CLARO QUE SÍ
‘Doblar la página y seguir con felicidad’
A Letter to my Future Self
Scrappy
On the Horizon of Latina Spaces
El Ávila
El Momento
Caldo de Pollo
The Mountain, Then A Hill I Write You From the Embers Long, Long Down the Line
Almost, but not Quite Esperanza o Acción Collage
Cuando Habla la Televisión
Las vidas no lloradas
Memorias de Mi Comida oración/holy guardian angel
Nose-ing Me, Nose-ing You
On Faith
Saudade
Should I
Where are you these days?
The ‘Other Side’ Collage
Uma Nova Ponte de Amor
Minha Casa tem Nomes & Entre Passos
Nuestras Sillas
Masthead
Sumarha Tariq & Lua Prado, Editors in Chief
Paloma Vigil, Advisor & Contributor
Diego del Aguila, Managing Editor & Contributor
Michelle Foley, Cover Artist Contributer
Davianna Inirio, Visual Layout Editor & Contributor
Gia Cabral, Visual Layout Editor, Public Relations Manager & Contributor
Maddy Megal, Resident Artist
Michaell Santos Paulino, Treasurer & Editor
Rosa Alcalá, Social Chair, Contributor, & Editor
Camila Bautista Fuentes, Contributor & Editor
Carolina Melendez Lucas, Contributor & Editor
Maia Nehme, Contributor & Editor
Samantha Suazo, Contributor & Editor
Sofia Morfin, Contributor & Editor
Nati Somma, Contributor & Editor
Alondra Moreno Santana, Contributor
Andrea Chow, Contributor
Amanda Budejen, Contributor
Emma Upson, Contributor
Isabella Pedroza, Contributor
Isabel Nuño, Contributor
Ethan Estrada, Contributor
Jonathan Balderas, Contributor
Eli Ortiz, Contributor
Alex Guzman Caceres, Contributor
Gabriela Rodriguez, Contributor
Ethan Estrada, Contributor
Sophia McManus, Contributor
Diego Paz, Contributor
Juliano Portela, Contributor
Letter From the Editors
Bem vindos a quarta edição de Claro Que Sí/Bienvenidos a la cuarta edición de Claro Que Sí,
As I write this, looking out of a train window, I see the passing views and think about how memories are always drifting, just as the world seems to be. When Claro Que Sí’s board met in early October at TD Buttery, we all expressed a desire for a word we couldn’t fully capture in English. It’s the feeling of having a future as an attitude, as a personal decision—to go adiante/adelante.
A lot of Latin American history can be understood as a history of resistance, most of it not chosen, yet still an element that has shaped the region. The need to resist comes with the need to move forward, to keep going, to not give up. Political response transforms into personal attitude, and it all blends together like any element of Latinidad.
During the Brazilian dictatorship, writer and musician Chico Buarque wrote, “Apesar de Você, amanhã há de ser outro dia” [Despite you, tomorrow will be another day]. There’s a layer of trust in the “tomorrow,” at least in the sense that we know it will come. Tomorrow has to come—it’s almost a resistance of hope, a resistance of mind. Isn’t this the greatest gift art can offer?
As artists of all kinds who contributed to this edition, we wanted to join this long conversation of moving toward a future that, although uncertain, will come.
However, with ‘tomorrow’ comes fear. With expressions of loss and rapidly changing identity, it is only acceptable to wonder if what we envision the future to be will live up to our expectations and the hopes we have for what it may look like. We are constantly confronted with questions that have been encompassed in many forms like “What do you want to be when you grow up?” or “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?” It is okay to have absolutely no clue. I don’t even know how to answer these questions. While I was growing up, my mom made it apparent that my only responsibility was to “salir adelante” with hard work and perseverance, making such large efforts to engrain the importance of the future into my mind. I have been trained to always think about what is to come, and while scared, I can also say I’m excited.
Through our poems, photography, and personal essay pieces, we reflect and try to grapple with this idea of the future with an attitude of going adiante/adelante. I hope you join us in this conversation as you read and take in these pieces; let’s celebrate our shared hope that a tomorrow will always come, and in an evolving world, cherish the change that is the norm.
Lua Prado ‘26 & Sumarha Tariq ‘27
‘Doblar la página y seguir con felicidad’
In my family, instead of dwelling on the negative, we have learned to “Doblar la página y seguir con felicidad,” or turn the page and continue on with happiness. I have found myself saying this phrase more often than not. This sentiment is painstakingly obvious with all the inherent and expected endings of senior year of college, but less obvious when it comes to the smaller aspects of our lives.
This past year, I have had to let go of one of the most important pages of my life – Claro Que Sí – not because I wanted to, but because it was for the longevity and well-being of my creation. Handing over this magazine has been one of the most unexpected pains that I have had to endure because of how much meaning it once gave me. By letting go of my creation, I was able to let it grow into someone else's fabrication, namely that of the two new editors-in-chief, so that they can infuse it with their own meaning. And yet, still, I find it hard to move onto the next chapter – at Yale, in my career, and in finding a new outlet for meaning. Moving forward is hard in a time when our country seems to be shifting backwards.
The recent presidential election has shifted all of our lives, prompting even more questions on meaning and the reality of living in pure uncertainty. President-elect Trump acquired 45% of the Latine vote, a 13-point increase from 2020 and a record high for a Republican presidential nominee. What’s more, Miami-Dade – the once Democratic stronghold and blue light of hope in a deeply red Florida – saw a red flame engulf its votes. Trump won Miami-Dade by 11 points over Vice President Kamala Harris, who is now the first Democratic presidential candidate to lose the county since Michael Dukakis in 1988. How does one simply flip the page and move on after that?
Closing a chapter on an artistic and political Latine magazine to give it to trustworthy, young editors-in-chief is one thing, but seeing your hometown and your home country’s values change as reflected by the polls, is not as easy to let go of.
Clearly, America – the place which my grandparents saw as opportune and fruitful, full of values of liberty, freedom of speech and the right to vote – has changed. But it’s not just America that has changed; Latine voters have changed their own values. Now, the polls show a greater Latine emphasis on the economic elements of the American dream rather than their own rights. How do economic freedoms compare to your neighbors being sent back to their home countries by the inevitable mass deportation in the coming years?
I am suggesting a new meaning of ‘Doblar la página y seguir con felicidad.’ Doblar directly translates to folding, not just turning. I think it is time that we fold the corners of past pages and move on, therefore saving our place in the book so that we can return to these pages and remember what we have learned. Simply turning a page implies leaving it in the past, but if we fold the corner, we save it to return to in the future.
We must fold the page in order to improve upon our past decisions as individuals, as a culture, and as Americans.
Necesitamos doblar la página so the hope for improving upon what has been can continue to drive Latine families to fulfill their dreams here, just like they always have.
While I leave Claro in the past, I will never forget the lessons I have learned from trying to encompass an entire Latine student population in bi-yearly editions. I can only hope that America and Latine Americans do the same in future elections. We cannot turn the page without folding it first. Without doblando, how can we remember the valuable lessons – morally reprehensible or admirable – from past elections or even the first edition of Claro?
Necesitamos doblar la página to grasp old knowledge in order to grow newer and better editions on the next page. With this, felicidad will follow.
A Letter to My Future Self
“You seem older.”
I recently visited my high school. It’s small, only about a hundred students per grade. It’s modern, but its historical charm still shines through the pristine white paint and newly-bought furniture.
I wasn’t planning to go back this year. Though I visited time and time again during my first year of college, sophomores don’t visit their high schools.
A day into my October break, I received a text from one of my friends, now a senior at my high school. She wanted to see me, and I saw an opportunity. “I’ll pick you up from school?” I offered. With a reason to visit, stopping by for a little while seemed more rational than a 20-year-old walking through the halls of a place she no longer belonged. Instead, I would simply be grabbing a friend, and happening to have a moment to say hello to a few teachers. I decided to arrive about 25 minutes earlier than the time we agreed on.
25 minutes quickly turned into an hour and a half. I wandered the halls, refamiliarizing myself with the rooms I learned in, argued in, and built my identity in.
Eventually, I ran into a teacher who taught me twice: ninth and eleventh grade history. I began to give him an update, and he nodded along. Eventually, “You seem older” is what he offered me. For a moment, both of us were surprised by his statement. But after the pause, we laughed, and I smiled.
