Lucid 3: The Worldbuilding Project

YOU MAY WONDER in an issue with the grand-sounding theme “worldbuilding” why we chose for the cover an ordinary image of grandparents sharing a meal at a modest little kitchen table, surrounded by the familiar objects of home. The scene is intimate. And private. The grandparents don’t seem to notice anyone watching at all.

When I first saw “La Casa de Los Abuelos” in the submissions folder, the whole issue, and in truth the whole of the last two years, both of educating and living through the pandemic, came into focus. “Worldbuilding” is often asso ciated with fiction that challenges convention and oppressive forms of life with newly imag ined futures. These new worlds exist not because the past has been destroyed or denied, but because worldbuilders understand how to

perceive what is worth saving: warmth, memory, home. In her video discussing the inspira tion for her piece “La Casa de los Abuelos,” the artist, first-gen Education major Mercedes Barriga, reminds us that we are all moved forward by our sense of home.

I am so grateful to Mercedes and all of the first-gen students who submitted to this multimedia “worldbuilding” issue. And I hope our readers can begin to imagine a new univer sity built on the “home” languages of students who came of age during a season of profound trauma and loss, and are becoming empow ered now through their work to shape not only their own but all of our futures.

Sincerely, Rachael Collins, editor-in-chief

WHITE & JESSICA LOPEZ

CABRERA-MALDONADO

FLORES

CASSANDRA FLORES

HERNANDEZ

SAN ROQUE

CRISTOPHER CASTILLO

JIN YANG

Teaches

IRIS KIM

CAO

Valediction

TRAN

Minutes

EL JAMRAH

Poverty in America” by the New York Times (creative nonfiction)

AYESH

nonfiction)

SELAH GARRETT

Bursting

Insomnia

nonfiction)

FELIZ AGUILAR

The Inevitability of the Gun

nonfiction)

TEFFINA ZHU ZHENG

Kiss

nonfiction)

DONNA HAKIMBABA

as i watch the curtains breathe in and out to the rhythm of the gentle breeze (poem)

DAYANA HERNANDEZ RODARTE

Chilaquiles de la Abuela (creative nonfiction)

LETICIA ESPINOZA

Nopalera

nonfiction)

Bringing It Home: A First-Gen First-Year Looks For His Path

F

IRST AND FOREMOST, we would like to thank all of the students who submitted (those we published and those we did not) and all of the students who participated in Lucid work shops and events last year–without you, there is no Lucid; there isn’t even a UCI. We would also like to thank the staff from English and Composition who helped process a ton of paperwork and throw a massively fun open mic party: Brianna Brown, Jasmine Diaz, and Jason Kwock–we simply couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks to Scott Lerner and Ryan Chang for helping us kick off the year with the zine workshop and to Stacy Brinkman for putting on the podcasting workshops and just for being a constant support of this work. Your attitude and skillz constantly inspire us. We are grateful to the Composition Program and the English Department for funding Lucid; and to the Humanities Center and Illuminations for their generous support of our workshops and open mic party. Thanks to proof readers: Jung Soo Lee, Yolanda Venegas, and Patrick McBurnie. A special thanks to everyone who donated to and helped fund raise for the Zotfunder campaign, especially Sandy Oh and Julie Schulte. And thank you to Sean Fischer and Xochitl Ramirez for their patience and support while we learned how to fundraise! Thank you always to Kevin Huie and the folks in SSI, the First

Gen Committee, the Latinx Resource Center, the Dream Center and everyone else who helped with advertising last year. A special thanks to Sharon Stead with first gen housing for your enthusiasm about this work. It means a lot. Thanks to Ballet Folklorico for performing during our Lucid Open Mic Party. Thanks to Micherlange Francois-Hemsley for the beautiful photographs of the blackout poetry workshop and the Lucid open mic party. Thanks to Autumn Hoff for her editing of the advertising video on Instagram “First Generation at UCI” and the amazing art slideshow and black and white photographs at the open mic party. We would also like to extend a special thanks to all of the supportive graduate students and lecturers in Composition who continue to give their precious time and money to the important work of first gen student success. Thanks to Angel, Lesli, and Angel Jr. for being part of Alejandro’s world. We feel we got to know you through the process of help ing to construct his piece. We would like to thank all the moms who gave their time to help make your first gen baby’s piece truly beautiful (especialmente tú, Rosalva. Alejandro es unico en su clase). Finally, congratulations to all of the first gen stu dents from all of our issues who graduated last year! We are so proud of you!

What does first-gen mean to you?

Alejandro Cabrera-Maldonado interviews first-gen UCI students at Lucid’s first spring open-mic celebration, May 2022

Aracely

Kimberly

MI VIDA COMENZÓ en el momento en que pensamos en huir de esa casa. The shame I felt in that house. We hardly invited anyone over. A dirty sort of white paint slathered the walls and the yard stayed littered with my dad’s mecánica and bottles of cerveza. The dirt from the barren yard clouded the air on your way to the patio donde más cochinero estaba amontonado.

