Issuu

A JOURNAL OF FIRST-GENERATION STUDENT WRITING

LUCID ISSUE 2

TRANSITIONS & TRANSFORMATIONS

2021 • UCI | COMPOSITION PROGRAM

LUCID ISSUE 2 TRANSITIONS & TRANSFORMATIONS 2021

EDITORS Scott Lerner and Ryan Chang

INTERN Adrian Hernandez

DESIGNER Alex Tatusian

PROOFREADERS Yolanda Venegas, Bryce Lillmars, Jie Zhuang, and Erik Kongshaug

FOUNDING EDITORS Rachael Collins and Scott Lerner

Lucid is funded by the Composition Program at UC Irvine.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks to our generous, supportive colleagues in the ComposiStudent bios and more: tion Program and beyond sites.uci.edu/lucid who helped bring this issue + Instagram @lucid_journal together in various capacities, including: Brad Queen, Elizabeth Allen, Rachael Collins, Jackie Way, Jie Zhuang, Yolanda Venegas, Spencer Seward, Sarah Hanson-Kegerris, Bryce Lillmars, Erik Kongshaug, Pichaya Kositsawat, and Jason Kwock. Additional thanks for support from first-gen allies on campus, including Kevin Huie, Jonathan Alexander, Stacy Brinkman, Judy Wu, Anita Casavantes-Bradford, Hai Truong, Audrey Fong and Patrick del Rosario with the First Generation First Quarter Challenge. Thanks to Larisa Castillo and Humanities Out There internships, and Evani Chavez with SSI-Trio. Special thank you to Kelsey Brown, who helped create our online zine exhibit featuring UCI Library’s special collections. And, of course, we express our gratitude to all of the contributors and students who submitted their work to Lucid. Thank you for bringing your world into words.

“7,926 MILES,” BY SALEENA DHAKAL

“HE WAS ON HIS MORNING WALK,” BY JIAZHE LOKI CHEN

“AM I WHOLE?” BY JESSICA ORTIZ

“IN THE DARKROOM,” BY ALEXI AMADOR

“THE SIT-DOWN,” BY AUTUMN MARTIN

“LENDING AN EAR TO A SILENT WORLD,” BY RACHEL WONG

“INTERMISSION,” BY BETHANY LYN HATSIOS

“BLIP,” BY MIA HAMMETT

“CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF FATIGUE,” BY ASHLEY LAI

“AND THE WORLD WILL DIE,” BY STACEY KATHERINE MANOS

“MENTAL,” BY MINDY FUJIMOTO

CONVERSATION BETWEEN LESLIE ANN LOZA-ZAMORA AND RACHAEL COLLINS

“FLOURISHING,” BY MIKIZTLI SARAPURA ORTIZ

“HER NAME, WHAT DOES IT MEAN?” BY TING TING HUANG

“ON PAINTED NAILS: A FILM REFLECTION,” BY YVONNE PHAN

“VISIONS OF TRANSITIONS,” BY YESSENIA CAMACHO

“BALLADA DE FLORES HECHO DE BARRO: VII. LA RAMA” BY KARA WORRELLSGUTIÉRREZ

“THE THING ABOUT GROWING UP IN JOKERTOWN,” BY JAYLENE CASTRO

7,926 Miles SSSS S SS S SSS

SALEENA DHAKAL is a first-year, undeclared major.

AAA A A AAAAA A A A A

L EEEEE EEEEE L E E L EEE EEE L E E LLLL EEE EE

NN N N N N N N N N N N N NN

Wake up at 6am instead of 9 today. Do not miss the sunrise. Go outside your room and look at the city. The vegetable vendors are starting to put out fresh tomatoes. The lady in the store is frying crispy donuts. You can hear the temple bells ringing nearby. Try to take a mental picture of everything around you. Remind yourself that soon it might all be gone. Remind yourself that you will be 7,926 miles away from home. Do not cry. Just make sure to remember the room you grew up in. Get ready for the day. Come downstairs to the living room. Drink the hot milk tea (chiya) and enjoy those crispy hot donuts that your mother makes sure are always on the table for you. Sit with your mother

AAA A A AAAAA A A A A

quietly. Do not ask her too many questions. She is nervous about the day that lies in front of her. Remind your mother that everything will be all right. While your mother begins to clean up the kitchen, go to the small temple in your room and pray. Pray that everything your mother has been wishing for comes true. Pray that all the emotional and financial sacrifices she has made up until this point are worth something. There will be turmoil going on in your head. Some part of you will want your visas to get declined so that you do not have to leave your home. Put those feelings aside and walk out of the house. Call a cab. Sit in the front seat. Take a mental picture of every building you pass by. You will see the Koirala family (your neighbors for the last five years) getting ready to head to work. The kids from your apartment will be playing on the football ground nearby. You will see the daily newspaperman

riding his bicycle, dropping newspapers at each house. Smile at everyone that is around you. It won’t last for too long. Once you arrive at the US-Nepal Embassy, look at your mother’s hopeful eyes. Ignore your selfish mind that wants your visa to get declined. “I do not want to leave home. I do not want to leave the familiarity here and fly off to a land full of strangers,” your mind will say, constantly try to break you down. Do not listen to it. Just hold your mother’s hand and walk in. Do not ask your mother to buy you candy from the store inside the embassy. She does not have the money for it. She will get embarrassed. Instead, walk quietly and sit down in the chair nearby. While you wait for your names to be called, remind your mother that all those nights she spent worrying about the future of her children will end soon. Remember that life has not been easy for her. She got married at nineteen, had kids by twenty, and has had to work her entire life to give her children a place to live, food to eat, and proper education. So, remind her that we will soon be reunited with baba (father in Nepali). When your names do get called, stand up and walk to the lady in the office. Say hello. She will respond with a hello

and a nice smile. She will ask your mother a few questions in English. Hold her hand. She will be sweating. Translate the questions for her. “Why are you choosing to immigrate to the United States?” Neither of us truly knows the answer to that. But tell her to say, for our future, whatever that means. After a few minutes, thank the lady and walk back to your seat. Tell your mother that she did great.

HOLD HER HAND. SHE WILL BE SWEATING. TRANSLATE THE QUESTIONS FOR HER. “Why are you choosing to immigrate to the United States?” A

ISSUE 2

You will be waiting for half an hour but the time will pass slowly. Do not look at the clock. It will make the waiting worse. Instead, look at the American flag that hangs next to Nepal’s flag. Remember the teacher who taught you that Nepal is the only country with a triangular-shaped flag. Try to count the number of stars. Soon, you will realize that oddly both America and Nepal’s flags share the same colors: red, blue, and white. Tell your mother about your realization. Watch the reaction of people coming out of the room. Some will be ecstatic.

your room and look at the city around you. This time remind yourself that it will be gone. Remember your mother’s face. Walk back into the room. Take out the old suitcase from the garage. Dust it off. Pack your life into it. Call your friends. Even the ones who made fun of you. Say your goodbyes. Go to bed. Remember it’s the last night here. Remember that you will be leaving this soon. Remember the last festival you celebrated. The last

Take out the old suitcase from the Pack your life into it. Call your Some teary-eyed. Some will look like they have given up all hope. Look at your mother’s eyes. Tell her it will all be okay. Your names will get called. Slowly walk with your mother into the office. Look at the lady. Listen to her carefully. Listen to her say, “Congratulations, you will be going to America.” Do not get upset. Instead, look at your mother. Her eyes will be glistening like pearls. Take a mental picture of it. Hold your mother’s hand and walk out of the embassy. Wait while your mother calls her relatives. Watch her scream with happiness. Call a cab. Return home. Quietly walk into your room. Do not let your mother see your tears. Go outside

time you went to school. The last time you were with family. Remember your life here. Sleep. Wake up early. This time do not go to the balcony. If you do, you won’t be able to leave. Take a cold shower to wake up faster. Do not cry. Watch your mother say goodbye to her parents. Remember that she might never see them again. You might never see them again. Watch your grandparents say goodbye to their eldest daughter. Joke around. Tell them that 7,926 miles is nothing. Try to make them smile. Remind them you will make them proud. Sit in the cab. Prepare yourself for a long flight. Get to the airport. Look around. At one end you will see a family

overwhelmed with happiness as their son returns home. At the other end, you will see a husband saying goodbye to his newly-wedded wife. Try to find meaning out of this strange feeling. Give it a name. Immigration. Do not shed a tear. Walk into the airport. Keep your

e garage. Dust it off. friends. Even the ones boarding passes close by. Do not who made lose them. Look at your mother. Try to find hope. Remind fun of you. yourself that she is doing this for you. Get onto the plane. Get surprised at how gigantic it is in real life. Ask yourself, “Why does it look so small in the sky?” Buckle your seat belt. Smile at the air hostess who just wished you a good night. Now is the time. Remember all the mental pictures you took one by one. Cry. Wait six years. Study hard. Learn English. Make friends. Get into a good university. Grow. Find your identity as a Nepali American. Sit in your writing class. Get ready for an assignment. Begin by writing the title, 7,926 miles.

ISSUE 2

Was

on His

前言：元宵节快到了，无论你们在哪片土地上，我在这里祝愿大家平安，健康，欢乐。他仅仅是在清晨散步，他的死从何来，又将带我们去往何方？作者：陈家哲写于二月二十二日二零二一年 I. 袭击

JIAZHE LOKI CHEN is a junior majoring in Chemical Engineering.

人们在纽约华人街地区行走二月5日摄影：Angela Weiss/AFP/ Getty Images

Morning

这些视频是多么的令人发指。今年一月在旧金山地区，一位84岁的泰国老人在清晨散步的时候受到了袭击。一个视频录下了他被无情地冲击和撞倒在地的情景。在受到危及生命性的伤害后，他于某个周六离开了人世。 These attacks induced fear across 另外一个视频录下了一位老人在奥克兰的华人街被面朝下推 the local community in the face of ris- 倒并栽在水泥人行道上的情景。 ing Anti-Asian hate 这些袭击引起了当地人民对于反亚裔情绪的扩张的恐慌，但 crimes. However, 这不是第一次被看到的类似事件。根据 Stop AAPI Hate最新 this is not the first 报道，该组织在2020年收到了2800例仇恨事件的报道。 time we have seen cases such as these. 我们发现，虽然其中一些对亚裔的仇恨犯罪案例上了全国新 According to Stop 闻，大多数案件都没有得到关注。我们应该反思这些袭击和 AAPI Hate’s press 歧视被忽略的原因，同时应该学会保护自己。 release, the organization received 2800 reports on Anti-Asian attacks in 2020.

Walk

JIAZHE

CHEN

II. 为什么会被忽略，美国人在乎亚裔吗？

前总统特朗普指着中国的病毒数据，图表中最低的国家. Photo目前美 graph: Sarah Silbiger/AFP/Getty Images 国的种族歧视问题远远复杂于在美国历史课上讲到的黑白之争。很多种族暴力能揭示美国种族问题的复杂性，我们所看到的事件受到很多因素的影响。在最近湾区的事件中就能体现出这一点，当亚裔受到袭击的时候，肇事者却来自另外一个少数种族：黑人。由此我们可以看出亚裔被夹在黑白之间的窘境和我们推动游行运动的复杂性。我们之间许多人都对 “模范少数族裔” 这一说有所耳闻。我们常常被称为 “成功的颜色,” 这个说法来自于社会学家 Asians are often seen as “the color William Petersen的学说并且一直被白人当作工具来挑拨离间 of success,” a 其他少数族群。这一 “模范少数族裔” 的神话，有着太多 myth justified by 对于亚裔的偏见，这就是其中一个我们受到歧视的原因。 sociologist William 另外一个主要原因可以归咎于美国前总统特朗普。他的一些 Petersen’s theory in the 1960s. The 像 “中国病毒” 或者 “武汉病毒“ 的说法激起了一波反亚 myth has long been 裔的情绪。这些来自于一位美国总统的言论，反映了这个国 used as a tool, 家对于亚裔的种族歧视。若不是这个国家有着系统性和历史 by white supremacists, to drive a 性的歧视的话，特朗普不可能会发出这种言论。 wedge among among minority groups in 因为病毒激起的反亚情绪高涨，并不是最近的新鲜事。早在 the United States. 疫情刚开始蔓延之时，我们就看到了许多类似案件。甚至在美国大部分人民还没有带口罩的意识的时候，我们就起到了带头作用，学会了保护自己。但我们难以在种族歧视面前保护自己！在去年二月，一位亚裔女士在纽约地铁遭到袭击，原因是因为她带了口罩。不久，在加州的一所高中内，一位16岁的男孩被同伴欺凌，原因是因为他的同伴觉得他有新冠病毒。根据当时的一份来自于州立旧金山大学的报道，从2月9日到3月7日，与新冠病毒相关的亚裔歧视新闻报道增加了50%。由此，我们应该警醒自己，类似的案件在不间断地发生，我们应该学会去关注类似的案件并保护自己。