On the car ride home, tears welled up in my eyes. I realized that he was right: I am older. I am no longer the version of myself that advocated for everyone to join Mock Trial (I do Moot Court now). I am no longer the quick-witted girl who sometimes snapped at her partners in a group project (I now know that caring about how things go isn’t a weakness). I spend far less time analyzing my own identity (I am who I am, and she is enough). I know that being lonely doesn’t mean I am alone (though this used to not be the case). I am not the same girl who walked the stage at graduation, who watched the seasons change from our glass-paned library, or who cried in my advisor’s office.
I am older, and while I do not profess that makes me wiser, smarter, or undoubtedly more in tune with reality, I am proud of who I am. I am proud of the girl who wakes up every morning, and works hard even when the walk to the Pierson dining hall is a little too cold. I am proud of the girl who loves others so unconditionally that sometimes it hurts her, but she does it anyway. I am proud of the girl who knows her worth will never be found in a history essay, but in the way she perceives herself.
In a few years, this version of me will be gone. It will be replaced by someone new: new because of the relationships she formed, new because of the experiences she had, new because of the joys and tragedies that are to come. To be older is odd, if not frightening. It is odd to find yourself in a new reality, apart from one you knew. But this terrifying prospect of growing up is beautiful too. To be older is to inherently experience more sorrow, but more importantly, to be older is to understand and feel the joy and love that was impossible when I was fourteen. I hope that as you get older, you see what a blessing it is. When each chapter closes and a new one begins, that old chapter isn’t burned—it simply becomes a different part of your story. So recall this visit to your high school. Recall the joy in your eyes and your teachers’ when they realize you are grown, because it means you have just experienced more of what life has to offer.
Here’s to being older.
I am drawn to the subversiveness of my cultural aesthetics—those that embrace maximalism, reject wastefulness, and find use, beauty, and purpose in all things. This photo is of my grandmother's dog, Scrappy, lounging in the backyard. I was intrigued by the juxtaposition of Scrappy, lounging in warmth, with the trash and recycling piled in the back. I hope to connect with people with messy homes, cluttered backyards, and little white chihuahuas they love dearly.
ON THE HORIZON
My first year, friends and I took the long, cold walk to High Street to go to a party LWAY was throwing in collaboration with one of the frats. My hair, which I’d just started growing out, was suspended in two short pigtails, and I was feeling cute. Pretty, even. But as we approached the door to the party, two men stood guarding it. Word got to us that the first hour of the party would be Latinas only. The non-Latine friends of the group groaned and walked to the curb of the street. I heard them start to discuss leaving. I felt… warped. Distorted. Latinas only? Was I Latina enough tonight? Should I have had the good sense to rush to the curb?
I couldn’t think for long because the next thing I knew, I was in the crush of people — Latinas — on the steps to enter the frat. I noticed that before someone entered, two white men looked them over. They were Latina-inspecting, I gleaned, starting to sweat. When it was my turn, after two of my friends had already been waved in, I saw the faces of the men at the door twist. They glanced at each other. One’s eyes narrowed. I made my eyes wider. I looked at him and smiled coyly. Well, what I imagined to be coy. After a couple of uncomfortable seconds, he waved his hand, and the guy standing next to him opened the door. Suddenly I was Latina. And so, in the eyes of these two white men probably scared of getting cancelled for telling me to kick rocks, I was Latina.
I tell this anecdote because this event established my idea of what an organization of Latinas on campus could be. And what was that idea? Well, almost implicitly, that one could be or not be Latina, and that such a beingness was obvious, visible. That might seem like a basic idea. Some people are Latina and some aren’t. Simple as the fact that some hours of the day are light and others are dark. But the fact of the Latina is only a fact if we take identities at face-value: as natural, essential, and inherent.
When we pull back the curtain of Latina identity, what do we find? And by extension, when we organize ourselves under the normative label of “Latina,” what do we gain? What do we lose? What possibilities are enabled and what possibilities are curtailed? I endeavor not to offer an answer to these questions; instead — in this issue imagining the future of our community — I hope to further develop questions that might allow us to more critically imagine said future. A future that allows us to be fully ourselves.
Implicit in the previous sentence is the idea that gendered spaces flatten our subjectivities, reducing us to a singular aspect of ourselves or pressuring us to embody an expectation. What then, is the expectation of “Latina”? This expectation is baked into the very concept of “Latinidad” from which the figure of the “Latina” arises.
OF LATINA SPACES
“I don’t know if you heard, but I officially cancelled Latinidad.” Afro-Zapotec poet and scholar Alán Peláez López wrote in a caption to their 2018 Instagram post featuring white text on a red background that read “Latinidad is Cancelled.” Since then, #LatinidadisCancelled has participated in an ongoing re-evaluation of the way “Latinidad” as a concept and structure of identification centers whiteness and marginalizes (or altogether works to erase) Black and Indigenous peoples, subjectivities, and cultural influences of Latin America and its diasporas. While it is beyond this short essay to fully explore and interrogate the concept of Latinidad with adequate nuance, it is particularly important for us to keep in mind something that the literary scholar Sarah Quesada has written elsewhere, in her book The African Heritage of Latinx and Caribbean Literature, that “as a term adopted by the US imaginary, [Latinidad] has… flattened the heterogeneity of peoples of Latin American heritage living in the U.S.” This flattening, as Quesada and Peláez López allow us to parse, is one that creates the figure of the “Latina” as the prototypical embodiment of the “mestiza,” a figure culturally imagined to be the descendant of “mixed Indigenous, African, and European roots.” However, this figure functionally works to associate herself with whiteness.
Ultimately, the problem of the Latina is akin to the problem of Latinidad. Of inhabiting subject-positions that make us legible to whiteness or the State or or or. What do we do then, with this information? What do we do at the party when the white men are Latina-inspecting and our palms start to sweat because we know we aren’t really Latina? At least not in the way they’re expecting. What I should’ve done in that moment was turn around and walk away. There are other parties and better ways of being with each other. When we refuse the categorizations that fail to fully see us, we learn to gather together in different ways.
Merely getting rid of the term “Latinidad” is not enough. It wouldn’t erase the ideas it represents, ideas which have been in circulation since the colonization of the Americas in the 15th century. Instead we must do the work to exhaust the category, until we find ourselves not needing it to gather together in community and do the work that remains to be done.
I urge us all to reconsider our allegiance to certain labels, especially labels we’ve been naturalized into. But instead of merely rejecting them, we must explore and recognize their political utility. What damage can we do to the terms given us? What possibilities can we imagine from and then outside of them? From concrete cracks flowers blossom forth.
- ETHAN ESTRADA ‘25
SUMI TARIQ ‘27
El Ávila
And when you leave, you leave behind Everything, except for that national landmark Whose crests and peaks strain against the frame You put them in, the wooden frame turned window frame On the walls of a rental house you haven’t seen yet. Or at least you hope it will, you who grew up on corn flour And magical realism.
And when you leave, you bury it deep into your suitcase
Because you have to Because how else will the others know you in el extranjero? Because how else will you remember where North is?
And when you leave, use it to remember. Remember a silhouette standing guard over the city, Like the water-wrinkled thumb of a cupped hand. Keep the memories alive through the bloodline, So when they return, they can recognize home.
- AMANDA BUDEJEN ‘26
El Ávila is the mountain that overlooks Caracas, Venezuela, and is a common symbol of the city. It is visible from nearly every window in Caracas, and an easy way to find North. It is a common saying that all immigrants from Venezuela have at least one picture or painting of El Ávila in their homes.
Caldo De Pollo
For my 10th birthday,
My mom gave me caldo de pollo.
I crossed my arms and caused a fuss, Furrowed my brows, refused a bite, I told her I hated the taste.
Y cuando mi mama cumplo diez años,
Su papa la compro un pollo.
En la mesa, lo dividieron entre la gente
Y ella tuvo suerte de conseguir una ala completa,
Ya que solo lo quería probar.
Queria probar el éxito sabroso,
Oler el aroma ahumado de la vida buena
Saber la riqueza en sabores de los ricos
Comer hasta el dulce de la médula del hueso y celebrar con la familia.
Now for my 20th birthday, I missed my mom.
Her cooking, that familiar smell,
The aromas dancing around the air
To the sounds of soft mariachi.