Cuando entrabas la casa olía a Fabuloso después de que mi madre mapiaba. Pero la misma basura from outside snuck its way onto the floor in heaps and piles.

To the left of the door was a stack of mecánica hoarded and stacked to the ceiling where I made sure to watch my feet so I didn’t trip.

The tiles and planks of wood on the floor were worn down. Tracing to the kitchen, the worn floor en la cocina was con cealed by car mats, but when lifted, revealed la tierra y madera from the tears on the floor.

My poor mami tried to keep the house tidy because she liked a nice home for us.

My two brothers were both older than me, pero mas calla dos. A mi hermano mayor, le llamábamos Lito, short for Angelito; eight years older than me and six years older than Bryan. He taught us to love anime and Pokemon. I picked up English from him before I got into school.

Mi hermano, Bryan, y yo eramos más cerca en edad, just two years apart, but growing up, he felt like a younger brother. He never spoke Spanish but he’s smart enough to get by with what he understands. We always suspected he had autism, but the doctors never took us seriously. Would you, if you were confronted with a mother who relied on her five-year old daugh ter as a translator?

As kids, I took care of him at school, but his teachers urged me to step back and give him chances at independence. He was my dad’s favorite because he never dared to stand up to him. Born out of his mispronunciation of my name, came my nickname, Sany, always pronounced with a Mexican accent.

Mis hermanos y Ma shared a room con literas and I used to sleep there too growing up but I got a room to myself after my primo and his family moved out. But ever since I could remember, mi padre ha dormido en la sala, where his couch sat to the left of my bedroom door, guarding any chance of my escape without his permission.

A night where I would have usually followed our routine. Mi madre y hermanos ya se metieron al cuarto. La hora ya toco 6. It was my turn to head in for the night pero no obedecí.

Instead, I stayed up on the phone with a boy. My worst offense. Mi Pa le decía a mi Ma que iba a quedar embarazada si me dejaban tener novios. I was twelve. Como pude ser así de mensa. De puta. I knew the rules. I was hurting my mom. Mis hermanos.

As routine followed, mi padre llego en la noche, alarming the dogs as he stumbled into the house drunk. The second he heard a noise coming from mi cuarto, he pounded on my door.

I let the echoes of his fist fade, hoping he’d let it slide for the night. He never did but I just hoped. “Cassandra abre la pinche puerta.” La sangre se me subió ala cabeza, y la piel se me enchino. Words slurred. It was the only way I’d heard his voice. Temblando, abrí la puerta and I handed him my phone.

“Quédate aquí.” I kept still behind the door as it slammed in my face. Through routine, Lito was the first to come out of the room.

In this house, these traditional roles almost felt primal. The way mis hermanos traumados tenian que ser los primeros en protejer. And when I try to stand up for even myself, soy malcriada. Calladita te ves más bonita.

Mi madre followed after my brother in a panic, but at that point, all I could grasp was snippets of the escan dalo outside my door.

“¿Asi la querias verdad. Como tú?”

“¿No le pones atención o que?”

He blamed my Ma for the way I craved validation y la atención que nunca me dio. Now my mom is a puta for my mistakes. Pero la culpa no es de ella. Es tuya y ahora es mi problema. Mi castigo.

Holding my head up to my door, I heard his heavy steel-toed work boots trace out of the living room and into the kitchen. Taking my chances, I rushed out of my room and knocked on the door to the cuarto with a frantic sense of danger.

“Abre la puerta. Soy yo,” I pleaded in a forceful hush. My Ma opened the door in an instant. “Apurate.”

That night, I slept in my mom’s room and we held each other.

I sobbed and couldn’t find the words to tell her how much I dreaded my existence on this planet. How if I had my way, the last place where she could see my face would be in a coffin. I knew it would shatter her heart and her grief shatters my own. So I wrote her a letter. I left it on her tocador and left to the restroom. I couldn’t bear to read her face.

Walking back into the room, I couldn’t help but shoegaze, pero I felt los ojos de mi madre esperandome con paciencia. Una paciencia, tan pura, tan linda que nomas biene de una madre. Cuando estuve lista, I picked up my head, joining her gaze, eyes welling up with tears.

A sob choked out of my throat, erupting into a llanto when I heard mi madre join me. She held me and we sobbed, yo ni encuenta que fui la ultima de mis her manos en decirle este tipo de noticia.

Después de esa noche, mi madre supo que su terror de ese hombre nos dañaba. When all your kids want to die, you’ve failed. Estás aquí porque te dejaste. Se propuso que esta iba a ser la última vez. My mom felt responsible for the pain we felt. Como madre nos quiso cuidar. No la culpo por el daño, but the moment she chose to fix the burdens of el abuso de mi padre es cuando se convirtió en mi héroe.

