AMPERSAND
The Best of The Bundle
Fall 2018
&
AMPERSAND INAUGURAL PRINT STAFF Editor-in-Chief Pablo Gonzales Artistic Director Katie Stewart & Courtney Sosnowski Print Adviser Professor Carol Perry
SPRING 2018 WEB STAFF Founding Advisor Macarena Hernรกndez Editor-in-Chief Pablo Gonzales Managing Editor Morgan London & Abby Opersteny Social Media Editor Clara Ruth West & Kristina Valdez Multimedia Editor Jacobe Beltran & Madeleine Morren Fundraising Coordinator Austria Arnold & Sam Jackson Fundraising Manager Maddie Gee Event Coordinator Hannah Lemieux Design Editor Josh Rizzo Copy Manager Joy Moton Copy Desk Chief Taylor Wolf Copy Editor Taylor Ward
SPECIAL THANKS
Professor Hernandez Words can never say how grateful we are for you. Thank you for your vision, heart and soul that you pour into this publication every day. Thank you for dreaming of a publication that would give us a voice. From conversations over cups of coffee to countless copy edits, thank you for being our champion and empowering us to always find a way. Dr. Brad Owens Thank you for your wisdom and guidance. Thank you for your willingness to lend your eyes for a copy edit and your time for us to learn from you. Thank you for trusting us with your writersand for being so selfless and always beling willing to help us. Dr. Sara Stone We appreciate your endless support. Thank you for being an incredible mentor, teacher and friend of The Bundle. Thank you for leading and loving our department so well. Thank you for believing in our potential and for your dedication to us and to our department. Professor Carol Perry Thank you for your grace and willingness to take Ampersand under your tutelage. You inspire us to look outside of the box and to create something that we love. Dr. Mia Moody-Ramirez Thank you for your support and love for The Bundle. Thank you for always attending our events and always advocating for us. Ms. Margaret Kramer Thank you for your enthusiastic energy and care for The Bundle. Thank you for making sure that we are always in compliance. We would not be able to operate without you. Ms. Lanisa Tovar Thank you for all that you do to help The Bundle operate everyday. Thank you for being willing to make copies, print flyers or reserve tables for our events. You light our days. We couldn’t do it without you.
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR I never really thought much of the ampersand symbol. As a child, I never knew what it stood for until I got older. During the days of the ancient Romans, the word et was written in a ligature to represend the word “and”. Later, as Latin became more widely spoken across the globe, the ligature evolved to become the & symbol that we all know. When I think about The Bundle, I think of energy; an energy that sees no boundaries, sailing willfully toward unchartered waters. Those who are familiar with The Bundle know this energy and know how this energy is captured in our voice I have had the honor of serving as the Editor-inChief this past year and I am so proud of where this publication has gone in the past year. I am proud to be part of a project that brings writers, creatives and artisans together to create something truly incredible. However, I also think of The Bundle as unfinished and unending. The Bundle began with a single story and then other stories followed suit. The Bundle is an unfinished collection of stories that is being added to every day. The ampersand symbol represents The Bundle perfectly because each time we publish a story, we add where the last writer left off.
Pablo Gonzales, Editor-in-Chief
Those who are familiar with The Bundle know that the magazine has historically been an exclusively online publication that provides a distinct multimedia narrative storytelling. It may come as a surprise that The Bundle has published a print issue, but when the idea came for a print edition of the magazine, we acted in typical Bundle fashion and took the idea and ran with it. This publication has never been one that believes in the word “no”--we are always eager to try new things and see how they can add to our publication. Our hope behind this issue is that you would read some of our favorite stories that we have published and be as touched by them as we are. As the able to screen. edition
Editor-in-Chief, I am excited to see how we are capture the same energy on paper as we do on We are thrilled that we have published a print that is completely unique to our collective voice.
As you read through our stories in this first print issue, listen to our hearts. One of my favorite things about The Bundle is our writers ability to be so vulnerable with the audience. Join us as we explore this new realm of print and experience this connection firsthand.