In our little kitchen,
Standing on the crooked tiles, Stirring around the chicken and veggies, Waiting for someone to offer to dance. I would give anything to take her hand, And to simply taste her caldo de pollo
Like I used to.
- ALONDRA MORENO SANTANA ‘27
The Mountain, Then A Hill
Dirt baked a pale yellow shade dusts her young, bare feet. She scrunches her nose, shields the sun from her eyes, And watched her dad melt rubber in the heat.
“Ven acá, hija,” by the leg he grabs her And fastens her some brand new shoes. They hurt her soft, delicate skin, but it doesn’t matter.
They smell of old tires, they’re as tough as rocks They slip and constrict, and already ripped But she walked.
She walked the narrow paths through the vegetation and sand
Of the Mexican mountains in Jalisco. She walked the long and troubling and vast land To a building she’s too small to go. Instead, she watched her older sister learn, The joys of mathematics, the wonders of science, Until it’s finally her turn.
Well, it was never her turn. She got picked to represent her family in another world. She took her flag on her backpack to the states to learn. And her first real pair of shoes, bittersweet hand me downs, In which she walked for miles, took a train, then a bus Finishing her journey in a brand new town.
And she walked.
Constantly picking up the pace, she worked quick. As she picked up shifts, she couldn’t afford to stop. She upgraded and wore her black sneakers, plastic and cheap Year after year, job after job, she wore them out
She walked into a bar, met a man, began a family, With the welcoming of a young girl.
- ALONDRA MORENO SANTANA ’27
I Write You From the Embers
I write you from the embers. a memory — a remark you made — a flash — a flicker and a crackle in the brittle wood.
I write you from the embers. the cool breath of autumn night creeps its fingers on my shoulders. Time inches forward: an indifferent river flooding its banks, the water seeps between beneath my feet my legs the sticky wet sand clings to my skin, and I stay.
I write you from the embers. Tsukuyomi lies low, shrouded by clouds. My eyes turn to the mountain trail, and the hiss of the jungle unveils itself from beneath the breaths of the river. It grows louder almost deafening— so I stand.
Cold water trickles down my legs, and I plant my feet facing the deep wood. Perhaps you are in there, somewhere, and we may find each other again— under a canopy on a seat of firewood.
- SÁVIO ARAROS
Long, Long Down the Line
The idea of becoming somebody’s mother used to terrify me.
Continuing the prophecies of broken marriages, cycles of violence, and mistrust in one another
Birthing from me the legacy of a new generation of Brown bodies.
The warmth of my hands and the sweetness of my words would be useless buffers.
But I’ve gotten over my embarrassment in confessing that I do eventually want children one day
This is my act of bodily resistance, defiance to continue taking on this world by storm
Reassuring myself that it’s genuinely okay to echo stories that continue to take shape
To recreate a lineage of familial love and allow everything to take its form.
I have no choice but to choose hope
To continue believing in the power of love.
Guiding, in baby steps, with small ways to cope.
We have all nurtured at some point to those around us.
I can’t help but ask, “When do you know when you’re ready to be a parent?”
The bellowing answer is that you never know: the truth of “one day” is absolute nonsense.
- ALEX GUZMAN CACERES
‘26
Almost, but not Quite
My Spanish is a fake designer bag. From a distance, it seems refined and elite, but under close inspection, the illusion falls apart. Each “t” I pronounce is like a tiny betrayal, revealing my facade. I’m playing a sonata I’ve practiced my whole life, and the twangs of wrong notes are unignorable. In English, the “t” sound is alveolar, and it plagues my Spanish. The Spanish “t” is dental; you position your tongue gently against the back of your front teeth and push softly. So softly that the “t” sounds like a “d” and no breath escapes your lips. I practice again and again.
diente tomate tormenta tortura masoquista
Only on Opposite Day would someone stumble upon my Mexican heritage, it is deftly hidden. In the summer, my hair is fine and sun-bleached; my skin is light and sunburned. My eyes are pale and my face is round, shamelessly advertising my mother’s Eastern European genes. Once, as I was waiting to give blood, the nurse paused as she read my last name. When I gave her my ancestral context, she clucked disappointedly.
“Oh, that’s a shame. You really do look European.”
My family name confuses people; they cannot reconcile what they see before them with the syllables dancing on their tongue. I let the same jokes wash over me again and again—“Morphine” or “Morphin” instead of Morfin as if the simple spelling swap makes everything fit. I often wonder who they imagine Sofia Morfin to be when I sign an email or submit an application. I savor the fleeting moments before we meet and I become "Sophia."
As a child, I was jealous of my brother’s name. He shares a name with our grandfather, Emilio, and that gave him an unfair advantage in the private competition I waged to claim our culture. He complained that his classmates never got it right on the first try, but I coveted a difficult name. I craved a name that would thrust my culture into the spotlight. A name that would serve as evidence in the face of disbelievers. I would point to the name and cry, “See! Know where I come from!’”
My party trick is my Spanish and my heritage. I am not double-jointed, nor can I tie the stem of a cherry with only my teeth and tongue. I can, however, make a white man gape as I string sentences together. “How is your Spanish so good?” For that brief moment, before I reveal my deception, I am exceptionally talented.
Among my Latinx peers, my Spanish and heritage are discomfort made corporal. I give explanations that are saturated with apologies and self-deprecation. I would like to stop apologizing.
When I think about renewal, I envision tender green springs venturing shyly out of rich soil. In comparison, my own renewal is odorous. I am exhausted and contrarian. I am torn between the urge to abandon all vestiges of my culture and the desire to embark on a Hallmark-worthy journey of self-discovery. In reality, I have no idea how to address feeling disingenuous by virtue of my existence. I have never felt settled in my identity. For a while, I wondered if a DNA test with precise percentages might tell me how much of a culture I could claim as my own. It might serve as a deed for fifty percent of the language, fifty percent of the food, fifty percent of the art, fifty percent of the religion.
I fear colonizing something that isn’t mine. When I arrived on Yale’s campus, I went to exactly one event at La Casa before deciding it wasn’t a space meant for me. I felt like an intruder in something sacred. No one has ever told me that, or even hinted at it, but perhaps this is where my adolescent insecurities have made themselves at home. Who is the ultimate authority on authenticity, and where do I make an appointment? I often consider what it would take to do the simple thing—to abandon any public claim to my Mexican identity. But as I grapple with my renewal, I realize the impossibility of the task.
The impossibility lies not in abandoning my heritage itself—it’s in trying to escape the grasp it has on me. It lives in the language I’ve never stopped learning, the history in my family name, and the ineffable pieces of a culture baked into my identity. I linger at the edges, relishing in the discomfort and unable to step away from a world that is both mine and not. I selfishly want to claim it all but I know that I will never be able to.
My heritage evades neat percentages and easy validation, and it’s certainly not the type to wrap up nicely in “authenticity.” It is vibrant and messy and draining and contradictory and painfully real. I endeavor to be satisfied with the rawness and resist the overwhelming urge to polish it into something smoother. Instead, I will endure the incompleteness inherent to identity. I will revel in the discord of my existence.
Esperanza o Acción
When searching for “Claudia Sheinbaum Pardo,” a flood of articles highlights her historic election as Mexico’s first female leader, often posing the question, “What does this mean?” Yet beneath this groundbreaking milestone lies a stark reality: in Mexico, a woman goes missing at least once a day, and 11 women are murdered violently. Other forms of sexual and domestic violence against women are also on the rise, raising urgent concerns about safety and justice. National surveys reveal that a staggering 70.1% of women have experienced some form of violence in their lives, with 39.9% of that violence coming from intimate partners. The term “femicide” has become increasingly prominent, specifically denoting the gender-based murder of women. In a country grappling with such alarming rates of violence against women, the election of a female leader prompts critical questions about progress and the systemic issues that remain deeply entrenched.
Claudia Sheinbaum, often introduced as a scientist turned politician, holds a Doctorate in Energy Engineering and claims to adopt a more analytical and data-driven approach compared to her predecessor, Manuel López Obrador. In her inaugural speech, she positioned herself as a “beacon of hope” for women, framing her election as a collective achievement for all women in México. However, critics argue that she has yet to prioritize women’s issues on her agenda.