ISSUE 2

StandAgainstHatred.org 网站的截图 III. 怎么发出声音和保证自己的安全为了提高他人对这个话题的认识，最简单的帮助方法是转发这篇文章。您只需将本文重新发布到您的任何社交媒体平台上。另外，您也可以采取举报的形式，比如，亚洲裔美国人进步司法协会（AAJC）与他人共同创建了自己的组织StandAgainstHatred.org，在这里您可以举报任何类似的事件。 The simplest way to help is to 在新冠病毒流行期间，我们还应尽量减少人与人之间的来 spread the word, 往，并在必要时向警方报告任何紧急情况。 to raise the 另外，在种族内部或种族间就该主题进行对话也可以帮助改 awareness of others on the reality of 善您的处境。 “因为最重要的是，我们在一起。如果我们 racism. 所有人都能团结一致凝聚在一起，那才是长期解决方案，才 anti-Asian The Asian Americans 能在这种环境下为我们所有人提供长期的保护。” 鼓舞人 Advancing Justice 心的亚洲政治人物安德鲁·杨（Andrew Yang）最近就此发 Coalition (AAJC) has co-founded its 表了讲话。 own organization 也许最不明显但最有效的方法是教育。了解美国亚洲团体的 called StandAgains历史对于我们来说至关重要。作为国际学生，我们是新生力 tHatred.org, where you can report an 量。我们更要认识到，很多世纪以来我们已经成为这个国家 incident to make 的一部分了。从这个角度来看，我们不仅仅是“国际”的， it public. 我们更是这个国家的一体。

J “Am IO Whole?” U R

JESSICA ORTIZ is a first-year History major Lwith minors in Sociology ISSUE and 2 Humanities. 11

ALEXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXI AALEXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXII AAALEXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXIII AAAALEXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXIIII AAAAALEXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXIIIII AAAAAALEXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXADDDOR AAAAAAALEXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXDDDOOR AMMMMMAAAAADDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDOOOR AMMMAAAADDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDOOOOR AMADOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOR

IN THE DARKROOM

is a junior double majoring in English and Literary Journalism.

I could love you in the dark maybe I am lying when I ramble on about how hard this is even if you’re hiding from the world not ready to share yourself the dark hides me too blinding you from seeing me for what I really am afraid that for once maybe someone will understand me I let it cover me blanket my body like a newborn entering a world unknown strangers with myself reaching out to you to teach me who I am I want to feel familiar yet I can never bring myself to unlock the door

FADE IN

along with perfectly arched eyebrows, and a distinctive mole by her

INT. BEMBRY APARTMENTS KEYLYNN AND ANASTASIA’S BEDROOM NIGHT

KEYLYNN

The bedroom is cubeshaped, a 55” flat screen TV hangs from the wall. News coverage of the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor plays. Clothes burst out of the closet; it can hardly stay shut. A poster of an Egyptian queen and king hangs above the headboard of the large bed.

lips sits up and stares at the TV screen.

ANASTASIA DILLARD, 32, AfricanAmerican, a floral headband over her jet black hair

KEYLYNN DILLARD, 33, African-American, mohawk burst fade, chin goatee, with dark brown eyes, lies next to Anastasia hangs his head low at the news coverage.

Keylynn grabs the remote and shuts off the TV.

THE SIT DOWN (A SCREENPLAY)

You know Andre’s teacher said the protesting is the wrong way to go about things? But they still support the Black community. How does that even make sense?

ANASTASIA He didn’t even tell me that.

AUTUMN MARTIN is a second-year Literary Journalism major.

Keylynn shrugs.

KEYLYNN

From everything they’ve seen on TV about the protests and the school failing them, I think it’s time we talk to them. Keylynn places his hand on her thigh.

ANASTASIA They’re just so young. They

ISSUE 2

won’t fully understand it.

KEYLYNN They see what’s going on. They watch TV. And it’s our job to help them understand.

ANASTASIA I just don’t see this going well.

KEYLYNN It’s critical to have this conversation with them now. Trust me. Anastasia sighs.

ANASTASIA I do trust you, but I just don’t think now is the right time for this.

KEYLYNN You and I both know their teachers aren’t doing the issue any justice. They won’t talk to them about how the police perceive Black people and how they should act around them. Anastasia sits up.

ANASTASIA Will they understand the severity of the issue? No.

KEYLYNN If not now, then when? Keylynn crosses his arms.

ANASTASIA My parents didn’t have this conversation with me until I was a teenager and I feel like that was the right time. If they would have sat me down at six, I wouldn’t have understood anything that was being said to me.

KEYLYNN I just think why wait when the issue is already in their face right now. It’s time for them to understand that this isn’t just on a screen, it’s happening in real life. They need to understand that they aren’t exempt from this.

KEYLYNN

to tell them? Keylynn sighs.

KEYLYNN

INT. BEMBRY APARTMENTS DINING ROOM - DAY

Having the conversation alone isn’t going to prevent them from having an encounter with the police, but—

Anastasia is sitting at the dinner table with Keylynn and their kids, Andre and Rachelle, eating fettuccine alfredo.

ANASTASIA I just feel like they’re too young and explaining all this to them without having all the answers is just going to confuse them.

KEYLYNN I have the answers. I know exactly what I’m doing and what I’m going to say. Give me a chance to show you that I can do this.

ANASTASIA I don’t doubt you... what I doubt is how effective this conversation is gonna be right now.

ANASTASIA

Keylynn motions for her to come closer to him.

What if they ask you how we protect them from this? What are we going

Anastasia lays her head on his chest.

Baby, I don’t wanna do this either, but we have to.

ANDRE DILLARD,7, African-American, grown out hair, dark brown eyes, silver braces on his teeth, light brown eyes. RACHELLE DILLARD, 6, African-American, individual braids, clear lip gloss, and gray glasses sits beside Andre with her fork in hand.

KEYLYNN

ANDRE

When you two finish, me and mommy gotta talk to you so come straight to the couch. No tablets either.

KEYLYNN

ANDRE

No, it’s important you stay right here.

Did we do something wrong?

Anastasia has Rachelle in her lap.

KEYLYNN Not at all, it’s just something me and mommy have to talk to you about.

KEYLYNN It frustrates us to talk to you both about this. I know we’re in this quarantine and you’ve had to do school online, but as you’re Black children in this country we have to talk to you about more than the public health emergency, but anti-Blackness. I know you two have heard some stuff in school, but they haven’t told you everything you need to know.

Andre and Rachelle stare at each other and shrug. Andre stuffs a forkful of pasta in his mouth. INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

Family portraits in glass frames on the coffee table, the TV is off and the room is quiet. Anastasia and Keylynn are sitting on their gray recliner couch with Rachelle and Andre in their laps.

Rachelle stares at her.

Keylynn smiles and grasps Andre in his lap.

Anastasia raises her eyebrows.

this world, we have to talk to you about this.

Can I sit on the ground daddy? I’m too big to sit on your lap now.

ANASTASIA Because daddy and I love you two more than anything in

tion, but we want you to survive. Andre looks down at the ground.

KEYLYNN

ANDRE

There’s going to be people you come across who aren’t gonna like you because you’re a Black boy and a Black girl, you two should know that already. Whenever you come across the police, Andre, you need to remain calm as possible because they’re looking to provoke you and get a reaction just to justify hurting you. Because you’re a Black boy, you are already perceived as a threat in their eyes. Same goes for you Rachelle, many of them will harass and harm you.

We have been through enough. It’s not right, daddy.

ANASTASIA We know you two are very young, but we still need you to know this truth.

Anastasia puts her hands over her face.

KEYLYNN I know our people have been through enough. Like I always say, our history is not always about struggle, but about our triumphs as well. But we cannot forget our struggle either. What we’re talking about right now, what you see on TV, is unfortunately is a part of our struggle. Tears fall from Anastasia’s eyes rapidly.

ANDRE

KEYLYNN

Mommy don’t cry, we’re right here.

What your mother is saying is right. It’s sad that we have to have this conversa-

Andre puts his hand on Anastasia’s

ISSUE 2

shoulder.

RACHELLE How can you save us from all this? Keylynn puts his hands together. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He takes a deep breath, staring at the ceiling.

RACHELLE I don’t understand daddy, this is just so unfair.

KEYLYNN I know, but just let me— Keylynn stops himself and hangs his head low. Anastasia shakes her head before placing a hand on his shoulder.

RACHELLE It’s okay daddy, we’re here.

KEYLYNN Yeah, so we just want you all to know that now. It really pains us to have to do something like this but we’re Black people in America and if we don’t tell you about this stuff, then it’s like we failed you. Keylynn and Anastasia kiss them on their cheeks. The four of them sit in silence for a couple of minutes. Keylynn breaks the silence with a sigh.

KEYLYNN Do you two have any questions? Rachelle and Andre shake their heads.

KEYLYNN You two can go on in your rooms. We’ll be there in a minute. Andre and Rachelle nod and leave the

living room. INT. LIVING ROOM CONTINUOUS Keylynn moves closer to Anastasia and puts his arm around her.

ANASTASIA I told you it wasn’t gonna go well. And you didn’t have an answer, which was what I was afraid of in the first place. Anastasia throws her hands in the air.

KEYLYNN It could’ve gone worse.

ANASTASIA We’re gonna end up having this conversation with them again. Being put in this same position when they’re older and it’s just hard...

KEYLYNN

t pu pos the it’ s

Keylynn shakes his head.

ANASTASIA

I know that this is just a start. As they get older, hopefully this conversation will get easier...but it probably won’t.

I don’t think this is gonna get any less painful. Will they have a better understanding in the future? Most likely. Damn. I just feel like I dropped the ball, I was so confident going into this conversation and I knew what I was gonna say. But when she asked that question, it’s like I froze and I—I just couldn’t get an answer out. This isn’t normal. No parent should ever have to do this with their children. If we didn’t live in such a destructive system we wouldn’t have to do this. But we do. We do.

Them saying the things that they said really broke me. I think knowing that there’s so many things in the

A tear falls from Anastasia’s eye.

world that we can’t protect our children from is one of the most terrifying and scariest

KEYLYNN It hurts me to know that there’s

K EY It LYN cou N ld’ wor v e g se. one

We’ ANASTA re gon SIA up na hav end i ng con thi ver s sat the ion m a wit gai ut h n . in B ein thi g sit s sam ion e whe ey’ n re o l der s j ust and har d.. . nothing I can do to ease those worries. Nothing I can say that’s gonna make everything better. How do we raise these kids to

feelings I ever felt before. I don’t know how to cope with that, there’s no parenting book for it, no manual, no anything.

be strong and tell them that they’re capable of anything in this world when we know what’s out there? I listen to my dad tell me all the time that I just gotta do the best I can. But what if the best I can isn’t enough to save Andre from the police? What if it isn’t enough to save him from all the challenges that a Black boy and eventually a Black man has to deal with? What if it’s not enough to save Rachelle? Then what?

FADE OUT

Keylynn’s eyes begin to water and he stares up at the ceiling to keep them from falling down his face. Keylynn grabs her hand and kisses it.

ISSUE 2

LENDING AN EAR TO A SILENT WORLD is a second-year Psychology (B.S.) major, with a minor in Economics.

I was born profoundly deaf, alive in a world where everything was mute. I have no memories of hearing when I was a baby, but I do recall seeing my parents or relatives who tried to communicate with me in their language: Chinese. This was endlessly frustrating for them. Because of their frustration, they were willing to take any opportunity for me to be able to hear. My parents agreed to have us both – my sister was also born deaf – undergo cochlear implant surgery at the age of seven. I remember, after the decision, the day we went for a bewildering exploration. I was holding hands with my my little sister and my mom as she was getting us admitted to the hospital. The whiteness of the hospital’s walls and doors were gleamingly bright, yet it felt calming and peaceful. I did not know what was happening, so I was not scared when a nurse in blue scrubs came and led us to what would soon be our recovery room. We arrived in the room, and I jumped on the comfy bed without a care in the world. Then the doctor and his staff came and said they were getting ready to move me. My mom held my hand. I thought we were just going for a ride on a hospital bed. The next thing I remember, I was lying on the operating table with several surgical lights shining on my face. My heart started to beat faster and panic was rising over me. My eyes

ISSUE 2

began to wet and tears were falling from the sides of my eyes. I was still holding my mom’s hand while she smiled at me, assuring me that everything would be okay. I was getting sleepy; I tried to stay awake in fear of letting go of my mom’s touch but the blinds of my eyes were closing and that small gap of light was slowly fading into the darkness. I was in and out after the surgery, but it was successful. I’m unsure if it was due to the anesthesia or because I was so young, but undergoing this kind of experience to get the implant wasn’t traumatizing. At such a young age, I didn’t know the purpose of the surgery. I remember seeing my reflection against the TV’s pitch-black screen, being amazed with the bandage wrapped tightly around my head and curious to touch and feel its texture. It’s astounding as to how much a kid can remember and to know so little at the same time; the hospital experience is vivid in my head and I didn’t know why I had to go through it until I was old enough to understand. A few weeks after the surgery, I returned to the audiologist. She held the implant and explained what was about to happen. Then she carefully placed the CI, or cochlear implant, on my left ear; it stuck to my head like a magnet. When the audiologist activated the implant there were static sounds I could not interpret. It was shocking to hear for the first time. My head felt overwhelmed, as if a defibrillator was delivering an electric current through my ears. I didn’t cry, rather I was confused. There was a slight frustration in attempting to understand my parents. I could tell by their faces that they were eager to see if I could hear them talk in Chinese, if this would be the moment I could finally reply in any indication of the Chinese language. But no, it was white noise and I never heard a single word of Chinese before all this happened for me to say anything meaningful. Yet, for the first time, my world was not that silent anymore. It would seem like a life-changing moment for me, but it wasn’t an immediate realization that I could finally hear; I was just a confused child. It gradually took some time getting used to the activated implant. The ringing of the doorbell when someone presses the button. The dogs barking at the mailman passing by. The sounds of the flip-flops when I take a step. The beeping of the microwave.