ORIGINAL STAFF
T
he Bundle magazine was created in the fall 2015 semester by Professor Macarena Hernandez and her student, Elizabeth Arnold. Hernandez taught a magazine and feature writing course where she and her students learned how to write long-form narrative stories for magazine publishing. However, when her students pitched to publications, very few of their stories were picked up. In response, Hernandez and Elizabeth Arnold decided to create a new publication that would provide an outlet for her students to be published that could be run by students, too. With that The Bundle was born. The Bundle began with its first story, “The Good Girl” by Arnold. In this story, Arnold opened up about the eating disorder that she kept hidden throughout her life. After
this story was published, other writers became empowered to write about their experiences, struggles and triumphs. Today, The Bundle has grown to be a full-service online publication. Operating with a staff of 15 students, The Bundle operates under the department of Journalism, Public Relations and New Media at Baylor University. Besides publishing content online daily, The Bundle hosts all-university events, coffee hours with distinguished authors and journalists and raises money for Inite, a non-profit organization that provides school supplies for children in Haiti and the Dominican Republic. The Bundle is the story of us—a story that is not complete, but growing and changing and continues to inspire young writers to find their voices in today’s world. It was this idea, “and then,” that inspired the title publication of Ampersand for its first print issue.
Top: Rachel Toalson, Natalie Galerne, Molly Meeker, Juliana Taylor Bottom: Haley Rodriguez, Elizabeth Arnold, Sierra Smith
TABLE OF CONTENTS
6 You Can’t Go Home Again 8 The Surprise That Changed My Life 10 Lessons Learned Under The Wild Blue Yonder 11 The Good Girl 12 If I Had The Chance 14 Proximity Creates Empathy 15 What Being Biracial Means To Me 16 She Told Me I Lived In The Ghetto Rae Jefferson
Madison Fraser
Morgan London
Abby Opersteny
Elizabeth Arnold
Laura Grace Pustmueller
Clay Sprague
Kristina Valdez
SHE SAID I LIVED IN THE GHETTO
Rae Jefferson
T
he first time I ever took a friend back home with me during college, she told me I lived in the ghetto. My family is not well-off, but we are not poor. I do not, in fact, live in the ghetto. I have had many things I did not need – toys, electronics, an excess of clothes. I have never gone hungry. However, money has been a constant source of anxiety for me from a young age. I was born to a young couple that works harder and loves deeper than anyone else I have ever known, but who never had the chance to attend college. I grew up with my eyes drifting to the right and left, always sneaking a peek at the riches held by my friends. Initially, I did not fully appreciate the sacrifices my parents made to see me happy and saturated in undue materialism. Homes with tire swings and treehouses in the backyard were a perpetual fantasy for me, a lower middle class kid who spent her childhood in too-small apartment units and, for a number of years, couch-surfing in extended family members’ homes. Somehow, even through the roughest patches for our family, my parents have always managed to make their lives about other people. I have memories of waking up at 4 a.m. to stand in long lines with my parents at Wal-Mart during Black Friday so we could get toys for impoverished children while they were on sale. My dad has never hesitated to give money to family or friends, even if it means
rearranging his own budget to do so. Sacrifice for others in the midst of personal suffering has been an unspoken family mantra for as long as I can remember. We moved into our first house the summer before my freshman year of high school. I do not believe there was ever a child more grateful for a mailbox on the curb. I remember helping my dad hammer the metal mailbox post into the ground during one of our first days in the new house. He was a meticulous man, determined to adjust and readjust the post until it was exactly perpendicular to the ground. Seeing as how it was already dusk and I was highly agitated by the thick Houston humidity, I quickly grew annoyed by his diligence. When we finished, he made me run inside to get my mom. Then the three of us stood in the street, marveling at the reflective street numbers so perfectly adhered to the side of the pole. I was still annoyed. I wish I had taken more care to observe that simple, but well-deserved, milestone with my parents. I understand, now, that my dad’s perfectionism was a manifestation of the pride he held for his home and all the work he had put into our family up to that point. I have never been more aware of my financial status than I am now, as a college student. The latest and greatest in cars, clothes and technology are forever flashing before my eyes, a constant reminder that I will almost always be a