Esa noche de Octubre, the still wind that night warned that we had to brace ourselves. Not only for my father’s arrival from a barra, pero para cambio. En vez de correr del enemigo, we had to face him. Ya estuvo. My Madre has just started working, though my Pa didn’t allow it, and she was out working a late shift. When it hit 8, I joined my brothers in their room in our routine for when our Pa hadn’t arrived yet.

Waiting into the night, the anticipated pounding on the bedroom door shook the fragile frame of the house. My brothers and I quickly looked to each other for reassurance and my oldest brother opened the door.

My dad stumbled into our room, yelling drunken gibberish. We sat back in our positions and ignored his attempts at confron tation. The three of us stared at the TV hoping he would settle down pero ese hombre no tiene límite.

“What the fuck do you think I am?” mi Pa asked in his thick Mexican accent.

“Pa relax,” my older brother Lito told him dismissively. Mi Pa can’t handle that. Being patronized. Bryan and I looked at each other and were ready for the worst.

“Relax? Fuck you hijo de tu pinche madre . . . Don’t disrespect me . . . Vete de mi casa.”

“Pa, please por favor calmate,” I pleaded.

“Callate niña. No te estoy hablando.” I knew he would say that but I still tried.

A silence fell over the room that felt comfortable yet tense with my father’s glare. We stared back at the TV, wishing for peace.

“¿Me vas a ignorar? Look at me,” he demanded from Lito. My brother sighed and kept avoiding eye contact, with his attention still focused on the screen. “Yo compré esta tele,” and after a brief pause, he grabbed the TV and began to carry it out of the room. My brothers and I looked at each other startled. Jumping out of the beds with a frantic pace, we followed him out the door, yelling for what the hell he was doing. Once outside, the man flung it off the patio, slapping it onto the concrete. The screen shattered as pieces of glass fell to our feet. In shock, we stared at each other, my father

included. Heaving, sus ojos me dieren terror. They starved for attention. For reverence so deep. Quería respeto como hombre. Pero como va a ser hombre if he’s throwing childish tantrums. In silence, my brothers and I backed up and were ready to head inside. “Cassandra. Quédate aquí.” I held my breath waiting for Lito to object but he didn’t. I looked at him and he gave me a look of reassurance and turned around with Bryan to go inside. I shuffled closer to my dad as we’re left alone outside, filling the gap where I stood away from him in fear. I stared at the pavement beneath my feet to avoid the glare of my father’s confrontational eyes. They begged to be loved yet I couldn’t betray myself and mi Madre and let the man have that. The cold breeze of that night felt sharp and painful. Me dijo, “Cassandra, sabes que te amo.” The silence crawled into my breath y envolvio sus manos sobre mi cuello, donde mis lagrimas se

“Yo sé,” I choked. I have to tiptoe around this man knowing he won’t hurt me. He’ll hurt my mom for raising me. When it was

Just then, el candado de la puerta empezó a sonar as I look to see my mom arriving from her shift, her face filled with confu sion, her eyes analyzing the situation. The shattered TV on the floor. My drunken dad with piercing red eyes. Nervous at first, I rushed to help her open the fence and try to guide her into the

“¿Que le haces?” mi mom confronted him, fronting a look of boldness, yet she was exhausted from limpieza at the motel she worked at.

“No te metas,” he told her and grabbed me by the shoulder. I felt tense and tried shrugging him off. My brothers had heard the escandalo outside and rushed outside to help.

“Sany, go inside,” Lito told me and I scurried up the steps of the patio, not looking back because I knew I would have stayed. I hurried to my room where I started packing like we did when we would spend the night at a motel. Putting the bag down, I laid down on my bed, my breath tense, holding back lagrimas with every inch of my will. My heavy eyes sank as I fell into the escape of sleep.

Banging began on my bedroom door, and I woke up anxious, fearing it was my father. I glanced at the clock, reading it at 3 am en punto. Mi Madre empieza a hablar through the door, “Alistate. Ya nos vamos.” I let out a sigh of relief, unlocking my door and joining my family as we walked out the door of the house, down the steps of the patio, and out the fence for the last time.

We cramped into the car with little, but a new sense of dignity began to form. We never acknowledged it but we knew we were leaving para siempre. Mi Ma silently drove us to the motel she worked at.

After checking into a room, we flicked on the lights and settled down into the beds while my mom headed straight towards the restroom. I heard my mom get onto the phone with who I assume was one of my tías. I heard her begin to sob uncontrollably. She could hardly speak on the phone. It was the second time I ever heard my mom cry. Just at the sound of my mom, I began sobbing too and Lito sat down next to me, trying to hug me. That was the first time he hugged me. It felt awkward but never in my life have I felt so much comfort. My vision grew blurry through my tears as I thanked him and laid myself to rest for the night. The lights stayed on as I drifted to sleep en la segu ridad de nuestro nuevo hogar.