In a country deeply entrenched in machismo, one must ask: can we truly expect significant progress on women’s issues? The pressing problems of gender-based violence demands not just rhetoric but concrete, data-informed strategies that lead to actionable change. During her presidential campaign, Sheinbaum pledged to effectively address domestic violence by establishing specialized offices for gender-based and sexual violence complaints. Yet, with nearly 900 femicides reported annually and a troubling increase of 20,000 complaints of sexual violence each year, her analytical approach needs to translate into targeted, evidence-based policies that truly make a difference.
What does it mean for a leader to be data-driven in this context? It involves employing rigorous research to understand the root causes of violence against women, assessing the effectiveness of current policies, and adjusting strategies accordingly. It also requires collaboration with experts, advocacy groups, and affected communities to ensure that solutions are comprehensive and grounded in the realities that Méxican women face daily.
Sheinbaum has the political advantage of a supportive Congress, where her party, Morena—Mexico’s ruling, left-wing party focused on social justice, anti-corruption, and reducing economic inequality—holds a majority in the Chamber of Deputies, one of the two houses of Mexico’s Congress similar to the United States House of Representatives, and is just one vote shy of a Senate majority. This political strength should enable her to push through crucial reforms. However, mere political power is insufficient; she must elevate women’s issues on her agenda.
As local activist Cecilia Ramos states, “I don’t want to idealize her, but I hope she will accomplish great things for us.” The road ahead is fraught with challenges, and the women of México deserve more than hope; they deserve a leader who understands the crises’ gravity and uses data to create policies that make a real difference in their lives.
Ultimately, the effectiveness of Sheinbaum’s leadership on women’s issues will be closely scrutinized. If she truly intends to be a “beacon of hope” for the women of México, she must translate her analytical approach into real solutions, holding herself accountable to the promises made during her campaign. The critical question remains: what can the women of México realistically expect from her administration, and will it be enough to foster the safety and justice they urgently need.
- ROSA ALCALA
‘26
Cuando Habla la Televisión
When I was a little girl, sitting cross-legged on the worn-out carpet of our Chicago apartment, I would watch my parents with quiet eyes, noticing the way their faces tightened when the television blared with the voices of politicians. The flickering images, framed by a newscaster’s voice, were like a storm cloud in the room—unpredictable, often dark, and filled with words that no child should understand, but words that settled heavily on my family.
I was born into a world where the word immigration always seemed like a shadow lurking in the corners of our home. My parents, immigrants from México, would listen with tension in their shoulders, with eyes that betrayed a kind of deep-seated anxiety whenever immigration was mentioned on the news. They never fully understood the intricacies of American politics—bills, legislation, policy—these were foreign concepts, just like the country they had come to seek a better life in. But they had to conform. They had no choice but to bow their heads and continue working, always treading carefully, as if any wrong step could uproot the fragile life they’d built.
I remember my mother muttering under her breath whenever the TV speakers repeated the word “deportation” or “border control.” Her eyes would roll, her lips pressing into a thin line, and I could feel a certain heaviness in the room as if the weight of the world was resting on her shoulders. To me, their reactions were puzzles, one I didn’t quite understand at the time. Why did México—the place they had left behind—make them so sad when it was mentioned? I had grown up hearing them speak about my México Lindo y Querido, the beautiful, beloved country of their youth, the place that lived in their memories like a long-forgotten dream they could never fully return to. But on TV, México wasn’t that sweet place of family and color and life—it was often talked about as a place to be feared, a place to be controlled, a place from which people were “sent back”. The mention of México was always a sharp reminder of a place that, for all its beauty, had become an emblem of something that terrified them. It was the fear of being forgotten, erased, or worse—sent back to a place they barely knew anymore, a place that wasn’t kind to their dreams.
It wasn’t until I grew older—much older—that I began to pay attention to the ways in which politics were no longer just a spectator sport for me, but a force that affected my family, my life, and my identity. I could no longer ignore the fact that our existence in this country was tied directly to political decisions. That my parents’ status, their ability to work, to live, was shaped by policies and promises made by candidates who never seemed to know us.
The more I learned, the more I realized how important it was to pay attention—not just to what was being said on the debate stage, but who was saying it, and why it mattered. I understood that as a Mexican-American woman, my voice had weight, that I could no longer afford to stay silent.
Politics, once this distant subject I barely understood, became personal. Candidates’ positions on immigration weren’t just theoretical; they were our lives. The talk of walls, of borders, of restrictions—they were not just phrases to me. They were the threats that hovered over the people I loved.
I recall the 2016 election and the feeling in my chest as I watched the debates unfold. The words “build the wall” echoed in my mind, and I knew that, for the first time in my life, the stakes were higher than ever. I watched the candidates with new eyes. The hope I had once placed in democracy, in the idea that my voice mattered, was put to the test. And though I understood more than ever how critical it was to be politically aware, I also understood that the system was built to challenge people like me, people who lived on the edges of society, never fully embraced, never truly welcomed.
Now I understand the power of voting, the impact of legislation, the importance of engaging in the conversation. My parents, who once silenced the TV to protect their hearts, now sit beside me, nodding in agreement as I share my thoughts on policy, on candidates, on the future. They’ve learned, just as I have, that silence is no longer an option. We’ve learned to speak up, to advocate for the change we need, to make sure that when politicians talk about México, they understand that it’s not just a place on a map—it’s home. It’s where our roots are, and it’s where we deserve to be treated with dignity.
Politics have shaped me—my fears, my hopes, my future. But it has also awakened a deep desire in me to make sure the world I live in reflects my values, my needs, my story. While I may never fully shake the image of my parents’ anxious eyes when the topic of immigration arises on the screen, I can now see their faces more clearly as we watch together—eyes wide open, voices raised in unity, and hearts full of hope for a future where we can finally be heard.
Las vidas no lloradas
¿A dónde se fue don Toño?
Hoy, hoy me levanté pensando en la vida de don Toño. Una vida que, inherentemente por su condición humana, tuvo valor, más valor nunca se le otorgó.
“Ay, don Toño, cómo se metió al vicio”, le criticaban aquellos que por la misma carretera caminaban. “Ay, don Toño, ¿cómo es posible que se haya dejado perder así?”, se apenaban mientras en la calle sucia le miraban, mas no le ayudaban.
Y cuando don Toño murió, nadie le lloró. Quedó tirado en una esquina, con una bolsa negra encima, extasiado por la sobredosis, por la amargura del alcohol. Como hojas arrastradas en otoño, su presencia se desvaneció.
Una mañana con un sol quemante, que prometía un viento andante, a don Toño lo trasladaban, mientras su familia buscaban, más ningún rastro de su linaje encontraban. Sin darse cuenta de que mucho antes de que diera su último suspiro, la vida de don Toño ya había sido olvidada.
Sus familiares habían aceptado su falta de existencia, y sus conocidos, mostraban indiferencia, pues don Toño en su dolor, se desvaneció, como una bolsa plástica que el tiempo se llevó.
Y así, su risa y su voz de memoria de los suyos desapareció, dejando solo un eco vacío, sin importar, ya que nadie escuchó. Quizás, en algún rincón, su recuerdo se marchitó, como una rosa roja que nadie rego.
Don Toño estaba presente, caminaba entre la gente, pero entre aquellos que lo vieron, nadie le abrazó y en su ausencia, la vida simplemente continuó.
Hoy, me duele admitir que lo vi y no lo vi, que en mi prisa lo esquivé, como una sombra en la acera.
¿Por qué no le lloramos a don Toño, si don Toño alguna vez nos alegró? Con sus chistes mal hechos, sus regaños insensatos y su risa contagiosa el alma nos tocó.
¿Por qué su condición de indigente lo borró de nuestra pintura? Don Toño, con su andar errante y sus recuerdos fracturados, también fue hijo, también fue hermano, también fue amigo. También tuvo sueños, quizás algunos que nunca alcanzó.
¿Fue su última borrachera la que el corazón nos cerró? ¿Por qué no le lloramos a don Toño?
Dicen que era mujeriego, pero merecía compasión. Nadie de la morgue lo recogió. Ahí quedó; no se sabe si lo enterraron. Su vida se esfumó. ¿A dónde se fue don Toño?
Hoy, me pregunto cuántos otros “don Toño’s” están ahí afuera, invisibles, tratando de comprender lo que les espera. Hoy me pregunto cuántas vidas no he llorado, atada a mi rutina — ¿a cuántos habré olvidado?
¿Quién es responsable en esta sintonía lineal? No dudo que he hecho también mi parte, atada a lo individual.