step or two behind the majority. I would be lying if I said I never feel shame because I have to work to keep the lights on in my apartment, or because I carry an unending anxiety about maintaining my GPA so I do not lose any financial aid. Although my socioeconomic status has been a source of great frustration and comparison in my life, I have the ability to love beyond net worth and see that people are valuable simply because they exist. Unfortunately, this is a challenge for some of the students I have encountered. Given the opportunity to change my life, I do not think I would. I would not add any more money to my name than I have been granted, because every penny or lack thereof has contributed to the relational wealth of my life. Ever since I was a child, I have watched my parents work jobs they hate so we could eat and have iPhones and occasionally go to the movies. But I have also witnessed two of the world’s most benevolent creatures go above and beyond to eliminate the suffering of those around them, however they were able to, no matter what it cost. This is one of the most valuable lessons I have ever learned, and no amount of money in the world could teach it better than my hard-working family. That being said, I would still love a tire swing. There’s a huge tree in front of my house – it may not be too late to ask my dad to put one up.
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YOU CAN’T GO
“I consider myself so lucky to have been raised in the same home my father grew
Madison Fraser
I
grew up on a 250 acre ranch that had been in my family for more than 50 years. Unlike the typical cattle ranch, this property sat along the coastline where the river that separated my house from my grandparents’ flowed into the Pacific Ocean. On the evenings that offered breathtaking sunsets, our family would sit on the deck and talk about our day as lambs jumped around in the background and the sun disappeared into the sea. Growing up in an environment like this was something my brother and I often took for granted. We loved having the opportunity to ride our quads in the fields, walk across the private path we had to the beach where we learned how to fly fish, and with just a quick run up the hill we could go to grandma’s house for dinner when our parents didn’t feel like cooking that night. We loved being spoiled with the amenities of ranch life, but, at an early age, we learned the responsibilities of it as well. In the third grade I bottle fed a calf, who I proudly named Daisy, who was abandoned by her mother shortly after her birth. Every morning before school, and every evening after, I would
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take the bottle down to her pin and sit with her until it was finished. And as I walked around the yard she would follow me thinking I was her mother. For a third grader, that’s a very exciting feeling. As my brother and I grew older, the ranch became less of our focus. Although it still required as much work as before, we began to drift away. We eagerly awaited the day when we would leave our small town, but always cherished the one when we would return to our ranch on the coast. That is until we no longer could. My dad worked two full time jobs and never had any help on the ranch. Eventually the work became too much for him to do on his own with my brother and I away at school. I knew his and my grandparents’ wish was to pass the ranch down to one of his children. However, neither of us was at the point in our lives where we were willing to put off getting an education and pursuing our own careers. My parents decided last fall that it was time to put the land, and our homes that sat on it, up for
HOME AGAIN
up in and to have played in the same fields and barns he did as a child.” sale. And this summer it actually sold. I consider myself so lucky to have been raised in the same home my father grew up in and to have played in the same fields and barns he did as a child. It was a rare experience my brother and I shared, and , unfortunately, my own children won’t have it. I don’t think anyone really expected, or hoped, for that matter, that the property would sell at all, let alone so quickly. While it was the right thing to do, it’s hard to believe that my home is no longer my home. My parents have since relocated to a smaller home in a nearby subdivision. Mom complains that not everything fits in the new house, and dad complains that there are too many neighbors. While it appears we are still blessed with stunning ocean views, I have yet to actually see our new home, besides what they show me during FaceTime. Our two dogs, that once never knew the boundaries of a fenced yard, now spend their days moving from the garage to a small pin in the backyard.