Sometimes I have to wonder if I was doomed from the start. I was raised in fear and silence. Mi padre treated me like I belonged to him. He claimed to protect me but he was protecting his own image of me. He demanded my respect in the way I lived. In the way, I should listen and keep callada. In the way, I was obligated to avoid boys and stay out of platicas que no me pertenecían. The entitlement of machismo belittles me to an object. Pero no soy sirvienta. No soy objeto. Soy mujer. Y el castigo por ser hija is unjust but I’ll endure hell to safeguard my latinidad.

With love, Cassandra Flores

CASSANDRA

Clavel

Eres mi razón de ser Mis raíces y mis sueños Cuando bailo, tu alma resuena entre mis pasos

Amo al clavel

Casi tanto como amo compartir un hogar contigo Tomando nuestro cafecito y llegando tarde del trabajo

Aunque te nombras Rosa Siempre serás mi clavel Eres la flor en mi apellido Mi ramo hecho de orgullo

Te amo Mami

Niña Sufrida

Niña Sufrida.

Víctima de mis propios pecados

De mi propia conciencia

My fatal finger Points and claims burdens carried for me that I dare to not live Of voyages across el Rio Grande that yearn for a foot to wet

Por ser pura Nayarita, me adorno en artesanía

Y me llenará de asco si me llaman Americana. Yet I still defend the name of land I dare to not be born in.

I’m pushed onto a stage where even the floors are a looking glass

Where I’m stared at with the beady eyes of mi Madre and my peers

I tend to a soil not belonging to my name

A garden made of plastic that feeds me white lies

Of the promises that I reluctantly follow pero ni tengo fe en este systema

Is this tierra mine to claim or do I fail to conquer? Do I fail to belong?

Borrowing Approval

I yearn to bask in the familiarity of Chicanas,

In the sorrow of poetry,

In the rage and filth of my own reflection.

Holding out for life

So passively, so hopelessly, so carelessly

Blanketed by the comfort of my traumas

They keep me afloat

I’ve been through worse? I don’t even get up to brush my teeth anymore.

I force truths whispered from the mirror down my throat

Hacking and gagging wet phlegm

Until I vomit an image of myself

That I love so much, I frame.

I’m a collection of chapters with twine stabbed through my pages.

1.… Chicana.

14…. Willingly fatherless girl.

18.… Self-proclaimed víctima de la sociedad.

Estos capítulos son puertas altas y pesadas

Encierran llanos tan vacíos que lloran por lo romántico

Lloran por lo que me faltó mi padre.

Atención.

¡Atención! ¡Atención!

Esta hija de puta es chillona. Es noviera y va a caer embarazada.

When I first saw my dad after our escape.

Me miró con novio caminando por mi ciudad.

He busted a U and our eyes locked.

“Tu madre no sabe criarte.”

He floored the gas, quemó llanta, and left me.

Porque yo ya no era su problema.

Yo ya no quise ser su propiedad

Y con eso, él ya no me quiso a mi.

Your daddy’s drunk but its not your fault He’s had a long life This is a consequence of the toll Not yours to pay but you’re here anyway You can’t join in, so why don’t you just watch one drink become three THREE! turns into that special glass that can fit a whole bunch Magic show but you’re too old to wait for the reveal Lost count of how many times you’ve gotten up, now the cans have folded up into lawn chairs We don’t have company.

Tipsy teetering about Giggling like an adult, breaking down like a child He’s on the floor catching his breath When will it be my time to rest? When will it be his?

Papi, it’s been a long night Papi, I’ve had a short life But it feels long to me. I turned 21 two nights ago, ur taking my shots for me again Mija, I’m not a drunk; I’m drinking So That’s that I stay for the reveal, But I know how it goes.

HELENA SAN ROQUE

WHEN I WAS TOO LITTLE and too scared to sleep by myself, my mother and I would always sing “Bahay Kubo,” before we went to bed. It was a song about vegetables growing around a stilt nipa hut.

“Bahay kubo kahit munti, ang halaman doon, ay sari sari . . .”

And she would tell me about how she had a big backyard with a fish pond that got destroyed because of the road widening. One of the many things she left behind to come to a place that wasn’t any better. With the military owning over 90,000 hectares of land and around 10 naval bases, the Philippines is America’s playground. In the 60s and 70s, the Marcos regime spread propaganda, promising a better Philippines, yet pushed more Filipinos to work abroad in the U.S. Like my mom, who had clocked in more hours taking care of elderly white women or little white kids than her own daughter.

But I always had this song. We took turns saying the Lord’s Prayer and Hail Mary. And, of course, sang “Bahay Kubo.”

Every time I prayed, I’d look at the picture of Christ holding a lamb across the room. This Christ had pale skin and light hair, even though the Bible said his skin was bronze and his hair was like black wool.

At St. Catherine of Sienna Catholic Church, I prayed with my mother in the lower room. The air smelled like roses and frankincense. There were people lighting rows of candles in front of Jesus of Nazareth and mother Mary. There were statues of the saints kneeling in front of Her. One of them, my mother told

me, was a Filipino saint, San Pedro, who clutched his sombrero in his right hand and prayed. The afternoon sun peeked through the stained glass window panes. We kneeled in front of Her. My mother prayed, but I just closed my eyes and tried not to think about how much I didn’t want to be there.