Le pido disculpas, don Toño; me he convertido en esclava del sistema. Nadie lloró y yo me siento culpable. ¿A dónde fui, qué hacía? Qué pena.
Su muerte ha sido mi reflexión; le mandó este mensaje desde las venas de mi corazón. No es suficiente, no es un homenaje, pero ya no tengo mucho que ofrecer.
Quizás un suspiro de conciencia, un latido fuerte en mi corazón, un reconocimiento tardío a su existencia, usted ahora forma parte en mi oración.
Adiós, don Toño; le deseo lo mejor.
- SAMANTHA SUAZO ‘26
Memorias de Mi Comida
Al crecer entre Las Vegas y Tijuana, mi vida ha estado sazonada por los sabores de dos mundos, al corazón de mi historia está la mesa donde llegan los olores de la cocina. La comida nunca ha sido solo para llenar el estómago vacío; ha sido el hilo que entreteje el tapiz de mi identidad latina, cada comi da es un capítulo en la historia continua de nuestra familia.
Todavía puedo saborear la dulzura de la celebración en cada recuerdo: la sonrisa orgullosa en el rostro de mi madre durante mi Primera Comunión, donde su pasta de chile poblano se pasaban de mano en mano, pero llevaban más que solo comida: llevaban tradición y amor. Las quinceañeras donde las mesas crujían bajo el peso de platos que habían sido perfeccionados durante generaciones, cada receta era un testimonio de nuestra herencia. En esas noches donde las fiestas seguían hasta las 6 de la mañana lo único que podíamos hacer era comer el pastel y lo que quedaba de los dulces. La simple alegría de correr a la tiendita de la esquina con mis primos, los bolsillos tintineando con el cambio, nuestras risas resonando en las paredes de las tiendas de la esquina mientras debatimos qué chuche rias mexicanas comprar en OXXO.
Diciembre y enero traen la calidez de los tamales, cuyas hojas de maíz se desenvuelven para revelar innumerables reuniones familiares donde las manos trabajaron juntas en líneas de ensamblaje de amor, cada tamal un pequeño paquete de historia compartida. En Cinépolis, el aroma de las palomitas de chile limón se mezcla con la promesa agridulce de las crepas de queso de guayaba, convirtiendo cada noche de cine en una celebración de sabores uniendo los sabores de mis dos hogares.
Desde las conchas mexicanas con las que empiezan mis mañanas hasta los preciados patellios butterfly de esa pequeña panadería cerca de mi departamento en Tijuana, cada bocado me conecta con mis raíces. Estos no son sólo alimentos: son el lenguaje del amor que habla mi cultura, un dialecto del cuidado transmitido de generación en generación. En cada comida compartida, cada merienda informal, cada reunión familiar, encuentro pedazos de mí, de mi historia, de mi pueblo.
Ésta es mi latinidad, no sólo en las especias y los sabores, sino en las manos que los preparan, en las historias contadas sobre platos humeantes, en la risa que sazona cada bocado. Si bien entiendo que el poder de unión de la comida trasciende todas las culturas, para mí siempre sabrá a hogar, a familia, a orgullo. Es la esencia de quién soy, espolvoreada con azúcar, bañada en salsa y envuelta en masa, traspasando fronteras pero siempre encontrando mi hogar en el simple acto de partir el pan con mis seres queridos.
- ISABELLA PEDROZA ‘27
GIA CABRAL ‘26
oración / holy guardian angel
I hold no firm grasp on God
Even with a rosary between my fingers. Sanded wood gathered in cupped palms, Crucifix making sacred promise, Uncertain promise / if only my mind could make real Heavens beyond her body.
No me desampares
Not during the night, nor the day
Yet there is only silence, deafening quiet; Sick with desire / repentant for it, Searching hollow prayer for the brush Of something divine, some sign.
My voice echoes, confessional circling A lost wren too weary to land, and yet I hope / no me dejes sola Don’t allow me to forsake You, though My knees are bruised within these wooden pews. And I’ve found You may already be gone.
Is it wrong? For a soul to be without You
But filled with love of the other, and The self? / To stray towards what pushes me
From you, for though your love has no bounds, Your mercy infinite, but my love for her stronger la dulce compañía de mi amor.
Until dawn comes, my home remains In faith, sitting in mass begging for grace, I sing the hymn of her name, soft hum And it is through whispered apologies that I pray: En los brazos de Jesús, José y María, Amén.
Inspired by the prayer: Ángel de mi guarda, dulce compañía, no me desampares ni de noche ni de día.
No me dejes solo, que me perdería. En los brazos de Jesús, José y María, Amen.
- NATI SOMMA ‘28
Nose-ing Me, Nose-ing You
I hate picturing my wedding. Setting the scene isn’t the problem. Silky dresses, pressed ties, a hush falling over the crowd at the first notes of “Here Comes the Bride.” I glide down the aisle, clutching my lavender bouquet tightly, and all is still well in the world. Then I pivot ninety degrees to face my husband-to-be, my side profile on full display for hundreds of guests, and my illusion of perfection shatters
As a child, I rarely thought about my appearance. Mirrors were just wall decorations, useful for a quick once-over to check for spinach in my teeth or dirt smudges on my cheeks. My self-confidence plummeted in middle school, a period marked by braces and breakouts. Yet, all the while, a nose was a nose was a nose.
For most of my older sister Sophia’s life so far, her nose has been her biggest adversary. In one of my earliest memories, I gingerly pat at the red rivulets running down her face with a soggy tissue. “So much blood!” I marvel, as she weeps.
At age eight, Sophia had the misfortune of tripping on the sidewalk while her hands were tucked in her jeans pockets. The experience left her with a deviated septum and a newfound resentment towards Lady Gaga. The former meant she couldn’t breathe through her nose. (I was forced to endure nearly a decade of her snoring.) The latter was due to the incident’s unfortunate timing in late October. Each adult we met assumed this trickor-treater’s swollen nose had been enhanced by stage makeup to resemble the Mother Monster’s signature schnoz. Sophia was, in fact, dressed as Hannah Montana.
As soon as she turned sixteen, she begged my parents for a septorhinoplasty — a nose job. Papá, who’d had two of those operations as a teenager after a couple of car accidents, acquiesced. Sophia emerged from the surgery glassy-eyed, bloodied, and high on several thousand milligrams of Tylenol. Two weeks later, her cast came off and she was sporting a sleek, bump-free appendage.
MADDY MEGAL ‘25
Rhinoplasties are the most commonly performed form of cosmetic surgery; over 360,000 procedures took place in the U.S. in 2019, one of which was my sister’s. That’s roughly one procedure for every one thousand Americans. As of 2020, 82% of these procedures are performed on female patients.
I can’t pinpoint the first time I felt uneasy at the sight of my nose. In the months after Sophia’s surgery, I began to pay more attention to my reflection. From the front, my nose appears roughly symmetrical. Ordinary, even. But a closer look reveals the slight bone protruding on its right side. When I turn my head, this imperfection becomes glaringly obvious.
Sitting at the dinner table, I tuned out my parents’ chatter and scrutinized their faces. Mamma’s delicate nose resembles a smooth ski slope. Papá’s nose is larger and more robust. A small divot between his eyes is the only hint at his two nose surgeries, which both corrected his deviated septum and removed his nose’s natural bump.
Unlike my sister, I don’t have a deviated septum. I had simply inherited Papá’s original nose. As hideous as my nose may have seemed to me, it still managed to do an excellent job of fulfilling its actual function: allowing me to breathe. Unlike my sister, I couldn’t use a legitimate medical issue to justify getting a nose job. Any operation I received wouldn’t be covered by insurance. I doubted my parents would ever pay out of pocket for an unnecessary cosmetic surgery. I knew I would be stuck with a nose I hated for the rest of my life.
Though I couldn’t control what my nose looked like, I could prevent others from seeing it. I shied away from candid pictures, fearing my side profile would be photographed. I used contour to create the illusion of a thinner nasal bridge. Yet I never articulated these feelings of insecurity to anyone outside of my immediate family. I doubted my slim-nosed friends would understand how I felt.
The first thing I noticed when I met Sara was her nose. She has a classic Levantine nose: it’s broad, curved, and easily the most prominent feature on her face. The awkward stiltedness of our initial conversation quickly faded as we swapped stories over strawberries and Trader Joe’s macarons.