Soon I will be making the first trip back since being away at school this year and I’m surprisingly nervous. I didn’t think much of anything when I left for school in August. Too excited about coming to a new school in a new state, I never took the opportunity to enjoy the last time I would drive out of my driveway. Or the last time I would hang laundry on the clothesline in my grandma’s rose garden. I’m not sure what it will feel like to come home to a new house. Especially when getting to the new house requires me to drive past the old one and see all the changes the new owners have made. It’s saddening to think of a stranger tearing down buildings that my grandfather built 50 years ago just because they’re starting to age, or seeing unfamiliar cars in the driveway where my car is supposed to sit. While I can’t imagine what the first drive by will feel like, I do know that everything happens for a reason, and this was the right decision for my family. I may be missing out on sunsets from that deck, but I get to experience them from a new view with the family
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THE SURPRISE THAT CHANGED MY LIFE Morgan London
M
ost surprises come in the form of brand-new cars, adorable puppies or a sweet sixteen party, but mine was completely different. When I was 17, my little brother Miles was born. He was 100 percent a surprise, and the most incredible one at that. Not many people are juniors in high school when they find out they are welcoming a new sibling into the family. At first I was shocked, as were my parents, not fully able to grasp the idea that a little nugget was about to enter our family. The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. I love babies, there is no doubt about it. But usually, you get to spend an hour or two with them and then return them to their parents. I was about to experience babysitting at a whole new level. When Miles was born, I knew that our relationship was going to be unique. I never imagined that such a tiny human could mean so much to me. I like to think my role in his life goes beyond being his sister and extends to a motherly one. When he was first born, boiling bottles and buying formula after drill team practice was the norm for me. Now that he is what I like to call a “little man,” our relationship has grown. From ice cream dates to introducing him to Disney movies from my childhood, to becoming Santa Claus for a night, I cherish every moment I get to spend with him.
As both of us grew older, Miles learned to crawl, stand, walk and talk. I learned how to move three hours away from home and experience college. While I knew moving away from my family was going to be a difficult transition, there was one thing in particular I refused to let happen -- I didn’t want to become the older sister that he forgot about. When you’re three, life is a whirlwind. Those five hours at his church preschool program seem like forever, and naptime like a full night’s sleep . I didn’t want his new memories to replace old ones with me. Being away from Miles is difficult, but it makes the time we have together even more important. While I try my best to always ask him questions about school or our dogs when we are on the phone, his attention only lasts so long. So, when it comes to weekend visits or Christmas break, I want to make them as memorable as I can. If there is one thing I could thank Miles for that he can truly understand, it would be unconditional love. People always say that they would do anything for their child and not think twice about it, and I have the same mindset about Miles. When you are 17 years older than your brother, you get to watch him grow, which is the most rewarding experience ever. I could never have asked for a more perfect, stubborn, adorable surprise in my life.
LESSONS LEARNED UNDER THE WILD BLUE YONDER Abby Opersteny
Off we go into the wild blue yonder, Climbing high into the sun, Here they come zooming to meet our thunder, At ‘em boys, Give ‘er the gun!