It occurred to me that my faith was fading when I spent more time looking at the clock than paying attention to the sermon. And that my best friend snuck in her DS one time and we played it until our mothers got annoyed. Looking back, I think it’s funny that only our mothers went to church. The only time my dad came to mass was when I was sick. And then he got sick. And he died.

I would dream about my life outside of this apartment. I would think about Heaven. I wouldn’t think about the neighbor screaming at his wife downstairs to “shut the fuck up.” I prayed so I wouldn’t have to look up at the same asbestos ceiling. I prayed to God to let me see my dad again. I prayed for an SAT score over 1400. And when I finished, I was greeted with silence.

“If it’s His will, it’s His will,” my mom would say.

And when she said that, I knew—that my mom didn’t really believe in God.

I remember walking down the street and wishing someone was walking me home. I wished my parents could pick me up. I didn’t want to go home because there wouldn’t be anyone there. No God. No Mother Mary. No father. No mother.

When I think about “Bahay Kubo,” it’s not just a song about vegetables. I think about all the times my life could have been better. In my mother’s version of a perfect life, where we all lived in a nipa hut with vegetables growing around it. If there was a God watching over us. If my dad was alive to watch me graduate high school. If I had a graduation in the first place. If I had someone to walk me home. If my best friend and I went to the same college together like we promised. But every time I close my eyes. I don’t know if there’s a God, but I still like to think there is and pray. Even if I will never have a house with vegetables growing around it, I still like to imagine there is one. For my mom, at least.

From Lucid editor Rachael Collins:

During the school closure of winter, 2022, I asked students in my composition course “Education as the Practice of Freedom” to make a self-introduction video in which they talk about their relationship to education. Christopher beautifully articulates much of what we hear from first-generation college students at UCI, especially about the immense pressure to succeed that can rob them of the simple joys of learning.

When I was in eighth grade, my English teacher assigned my class a project where we had to try something new and record our progress. I chose to learn to play the guitar from my dad. This video is from the beginning of my project when I was first learning to play the chords for a song I had chosen to play. The guitar was a little big for me because it had been my mom’s guitar. So, it was difficult for me to stretch my hand out to play the different chords. Memorizing the chords wasn’t so easy either. I stopped playing the guitar after that because I couldn’t get used to the pain in my fingertips where blisters were just about to form. However, it was a meaningful time for me being able to spend time with my dad. It had also been my dream to learn to play the guitar from my dad as I had grown up watching him play. Although I did end up dropping it, I’m glad I took up the guitar through him.

geomijul.

half-cold tteokbokki in white bowls. i pick out the fish cakes and lay them in my brother’s bowl a pile of abandoned words—actions will suffice as an apology. “is this enough?”

green onions going down the drain. crocodile hands, chicken skin. fingers gathering hair into three dark rivulets. she doesn’t remember how to braid.

wiping dust off the floors with a rag. forever fan. my birthday, tomorrow. i’m not expecting much. summer birthdays are like that. my friends and i might go out, share popsicles in the july heat ignore the fact that we’re speedrunning towards our twenties. quiet.

i miss the boys i used to love. the hum of summer insects. the conversations, social networks, acknowledgement. i want to hang out with you. are you free this weekend? lip gloss tastes exactly how it smells: bad.

Hear Iris read “Part-Time 사랑시, Part-Time Valediction”

lying on the floor again. humming the same chorus line. i’m suddenly feeling inspired. sweating it off. the stench of crab sticks, mayonnaise, and wasabi: underneath a layer of bergamot and plum blossoms. sometimes it’s ck one, sometimes it’s clean cotton, i spray one, two, three times to keep the sea at bay.

be safe, kids. boram.

sun on my arms. my lungs hurt from laughing. i’m gonna miss you so much. an era has ended. the words are leaving me as quickly as they come and i swear i try to catch them, desperately scooping at them with both arms. train rides back home. re-reading dms from 4 years ago: thank you for existing! a new age has arrived.

On my lunch break, thumbing through the web, my McDonald’s crispy chicken sandwich box, teeter-tottering on my left thigh, I read a study conducted by the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development in the comfort of my Corolla. It claimed: Americans spend 74 minutes eating each meal— the quickest time compared to Turkey (162 minutes) and France (135 minutes). I scrolled some more and saw a picture of two cream Korean poodles, @spicedogsss, confettied in pink bows, a rhinestone collar cuffing their cotton necks. Caption poorly translated: It’s so cold that my face just keeps getting ugly. Batter-nugget crumbs drop into the box, nearly tipping over. Instagram’s algorithm tallies how long it hypnotizes me and then, suggests more dog photos and lipgloss. My life suggests: more dog photos and lipgloss. Inevitable timer tings. I toss three bites into the garbage. Dust my fingertips on faded black jeans. Clock in the last four digits of your social and swipe a damn hairnet.