LT FE D, E AD LM HE HE IF W MY ER S LOV A A RI R B FI TO DE -LA AS W - NG C DE RI RI UGH E T O IV C HR E -L EL T S. T R AN EN EA RR MY

The shuffling of the papers on the table. The sound of the water running while preparing for a bath. These were the “aha!” moments that I was fascinated by. There was so much to listen to, but it was also exhausting. To prevent water from getting on my implant and pressure sores on my implant site, I would take off the implant while showering and sleeping. I felt relieved returning to my silent world. Hearing all these auditory stimuli – long interactions with people, background noise, even my own breathing – was exhausting; sometimes it would drain me to the point of causing severe headaches. In those moments, taking off my CI was a great relief. To this day, I still feel the same way.

***

Even before my implant allowed me to hear, I didn’t see muchof a difference between my hearing classmates and me. There was no sense of discrimination. But in elementary school I gradually came to the realization that I had a hearing disability and accepted it as part of my life. I became more attuned to the ways in which my classmates interacted with me. One time, two girls went with me to the restroom. It was a thing where a group of girls would go everywhere together. When we got there, they were talking to me with sheer excitement and curiosity. They started mouthing “HI, HOW ARE YOU?” Then they told me to turn around and take my CI off to test if I really couldn’t hear them. I listened to them and did it. I did not turn around when they were yelling behind me, but I could have kept my CI on, ignored them, and provided the results they expected. I’m sure they were just curious, but it was disappointing to see that not many understood how cochlear implants,

ISSUE 2

or even hearing aids, worked. It was somewhat new for students to be introduced with; however, it would have been nice if they were knowledgeable about the functions of a cochlear implant. Along with these new interactions with these girls, I was first introduced to an FM unit that the teachers would need to wear. It was a wireless assistive hearing device that “enables sound to be picked up closer to a speaker, sound source or connected directly to the sound source and transmitted to the individual providing greater clarity of speech/sound and a reduction in background noise” (Hearing Link). It became a routine for me to give the FM unit to teachers every day in school. In middle and high school, the curriculum was much more challenging and required group discussions and projects. I usually didn’t have trouble formulating my thoughts and opinions, but it was difficult hearing my peers. Even with the FM unit, there was so much background noise that it made it hard to focus on what my peers said. Luckily, my peers usually understood my condition and struggle and did not mind speaking into my implanted ear. However, I was self-conscious about responding to my peers and contributing to the group discussion. I feared that I would say the wrong answer and that would make them think I did not listen to them. I was discouraged to participate and share all these possibly wonderful ideas in my head. I felt like an inconvenience to each group. “Never mind.” “It’s nothing.” “It doesn’t matter.” Those were responses to my requests for people to repeat themselves or fill me in with the discussion. Since then, A shake of the head when I asked what happened life has while trying to consume the whole conversation in a been like social circle. They would all end up in laughter over turning a joke I could not hear the first time. Sometimes, I on a music gave up and joined in with the laughter, holding out speaker for a fake smile and masking the isolation and loneliness me; I turn written all over my face. my CI off at night and throughout the day, anytime I want. Turning off my CI mutes people’s judgment of me, allowing me to build confidence and reflect on thoughts of my own. Rather than listening to belittling, derogatory remarks, I filter those out and keep what’s important:

***

constructive criticism that’ll help me grow and contribute to how I am not easily offended by others. However, my silent world isn’t exactly silent all the time; sometimes it’s a place where my imagination wanders and I hear my inner voice. Random thoughts and road trip songs would play how I think they sound in my head. Everything became more challenging in 2020—the year where a worldwide, catastrophic pandemic forced students to adjust to remote learning. Mediocre video quality. Inaccurate real-live captioning or none at all. Lagging audio due to either weak internet connection or the Zoom app itself. It’s been unpredictable time for everyone, but schools are trying their best to accommodate those with disabilities. I am currently in my second year of college. Many of my courses are asynchronous and instructors upload pre-captioned lecture videos. I have enjoyed watching the captioned videos without wearing the CI, though I do miss the in-person interactions with professors and other students. Once in a while, there’s a certain class where I need to attend mandatory weekly discussions. With a class size of about 30 people, it’s the closest interaction I’ve had the whole year. Other than the professor and the TAs, no one else knows of my hearing disability.

Since there are randomized breakout rooms every week, I don’t want to constantly introduce myself with my disability. I try to give my input and listen to others’ opinions. Sometimes I won’t be able to catch everything they say, but I still acknowledge and applaud them for sharing their ideas. Life has become more difficult for people with hearing disabilities during the COVID-19 pandemic. I rely a lot on lip-reading along with my CI. Putting on masks conceals my only access to reading people’s lips. In some ways, people with masks on can experience what it’s like not being able to hear and listen to the best of their abilities. Walking up to cashiers or listening for my Starbucks order, my subconscious goes into panic mode thinking about not being able to clearly hear what they say or listen for my name to be called. Though wearing masks could be an excuse for not catching what other people say the first time and asking them to repeat themselves, it’s still frustrating and, even now, I feel like an inconvenience to them. I am praying for the day where we can comfortably walk around without masks and continue where I left off – socializing with friends while improving my lip-reading skills and educating others on what a life as a deaf and hard-of-hearing student is like. I happily embrace my identity as a deaf and hard-of-hearing person. But am I normal? That question lingers around subconsciously with the tiny fear of being judged because of a misperception that those “deaf or hard of hearing would all have the same difficulties academically and socially.” But I am proud. I lend an ear. Today. Do not miss the sunrise.

ISSUE 2

Locked inside a house whose door was left open. Outside, the sun beats down. Nothing else above the sound of buzzing endlessly humming, running, simmering, pooling on the asphalt. Oasis of filth and sweat drips, sticking to the skin, wet to the touch, to the dry air. Teeth on dry lips leave marks, tracks for my train of thoughts of loss of holes in my memories. Where were we, when we were happy? Happier when the sun goes down. Another gamble, for another day

I n t e r m i s s i o n

The light goes cold. The ground stays warm. Warmer days ahead, warmer days behind bleeding into orange, hot and restless. A rush seeking change. Feeling as if you’ll never be better than you are now, as you were back then... But I never was what I thought I’d be. Look alive kid, get back on the tracks, go back inside, go back to sleep, and dream another... but before you go take a breath, a gasp, a flutter; a moth brushes against my face.

following the darkest kind of night. is a second-year double majoring in Film & Media Studies and (soon) English with a minor in Creative Writing.

BLIP

The soft moan of passing time Feigns breath in the emptiness Of sticky summer days. Whittling despair molds souls thin; A dreary battle of rounds unwon. Forgiveness rots tasteless And I am burdened With the verse of pain unsung. Solitude snags sweetly Against the piercing needle tick, Each second passed A quick yearn for peace. Riled motions subside–– And, briefly, warm twinklings Billow within my being, And in moments I lie coddled Like cupped palms below The river drag.

is a first-year English major.

MMM MMM M M M M M M M M M M M IIIIIII I I IIIIIII A A A AAAAA

ISSUE 2

“Cloudy With a Chance of Fatigue”

ASHLEY LAI graduated from UCI in 2021 with a B.S. in Biological Sciences.

AND THE

SSSS SS S TT TTTT TTTT AAA AA AAA C CC CCC CC EEE EEE E YYYYY YYY Y KK KKKKK K K AAAAAAAAAAAA TTTT TT TT HH H HH HHH EE EEE EE E RR RR RR RRR I I IIIIIII NN NN NN N N EEEE E E EEE

Don’t worry, I’ll just sit here

M M M M A A AAA NNN NNN O O O O SS S S

I’ll hum a song from a musical I’ll never be in

I’ll sit and I’ll think about how I should get a plant for the hell of it

MMMM AA N N O OO SSS

I’ll sit and think about how I must have upset him so much he can’t sleep at night

is a senior double majoring in Psychology and Social Behavior and Drama.

And the world will die. Yes yes, i’ll sit here and write meaningless poetry about my tangled hair and fraught relationship with my sexuality

WORLD

I’ll watch white women post about how hard it is to be a mother and how yoga has changed their world I’ll tell myself I should stretch more And the world will die. I’ll stare at my television and not hear a word I’ll sit on my couch and drink half a glass of cheap wine I’ll run a bath for dramatic effect And the world will die and die and die

WILL DIE

And I won’t have a thing to do with it. 8.21.20

ISSUE 2

I sat there on the dark brown couch after ending the call with my boyfriend. He was trying to teach me how to code, but I couldn’t THAT’S THE THING focus because I could feel the panic beginning to rise inside of me, ABOUT THIS PANDEMthe tears threatening to spill out, similar to cooking rice in a pot on IC: IT MAKES YOU the stove, waiting to bubble over and create a horrible mess. The more AFRAID OF PEOPLE. time I spent in my apartment the less I seemed to be able to breathe. YOU NO “Just two more weeks,” I was telling myself. “Two more weeks and LONGER I never have to see them or this apartment again.” ONLY HAVE Two weeks. TO BE M M M M I have never been one to cry in front of others. I was that AWARE OF stubborn type of person that liked to internalize their problems YOUR OWN and deal with everything on their own, in private. ACTIONS E E E E But the problem with living in an apartment, specifically in a AND YOUR room that was officially a double and unofficially a triple, was that OWN MOVEprivacy went out the window. There was nowhere to hide. MENTS. N N N N I felt vulnerable sitting in the living room of an apartment filled with strangers about to burst out into tears and I just wanted to be alone. Where could I go? I wasn’t going to cry in the living room where anyone could see me and I certainly wasn’t going to cry in the bedroom with two strangers. T T T T I quickly got up, grabbed a sweater, some shoes, and a mask MMMMM and left the apartment. I didn’t know where I was going, but M M M M M M I knew I needed to get out of there. The second I felt the warm M M M breeze of the outside world, I crumbled. Somehow crying out in IIIII the open felt more private than crying in my own apartment. My I sobs and erratic breathing filled the emptiness of campus. Holding I IIIII my breath whenever someone passed by, hoping they wouldn’t notice the girl crying hysterically in the middle of the night, but N N NN N knowing they probably heard my cries a mile away. A A A A Aimlessly I walked toward the empty park, which seemed more NN NNNN of a safe space than being indoors with students who had not yet DDDD grasped the importance of wearing a mask or the importance of D D D D staying home and away from crowded places. My fear of being alone DDD and out at night briefly disappearing. I had other things on my mind. Y Y L L L L That’s the thing about this pandemic: it makes you afraid of Y Y people. You no longer only have to be aware of your own actions Y Y and your own movements. Now you have to be conscious of those you live with – where they’ve been, with who, for how long. Their actions carry serious, even severe consequences for you. A A single decision that they make can change the health of the entire I household, including your own – my own – well-being. That’s how the pandemic messes with you, even if you don’t contract the virus. K It implants fear in you to the point where you are having panic attacks about living with strangers whose mysterious lives you can’t O control. It gets to the point where you still have a panic attack a

month after moving out of that triple by just thinking about the situation that caused you to spend sleepless nights in your car. You’re at the point where you were, and still are, unable to breathe properly. In this case, that you is me. I’ve been panicked for months and as a result I’ve lost motivation to get up, to eat, to do anything even remotely productive. My anxiety feels constant, which I have never experienced before. My panic attacks are an unwanted side effect. And I am not blaming all of my panic solely on the pandemic. I know there are a variety of reasons for what I’ve been suffering through, but the fear of contracting the virus has played a huge role in my mental decline this past year.