M
y father spent 21 years serving as a pilot in the United States Air Force. Yes, I guess that makes me an Air Force “brat.” That also makes my mom a military wife and my father a veteran. But looking back at the years spent waking up to my dad in a scratchy green flight suit walking out the door, singing the National Anthem at various ceremonies and having to make new friends at school every year, the lessons I learned gave me much more than a right to stand as “The U.S. Air Force” song is played. The adage “it takes a village to raise a child” not only makes sense in the Air Force, but it is a strictly followed rule by all involved. My afternoons as a kid were spent in sunburnt, muddy-footed idyllic bliss, running from Air Force base house to base house, from mother to mother until 5:30 was reached and the National Anthem played over the loudspeakers. No matter where we stood, no matter what we were doing, we dropped everything to place our hands over our hearts and sing along. This was a type of unifying dinner bell for our daily adventures, calling us back to our respective homes and families. There was no trip for groceries spent without seeing a familiar face, no squadron party or ceremony thrown without adults and children who quickly became a second family. The shared experience of military life connects you with teachers, Girl Scout troop leaders and the new family next door. I would not be the woman I am today without the influence of my Air Force community. Be proud of who you are. Life as a military child set me apart. I quickly learned that the life my family and I led was different than the life of my cousins or the other kids in church youth group. At first, my instinct was to feel isolated and unsure of what others thought because I was different. But, as I matured and learned more about what an honor it was to serve our nation, I grew more and more proud of my dad. When we
stood to be recognized as a military family, I held my head high. When I looked over at Dad’s beaming face, I beamed right along with him. Just as it is a privilege, not a right, to live in our free nation, it is a privilege to be a part of a family that serves it. Respect others and say “thank you.” The Air Force base that I was raised on is full of gratitude. There was never a shortage of thank yous, supportive hugs or “get to know you” block parties. No good deed went unnoticed, whether it was watering a neighbor’s flowers or taking time to introduce yourself to a new family. “Thank you” came out with sincerity, and it came out often. At first, I didn’t understand what it meant when someone thanked my dad for his service. I thought that his job was just that -- a job, and he went along with it like any lawyer, doctor or businessman would. It occurred to me after a few years that thanking him would never do him justice. We are undeserving of the amount of sacrifice given by my dad and thousands of others, yet it comes anyway. It is grace and self-sacrifice laid out for me, right in front of my eyes. The least I can do is say “thank you.” Love unconditionally. This last lesson has perhaps been the hardest to learn. At times, I did not want to love my class of almost all new students, unfamiliar because my old friends had been stationed somewhere else over the summer. I did not want to love the Air Force for taking my dad away for weeks, months and even a year on end. Yet I found myself face-to-face with the most blatant and pure unconditional love. My parents, teachers and dear neighbors loved me with a zeal that I have not seen since. My mom, lonely for an entire year while her husband was stationed in Honduras, loved my sister and I relentlessly. My dad, overseas, tired and wishing to come home, loved us without fail. This was the gospel to me: an unending love that endured all things. The Air Force was a picture-perfect representation of Christ -unwavering courage under that wild blue yonder, knowing that perfect love would cast out all fear. This Air Force daughter is forever grateful.
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THE GOOD GIRL Elizabeth Arnold
E
ven at 5 feet 4 inches and 89 pounds, I never thought I had an eating disorder. Never thought I could. I was a good girl, and good girls don’t have problems — or so they told me. Eating disorders are for Hollywood celebrities and New York fashion models, not 4.0 students with dreams to change the world. For five years, I’ve battled anorexia nervosa. I am far from celebrity or model. I’ve never thrown away or thrown up food. In fact, I love food. But when you’re praised long enough for perfection, high performance comes not from a desire to succeed, but rather from a fear of failure. I was a normal American good girl. I played flute in the high school band. I made straight A’s, never partied and volunteered with National Honors Society. I dressed modestly, attended church and went on a mission trip to Zambia, Africa. On the surface, I had it all together. People used to comment on my size. “You’re so skinny!” they’d say. “You should be a model!” I distinctly remember our hairdresser, a family friend who’d known us for years, complimenting my small frame. Her heavily made-up face looked me over with an admiring eye as she declared, “My, you look like you’ve lost weight! Your mom must be happy.” Ironically, my mom and I had spent the 20-minute drive to the salon debating my decreasing desire to eat, a recurring conversation those days. When did it become okay for grown women to praise 15-year-old girls for being too small for their size zero jeans? People often assume those with eating disorders drop 20 pounds in a matter of weeks, but I just never gained the weight. I was the same height and weight in sixth grade as twelfth. After one year, I stopped having a period, and at 15 I sat terrified in a sterilized gynecologist’s office explaining to the lady that, no, there was no way I could be pregnant. By the time I saw a dietician, I was 85 percent below average weight. My BMI didn’t even show up on the chart. Yes, I recognized I had a problem. I just had no idea how big the problem was. Like most teenage girls, I searched earnestly for what could