“Mapping Poverty in America” by the New York Times

THIS IS MY ASSIGNED READING at my $15,000-a-year university in Irvine.

At a university where 45% of the students are working part-time jobs to pay rent and using CalFresh to afford a meal, they want us to study poverty.

The reading says low income is under $23,283. The cities in California include Oakland, Oxnard, Panorama City, South Gate, Santa Ana, Adelanto, Victorville, etc. My hometown makes the list with a 53% population of low income and I’m starting to understand why my hometown is listed instead of Irvine.

At my high school 95% of students qualified for free or reduced lunch, eating school-provided meals for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

School lunch included microwaved pizzas where the cheese stuck to the plastic, overdone taquitos that you needed to use your molars to bite on, foil-wrapped steamed burgers with soggy buns, and frozen orange juice for dessert.

Besides the state-of-the-art meals that we must be appreciative of, we were constantly watched over by the care of authorities.

6 Police Officers are spread across campus hovering over any sudden movement of Black and Brown students trying to get an education, 8 Army Officials stalk students to con vince them to use their life for endless and pointless wars, 2 Political Representatives track our education to ensure 12.7 billion dollars are spent on prisons instead of schools, and 40 students are packed into a classroom where teachers have shifted their focus on measuring the length of our skirts to be lower than the tips of our three fingers. All of this is happening while we wonder what the SAT is?

We unknowingly run around these obstacles, and when we make it to a college with a 2% Black population in Irvine or we become a part of the 13% of Latines with a Bachelor’s Degree we are reminded that any success is from the color of our skin rather than our own accomplishments. Our privilege comes from “Affirmative Action” because there is no way we can actually succeed.

But as children running around these obstacles we never thought anything of it; besides doesn’t everyone want the same thing? To not be woken up by helicopters roaming around at night after the sound of fireworks or 5 gunshots that have gone off. Instead we want to be woken up to 4 stacks of pancakes topped with cajeta and fresas in the morning, not a bullet through the window again. We sit at our table that seats 4 but always has 2 empty seats; we sit wishing our parents could join us for these meals, but they’ve already left for 1 of their 3 jobs of the day.

But we never saw ourselves as different; until we are in our parents’ shoes paying bills we can barely afford, and learning our life is defined by The New York Times as Poverty.

Pressure

4:29AM. My sister wakes me up from a deep slumber to pray Fajr.

I think I’m twenty minutes late. If I had woken up earlier, maybe I’d have the luxury of going back to bed.

I go to the bathroom to perform wudū, and drench my face with cold water to wake up. This gives me a frigid shock of energy that lasts about ten minutes. It’s enough to get through prayer and maybe pick an outfit to wear, but once my face is fully air-dried, I can sense the looming lethargy heavily weighing down my eyes as I sit in bed, waiting for my day to start.

5:00AM. Chime! *buzz* chime! Chime—THUMP. I’m already up.

I shower, brush my teeth, do my skincare routine and style myself in the dark.

I’m wearing gray-plaid slacks with a streak of pink in them, matching it with a pink puffed-sleeve blouse, a black sleeveless

blazer, a diamond necklace, and some fake silver rings. I hide the dark circles under my eyes—the battle scars of my fatigue— with concealer. I then color my face with primer, contour, foundation, highlighter, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, lipliner and lip gloss. I put on my black platform heels, despite how impracti cal they’d be to wear for an outdoorsy university. I tighten my poofy hair to a ponytail and tuck it away with the crown that is my pink hijab.

I must dress with no flaws. I must embody perfection.

The only way I can be acknowledged, respected, and accepted is if I present myself in a way palatable to every expectation imposed on me by the world’s superficiality.

I have to showcase my femininity, but not too much, or else I do not have respect for myself. I have to exhibit a sense of fashion, but not too excessively, or else my priorities are oriented towards materialism and minimize how smart I actually am. I have to

Some of my boots. Fashion is often a tool people use for leaving an impression on others, and with time it became one of my outlets of self-expression.

dress modest, but not too modest, or else I’m a Muslim woman oppressed by some fictional man dictating what I can and can not wear. I have to put in the effort, but convey an impeccability that is effortless.

Of course I have enough confidence to ensure my self-image and esteem is intact, but why risk all that I’ve sacrificed to be here by rebelling through indifference in the name of pride?

I have to care what others think even if I internally don’t, because if I show that I am noncompliant to faulty standards then I delay my opportunities for connections and success. It’s like the sub missivity of wearing an uncomfortable suit for a job interview; it’s socially unacceptable to wear sweats or pajamas. “Dress for success”—or else forget getting the job. This discomfort is mostly temporary for others; but I have to live with it everyday. I want a better life. I must refine every detail of myself to show the world how much I want it and deserve it.