***

While I am fortunate enough to have access to resources such as my campus’ counseling center, this does not mean I have not faced a mental health stigma at school. While I was able to move out of that first triple, the second apartment I moved into was not much better. In the second apartment, I had my own room. But even with this new “privacy” I felt trapped and suffocated by the behavior of those who also lived there, both officially and unofficially. I reached out to my housing office and the professional staff dismissed my concerns. One person told me I needed to talk to someone that was below him about my concerns about policy violations and the effects that this toxic environment had on my mental health. When I followed his recommendations and spoke to someone else, my concerns were dismissed once again. Then I was sent to talk to another professional staff member at the office about it and yet again they told me that they could not do anything for me, that I could not move out, that I could not cancel my lease and move back home. I had to “just talk it out.” Not one was moved to action when I told them that I would sometimes sleep in my car because I could barely handle the thought of going back into that apartment. They didn’t seem to care that I chose to pick is a up a second job, putting myself more at risk during a pandemic junior because doing that sounded better than spending another second majorin that apartment. They didn’t care that I completely stopped ing in eating because I couldn’t handle going into the kitchen and seeing Psychothese people. Yet each person I talked to kept telling me to not be logical Sciences afraid to reach out if I needed anything. I almost gave up asking for help. I was just going to return to and Criminternalizing everything, even while recognizing that I was reachinology, Law, and ing my breaking point. I was tired of being shut down and I was Society tired of having to reexplain myself and my needs. Finally, seeing no

ISSUE 2

other option, I decided to look elsewhere for help and reached out to the counseling center again, as after the first time I contacted them I never actually followed through. I contacted them not to help me with my living situation but to refer me to an outside therapist so that I could learn to cope with the anxiety and lack of motivation I was dealing with better.

***

“You’re scared. Why?” The therapist looked at me with concern in his eyes. Please don’t look at me like that. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to know if something is wrong with me.” “Are you afraid of making a regular medical appointment?” “Well, no.” “So how is it different? You’re okay with finding out if some“I DON’T thing is wrong with you physically, but not okay if it’s mentally?” KNOW The tears started pouring out as I racked my brain for an answer. WHY IT’S God, I didn’t think I’d be crying during the first session already. I refused A LOT to look at my screen, not wanting to see the pity that covered his SCARIER face, knowing that if this was an in-person session, I would not be TO ME able to look him in the eyes. TO HAVE “I don’t know why it’s a lot scarier to me to have something SOMETHING wrong mentally rather than something physically, but it just is. I WRONG don’t want to find out if there is something wrong with me, I just MENTALLY want to be a normal person.” RATHER That was the best answer I could muster at the time, still in THAN denial that certain events, such as the night of my first panic attack SOMETHING and its lasting effects, such as the anxiety and panic I still feel when PHYSICALLY, I recall living in that first apartment, had led me to finally seeking out professional help. After my first appointment at the counseling center back in September, I was told to seek outside resources for a more long-term solution, as therapy at the counseling center is only short-term. Under normal circumstances, it isn’t that hard to get in touch with a psychologist for therapy, but as the pandemic drags on, it has become harder and harder. It surprised me how many times I called into a therapy center just to be told that there is currently a waitlist and no available openings right now. It also surprised me how difficult it was to get someone to listen to me and care about helping me. I remember reaching out to this one clinic, where I had two different sessions, but it was not with the normal therapists that their clients see, it was the person that does the assessments and pairs you with a therapist at the clinic and I did try to keep up with seeking help from them, but they stopped reaching out to me and I did the same. I don’t believe that the trouble I have had with mental health resources and obtaining help has

anything to do with my race, although I am Asian American and there has been an increase in hate crimes against Asians since the start of the pandemic, and that it has a lot to do with the mental health stigma that exists as well as being in a pandemic. I was still able to get help, I am continuing to get help, but I cannot imagine how much scarier it is to have been denied this care due to my race. And, sadly, frustratingly, this happens all too frequently. This pandemic has brought increased attention to the flaws and deep-seated racism that exists in our nation, specifically in the health care and mental health care system. With a pandemic that requires social isolation, social media has been the outlet where I have received news about everything that has been going on with the pandemic, such as death and positive case rates, and has been a way to keep in touch with my friends and family safely. I was scrolling on Twitter one day and came across a thread that talked about people of color not receiving adequate health care services and subsequently dying from COVID-related deaths at a greater rate than the rest of the population. This news outraged me, as even with so many medical and technological advancements these relics from the past persist. As a person who has been struggling with their mental health and a student that has taken several courses that talked about racial discrimination, such as the first writing course I took in college (where we focused on these racial discriminations and identities), Asian Americans and Race, and Critical Race Theory, I became curious to learn about how this discrimination affects the world of mental health and its resources. “Past disasters and public health emergencies. . . suggest that socially disadvantaged BUT IT groups will experience more psychiatric morbidity related to the JUST IS.” pandemic than socially advantaged groups” (Purtle). The pandemic has hit POC communities the hardest, their numbers contributing the least in terms of general populations, but the most in terms of COVID cases (OBHE). There has also been an increase of cases of anxiety and depression within POC communities that has increased as the pandemic continues. This is due to the lack of resources and stress (due to financial hardship, losses, and fear of contracting COVID) that these communities face. Because of the closures of “non-essential” businesses, many have lost their jobs and are facing financial hardships; “the stress of [this] financial insecurity is a well-established risk factor for psychiatric morbidity” (Purtle). A majority of these job losses were seen in POC communities, with “data from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics show[ing] that, between April 2019 and April 2020, the unemployment rate increased from 3.6 to 14.7 for the U.S. as a whole but from 11.5 to 31.2 among Blacks and from 3.7 to 16.7 among Latinos” (Purtle).

ISSUE 2

Unfortunately, as access to healthcare had been difficult before the pandemic for POC communities, it has gotten even more difficult as the pandemic has taken a mental toll on all groups. With the stigma that has surrounded mental health and POC communities and their mental health (such as disclosing the diagnosis of psychiatric issues and effectiveness of receiving mental health care), coupled with the discrimination of POC communities within the mental health care system, it is no surprise that they are the most affected by this pandemic (Cook). While these statistics are alarming, they were not all that surprising to me. That is one of the things that always perplexes me whenever I learn about racial discrimination and disparities: there is a plethora of evidence of inequality and the knowledge at this point seems fairly known, yet these problems still exist. I see the same problems arising over and over again throughout history with relatively big changes but, within the grand scheme of things, minute. The fact of the matter is that these communities never had the resources or access to health care services and the pandemic has shed light to the flawed system that has been in place for decades. Statistics show that BIPOC (black, indigenous, and people of color) are less likely to have access to mental health services, to seek out services, and to receive needed care. They are also more likely to receive poor quality of care and to end services prematurely (Perzichilli). “In general, minorities, particularly African Americans, have poorer health and health outcomes than do Whites and after entering care, minority patients are less likely than Whites to receive the best available treatments for depression and anxiety” (McGuire). Even after controlling for factors such as income, insurance status, and age, racial disparities within the mental health care system still exist. Mental health racial disparities can be traced back to when slavery 1 “This “disorder” was thought existed, with black people being described as having ‘“primitive to be a mild form psychological organization,” making them “uniquely fitted for of leprosy in which bondage.”’ (Perzichilli). False disorders such as ‘Negritude1’, the only cure was to become white” ‘Drapetomania2’ and ‘Dysaethesia Aethiopica3’ were created to (Perzichilli). justify the further institutionalization of slavery. A way to moralize 2 “a treatable mental illness that and explain the need of dehumanizing other human beings. caused black slaves In the 20th century, black people and other minorities were still to flee captivity. being deemed as psychologically unfit for freedom. He stated that the disorder was In many ways I can identify with these POC communities as a consequence of I am Asian American myself but there are a lot of ways in which slave masters who I cannot4. I recognize the privilege I have to be going to a four “made themselves too familiar with the year university that provides insurance and resources for mental slaves, treating them healthcare. But even with having these things available it was still as equals”’(Perzichilli). a struggle for me to receive help. Countless hours of me wishing to

3 “an alleged mental illness that was the proposed cause of laziness, “rascality” and “disrespect for the master’s property” among slaves” (Perzichilli). 4 “She’s Filipino too, but she’s white-washed.” White-washed? I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks. I can hear them all start to laugh at this comment but I don’t see what’s funny. It’s not my fault. “Mindy, how do you say umbrella in Tagalog again?” “Uhh, pieyoung?” The laughter starts up again. “She sounds so white when she says it.” I can feel my face getting hotter. I suddenly don’t want to be in this room anymore. I’m

no longer exist, shedding tears that no one would ever know about, just waiting for one person to hear me out. And that was all it took, one person finally listened to me and cared enough to help me and I was out of those apartments. But this was after many phone calls with different people and countless emails being sent back and forth where I was constantly being invalidated and ignored. POC communities have suffered and will continue to suffer if changes are not made. All healthcare, including mental health care resources, should be affordable and accessible to everyone. This pandemic has been one of the most isolating events in our lifetime. And as a society we are not only losing touch with ourselves WORKS CITED Cook, B. L., Hou, S. S., but with others as well. UnLee-Tauler, S. Y., Progovac, A. fortunately, this pandemic has M., Samson, F., & Sanchez, M. been going on for so long that J. (2018). A Review of Mental Health and Mental Health Care this way of living is starting to Disparities Research: 2011become normalized, and this 2014. Medical Care Research is the last thing we need right and Review, 76(6), 683-710. doi:10.1177/1077558718780592 now. We cannot go back to our McGuire, Thomas G, and old “normal”, nor do we want Jeanne Miranda. “New Evidence Regarding Racial and Ethnic to as it was full of ignorance Disparities in Mental Health: and selfishness. We should be Policy Implications.” Health working towards a new normal, Affairs (Project Hope), U.S. National Library of Medicine, one that doesn’t include masks, sorry that I didn’t grow up 2008, www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/ speaking Tagalog and that unless sick, out of respect for articles/PMC3928067/. I don’t know how to imitate others, one where we don’t have OBHE. “Double Jeopardy: a Filipino accent. (from COVID-19 and Behavioral Health my autoethnography, deep-seated racial disparity in Disparities for Black and ‘The Other Side every institution that we have, Latino Communities in the U.S.” of the Other Side Substance Abuse and Mental one that is accommodating to of Me’) Health Services Administration, all people because at the end https://www.samhsa.gov/ of the day we are all human. sites/default/files/covid19behavioral-health-disparitiesThe pandemic is not revealing black-latino-communities.pdf anything new, but this time we Perzichilli, Tahmi. need to acknowledge everything “The Historical Roots of Racial Disparities in the that is being uncovered and Mental Health System.” make a plan of action to finally Counseling Today, 12 May 2020, put an end to our old toxic ways. ct.counseling.org/2020/05/ the-historical-roots-of-racialAnd as I have mentioned previously, I do not believe disparities-in-the-mentalthe struggle I experienced was solely due to my race, health-system/. Purtle, Jonathan. “COVID-19 but just to the mere fact that mental health isn’t taken and Mental Health Equity in seriously. When you have a topic that seldom gets the the United States.” Social awareness it needs and groups of people that seldom Psychiatry and Psychiatric Epidemiology, Springer Berlin get the justice they deserve, it’s no wonder that these Heidelberg, Aug. 2020, www. communities suffer the most. ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/ PMC7298157/.

ISSUE 2

A Conversation Between Leslie Ann Loza-Zamora and Rachael Collins LESLIE ANN LOZA-ZAMORA is a third-year Biological Science major.

Leslie Ann Loza-Zamora is a junior whose autoethnography, “Redefining the American Dream,” opened Lucid’s first issue. That essay was originally written in Dr. Rachael Collins’ Writing 37 course, two years prior, when Leslie was a firstyear student. Earlier this year, Rachael and Leslie continued their multi-year conversation and discussed where they’ve been, how they got there, and where they’re going. This conversation, in large part, took place on Zoom. Further clarifications and follow-up questions were completed over email. The conversation has been edited for length.

RACHAEL

I was rereading your essay “Redefining the American Dream” this morning and, once again, found myself crying my eyes out.

LESLIE

[laughs] I was reading it two hours ago and I started tearing up and I was like, wow, I really wrote that.

RACHAEL

It’s so packed with emotion. I remember when you were writing it for my class and you came to my office and cried. There’s so much inner conflict and love for your family. So maybe we’ll cry again [laughs].

LESLIE

Quite possibly.