make me unique, and in the process quickly learned I was really, really good at being skinny. The problem with “skinny” as a talent is that after a while, you stop seeing yourself as skinny. I no longer knew who I was. Thoughts of food and exercise consumed me. I lifted weights while flipping psychology flashcards, ran on the treadmill while drilling Spanish vocabulary and did crunches while memorizing Bible verses. If someone had raised warning signs earlier, maybe my family and I wouldn’t have been so shaken the night we sat in a dietician’s office as she pronounced “anorexia” like a death sentence. I spent the next five months and remainder of senior year in intensive outpatient therapy. My friends and family offered hamburgers, milkshakes and cookies, which in retrospect was probably like offering a lung cancer patient a pack of cigarettes, but, hey, it’s the thought that counts. I ate more during those five months than I had in my entire life combined. I didn’t even know a body could physically consume so many calories in one day. Note to the wise: don’t ever try to consume 700 calories in six minutes as you’re racing out the door late for school. Also don’t put wheat germ in orange juice, because as they say, what goes in must come out one way or another. I gained 20 pounds in four months. Four months that happened to be the same four months every other girl was trying to lose weight to fit into prom dresses and graduation getup. The doctor said my number one goal was to stay alive. Any faith I thought I had crumbled. Once you hit rock bottom, there’s only one way to go–up. After five years and by God’s grace alone, I’m continuing to learn what healthy really means. Some days I go running, some days I sleep in. Some days I chop a salad, some days I polish a burger. On occasion, I even look in the mirror and think, “Dang girl, you’re cute.” I’ve learned I’m a fighter. I’ve learned God is good and He is faithful. I’ve learned I’m stronger than I think I am, and the world is more accepting of real girls than everyone makes it out to be.
AMPERSAND | 13
IF I HAD THE CHANCE Laura Grace Pustmueller
Dear Mom, I don’t even know where to begin. It’s been 19 years since you passed away. Most days when I think about you, everything is fine. People can ask me about you and I tell them the facts. No emotions involved: My mom’s name was Laura; she had breast cancer; she passed away shortly after I was born; she was tall and blonde just like me; I am named after her. I can list it all. Other days, I get really sad, but in my mind, it doesn’t make sense for me to get upset. I feel like it is wrong for me to be sad. We barely knew each other. I was only around for 18 months of your life, all of which you spent in the hospital. Months I will never remember. You’re practically a stranger to me. I attempt to swallow my emotions, but I end up in tears. Sometimes it makes me mad. It seems so unfair that I never got to know you and that you were taken from our family so early. Some days are harder than others, but why do I feel like I struggle with sadness more than my older sisters? Is it because they are comforted by the memories they have of you? Is it because they were old enough to understand what was happening when you were sick? I don’t understand why I struggle with so many emotions when I barely knew you. All I know is that I wish I had the chance. I wish I had the chance to know you. From what I’ve been told, you were incredible. People who knew you have reached out to me, telling me stories about you. They would tell me how you were loving, kind, considerate, selfless and joyful. I’ve heard that even when you were in the
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hospital, you sent flowers to your friends, always thinking of others first. I wish I could have grown up learning from you and following your example. I wish I could be just like you. I wish I had the chance to make memories with you. The only memories I have of you belong to others. Stories they have shared with me. It seems unfair that I was left with no memories of my own. I wish I could think back to the times we shared together. But I don’t and that has been hard on me. I rarely hear my dad or my sisters talk about you. I know they struggle with their feelings too, so I am scared to talk to them about you. I don’t want to make them upset, but I wish I could hear their memories of you so I could remember you like they do. I wish I had the chance to talk to you. I wish we could talk and catch up for hours, like two old friends who haven’t seen each other in a while. I want to hear your voice. I want to hear about your life, what you were passionate about, what your favorite things were, what you struggled with when you were my age. I want to hear every piece of advice you have for me. I want to hear how you and dad met and fell in love. I want to tell you about my life and what I’ve learned. I want to know if you would be proud of me. I want to be friends. I know that life is unfair sometimes and things happen with no explanation as to why, but it doesn’t make it any easier accepting things without questioning them. I know I’ll never understand why I did not get much time with you. All I know is that I wish I had the chance.
