entrance, when only deep sleep can save me, or tears in a hot shower, which is the same, when my existence is in doubt and my past loses dimension,

Another Sky

The sky was my portal to the world, the way to my myths, the infinite expansion of the universe of my life,

But today, Ignoring that there is a sky above mine, that is the blanket of my problems, that is the reminder of my death, an avalanche of discomfort.

Optimistic Solipsism

In the mirror, it’s just the two of us, body and soul. In my memories, it’s just you, without me, rather I am that memory as I am you, as I am him and them,

False Illusions

A disillusioned heart still feels in battle, But time knows it already lost and lost more than what can be imagined. But the bloody heart, in death’s abyss, receives a sign of resurrection, a supernatural premonition between delirium and reason. The disillusioned heart never dies, It simply never stops dying.

- DIEGO DEL AGUILA ’26 - TRANSLATIONS BY DANIELLA SANCHEZ ’25

¿Si se puede?

¡Claro que sí!