“Every girl in Lebanon gets a nose job for her sixteenth birthday,” she said, popping a macaron in her mouth. Sara planned to follow in their footsteps. Months later, we lay side by side on her bedroom floor. It was during the hazy hours of a sleepover, when everyone has the sudden urge to reveal secrets about themselves. She admitted that she’d once broken down in tears after her sister’s boyfriend made fun of her nose. We promised to celebrate our high school graduation with matching rhinoplasties.
Throughout our friendship, Sara became more comfortable with her nose. For her senior art project, she sculpted a ski slope nose and a larger one resembling her own. At the exhibition, she discussed how her nose had been handed down for generations and was a symbol of Palestinian survival in the face of oppression. I thought of Abuelo’s wheezing laughter, his wrinkles emphasizing his nose’s asymmetry. That little bump Papá and I inherited from him doesn’t hold the same cul-
tural significance as Sara’s, but it’s one of my few physical ties to my Mexican side of the family. Is my hatred of my nose a subconscious rejection of my heritage?
Part of me has always been aware that my distaste towards bigger noses is not a unique phenomenon. When Tilda Swinton portrayed the maniacal Minister Mason in Snowpiercer, she requested a prosthetic nose to hint at her character’s villainous side. Half of Gisele Bündchen’s face is obscured in a 1998 magazine cover because of the photographer’s worry that her nose was too large. Jennifer Grey’s mother encouraged her to get a rhinoplasty, convinced that it would give her daughter the chance to play non-Jewish roles and support her burgeoning career.
What is it that makes certain noses so undesirable? Is there a scientific explanation for the appeal of a dainty nose? Is it the centuries of stifling Western beauty standards and the stigmatization of non-European noses? Is it personal preference?
I don’t claim to have a newfound appreciation for my nose. Yet over a year since Sara’s exhibit, I continue to turn a question over in my head: Is my desire for a rhinoplasty truly my own?
The summer after senior year has come and gone. Neither Sara nor I got our noses done.
- MAIA NEHME
On Faith
I regret not going to mass enough as a child. My abuela, Pope Francis-loving devoutly Catholic Argentine that she is, brought me along in toddler-hood as I sat, impatient, through long services I could not comprehend. Despite the fact that I never wholly believed, was never able to fully give myself over in service of the Lord, imbued in me still is the shame I see in everyone whose family has devoted themselves to Catholicism. In adolescence, I found in my mind: God is disappointed. In reply, I would say aloud, defiantly: “God is not real.” And yet, the guilt remained as I quickly recanted.
[Because you are lukewarm, and neither hot or cold…] (Revelation 3:16).
I have always wanted to be religious; I have always lacked conviction. To be religious requires a deep certainty, a feeling that has been described to me but never understood. I’ve asked my relatives how they feel God, and they tell me he just is, His love felt warm through cold times and faith in Him bringing them through dark night. There have been many times when I have wanted God’s voice in my ear, when faith was welcome to me despite my protests in opposition. My guilt is pervasive, even in times when I am most certain of his non-existence, I have been unable to proclaim this. I adopted Buddhist philosophy, after my mother, and sutras brought me some peace. Even then, as has long been the case, when asked if I was religious, my response was as follows:
“I’ve always wanted to believe in God.”
“But do you?”
And then comes my non-answer. I despise being called agnostic.
And what of my queerness? At 13, I cropped my hair short. My haircut could be described as nothing other than boyish, and my love for flannels helped little with middle-school accusations of lesbianism. Though I grew up in San Francisco, home of the American gay community, my guilt held strong. Even when I relented and embraced the queer identity that was so physically apparent, I internally abhorred this seemingly natural quality of myself. Even worse were the many sit-down conversations that resulted. Though I never ‘came out’ to any relatives, my masculinity prompted them to hold earnest conversations with me about God, about what was right and what was wrong.
Recall: my father’s violence and stinging words about ‘that gay bitch’ (myself).
Recall: abuela’s tears and a sincere plea that I come back to the church.
Recall: conversation with my aunt in the car, where she told me of her adolescent crush on a close female friend, interpreted as a cautionary tale.
No matter. I brushed these aside, just as I brushed off my religiosity.
11% of Hispanic adults identify with some queer identity. 55% percent of Hispanic Americans identify as Catholic. Percent of overlap is uncertain– how could it be? I was distanced from my Latino relatives, and as a result my Latina identity, when I stopped living with my father. Over time, it became easier for me to see myself as queer, then lesbian (despite a 9-month stint of denial in which I dated the Whitest Boy Alive). Consistently divorced were my Latina and queer identities. Irreconcilable– I distanced myself from the former to be closer to the latter.
And then– Alejandra. I had never dated someone proximal to my own culture (though she is Nicaraguan, and my family is from South America). I fell in love with her as she told me stories about her childhood in Managua, then Puerto Rico. I fell in love with how she said my name with the same inflection as my family, how she whispered phrases of adoration in Spanish as we lay in bed. A few weeks in, I asked her, cautiously, how much her family knew of her queerness. Her unabashed reply:
“I don’t really give a fuck what they think. They used to criticize me, but I don’t let them give me shit for it. And they love me still.”
Are Pentecostals more accepting than Catholics? No– and yet. I thought of the last time I spoke to my abuela, when she told me that she did not wish for me to come visit her anymore. The reasons why went unspoken: my relationship with her son too complex, my demeanor too American, my appearance too masculine when I had been granted beautiful feminine features by God. Her last text echoed: Nati may God guide your steps and know how to be grateful for everything you have Just like that it had been over– I read her wish as final, and have been left in silence since.
Alejandra’s uncle, who she lives with, is a Pentecostal pastor. He hosts a daily church service over Zoom from their living room. He can speak in tongues– when I first heard him, I asked Ale what he was doing, what it meant. She told me his ability was a gift from the Holy Spirit, a message from God. He had been sanctified when he converted from Catholicism to Pentecostalism, and drawn to preaching ever since. What a blessing, I thought, to feel you have been chosen in such a way. What a disappointment that I have never been called to such a higher purpose.
When I first visited her home, I heard loud, booming voices over a microphone set. In the living room, I witnessed her uncle and aunt, singing loud, singing praise, singing to God, who surely must hear them. If He doesn’t, I doubt that he hears anything at all– don’t tell them I said that. I know quiet reverence, sit-on-yourknees and pray type reverence. I know begging for forgiveness when you’re 12 and you don’t believe, I know confessionals and whispered blasphemies and deep, deep shame. Ale tells me, “Pentecostals are one of the hypest churches,” and I laugh, because she’s right. I’ve never seen anything like this.
I haven’t seen my grandmother since I was fifteen, but Ale’s home brings me back. I love the warmth, helping her aunt wash rice as she prepares a catering order fit to feed a lion. And she’s welcomed me here– she hugs me when I enter, calls me hermosa, laughs when I tell her ‘no sabo’ and shakes her head at Ale. “You have to teach her Spanish,” she says, smiling. “Or at least have her tutor E.J. in English.”
“She’s glad to have you. She thinks you look like a doll, what with your long eyelashes.” “Did you tell her they’re fake?” I reply, and she rolls her eyes and pushes me onto the couch.
To me, this form of welcome is what sits at the heart of Latino culture. Family is purportedly at the center of our culture, the nucleus around which the practices deeply ingrained over generations are passed on. I know this only through observation– my own has never functioned in such a manner. Oftentimes I view this as a loss. If, hypothetically, I had a family functional enough to share in food, language, and love with their children, I would feel a part of two cultures, two languages, two disparate histories made alike within myself. Instead, I hold little grasp on either my Latina and Asian identities– my cultural existence is a zero-sum game, in the end. To seek out cultural affinity by means other than family feels inauthentic, though I have tried to do so with some success. Still, I wish that I could speak to my father about his immigration at 15, wish that I could learn family recipes from my grandparents, whose food served in childhood exists today only as a distant memory.
In Alejandra’s family exists potential for this connection. Their acceptance comes with an asterisk– yes, you are loved here, but your homosexuality is not. I’m left wondering: does there exist love without condition? Is the familial love I so desperately grasp at simply a fictitious, dream-land of my imaginary? I do not believe that God’s love is conditional; it is described as an everlasting love, one that cannot and does not have to be earned.
So why do I believe that my queerness is why I cannot earn familial love?