PROXIMITY CREATES
EMPATHY Clay Sprague
I
suppose I should start by saying that, on paper, I should be antiimmigration. I am a white male who was born into a deeply conservative middle class family in the heart of Texas. Both of my parents are registered Republicans, and until I was 16 I would’ve proudly told anyone that I was too. It all changed that summer, when I landed a job as a floor hand at a local aluminum plant. When I arrived for my first day of work, I realized that my new job was not going to be at all what I expected. We worked 10 hours a day, five days a week in a shop that, during the sweltering drought, hovered around 90 degrees. Because each of the metal presses required two people to operate, everyone had a partner. Mine was a man who, for the sake of anonymity, I’ll call Jose. Jose, a 63-year-old who had illegally immigrated several years before, was well known at the plant for working hard, complaining little and never missing a day or showing up late. However, there was one problem with Jose, he spoke next to no English. I am embarrassed to say that when we first began to work together I held Jose in a sort of contempt. He worked fast and hard, causing me to constantly lag behind, and because I could not communicate properly with him, my frustration only continued to grow. In my mind, I began to identify Jose with every negative stereotype about Mexican immigrants. I regarded him as a job thief and thought him too ignorant to learn my language. My annoyance with Jose became so great that at one point I asked my boss for a different floor partner. In the end, I decided to stick it out with Jose, and I am glad that I did. Over the following weeks, Jose and I slowly became more accustomed to each other, learning to work together in a unique way. We developed our own kind of language, composed of broken phrases in Spanish from me, broken phrases in English from him and, most importantly, a series of gestures and body language. We began to eat together at lunch, and although it was often a quiet
affair, sometimes we would watch YouTube videos or play games on my iPhone. It was during these times that I began to learn more about Jose through pictures and broken communication. Jose had lived most of his life in a small village in Mexico about 30 miles south of Ciudad Juarez, across the border from El Paso, Texas. There, just as in America, he had spent the majority of his time doing manual labor in order to help provide for his three children. However, when Jose was 59 years-old, he decided that it was time for a change. A local drug cartel had been steadily gaining power in the region, and Jose wanted to get his family out. And so, to that end, Jose packed a single bag and headed north. Once he crossed and managed to secure steady income, he sent for his family. Since their arrival, Jose’s children had kids of their own: two granddaughters for him to dote over. I remember this vividly because when he was describing his family to me he was very adamant that they were born the U.S. “They can take me back, but not them,” I remember him saying. It was during this conversation that I first truly began to grasp the reality of Jose’s situation. After living in the same place for 58 years, he was forced to flee. He had to work a low-paying, high-intensity job, from which he paid taxes. Yet, his life was one of constant worry. At any moment, someone could take him from his family and throw him back into the brutally violent situation that they had fled. He could lose everything he had spent years working for. And as for the job stealing, I can assure you that after many months of working alongside Jose and many other undocumented immigrants, the jobs they take for the pay they get is nothing to envy. Looking back now in the context of our current administration, I find it very disturbing that decent, hard-working people, like Jose and his family, are seen by many as what’s wrong with this country. In fact, in my eyes people like Jose embody the very essence of the American spirit, and the pursuit of happiness.