RACHAEL

I’ll start by asking you to revisit that experience in my class, when you were a freshman. What was it like to be new to UCI and for your college writing entry point to be a class that asked you to write about your own experiences? [SL2]

LESLIE

For starters, the first thing I think about is just how small the class was, especially as a bio major who is always in classes where there are 300+ students in a lecture course. I never really have had that small a class size or a bond with the professor that I felt like I had with you. The space was intimate, and especially with writing I feel like you have to be in touch with that, like I wouldn’t have been able to write like that in a 300+ lecture course. That quarter I was still a bright-eyed freshman, still completely in awe to have my foot on campus and be able to say I was even attending my dream school. Naturally, being asked to write my own autoethnography after reading Coates felt really empowering. The entire process put me through an emotional rollercoaster. I remember interviewing my own parents through Facetime on a random weeknight to learn more about their pasts and really establish their own voices within my paper. I still recall the emotions my father expressed to me in the interview when I read my own story now. And thinking about this, I’m not sure if it’s conveyed to just any reader, but those feelings are important to me every time. I think I even still have the recorded interview file on my laptop, but I refuse to relisten just because I don’t want to get emotional. Listening to my parent’s struggles in a way where I asked for them, rather than simply getting a random lecture, felt different. Half of their stories I already knew and left me unphased, but certain details just filled me with lots of guilt and emotion, from simply existing. But at the same time, being able to express my story with them included, felt empowering. At that time, I looked at it as: I’m here because of my family’s sacrifices, I come from them, they are a part of my story, and that story should only get better. Now, I still have the same mixture of emotions. I wouldn’t say I am as bright-eyed as I once was, because you know, the reality of life hits. I still feel empowered to be here, but now I recognize that my struggles as a student are present for a reason, and so many others are in the same position as me. From time to time, I enjoy looking back at my story and remembering that version of myself and how much I have grown as a person, and how much I still need to grow. My parents know very little details about my involvement in this, and sometimes I think it’s funny because they are clearly a part of it all. But they don’t feel the need to know much more than I share with them, as long as I’m happy doing it. It also serves as a reminder to me that that it is probably exactly how they feel about me pursuing an education here as a first gen student, instead of the occasional guilt trips I put myself into.

RACHAEL

I’m teaching an Argument and Research course now, the class in the sequence just after the one you

ISSUE 2

took with me, and I’m using your essay to show students how to write about their personal experiences in a research context. I think the students are surprised that they’re allowed to talk about their own lives in the context of a research class. Your essay is helping me to think more broadly about the way college writing often asks students to distance themselves from topics around which they have a deeply personal stake. I wonder if you remember how I asked the students in your course to explore elements of creative nonfiction writing that are more personal and perhaps that students distance themselves from, like including multiple languages in the text?

LESLIE

Well, in my own work, I do think that if the Spanish wasn’t in there, I feel like the messages and the culture would not have been conveyed as clearly as they were. With the Spanish, I’m sure anyone else who has a similar identity to me will connect to it. Even if they’re not like Hispanic or Latino just seeing that other language in contrast to the English is powerful.

RACHAEL

Yeah, absolutely. Everybody in our class was including multiple languages in their writing. Students felt like that was a really powerful declaration of their identity, and, you know, we talked about the message that is sent when you decide to leave out the translation. And in your essay, you frequently make the decision not to translate. Was that a conscious decision?

LESLIE

I did it because when I’m speaking to my family that’s how I speak. I will switch back and forth from English to Spanish, so I think that’s what I was doing in the paper—I was just representing the way I talk around my family. It just came naturally to me. The Writing 37 course as a whole allowed me to embrace this wholeheartedly. I also recall taking a Chicano Studies course the quarter prior to writing my own autoethnography. I think that experience, alongside the mentality I entered college with, reading Coates, and the classroom environment in Writing 37 demonstrated to me how important it is to learn things and hear out various voices, races, cultures, and ethnicities aside from the standard predominately American, white, male ones that are so often highlighted to us from a young age. So really, I just felt empowered to be heard out in a way.

I’m now trapped in a dorm room I failed to make Pinterest-worthy. Maybe a grey room palette wasn’t the best option . . . . My phone screen brightens up. “Can you come home this weekend?” “I don’t think so, I have a midterm this week. I need to study. And I have a paper due.” I throw myself onto the bed. I wish the soft embrace came from my Mom’s arms instead of this XL twin-sized comforter. The screen brightens up once more. “Okay mija, we love and miss you. Stay focused.” Thank goodness for some light. EXCERPT FROM “REDEFINING THE AMERICAN DREAM,” PUBLISHED IN ISSUE 1

RACHAEL

Your whole essay is really kind of fundamentally about your family and the intimacy that you feel with your family that is also the kind of centerpiece for all of this inner conflict the essay explores. It seems like those linguistic moves you make also translate as something private—as if there’s something that excludes the reader in a really profound way. And that sort of tension between the personal and the public is something we explored in the course, especially in the inclusion of family photographs. The first image

ISSUE 2

RACHAEL

that you selected was an image of your grandfather and some of your aunts and uncles.

LESLIE

It felt really good that my family was there. And it’s also weird in a way because it’s not even my direct family. I mean my grandpa is there, but I haven’t even met him.

RACHAEL

It’s interesting to hear you say that you don’t know them and yet this is a story about you. Right, like it’s the beginning of everything. It just felt right to include them, especially my grandfather. I feel like my grandfather, my mom’s dad, is so defining to my experience. How many brothers and sisters does your mom have?

LESLIE

12 total.

RACHAEL

A big family.

LESLIE

It was extremely common back then. I really just wanted to incorporate something with my grandfather because, like I said, I feel like he’s the most defining thing in my family, especially on my mom’s side. My grandmother, yeah she’s just not in the photograph. I honestly don’t hear a lot of stories about her. I hear a lot more about my grandfather, and I think it’s the whole Bracero Program and then like migrating all the time, with the agricultural work.

RACHAEL

The essay is so much about work, and the first section is all about going in the morning to open la tiendita with your mom while your dad is off doing other work. You included this moment when you are about to open the store and there is a customer waiting and he asks about your father. It feels really gendered.

LESLIE

I didn’t think of that, but yeah, it is. I’ve never been told to go help my father in any outdoor work. But I remember when I would go to the store with my mother, a lot of the times my father would say you have to take care of her. I was probably like six and I didn’t have another caregiver.

RACHAEL

It’s kind of beautiful because no one had a choice but at the same time there’s this emphasis in your family on staying together, on being together, even

where it’s not possible for everyone to be together all the time. And that family emphasis on togetherness comes up later when you are alone at UCI and you are texting with your mom as a way to feel the togetherness in this new, unfamiliar environment. The way you structure the essay is really profound in that we start on this day at la tiendita with two women, or a woman and a girl, on their way to work and then we get this background of what was really male-centered migrant farm work that is part of your family history before you describe your anxiety about leaving home to pursue your career plans as a professional woman.

LESLIE

It all sort of comes full circle.

RACHAEL

You wrote about your dad’s American dream and your grandfather’s American dream, stories about immigration and opportunity that are part of your ancestry. You write that your dad “achieved the American dream, because he now has his family” and right after that you write this sentence: “I’m now trapped in a dorm room that I failed to make Pinterest worthy.” So there’s a conflict there in which your dad’s sense of achievement makes you feel like you have to keep your homesickness and your anxiety about being a first generation college student secret from your family. It’s a big responsibility, you know, that you express in those pages and maybe a little bit of feeling trapped by the opportunity your parents helped to facilitate.

LESLIE

Those are my favorite little sections. [SL4] I really loved when my mom texted me and my screen lit up. Not only did seeing the screen literally give light, but there was light in hearing that my mother is understanding of my decisions. That light subsided some of that existential first generation guilt in me at the moment. But when I discussed my need to stay in my dorm over the weekend, I think it shows that I was trying to establish that independence from the needs and wants of my parents, but still feeling homesick by the lack of their presence. At the same time, I don’t think this feeling would have even been present if it weren’t for them asking me to go home. I think the feeling stemmed from a mixture of guilt, and just being stressed and figuring out how to manage my time and focus on what I need to do, and not their needs and wants.

ISSUE 2

RACHAEL

How do you feel about the homesickness you expressed in the essay and about going back to campus? You say you’re feeling trapped in your own home…

LESLIE

Like many others, this past year has been rather difficult for me and my own family. My older brother and I both moved back home. This is the first time we have lived together with my parents in roughly over six years. As you might expect, the family dynamic changed. My parents’ routines stayed consistent, but now they have an additional two bodies to care for while we just mope and study most of the time. Being that my parents own and operate a small business, the beginning of the pandemic’s stay-at-home orders caused a lot of unease for our family. Their business wasn’t deemed essential right away, and neither my brother or I had jobs in the last year so, basically, if anyone in our family got sick, any sort of income for the household was gone. There was really no financial support for small businesses or self-employed individuals. It was terrifying. My “new” environment sucked, too. My room has never had enough room for a desk, and the only extra room that could give me privacy to work or join Zoom calls was the “guest” room filled to the brim with stacks upon stacks of boxes from two young adults freshly moved back home. I would try to work in this room, but I felt like I was being swallowed by the amount of clutter. Because of this, I spent most of my spring quarter either studying in the dining room before the house became filled with voices by 7pm, or swallowed in the tiny space that I dreaded working in. With all circumstances involved – whether it was economic, or the anxiety and fear for my family’s health against this dreadful virus, or just having to figure out the best way to navigate online school – I was left with little to no motivation and lots and lots of anxiety. My grades were the worst they had ever been. To add on to all of this, only a few months later, the social justice Black Lives Matter movement was revived after the murder of George Floyd. The news was always streaming from our TV in the kitchen and I still have memories of it transitioning between Covid statistics to protests, with the horrible President Trump in between. Things were scary and I was happy to be home with my family. Being home has made me lose much of the independence I sought in Irvine, but through all the circumstances this past year, it’s a loss that I’m okay with. If experiencing these months, or year now, alongside my family was difficult for me, doing it alone is the last thing I would have wanted. I would have spiraled without their close presence.

But I’m dying to go back. As a first year I was homesick all the time. The dining hall food was my least favorite part. Like the root of my homesickness was not even my mom’s hugs; I just wanted a plate of her food. But I enjoyed my second year and, like, the independence of it all and just getting used to things and now that I’m back home, I feel trapped again! It’s just that constant struggle of wanting to find a balance, I think. I wish I was alone, I wish I could just study, not be bothered, not be questioned. But at the same time it’s great to be here. I can just go to the kitchen and get snacks and pet my dog or go hug my mom, annoy her a little bit, and it’s fun.

RACHAEL

Oh, I know the feeling from your mom’s point of view. My daughter’s back home as well. And some days I’m like, can you go back to school?! We were rummaging through some things in the garage the other day and I found some things I wrote when she was a baby. I was like, “she’s running away from me and I can’t stop it!” That push and pull of parent and child is expressed so powerfully in your essay around the idea that our parents’ dreams are not our own and yet it is especially true of many immigrant families that parents see themselves as the facilitators of their children’s dreams. And you express a lot of self-doubt around that issue when you write “maybe I should have pursued Community college, I could have been studying at the store. Instead I spend my time at this university while savings slowly diminish.” In the pursuit of your own dreams, you seem to wonder if you even have a right to them.

LESLIE

Yes, there is a lot of guilt.

RACHAEL

Have those feelings changed since you wrote this?

LESLIE

No, I don’t think so. My parents are still going to work. I’m home most of the time just doing my school work, so I feel guilty knowing that they’re working. But I’m hoping that what I’m doing now will lead to getting a decent job, where I am able to help them actually retire.

RACHAEL

I hear that so much from first gen students. I think it’s a really special thing and it’s a really special kind of pain. And it’s one that I think about a lot in the context of the educational

ISSUE 2

RACHAEL

demands we place on first generation students. You write in the essay about the process of getting accepted and rejected to the schools you applied for. You describe that process through your parents’ eyes. “One acceptance from UC Riverside, Dad’s favorite. Close to home. One acceptance from UC Santa Cruz, Mom’s least favorite. Too far.” I was so moved by that section because it told the story not only of how the parents of first-generation college students often see that process, but the story of how you saw that process in retrospect through their eyes. (My parents, too, were entirely preoccupied by location.)

LESLIE

When I read it now, I hate that paragraph.

RACHAEL

Why?

LESLIE

It’s the general idea expressed in the paragraph that irks me. The fact that so much emotion is in a paragraph over something as simple as being accepted into an institution when in reality those institutions aren’t actually all that at times.

RACHAEL

Your paragraph does raise the question, you work so hard just to get your foot in the door and then, once you are there, what does the opportunity actually look like?

LESLIE

I think, for me, as a first time college student, too, it’s hard to take, like, every opportunity presented to you, whether it’s a position on something or joining a club, or anything having to do with research. But my first two years of college I was not involved in any extracurriculars because I was still trying to figure out how to manage my schedule. I was just too tired to do anything extra. Covid came along when I was finally feeling ready to become more involved. I was interested in joining a research lab, but this wasn’t possible on an online platform in earlier months of the pandemic. This halt made me feel like, and still makes me feel like, I am running out of time to pursue experiences and opportunities I’ve been interested in.

RACHAEL

It sounds like a big part of your experience was just trying not to become emotionally or psychologically exhausted. Back when I was a student I remember the academic culture was so foreign to me.

MIKIZTLI SARAPURA ORTIZ is a first-year Chemistry major.