I look in the mirror wondering if I should practice my smile. I must constantly beam and swallow my frustrations or else my sharp facial features will reify the historically discriminatory narrative against me as an Arab and a Muslim, that I am inher ently angry/violent/uncivilized/capable of terrorism.

Taken during a drive to UCI. It was 6:18 on the interstate 110, so I was tired, but it was nice because I was able to watch the sun starting to rise while the road was quiet.

I don’t feel like smiling right now.

I should be allowed to feel that way.

I guess I’m ready to go.

6:05AM. A calm rush of wind strokes my face as I cross the street to my car.

It’s too early to be out. But if I were to leave at 7:00AM, I would not arrive at school until 9:00AM because of the traffic of overpopulated Los Angeles. I leave now, and it will take me 45 minutes to get to school on an empty freeway, with an hour to spare before my 8:00AM class.

Commuting makes life a little more tiresome, but any other option would be impossible for me to afford.

Helping my family with the rent at home is less financially strenuous than it would be for myself and for them if I were on my own. My wage as a barista isn’t livable. Even when I used to work full-time (I changed to part-time because I could not fit the right availability with my school hours), I would not be able to finance an apartment, my car payment, insurance, gas, food, and tuition simultaneously. I’m lucky I managed to have some money saved from the years of work I put in while I was in community college for free. When it comes up in conversation that I com mute from the South Bay to Irvine, I receive pity as they recall the one time they engaged in a similar commute for a trip of leisure.

“How can you do that everyday?” they ask.

They never ask why I have to—or why the world is constructed in a system where I have to.

At least commuting gives me time for myself to contemplate in silence.

8:00AM. My heart cannot stop hammering in my chest. My anxiety is heightened from my Monster energy drink. Today is the day we get our exam scores back for thermodynamics. If I get a C, then maybe with supplemental work and a curve, I could get a B in the class if I’m lucky.

The TA hands me back my exam without mak ing eye contact.

A big red 28% is written at the top. I failed.

I open the Canvas app on my phone to see the grading scale and overall class average. Class average is 70%. Lowest score is 28%.

I was not anticipating stellar performance, but I certainly was not expecting such a massive failure either. How could I have performed so badly? How am I supposed to fix my grade now? How am I supposed to get accepted to medical schools with such a tainted GPA? How am I supposed to go home to my parents—who have fought tirelessly to show me love and care, to keep the roof over my head, to make sure there’s food on the table, to ensure I never drop out of school because my potential is the only way we can

My car after hitting a semi-truck on the 405 freeway. I was on my way to class, and after this accident I wasn’t able to attend class for three weeks. It was disheartening to have a new factor outside of my control get in the way of my potential success.

Taken one night while I was studying for a quantum mechanics exam. I was pulling an all-nighter because I had to work right after my classes that day and found no time to study beyond staying up all night.

climb out of the poverty we’ve suffered from for over a decade—and look them in the eye to tell them that the daughter they’re so proud of might not have what it takes to succeed? That all this hard work we invested is in vain?

I can feel my cheeks burning with red, my throat tightening, and my vision is suddenly blurred by tears beginning to form.

My support system at school likes to tell me that one bad exam isn’t the end of the world, and one failure won’t hurt my potential for success. They like to tell me that everything is going to be okay. Maybe that’d make me feel better if this was my first failure. But this is the third exam I failed for this class. I’m failing my other two classes as well. I use all my free time to read, study, and learn the material.

Is it even my fault? If I didn’t have to commute for so long, I’d have more time to study. If I didn’t have to work, I could attend the randomly scheduled tutoring sessions and professor office hours. Could it be that I don’t have enough time?

Or could it be the lack of foundational knowl edge that I missed by having a community college education?

Could it be the fault of my calculus professor that refused to deliver lectures during remote learning? Or my chemistry professor that only focused on giving us shortcuts without explain ing concepts? What about my physics professor that graded us on nothing but the one project he assigned us?

Could it be the fault of my university professors that don’t have supplementary material to help me transition? Or the fault of the professors that assume I already know everything?

Am I supposed to be upset with myself for not succeeding with my struggles (despite the many others that have overcome worse), or should I be upset with the world for inhibiting my success by not preparing me or not accom modating me?

I shouldn’t dodge responsibility. I knew that I didn’t know my calculus, chemistry, or physics very well before coming here. I just thought that despite this, maybe I could still fight for my goals. Maybe I had some intelligence and talent to offer that could outweigh my shortcomings.

I think I still do. But maybe if I didn’t have to prove it to the world first, I could prove it to myself.

My notes and some photos of my grades during my first quarter, as I do put in some effort to learn the material but sometimes I don’t see the results I want.