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WHAT BEING BIRACIAL MEANS TO ME Kristina Valdez
I grew up in an interracial home. My father is Mexican and my mother is black. But, I never noticed growing up. I am lucky to have a family that teaches me that even when races and cultures are noticeably different, love covers all differences and My multi-racial heritage is simple to me because it is all I have known. We have soul food, greens and cornbread, with traditional Mexican food, homemade tamales and Mexican rice. The colors in my house mix beautifully and lovingly. My parents met in 1991 during college while they both went to Stephen F. Austin University in Nacogdoches, Texas. My father was a waiter at a restaurant when my mom sat in his section. She slipped him her number along with a tip. My dad called her that night. My father’s love letters to my mom whenever she would spend the weekends away from him sit in a shoebox tucked away from my curious eyes. I never asked whether my parents had any uneasiness toward dating outside of their race, but my parents did tell me about their families’ reactions to it. My father’s Mexican family referred to my mother as “la negrita,” meaning “the black girl,” until they got engaged two years later. My mother was the only black person to join my extended family. My grandparents immigrated to the U.S. from Sagora Quinella, Mexico. They became citizens in 1974. For a little while, they lived in Chicago, Illinois, where my dad was born, until they moved their family to Brady, Texas. They would live the rest of their life in rural San Angelo, Texas. Their home was the perfect place to pop fireworks and be lured into the house from the freshly made tortillas. My abuela died two years ago and my abuelo followed after her one year later. The first time my father met my black grandmother, she asked him if he wanted something to eat. My father looked at her confused because he didn’t hear what she said. My grandmother took it as he didn’t speak English. She began to shout, “EAT! EAT!” while demonstrating what eating looked like to my bilingual father.She began to frantically circle her hand close to her mouth with an imaginary spoon. My father just nodded and said, “Yes, please.” Innocent ignorance. My parents had three children with unruly, curly hair and almond-colored skin. When I was in middle school, I distinctly remember my mother asking me,“Do you ever think about how you have a black mom and a Mexican dad?” she asked. I had to stop whatever my middle school-self was doing to look at my parents — to really look at them. But, other than their skin color, I couldn’t find a difference or why I would have thought about their ethnicities and race before now. They were
my parents and they happened to be from different nationalities. The only other time I paid attention to my ethnicity at a young age was in fourth grade when each student was supposed to bring a type of food to represent our cultural heritage. My mother and I made marble cupcakes, a chocolate and vanilla swirl cake because she said I was like a swirl of races and ethnicities. At times, I do find it difficult to identify with both my heritages when the world just sees me as black. My mother attributes my lack of a second language to my father seeing his children as black. I have to remind even myself of my Mexican heritage that weighs equally on my perspective and in my blood. However, for my parents, 23 years later and my parents are still married. Hey, they did break up once: A couple of months after they started dating, the comments from my father’s aunts in Mexico began to crack their relationship. “They said that black people were seen below Mexican people,” my dad said. “Mexican people were above black people. Even my mom would say that white people were above us, Mexicans were second and then there were black people.” My dad has always said parents influence who their children marry more than they should. They got back together after my dad decided to ignore his family’s advice. Although we were the hybrid bunch during all large family get-togethers, my parents were loved by their in-laws and kin. My brothers and I were the beloved grandchildren that begged to stay for an extra night during summer vacations. Now, as a young woman, my eyes tip-toe across racial boundaries that mean nothing to me. I am attracted to men both inside and outside my ethnic heritage. Obviously, there is nothing wrong with dating within one’s race, just like there is nothing wrong with dating outside one’s ethnic box. When I think about my two separate heritages I think of my late grandmothers, cooking in their kitchens. I remember my maternal grandmother sitting on a stool in front of her stove watching her German chocolate cake baking. The kitchen is a sauna from the summer heat and the stove. Sun rays shine on her black skin, and she looks at me. I think of my paternal grandmother standing, pressing the palm of her hands into dough that will become a flour tortilla. Her black hair curls under her ear as a November breeze pushes through the living room. She looks at me, too. I think of the beauty of both of my cultures and how my parents’ love created me. I am black; I am Mexican. I am both.
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AND
The origin of the ampersand can be traced back to the Latin word et, meaning ‘and’. The E and the T that make up this word were occasionally written together to form a ligature (a character consisting of two or more joined letters). Writing the word this way saved the writer time, with one letter flowing seamlessly into the next.