“Flourishing” J

ISSUE 2

I constantly had this feeling that everything was just beyond my reach. I worked so hard to get to university then I had to work so hard to stay there. Speaking of hard work, are you still a bio major? Still plan to become a physician?

LESLIE

I am, but I’ve changed my plans to be a doctor. I want to be a genetic counselor. Graduate school instead of med school. A genetic counselor advises patients about genetic-related decisions, like those related to prenatal genetics, cancer, or neurology. They look at family history and perform genetic pedigrees to determine inheritance patterns present. They then advise patients on their options, such as moving forward with genetic screening, seeking preventative care, and so on. The main point being to counsel in a way that maintains the personal autonomy of individuals seeking care.

RACHAEL

Your new professional plans seem really specific to what we’re talking about: family history.

LESLIE

I really just wanted a career that involves compassion. As someone majoring in biology, I have seen how cut-throat some of my colleagues can be in regards to their studies and future plans. Everything feels like a battle sometimes. I often question individuals who claim they want to be doctors and physicians to “help people” while being the first to belittle other students for struggling as undergraduates, rather than lending them advice on how to make improvements. As a first-generation student, I am so thankful for the relationships I have built with kind students who are compassionate enough to extend their help for me to get to where I am today. I find it really endearing that the role of a genetic counselor is to educate, advise, and console individuals to make decisions that are right for them. My job would be to continue being a compassionate individual.

RACHAEL

This shift in professional focus kind of goes back to your essay and the critique of the American dream. There is a version of the American dream that is always placing the pressure on the individual to conform to a version of success that is wrapped up in stereotypes: doctors, lawyers, CEOs. That version of success can involve making a career choice that forces you to become something rather than making a career choice based on where you come from.

LESLIE

I couldn’t have said that any better. There’s a lot of pressure on students from similar backgrounds to my own to choose careers that have been highlighted to us from a young age. And as first-generation students, these decisions are minimized to us in a way to just that, because our families have only been capable to reach so much, that they encourage us to take upon careers as doctors, lawyers, and CEOs and much more because it is what we recognize as being paths to a form of success that our families wish for. I’ve always been interested in a career in healthcare for this very reason. Being a student at UCI has allowed me to recognize other careers out there by surrounding myself with individuals from various backgrounds who also recognize the variety out there, and have taught me to redefine what success in our lives can potentially be.

RACHAEL

Maybe that’s partly what your essay title, “Redefining the American Dream,” is about. The American Dream was once a middle class dream: work hard, get an education, achieve financial stability. Economic and social mobility were possible. But studies today show that kids are, on the whole, actually worse off than their parents. In the context of first generation college students who often feel that their college education is supposed to be their entire family’s ticket out of a low-income economic bracket, do you think students today are afraid that their college education actually won’t enable them to help their parents?

LESLIE

I think so 100%. I have that worry constantly. I feel like a bachelor’s degree today is equivalent to a high school diploma. I think first generation college students are also sold on this dream that you see represented in movies where everything is just really glamorized about college life and its possibilities. And then you also have your family, like generations of families, who see it that way, too, and want for you to pursue those things because they really don’t understand the reality. And neither do you until you get there. The choice is to keep going and keep hoping or give up. For me, I hope that the pursuit of receiving a higher education actually pays off enough to get me a career, job, or even just experiences that I wouldn’t have been able to have otherwise. Whether I am using the subject matter of my degree directly or not, it’s knowing that higher education has facilitated me in whatever path in life I follow. The pandemic has surely made me rethink what I wanted for my future career goals, and even my goals and involvement at this university. The pandemic resurfaced the lesson that a lot of things

ISSUE 2

aren’t promised, but little things along the way always matter. And I think that lesson can be reapplied to my college experience as a first-generation student. Some things feel out of reach at times, but goals are still being met. I’m still growing. Remote learning definitely also highlighted to me that institutions as a whole care a lot less about their students than what they seem to market themselves with. From hearing stories about students being kicked off of campus last march, to now having to fight professors to record lectures for the sake of working students, students in different time zones, etc. The need to advocate for ourselves as students is once again greater than ever.

RACHAEL

LESLIE

When my daughter went to college, I could tell her what to expect. She knew that it wasn’t going to be easy and she knew why. She grew up on a college campus because I didn’t even start college until she was two and then I was on a campus for 12 years, first as an undergrad and then in graduate school. She had no illusions, believe me! But you know, I think that this conversation really does come back around to students becoming more socially conscious: because students are becoming increasingly skeptical of the institutions that determine the shape of their lives, they are also beginning to realize that personal ambitions aren’t enough anymore and maybe that’s a good thing. I mean when some of my students told me they were attending protests this summer, I felt really proud. I want to see them continue to demand more from all of the institutions that impact society. So the question becomes, not “am I one of the lucky ones admitted into the hallowed halls of this university?” but “what do I expect from my university?” and “How do I want to make my university accountable to its students?” I think that UCI’s efforts to empower first-generation college students is really important in the context of those questions. Students like us understand privilege, not because we had it, but because we didn’t. And I think that this sort of consciousness is really the future of the country. Don’t you? Thinking about the future is something I often see myself avoiding, but yes. I think there are a lot of growing pains still within me when it comes to facing the reality of my struggles and even my

accomplishments. If COVID-19 has taught me one thing, it’s to really live in the moment. Nothing in life is promised. Things can be stripped away from you at any time. But this is best interpreted in things that are out of our control. I recognize that I have all the control to take advantage of my time at this university by being an advocate for myself as a student, taking advantage of opportunities, and facilitating my goals in some way or another. What has transformed in me is my definition of taking advantage of things. It doesn’t have to be “doing the damn thing,” but simply trying and doing the best I have to offer always. And also recognizing that growth isn’t always linear. This is what will affect my future, our future. And I see the future with abundance as long as I continue to live by those words, and others foster those same ideas.

ISSUE 2

A PREFACE What’s in a name? Rather, what isn’t in a name? The memoir you are about to read, Ting Ting Huang’s “Her Name, What Does It Mean,” wrestles with just this question, and its own journey to you reflects the world-making you will read. It began as simply “Her Name,” a mock interview about a dim-witted manager whose attempt at small talk provoked its character Ting Ting, who happens to share her name with the writer, to literally translate herself to the other. The climax of the piece sees “Ting Ting” explain that the first character of her Chinese name is split in two: the left part contains the Chinese radical for “girl,” and the other “stop.” That sound, “Ting,” is for “stop.” I read it again. Clarified my thoughts. The initial version ended abruptly, and with

too neat an ending. I felt dropped by the Ting Ting of “Her Name,” like the cursory glance of a stranger in public, merely noticed, but unremarkable. Despite the climax commanding my attention, it didn’t bring us into the core of what I could tell was something profound. I wanted to discuss all this with Ting Ting, and I was relieved when she agreed. During our first Zoom conversation, she wondered whether or not an interview was the right form to explore some of the questions and concerns she was raising. I agreed, and we decided to mull it over for a few days. That one line in the interview, where she translates her Chinese name, followed me the entire time. So, I approached her with a crazy proposition: “What if you totally rewrote this thing around that part?” She was intrigued by the idea, so the first thing I asked her to do is what you see on the [below]: “Read it aloud.” Unlike a record,

a Spotify stream, or a film, the written word transforms when we transition from reading to speaking. We animate our words through the vibration of our larynx and shapes of our mouths. We hear and feel what’s in our heads when we perform language, discovering that what we thought was great might actually not be what we meant at all. Ting Ting got back to me within a day. Though the piece was still being transformed, what she wrote encouraged me: She was distancing herself from the first attempt, which was a sign that she was writing toward the core. Or a different core. When we write, we are not often in control of where the piece goes. I’ve often thought that I’m more of a custodian of the story than its creator, and I should discover where it wants to take me. And that’s for the better. We should discover, rather than postulate. Find it, rather than plant it. Here’s some of Ting Ting’s reflections on the transforming

piece, a part of which you’ll see here. By seeing her motivations, I gained a deeper understanding of how Ting Ting was being led somewhere where she didn’t imagine. Perhaps it was unexpected, even a little scary--it often is. Some say that’s what’s worth writing, and I think that’s why writers clam up when we’re asked, “What’s your inspiration?” We often don’t know where our ideas come from, or the journey to what people eventually read is mysterious. Reflecting on that process can help us understand where we came from; for Ting Ting, it helped her name what was important to her and excluded what wasn’t. What you see on the left, I said, “That. That’s compelling. We want more of that.” Ting Ting reenvisioned the piece as prose. By writing a flash memoir around the history of her being named Ting Ting, she could delve deeper into the questions guiding her composition. In the final round of edits, we spent much time focusing on the relationship between her mother’s intentions and the fallout from them; later, Ting Ting’s expression of those intentions in her spirit, in her being. As we proceeded through more edits, down to the usage of emdashes and commas, she guided me somewhere else, to what you’re about to read. A writing never finishes. Something else decides it’s finished— a deadline, exhaustion, boredom. When I told Ting Ting that we’d have to just turn it in, that we’d have to stop laboring over a few sentences, she seemed dismayed and relieved. I admit that it’s a strange feeling. You’d assume a writer would feel exhilarated to have finished a piece. But that elation is in the process, in the frustration of construction, in the rush of inspiration. The writing is the experience, and not the product. I’m reminded of that old Samuel Beckett line: “Fail better.” In one way, that’s what our writing classes want to show you: that that failure is interesting, which is a word that can’t keep its promise. What’s actually “interesting”? You need more words to bring me there. When I realized this, it was liberating. The stories I wanted to tell were, in one way, always a little late to the game, but in

another way, always on the precipice of ideal expression. I was always going to write something new and fail a little bit, which means I still had to write. It meant I could always do better. My work was always transforming. Is always transforming. So, maybe, I’m always transforming. Maybe we all are. Ting Ting reminded me of this anew, and I hope you experience “Her Name, What Does It Mean” as I do, as a courageous and profound story of becoming and transformation that equals the finished version’s profundity.

ISSUE 2

R Y A N C H A N G

I was named “Ting Ting” to bless my mother’s last attempt T I N G to bear a son. Strange, isn’t it—why would you name your T I N G child something like that? I used to think the same too, but I can never truly hate my mother for naming me the way she did. Despite how I had felt, I understood she needed to have a male heir to truly gain our culture’s, and especially her in-laws’, validation. When she finally did give birth to my younger brother five years later, my mother gained the acceptance she’d wanted, and my name became a reminder that I was named for the sake of another. I shouldn’t resent my name, but bitterness did begin to brew inside me, especially when I began my schooling in the U.S. Just a year before my younger brother was born, I was about four years old, freshly landed in San Francisco, CA with my mother and older sister. We were to be reunited with my father, who immigrated earlier for work, and finally able to live together as a whole family. It was also around that time that I was enrolled in kindergarten, not speaking a lick of English.

HER NAME, WHAT DOES IT MEAN

My parents were optimistic that I could quickly overcome the language barrier, but the first step was to fit in with my new peers through an “American” name. So, I became “Fanny.” I can’t remember why it had to be that specific name, other than it was easy to pronounce for my non-English speaking family members, but still “American” enough for my classmates to accept. “Fanny,” however, was short-lived. After a family friend found out it meant “buttocks,” I never got to use that name again. We moved up to Sacramento soon after, and I was “Ting Ting” again. Although it was my birth name, and probably better than being “buttocks,” I hated it. It was the subject for racist jokes in a community of American-born kids with typically American names. The “Ling Ling” rhymes or the random ni haos in the lunch line – even when the jokes got too far, I could only play along and pray it would pass sooner than later. After all, it’s just a phase, right? Kids will be kids and I should be the bigger person. When they get used to me, then I’ll tell them “I speak Cantonese, not Mandarin.” One day, as my father was watching the news, he asked how I would like the name “Amy” instead. I didn’t love that name, but I was desperate to be more normal, so if becoming “Amy” meant I was no longer “Ting Ting,” I wanted to become her. For nearly a year in elementary school, I tried making T I N G T I N G all my classmates and friends call me “Amy,” H U A N G but it never stuck. Either they were too used is a graduating to calling me by my birth name, or I myself senior studying would fail to recognize this new name and not Business Information respond. It wasn’t long before I realized that Management and I needed to give up this English name too. Japanese Studies When I was eleven, my family and I earned our U.S. citizenship. This was a chance to rename myself legally. I was ecstatic for the opportunity to rename myself, something I really liked, but I ended up missing the chance because of something that happened at school. Back at school, my teacher sent me to the front office to turn something in on her behalf. I introduced myself to the receptionist, to which she cheerfully praised how cute my name

ISSUE 2

ple told me they look up to. I was tossed from the extremity of hating my name to wanting to love it.