[God is love, and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.] (1 John 4:16)
I am still learning to forgive– my abuela for her silence, my father for his cruelty, and myself for the shame I hold so tightly. If God is there, and listening, I think He would want that. It is here that my relationship with my Latina identity begins to heal: not in certainty, but in these small, quiet acts of internal reconciliation.
And in the meantime– I don’t have to choose between being Latina and being queer, between faith and identity. Maybe familial love will always come with conditions. Maybe the way forward is learning to choose what conditions we can live with, and which we might choose to leave behind. I’m learning, slowly, that the love I find in Ale’s home is just as real as the imagined love I have always craved.
- NATI SOMMA ‘28
Saudade
Rio is beautiful samba, praia, barcos aventura cheia de amizades cidade maravilhosa
Mas Rio não é tão vivo quanto você.
California is beautiful solazo, playas, banda cariño de mi rica cultura estado dorado
Pero California no es tan cariñosa como tú.
New York is beautiful skylines, pop, broadway long nights on city streets concrete jungle
But New York isn’t as beautiful as you.
Where I am doesn’t matter, my heart is always with you. Tenho saudade.
Te extraño. I miss you.
– ISABEL NUÑO ‘27
GABI RODRIGUEZ ‘27
Should I
Dress in black and mourn all my beloveds? Now that we are no longer obsidian and clay, we are used up motor oil and ash of palm.
Should I wear a denim skirt to the wake? No, denim is not the appropriate material, and I know I am not welcome in my genderedness.
Oh well. I’ll make you proud: Wear a white button down to the wake. If I cry it will be silent. I will volunteer to carry
the casket of us. I’ll put us in the ground and throw sand in the most appropriate amount. I will be sad enough and never in excess.
I will not embarrass myself as you seem to suggest I might. I will look straight ahead. Won’t be the women in black veils weeping.
Will be the tree tall and unwavering. Except for the slightest shiver, a leaf falling back down to Earth.
- ETHAN ESTRADA ‘25
Where are you these days?
And while we’re speaking of saudade,
Where are you these days?
Where are those eyes, Those ones we can’t see?
Where is that body, That left me lost, In the pleasure it brought.
And while we’re speaking of beauty, Where is that song
That played in the night
In the bars of back then, Where we used to stay,
Where we used to make love, No one there to interrupt.
Today I go out in the empty night
Like a bohemian
With no reason of being.
I do the bar-hop routine
That, despite the scene
Bring you back to me.
And while we’re speaking of passion
And reasons to live,
You really could just, Pop in now and then.
To those same spots, At night, in these parts.
Onde anda você?
E por falar em saudade
Onde anda você?
Onde anda os seus olhos
Que a gente não vê
Onde anda esse corpo?
Que me deixou morto
De tanto prazer
E por falar em beleza
Onde anda a canção?
Que se ouvia na noite
Dos bares de então
Onde a gente ficava
Onde a gente se amava
Em total solidão
Hoje eu saio na noite vazia
Numa boemia
Sem razão de ser
Da rotina dos bares
Que apesar dos pesares
Me trazem você
E por falar em paixão
Em razão de viver
Você bem que podia
Me aparecer
Nesses mesmos lugares
Na noite, nos bares
Onde anda você?
Hoje eu saio
Na noite vazia
Numa boemia
Sem razão de ser
Where are you these days?
Today I go out in the empty night
Like a bohemian
With no reason of being.
I do the bar-hop routine
That, despite the scene
Bring you back to me.
And while we’re speaking of passion
And reasons to live,
You really could just,
Pop in now and then.
To those same spots, At night, in these parts, Where did you go?
Da rotina dos bares
Que apesar dos pesares
Me trazem você
E por falar em paixão
Em razão de viver
Você bem que podia
Me aparecer
Nesses mesmos lugares
Na noite, nos bares
Onde anda você?
ORIGINAL SONG LYRICS BY VINÍCIUSDE MORAES
ENGLISH TRANSLATION BY SOPHIA McMANUS ‘26
The ‘Other Side’
Eternity beset me—for what does it mean?
To spit seeds into dust praying for trees. As if to say may nothing come of everything, may nothing come of me?
My mother is across the river
Her hair in a tight braid
She calls for me – yet I can not cross For the water is cold; unfamiliar
The women have gone swimming. Sisters, mothers, bag ladies.
I can only watch as my admiration molds into envy. For the water is warm; familiar.
Eternity beset me—for what does it mean?
To holler sweet nothings to somebody you can’t even see. sinking teeth into the flesh of the last velvet peach, gorging the seed on your tongue.
Savoring memories years after they’re gone.
Beckoning for somebody who I know won’t come
Until there is nothing left
But a hollow seed.
And you sink the seed into your skin
Until the slow burn starts to feel good. And the women in the river turn to face me In disgust.
I am hiding behind a boulder
Careful not to move for
One faithful lurch and the boulder
Will cause a wave.
I will cause a wave which will drown
The last living memory I have of the You.
The river is dry.
The land is barren. The women are no longer swimming. The river is dry
The land is barren. The seed hasn’t sprouted in nine years. The river is dry.
The land is barren. My mother is no longer across the river.
Eternity beset me—for what does it mean?
To curse heaven in vain while begging for rain
To fill this river again.
So I can cross to the other side.
It is the tenth day, and the seed has sprouted
The river is running away
From me and as I chase it
I run further from what I want.
Forever slouching toward the withering sun,
For she hung a masaccio where only God could see, Mocking me.
Stain of the harsh, solid blood
That let from your fingertips when you first
Tried to tell me that You couldn't stay any longer.
My spine bends to face you
Each bone contorts to the shape it was
When we would hug on new year's day
Then not for another year.
When we ate twelve grapes and every wish I had Was for you to leave
And for me to want it back— That sick childish want.
The calla lilies are out.
And the ladybugs are eating other ladybugs
For the mirage distorts my view
Of what appears to be my mother on a boat.
I alas met eternity at the edge of a cascade in a wooden boat—falling free; With a smile, She gazes down. I peer up.
“So Long!” her bare hands cry out
To the last gale of wind which surrounds my last indefinite breath.
- DIEGO PAZ
‘27
Uma Nova Ponte de Amor: Minha Jornada com o Português
“Amo você, espero que você tenha tido um bom dia” essa mensagem de mi apa ajuda a responder a pergunta porque você está aprendendo Português?
Ao vir para Yale, eu tinha o objetivo de aprender outro idioma. Tive aulas de Italiano, mas não consegui me conectar com meus colegas de classe, professor e língua. Na minha primeira aula de português com apenas uma pergunta a forma como eu me vi foi transformada.
Qual é seu nome?
Eu respondi Rosa, pronunciando o R como se faz em inglês ou espanhol. Minha professora Mariana medisse que em portugue meu nome é “Rosa” mas parece com “Hosa.” Meu nome, que já foi razaão de insegurança como rótulo mexicano estereotipado, transformou-se, redfiniu-se e ultrapassou sesu limites originais. Não é mais um nome que lutei para abraçar; é agora a minha primeira ponte com a língua portuguesa – uma ligação que simultaneamente é nova e profundamente enraizada.
Esse semestre quando meu pai me pergunta “cómo estuvo su dia, mija?”
Sempre respondo com oi em português, aprendi que “cool” é legal. Oi em português, aprendi que a cor azul é a mesma em espanhol e português. Oi em português, aprendi sobre o caju tropical brasilerio, quero muito provar. Às vezes no telefone eu tento testar minha avó e meu pai para ver se eles conseguem entender frases em português a partir d espanhol. “Tenho muita tarefa todo dia” ou coisas como “eu sou muita engraçada.” Isso me lembra de quando eu era uma garotinha e sentava à mesa contando à minha família o que aprendia na escola. O português me permitiu reconstruir essas memórias.
Eu te amo
O português me deu o dom de encontrar novas formas de expressar sentimentos com quem amo. São três palavras que eu digo a minha família todos os dias. A palavra saudade que não existe em outros idiomas é uma forma de explicar o amor que tenho pela minha falecida mãe. Uma palavra e um sentimento que não podem ser expressados unicamente em uma palavra em inglês ou espanhol.
Transparente Azul Como Um Aquário
As palavras com letras da canção Imagina esse Cenário por Matuê, meu artista preferido. O português me deu a oportunidade de descobrir novas formas de arte. Cantores como Matuê e Anitta. Também escritores Cantores como Matuê e Anitta. Também escritores como Joaquim Manuel de Macedo. E também artistas de rua como L7M e NUNCA.