If my name is going to stand out, whether I like it or not, at the very l

was. I immediately blushed on the spot, feeling seen and unseen at once. I knew that seeking validation from someone treating my name as an aesthetic was meaningless, but it was also the first positive memory I had compared to being shunned. Somehow, that was enough of a reason to not change my name.“If the office lady liked my name so much, maybe more people would too! And eventually maybe even me,” young Ting Ting reasoned. If my name is going to stand out, whether I like it or not, at the very least, I want to feel proud of it when it’s called. All throughout high school and college, I studied and participated in activities like crazy, all for the sake of my name to be associated with awards, recognition – basically anything good. My efforts did pay off, and the name I used to hate became the name that people told me they looked up to. I was tossed from the extremity of hating my name to wanting to love it. But soon, I realized putting in that much effort to love my name might be overcompensating for when I hated it, when no one else I ever knew had to think so much about what their name meant to them. ”If I had grown up with a regular name,” I’d think from time to time, “would people stop questioning my origins, or pointing out my slight accent? Would people stop raising an eyebrow at its sound, which seemed to cement the feeling that I’ll always be an outsider every time someone says it’s ‘unique’ or ‘different?’” Even if I were to return to China, I’d also be considered an outsider there because of my American upbringing. So where do I truly belong? These questions continued pressing me, until I was forced back home because of the pandemic. At home, I flipped through photo albums and watched old camcorder videos with my family. Whenever we came across a memory of my now-teenage brother’s baby days, my mother reminisced how difficult it was to give birth to him. “Thanks to me,” I would sarcastically add. My mother laughed, proudly agreeing she gave me a good name, and even though I had expected her reaction, I felt a tinge of resentment. My name was unfair. I never told my parents about

orts did pay off, and the name I used to hate became the name that peo-

how much I hated my name, about the teasing and unwanted attention that came with it. I knew that if I had told them, they would’ve been hurt, and guilty conscience for disturbing my parents’ peace would’ve been added to my list of internal troubles. But part of me was still childish and wanted to be noticed. I’d bring up my own name with her from time to time, asking her to retell its story, despite already knowing the answer. I wanted her to say that I was left to share her burden by holding onto a name I didn’t like, and I made her proud, even as a daughter. It’s an afternoon, and I’m sitting at the kitchen table with both hands cupping my warm mug of tea as my mother washes the forgotten dishes in the sink, her back facing me. I wait patiently for the same old answer. But what’s about to come is a revelation. In her youth, my mother worked in an office, and one of the accountants there was named “Ting Ting,” a competent and beautiful long-haired woman. She was highly educated, rare for women in my mother’s time, and carried herself with a kind of professionalism and grace that was idolized by many. By giving me the same name, my mother had hoped that I would grow up to be like that woman from her memories – feminine and graceful. I was stunned. Questions washed over me. You mean I wasn’t just named for my brother? How many years did I spend thinking how unwanted this name made me feel? Had I known this earlier, would I have held my head a little higher? The name “Ting Ting’’ was interpreted as “girls must stop,” or “let’s take a break from daughters” by my mother, who needed a son to fulfill Chinese cultural expectations. It was a name that misled me to think it was all I’m worth, that I was incapable of achieving more than what my gender allowed, and that I should be ashamed of its strangeness even though it brought my mother peace and welcomed my younger brother into the world. Though I’m grateful for it now, its strange meaning, and how even stranger it is in America, left me with unpleasant memories I am still learning to process. “Ting Ting” blessed my mother and my younger brother. Just like the coworker my mother vividly remembers, her name—our name—“Ting Ting” also blessed me to grow up beautifully. I had spent so long trying to digest the years of turmoil and ridicule my name plagued me with that it felt almost silly for a twenty-minute conversation to make it all seem a little more forgivable. It may seem small, but it is also all I ever wanted to dispel the insecurities I had growing up. A seedling of hope that I can grow to love my own name one day – this time without having to go the extra mile. be associated with awards, recognition – basically anything good. My ef

ISSUE 2

school and college, I studied and participated in activities like crazy, all for the sake of my name to

least, I want to feel proud of it when it’s called. All throughout high

On Painted Nails: A Film Reflection

is a senior majoring in Psychological Sciences.

I remember being only seven years old when I first painted my fingernails using my aunts’ nail art supplies at a family dinner. It seemed like most Vietnamese-American children I knew had similar childhood experiences: they, too, had at least one nail technician in their family, and thus became

familiar with the smell of acetone that wafted around during family gatherings. While my aunt and great aunt were busy doing manicures for my mom and grandma, I would try to use their nail art supplies to decorate my fingernails with tiny pink and white flowers. Other times, I visited their salon and would always be given a complimentary full service manicure. I felt like a princess being pampered by my aunties, yet I was heartbroken to discover, subsequently, that their fingerprints would wear away from working with harsh chemicals on a daily basis. Recently, I came across a documentary titled Painted Nails by filmmakers Dianne Griffin and Erica Jordan. With this month of May being Asian and

Pacific Islander American Heritage Month, Painted Nails is currently featured on the Kanopy app’s homepage. I was eager to experience the story of Vân Nguyễn , an immigrant from Vietnam who owns a nail salon in the San Francisco Bay Area. The story of Vân and her family resonated with me as I compared our family stories, and I became inspired by her motivation to fight for policy reform. In this story, Griffin and Jordan first interview Vân and her husband in their nail salon as they interact with customers and perform various cosmetic services. Viewers soon find out that their nail salon is not a safe workplace as they outline health complications, which are the consequences of exposure to harsh chemicals in nail products. Vân suffers from headaches and memory loss,

and has had miscarriages as a result of prolonged exposure to harmful substances and carcinogens while working with nail polishes, paint thinners, and nail polish removers that are used on the job. Although there are safer products on the market, they are more expensive and Vân refuses to raise her prices because her salon serves clients who live in a working class neighborhood. The story continues as Vân takes actions towards policy change and advocates for legislation around safe cosmetic products. While watching the film, I was inspired to see a Vietnamese woman taking it upon herself to drive social and political change, which is a slow and difficult processes. I was moved by Vân’s sincerity and determination as she and her

family traveled to Washington, D.C. to testify in her native language so that new laws could be created to protect salon workers. I was surprised that congress members would be willing to listen to testimony in Vietnamese. This moment stood out to me because it resembled inclusion and openness in America, where so many citizens still see Asian Americans as foreign. Before viewing the film, it never occured to me that a first-generation immigrant like Vân could have a chance to influence policy in America, especially because we aren’t often called upon to do so. Growing up, the adults of my community didn’t tend to orient their children towards political issues, let alone encourage us to take political

BEFORE VIEWING THE FILM, IT NEVER OCCURED TO ME THAT A FIRSTGENERATION IMMIGRANT LIKE VÂN COULD HAVE A CHANCE TO INFLUENCE POLICY IN AMERICA, ESPECIALLY BECAUSE WE AREN’T OFTEN CALLED UPON TO DO SO.

ISSUE 2

actions like protesting or voting. Sometimes we were told that these problems aren’t as bad as the infrastructure and healthcare challenges in our home country. Plus, these issues weren’t our personal responsibility to solve. They didn’t mean to tell us that social issues aren’t important, but it sometimes came off that way. Their perspective on social activism comes from the fact that these parents almost always had other priorities, and back in their home countries, they didn’t have the type of government that allowed citizens to have much influence. Similarly, they expected their children to have the same priorities: family first. Both of my parents immigrated to the United States independently and met through a work relationship. They currently work as assembly technicians for hardware companies in Silicon Valley. It was their first job upon arriving in the States, just like how being a nail technician was Vân’s first job. Vân mentions in the film that she started working as a nail technician on a whim when she first settled in the Bay Area and over the years, she imagined how challenging it would be to switch careers. Much like Vân,

EPILOGUE my parents did not have much interest in hardware engineering, but it was one of the only stable jobs available to them, considering their lack of technical experience and college education. Despite it not being their ideal situation, my parents stayed consistent with their jobs in order to give my sister and I the potential to educate ourselves and chase our dreams. They provided me the foundation to pursue whatever I want, but after becoming a part-time manufacturing associate

myself last year, I experienced how challenging it is for immigrant workers to thrive in American society. The film served as a gentle reminder to me that my parents always had their children’s best interest in their minds. It was hard to look at the bigger picture and see where they could change the status quo because they put family first. In Painted Nails, Vân fought for safe cosmetics in an effort to improve working conditions for those like her, who oftentimes don’t have much

choice but to work at nail salons. She is an exemplary example of a first generation immigrant who fought for policy reform around safe cosmetics, but it means more than that because she is a pioneer in advocacy for salon workers. Still, at the end of the film, she brought herself back into perspective and expressed that her largest concern was giving birth to a healthy baby. I gained a lot of insight and inspiration from this

film, while witnessing themes of Asian American and woman empowerment, as well as the struggle of parents whose humble dream is to contribute to building a more beautiful future for their children. Young Asian Americans like myself would gain perspective from watching this film — especially those who are still pondering challenging questions like whether we matter, whether we can be seen and heard, and whether we can make a change. Surely, Vân’s story is just one example.

It’s April 2021. One year after I watched this film and wrote the first draft of this reflection. In recent months, the Asian American and Pacific Islander community and many who stand in solidarity with us have been responding to a spike in anti-Asian hate crimes happening everywhere. Many people are speaking up on social media, taking actions by organizing and attending rallies, supporting small Asian-owned businesses, or creating resources to spread awareness. One notable woman named Maddy Park has raised over $100,000 dollars in two days through Instagram to pay for cabs and rideshares for eldery Asians, Asian Women, and Asian LGBTQ in New York. This demonstrates how communities have come together to create positive change in unique ways. And with that, I noticed that I am hearing many voices around me speak for the first time, for example some high school classmates whom I didn’t expect and some family members who voted and signed petitions. Today I see many examples of people making a difference, their actions speak volumes, and they are my role models. But we don’t all need to become superheroes to make a difference. Anyone can take part to leverage positive change. What I do is look for the helpers, and do what I can to help them.

ISSUE 2

“Visions of Transitions” 58

YESSENIA CAMACHO is a senior double majoring in Sociology and Chicanx Latinx studies, with a minorL in Film Media Studies. U and C I D

Ballada de Flores Hecho de Barro: VII. La Rama after Manuel Gutiérrez Sierra & Carmen García de Gutiérrez

Agujas entre piel will pain you more than thorn pricks, Amor. But I am soft, so do not dig. Mantén los ojos a la distancia. Levantamelas hojas as if to look within; seen only are thorns, sticking out, and petals that bend. Do you always look outward to look within? Hoy te doy esta rama de flores With the hope that it will touch more than your skin. Held together by your hands, the roses rustle—the sounds of innocent sin. Good nomad, you do wrong with your hands too much—your tempered devotion shows in this. For Dreamers have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss, no? Querida nómada, let lips do what hands do. Trespass sweetly urged, de nuevo dame este dulce pecado tuyo; rama de amor, tuya.

is a senior majoring in English.

ISSUE 2

THE THING ABOUT

GROWING UP IN

In Jokertown, no one knew when a shootout was going to happen, but everyone needed to be prepared for it. Children rolled off their beds and slept on the floor to avoid being hit by flying bullets. If you heard a knock on your door, you let the fleeing gang members in so that they could pass through or hide until they could get to safety. If you didn’t and they died, the blood was on your hands. If you did, and your house was bombarded by cops or rival gang members, then you had their loyalty forever. Jokertown was a nickname given to Sun Valley, California in the 1980s, after the neighborhood gang The Vineland Boyz were referred to as “the joke of the Valley.” In 1986, nineteen-year-old Teresa,* a Mexican immigrant and Sun Valley resident, was driving home down De Garmo Street. Her parking spot was behind the JAYLE house, right in front of the back N door. She had just finished a E 9-hour shift at the Pick n’ Save CCC C in Burbank and the only thing CCC she wanted was to get home AAA and take off her sneakers. As she A A drove slowly down the alleyway, AAA A A two young men stepped in front of her car. One shined a flashSSS SS light at her while the other kept S his hand in his black hoodie’s SSS kangaroo pocket. TTT “Who do you know here?” T T asked the one holding the flashlight. He couldn’t be older RRR R R than sixteen. RR “Excuse me?” Teresa R R scoffed. She could not feel more OOO inconvenienced by these kids. O O OOO “Ay foo, what are you doing?

That’s Dopey’s sister. Let her pass, but make sure she gets inside.” Dopey. That was the nickname of her younger brother, Beto. Teresa could only assume it’s because of his weed smoking habit. She looked in her rear-view mirror at who was clearing her to pass. It was Beto’s childhood best friend, Jose. “Oh, sorry doña. Go ahead,” said the boy, turning off his flashlight. The other boy moved out of the way to let Teresa pass through. She drove down a few houses, parked her car, and went inside. When she got to the kitchen window, she waved at the two men who watched her walk in. They nodded their heads at her as they went back to guard the alley. It soon dawned on her that this wasn’t the same quiet Sun Valley that she grew up in.

is a senior majoring in Literary Journalism.