Então na sexta-feira quando eu recebi a mensagem de meu pai “Amo você, espero que você tenha tido um bom dia” eu senti amor, nostalgia, paz e conectividade. As emoções e s entimentos que a jornada de aprender porutgues me proporcionou.
Entre Passos Between Steps
There is a certain comfort in the perception that part of the human experience is common to all. The laughter of a child. A conversation among friends. The pain of departure. No matter where I find myself, I know the people there have gone through at least some experiences similar to mine.
However, in that same comfort of similarity, lies the discomfort of what I have never experienced and never will. Behind that which is universal, there is also the thought that no one has ever lived what I have lived. It is safe to say that no other person in the world has said what I have said, seen what I have seen, felt what I have felt, lived what I have lived.
And in this individualization, there is also the dreadful conclusion that the vast majority of the human experience does not belong to me. People were born, grew up, lived, and died with purposes and meanings that will never be mine. I have lived dreams of people I never knew, and others have casually fulfilled, dreams of mine that I will never achieve.
In the same way, I believe it is possible to lose oneself within oneself. I live today the life I once dreamed of and will someday miss. Would these dreams be any less mine simply because I have become someone else?
I believe that in the eternal quest to live with purpose, the present is neither at the beginning nor the finish line of life, but in the middle. If I don't die upon reaching all my goals, know that I have died nonetheless. On the day when there is no longer in me the desire to achieve anything, I will also no longer exist. And in the eternal restlessness for what is to come, I try, unsuccessfully, to make the next journey arrive without letting the time pass. I remain eager for the next step even knowing that it will only come with the end of the current step, which I desire with inverse intensity.
I always move forward with the desire to walk with both feet on the ground. Given the choice between lifting the back foot to move forward and standing still, I end up tripping over myself and falling. Driven forward solely by the inexorable force of time, I always live to appreciate the past, look around in the present, and try to make the future arrive, but without it having to come.
Há um certo conforto na percepção de que uma parte da experiência humana é comum a todos. O riso de uma criança. Uma conversa entre amigos. A dor da partida. Não importa onde eu me encontre, sei que as pessoas dali já passaram por pelo menos algumas experiências muito parecidas com as minhas.
Entretanto, nesse mesmo conforto da semelhança, também jaz o desconforto daquilo que nunca experienciei e nem nunca vou. Por trás daquilo que é universal, há também o pensamento de que ninguém nunca viveu o que eu vivi. É seguro dizer que nenhuma outra pessoa no mundo disse o que eu disse, viu o que eu vi, sentiu o que eu senti, viveu o que eu vivi.
E nesta individualização há também a tenebrosa conclusão de que a vasta parte da experiência humana não me pertence. Pessoas nasceram, cresceram, viveram e morreram com propósitos e sentidos que nunca serão meus. Eu vivi sonhos de pessoas que nunca conheci e outros realizaram, com trivialidade, sonhos meus que nunca realizarei.
Da mesma forma, acredito ser possível perder-se em si mesmo. Vivo hoje a vida que sonhei no passado e sentirei falta no futuro. Seriam esses sonhos menos meus simplesmente porque me tornei outro alguém?
Creio que na eterna busca de viver com propósito, o presente esteja não no início nem na linha de chegada da vida, mas no meio. Se eu não morrer ao atingir todos os meus objetivos, saiba que, mesmo assim, morri. No dia em que não existir mais em mim vontade de atingir nada, eu também não existirei. E na eterna inquietação pelo que há de vir, tento, sem sucesso, fazer com que a próxima jornada chegue sem que o tempo passe. Fico na ânsia para o próximo passo, mesmo sabendo que este só virá com o fim do passo atual, o qual desejo com intensidade inversa.
Por isso, sempre sigo em frente com a vontade de andar com os dois pés no chão. Dada a escolha de tirar o pé de trás para seguir em frente e ficar parado, acabo por tropeçar em mim mesmo e caio. Levado em frente tão somente pela inexorável força do tempo, vivo sempre a apreciar o passado, olhar ao redor no presente e tentar fazer com que o futuro chegue, mas sem que tenha que vir.
Minha Casa tem Nomes My Home Has Names
I’ve been spending a lot of time away from home.
For a variety of reasons, I can't seem to find a place to settle. I find myself restless, hopping from one nest to another. Thinking in a purely bureacratic sense, my home has always been the one on Avenida Efigênio Sales. But, setting the official aside, where is my true home?
On one hand, I ask myself what makes a home, truly, a home. I imagine the answer varies greatly depending on who responds. I manage, through a series of arguments not worth citing, to establish that a home is definitely not just a building.
Finally, I come to the conclusion that my home has no address. It has names. Surnames. Flesh. Bones. My home is everything I miss. Everything I think and rethink, but I cannot describe. At the same time that I find a place to live within myself, I know that this doesn’t depend solely on me.
My home was not the building where the bed I slept in was. My home is not a college dormitory. My home is not the hotels, hostels, sofas, or floors I've slept on. My home is both me and not me. My home has names. And, although my own name is also included, it is not the only one.
I have homes that live and walk around. I have homes that are now buried underground. I have homes I've never lived in. And, although one day I myself will end up underground, my home will never be there. On the day my last home goes, so will I.
From the collection of homes, my existence was made. I've been alone, but I've never been lonely. From the contradiction of not having a home and at the same time having infinite homes, I lived. And I live.
On a second thought, I've never spent even a second away from home.
Tenho passado muito tempo fora de casa.
Pelos mais diversos motivos, não consigo me encontrar estacionado em algum lugar. Encontro-me inquieto, pulando de um ninho para o outro. Pensando num sentido puramente documental, minha casa nunca deixou de ser aquela na Avenida Efigênio Sales. Mas, deixando o oficial de lado, onde é verdadeiramente a minha casa?
Por um lado, me questiono o que faz uma casa ser casa. Imagino que a resposta varie muito dependendo de quem responder. Consigo, por uma série de argumentos que não vale a pena citar, estabelecer que uma casa definitivamente não é somente um edifício.
Chego na conclusão de que minha casa não tem endereço. Tem nomes. Sobrenomes. Carne. Ossos. Minha casa é tudo aquilo que sinto falta. Tudo que penso e repenso, mas não consigo descrever. Ao mesmo tempo que encontro em mim moradia, sei que isso não só de mim depende.
Minha casa não era a construção onde ficava a cama que eu dormia. Minha casa não é o dormitório da faculdade. Minha casa não são os hotéis, hostels, sofás, chãos por onde dormi. Minha casa ao mesmo tempo sou eu e não sou eu. Minha casa tem nomes. E, por mais que o meu nome também esteja compreendido, não somente o é.
Tenho casas que vivem e andam por aí. Tenho casas que hoje estão debaixo da terra. Tenho casas que nunca vivi. E, ainda que um dia eu mesmo vá acabar debaixo da terra, minha casa nunca lá será. No dia que minha última moradia se for, também irei eu.
Do conjunto de casas fez-se a minha existência. Já estive só, mas nunca fui só. Da contradição de não ter uma casa e ao mesmo tempo ter infinitas casas, vivi. E vivo.
Pensando melhor, nunca passei sequer um segundo fora de casa.
Nuestras Sillas
- DAVIANNA INIRIO ‘27
Sumarha Tariq ‘27
Lua Prado ‘26
Gia Cabral ‘26
Paloma Vigil ‘25
Diego del Aguila ‘26
Davianna Inirio ‘27
Maddy Megal ‘25
Carolina Melendez Lucas ‘27
Maia Nehme ‘27
Michaell Santos Paulino ‘26
Alcalá ‘26
Samantha Suazo ‘26
Sofia Morfin ‘27
Nati Somma ‘28
Camila Bautista Fuentes ‘27
We would like to thank the following people and organizations: Timothy Dwight College, Carlos Vigil, Julie Romero, Bryan Romero, Las familias Vigil, Prado-Souza, Romero, Amores, Cabral, Alcalá-Mendez, Santos Paulino, Megal, Inirio, Nehme, Bautista Fuentes, Suazo-Vásquez, Del Aguila y Lucas, and the rest of the endlessly hard-working Claro team for continuously making this dream into a reality for our fourth edition. Here is to many more…
Rosa
¿Si se puede? ¡Claro que sí!