***

Just a ten-minute drive from Disney studios in the affluent Burbank is Lanark Street in Sun Valley. Once on Lanark, you’ll go under a tunnel and then make an immediate right. Now, you’ve made it to De Garmo St., also known as Jokertown’s thumping heart. In the 1980s, as the sun went down on De Garmo St., young men belonging to the neighborhood gang “Vineland Boyz” started roaming the streets, gathering together to discuss their plans for the night. These men who were once regarded as “the joke of the Valley” became known as one of the San Fernando Valley’s most violent street gangs. They held reign over the drug trafficking going through Jokertown.

*Some names have been changed to protect those interviewed for this piece.

The Vineland Boyz were founded in the 1980s by a San Fernando Valley area football team. Soon after, they were joined by former Calle 18 members (a Central American and Mexican street gang in Los Angeles). The gang was made up of mostly Mexican men who named themselves after Vineland Street in North Hollywood, California where they played football. As the gang grew larger, they made allies with the Mexican Mafia, regularly paying them “taxes” for protection in prison. Most of these men who made up this gang had grown up on De Garmo St. The police force took notice of the Vineland Boyz in 1988 after the death of LAPD Officer James Beyea. He was shot during a confrontation with a 17-year-old gang member during a burglary investigation. Officer Beyea was merely three months out of the academy. On Saturday, November 15, 2003, fifteen years after the gang had first formed, rookie Officer Matthew Pavelka of the Burbank Police Department answered a call for backup from seasoned Officer Gregory Campbell. Officer Campbell had stopped a vehicle, without license plates, in front of a Ramada Inn, a known meeting spot for the Vineland Boyz. When the officers called for the two males to exit their vehicle, they came out and opened fire. Pavelka and Campbell were both wounded several times, but in exchange of gunfire managed to fatally shot one of the gunmen while the second man escaped on foot. Both of the officers were transported to the local hospital, where Officer Campbell was treated and remained in critical,

but stable, condition. Officer Pavelka died during surgery. After the death of Officer Pavelka, Burbank police officers vowed that they would not rest until they avenged the death of their fellow officer by stopping the Vineland Boyz. The same gang that the police used to joke about, claiming they “couldn’t even shoot straight,” was now under intense

Men who were arrested 15 years ago for gang activity are now being released. They may turn back to a life of crime because it’s all they’ve ever known. They may have used their time in prison to truly reform. Either way, they are coming back to a new neighborhood.

scrutiny. An almost two-year operation began. Police presence in Jokertown increased while detectives gathered information for months through wiretapping suspected gang conversations. On June 21, 2005, 1,300 local and federal police officers started to make arrests. Members were indicted for violating the federal Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. Lt. Pete Durham recognized that this street gang was genuinely sophisticated – buying cars in other people’s names, homes with shadow owners, and even going as far as to run legitimate businesses for money laundering. Later, prosecutors would find that the

ISSUE 2

gang had buyers as far away as Hawaii and Indiana. Burbank Police upheld their vow. Eighteen months later, more than 1,300 federal and local law enforcement officers took part in dozens of raids dubbed Operation Silent Night. In 24 hours, 43 search warrants were executed, 36 arrests were made, and 41 guns, over 12 pounds of narcotics (primarily marijuana), and $30,000 cash were seized. The raid stretched from Los Angeles to Palmdale and Rosamond and as far as Bakersfield. In the 18 months prior to Operation Silent Night, the Silent Night Task Force arrested 231 people, impounded 25 cars, seized 75 firearms, over 300 pounds of cocaine, methamphetamine, and heroin, and over

he looked over at her clock that read

$1 million. While the police were looking to avenge the death of their fallen officer, they also found guilt outside of the gang itself. Former Councilwoman Stacey Murphy pleaded guilty to drug and child endangerment charges after she was found with cocaine, guns, and ammunition in her Burbank home. Her long-time boyfriend, Scott Schaffer, pleaded guilty to drug and weapon charges after he traded guns for cocaine with members of Vineland Boyz. After the arrests of many prominent Vineland Boyz members, things quickly quieted down on De Garmo Street. There was an eerie silence filled with sorrow in the neighborhood. Neighbors had just watched mothers see their sons’ faces pushed to the ground and taken away. They heard women continue to weep for their sons’ mistakes and pray that they would be protected and reformed. They saw bashed-in doors and torn-up lawns. However, with this pain came a lot of relief.

Parents tucked their children into bed with more confidence that they’d see them the next morning. Kids walked the streets with a little less weight on their shoulders. You no longer heard the constant running because the gang had to lay low. The nights were silent. The neighborhood felt light. It started to feel a little bit like their own home again. Teresa heard the phone ringing early Thursday morning in 2005, the day after the arrests. She looked over at her clock that read 6:45 AM. “Mami?” she answered. “Are you okay?” “Mija, has Beto called you?” asked her mother, Maria. “No, why? What happened?” “My friend me llamo. She told me that

she was at the airport and two policemen stopped her at her gate. They asked if she knew where her son was, and why she was going to Mexico. Mija, they arrested basically all of the Vineland Boyz.” Teresa listened closely as her mother recounted the events of the last 24 hours in Sun Valley. “All of the mothers in our prayer group had police go to their house last night and ask them all kinds of questions,” Maria continued. “Where’s your son? When did you last see him? Did you know he was a criminal? Can you believe that? Probecitas, they barely speak English. My friend wasn’t even allowed to go to Mexico because her son is a suspect in some shooting, so until they find him, she has to stay in the States. We’re all going to go to the church today to pray and talk to the Father.” “Why are you worried about Beto? He doesn’t hang around them anymore.” “Because they arrested Jose,” answered Maria.

overstep, but she wanted them to feel safe in her home. “I’m okay, thank you,” replied Lalo. “Jose, vamos, it’s late. Mami and Papi don’t know you left.” Jose sniffled and nodded his head lightly. “Gracias, Mama Maria, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He put his shoes on, hugged Maria goodbye, and left with his brother. She made sure the boys walked home safely and prayed they stayed safe once they went inside. Growing up in a violent home isn’t uncommon for gang members. Many of these men turn to a life of crime to find the comfort and safety that they didn’t have anywhere. “Sociologist Michael Carlie explains that “If the family is the source ofthe fear, or if it is a dysfunctional,

***

One of the founding members of the Vineland Boyz was Beto’s childhood best friend, Jose. He spent a lot of time at his best friend’s home, he felt safe there. Jose had a severe anxiety disorder so when he would spend the night, he often woke up panicked and hyperventilating. Maria would hold him until he calmed down. One night, Maria heard frantic knocking on the door. She opened the door to find a crying seven-year-old Jose barefoot in his pajamas. He had run four houses down from his home. He pleaded, “Mama Maria please call the police. My papi is hitting my mami again, please call them.” Maria brought him in, made him some tea,

d 6:45 AM. “Mami?” she answered. “Are you okay?” and tried to soothe him. She knew they couldn’t call the cops because neither she nor his parents were legal at the time. “Mijo, it’s okay. Just sit here and breathe with me.” She held Jose while they sat on the couch. “Your mami is gonna be okay.” Maria knew she couldn’t make that promise, but she also knew she couldn’t have a say in the matter. It wasn’t long before Jose’s older brother, Lalo, knocked softly on the front door. He was also in his pajamas, but he had his shoes on, and a pair of shoes in his hand for Jose. “Disculpe Mama Maria, is Jose here?” Lalo asked shyly. “Yeah mijo, come inside,” answered Maria. Lalo knew what his Papi did to his family was wrong, but he knew how much worse it would get if he found out other people knew too. He hated that Jose would run away to Maria. It wasn’t anyone else’s business but his own. “Are you doing okay? Do you want some tea?” asked Maria. She didn’t want to

abusive, neglectful family, the child may be left to fend for himself. Failing any other source of safety, a gang can provide for the child’s need for security. At least there’s safety in numbers and in the reputation of the gang” (2004). Being raised in these violent environments makes these men accustomed to the violence they’ll have to partake in or endure as gang members, but this time they’ll get security in return. However, while abuse is one reason men look towards gang life, not all gang members were raised in an abusive home. “Our dad never hit us,” Teresa said. She was holding a picture of her late father, Pablo. “He drank a lot, and he went out every night, but he never hit us.” She set the picture down and took a sip of her wine. “When our mom came to the United States, she had Beto here. So, when the three of us came, we didn’t really accept him because we were jealous,” Teresa continued. “We were kids. We always thought, ‘Our mom had you here and left us there so she must

ISSUE 2

I Beto think

I think

lonely.

felt

belong. to

he just wanted

love you the most.’ I think Beto felt lonely. I think he just wanted to belong somewhere. And we were poor, so what did he have to lose?” Beto was a part of the men who felt neglected at home, so they needed to find a place where they belonged. He didn’t even have his own room, his own privacy. Heather Mac Donald wrote in “The Immigrant Gang Plague” that men “join for the prestige and sense of belonging” (2004). The Vineland Boyz provided Beto a “sense of belonging” and financial control over his life. They provided this for all the members of the gang. Beto was one of the original members of the Vineland Boyz. He had left the gang a few months prior because he was getting married. “I remember when we first started to notice Beto changing,” recounted Teresa. She was looking through a photo album from her childhood. “He had really long hair through the 80’s. Our dad told all the boys, ‘You can have long hair, but it always needs to be washed and brushed. If I see that your hair is dirty, I’m going to cut your ponytails off.’ Beto washed his hair every day, he was good about it. He used more conditioner than I did. But, one day, he just came home with it all buzzed off.” She flipped through the pages slowly and watched Beto’s progression into the gang. “Him and Jose started going out more and coming home late. One night he had a giant gash on his head, looking back, it was probably the night he was jumped into the gang. Then, he got his tattoo – a huge joker clown face with the word ‘Jokertown’ bolded across his back. But it wasn’t until we found the wads of cash and guns in his drawer that we knew he was a Vineland Boyz.” Teresa and Beto’s family shared a two-bedroom apartment. Teresa had her own room where Beto and their three other brothers had drawers for their clothes. The four boys shared the living room. “So, the

guns and the cash were in my room. Can you imagine if someone came to the house looking for that stuff? Who knows what could’ve happened to me or my mom or any of us?” Teresa shook her head, disappointed that her brother had put his family in danger. So, the question remains: What led men like Beto and Jose to become gangsters with their faces pushed against the concrete? Well, to answer this, let’s first explore what these men have in common. They are firstor second-generation Latinos, predominantly Mexican, coming from low-income households. These are vulnerable, young men. They succumb to the security and “sense of belonging” that gangs offer to them. Pew Research Center reported, “In the case of Latino youths in America, there’s a notable demographic twist in the pattern of risky behaviors at this phase of the life cycle. Among 16 to 25-year-olds, native born Hispanics are roughly twice as likely as immigrant Latino youths to engage in behaviors that involve weapons, fights, and gangs. They are also more likely to land in jail or prison” (2009). This is directly opposite of what 45th President Donald Trump said in his 2015 presidential announcement speech, “When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best. They’re not sending you. They’re not sending you. They’re sending people that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems with us. They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists.” It is statistically supported that it is not the immigrants who are crossing borders that bring gang crime, but it is their children and their children’s children who are born in the United States that turn to a life of crime. For Teresa and Beto’s family, the parents and first four

children were immigrants, but the last three children were born in the United States. Beto was the first United States native-born American of his family and he was the only sibling to join the Vineland Boyz. Beto got married and left the gang. His wife and him moved to a nice home far away from Jokertown and now have three children. He had a fairytale ending to a dangerous story. Jose wasn’t as lucky. After his arrest, he wasn’t charged with a crime. He detached himself from the gang and moved by himself. But the Vineland Boyz still know where he is. He often turns to alcohol to avoid confronting the ghosts of his past. He lives in fear every day, hoping no one ever knocks on his door. The golden age of the Vineland Boyz left a mark on Sun Valley forever. It gave Sun Valley the reputation of a bad neighborhood filled with street violence, and it’s never been able to fully recover. The younger generation has tried to reclaim their turf and rebuild their empire. After killing an officer, there are eyes constantly watching them. The Vineland Boyz that walk the streets of De Garmo now are not the same as before. There is a new protocol that comes with being part of the Vineland Boyz. A new protocol that helps avoid normal families being caught in the crossfire of gangs. A new protocol that keeps the Vineland Boyz from reigning with the same terror they

once did. The past haunting footsteps no longer mean that someone might come into your house. The possible shootout doesn’t mean bullets might come flying through your window. The Ramada Inn is just a sleazy motel now. There is a calmness that reigns over Sun Valley, but never a peace. The history of the Vineland Boyz is the history of Sun Valley. Parents live through the traumas of living with the Vineland Boyz in their youth and try to teach the new generation against romanticizing the gang that took Sun Valley away from them. The Vineland Boyz were dismantled 15 years ago, but both the fear and hope of their revival lives in the back of every generation’s mind.

ISSUE 2

Lucid Issue 2: Transitions and Transformations