A Bursting of Balloons

E

VERYDAY, IT’S ALWAYS the same thing . . . wake up in the morning and stare at the bulbous red shoes and the speckled blue suit and the white face paint that smears the bedpost and the walls and the mirror. They stare back—the shoes and the suit and the paint—they stare back and mock me with a this isn’t what you expected to be doing with your life by your mid 30’s, huh, Joe. Everyday, I have to stare into their mocking gaze, and swallow it all. Down it like medicine or a shot of cheap tequila or news that your grandma’s in the hospital again. It’s a living, I plead back; although really, it’s embarrassing I feel as though I owe this stuff, this meaningless, pointless stuff, any explanation at all. But after all, they’re part of me now. I wrap the blue suit around my arms and legs like it’s my own skin, like I’m a gift ready to be tossed aside at any snot-nosed, little kid’s birthday party within the county. Slip my feet into the shoes, paint my face in white. It’s all just a mask at the end of the day. It’s all just a mask, but it’s the mask I’ve chosen. One time, my mother called me and she said, Joe, what you’re doing with your life . . . the clown thing

don’t even like clowns

roaches. All the world’s a stage, they say, and roaches need a good laugh too. Maybe one day, I’ll write one of those infomercials. Have scenes in black and white of a party where no one is having fun—smushed cake, awkward silence—and I’ll juxtapose those against colorful scenes of children and their families surrounding me in endless squeals of laughter, laughing so hard they cry, laughing so hard they nearly piss themselves. Everyone loves TV these days. Maybe if Ma saw me on TV like that, mak ing everyone smile and laugh, she’d change her mind. I had a partner once, Delilah. She knew it was a dying gig, same as Ma, but she loved it. Her suit was pink and covered in daisies. The kids loved her. She never scared them. She knew how to make them feel warm. One day, we were on our way to a party for this rich family that lived down south and we were on the freeway and we were in a hurry and we were going too fast and she told me to slow down but we needed the money and they were going to pay us so well and we couldn’t afford to be late and I yelled at her, I yelled at her, We get paid by the hour, Delilah, we can’t miss a single minute, and then she turned away from me and one of the tires popped and I lost control of the wheel and the car spun like a top, spun like a ballerina on steroids, and we slammed into a wall and the bricks crushed her, and the sound of her bones crunching beneath them was like the sound of fireworks crack ling and popping on the Fourth of July. The ambulance came, screaming like children’s laughter, but it was too late. She was gone. Her body mangled beyond recognition. I think of her too, every morning. Remember the way her cheek bone shot out from her face, covered in blood. I broke my arm that day. That was it. Just a broken arm, and a bit of trouble with my spine. But, I can still make a blue bird out of a single balloon. I can make you any bird you want. That’s got to count for something, right?

Chronic Insomnia

CONVERSATION WITH ANDREA

Andrea: “You know, some people are just biologically meant to be night owls.”

Me: “Oh really? –Well, go on, enlighten me.”

Andrea: “Just think about it. Back in hunter-gatherer times, some people had to stay up all night to keep the group safe.”

Me: “So I can’t sleep at night because my ancestors decided to take the graveyard shift?”

Andrea: “Yes, you’re genetically predisposed to be an insomniac.”

SLIGHT MISCONCEPTION

To most people’s understanding, insomnia is a sleep disorder that prevents individuals from falling asleep at night. And although that interpretation is fairly accurate, it does not encompass all aspects of insomnia.

CLARIFICATION

Better explained by Thomas Roth, the director of the Sleep Disorders and Research Center at Henry Ford Hospital, a more accurate and concentrated description of insomnia would be, “the presence of a long sleep latency, frequent nocturnal awak enings . . . or even frequent transient arousals.”

In other words, insomnia is not only the inability to fall asleep, it also extends to the inability to stay asleep. Some sources, such as Stanford Health Care, even include “wak[ing]

Figure 1. My first sleep-aid bottles.

up too early the next morning” as another indicator of insomnia disorder.

Insomnia is generally classified by its duration. If the disorder presents itself for less than a month then it would be classified as transient insomnia. Insomnia that lasts between one to six months is referred to as short-term insomnia. And if the disorder persists for more than six months it is labeled as chronic.

Certain factors may contribute to the development of an insomniac disorder. These factors are environmental, physiolog ical, and psychological. And while some individuals have a higher risk of developing insomnia than others, a great number of people suffer from sleep disorders in general. As Matthew Walker, a neuroscientist who specializes in the study of slumber, noted, “the ‘sleep aid’ industry, encompassing prescription sleeping medications and over-the-counter sleep remedies, is worth an astonishing $30 billion a year in the USA.” Walker’s research goes on to argue that this “is perhaps the only statistic one needs in order to realize how truly grave the problem is.”

4 DAYS WITHOUT SLEEP

I didn’t always struggle with chronic insomnia. My unhealthy relationship with sleep began sometime around my sophomore

year of high school. What started as sacrificing a few hours of sleep has now led to the slow deterioration of my health. A chronic problem that has followed me well into my college life. And although I’ve endured many of the side effects that accompany severe sleep deprivation (such as concentration issues, mood changes, a weak ened immune system, etc.) there is only one side effect that has left me in fear:

The light coming from the sunrise touched my face. Just a few minutes ago the only illuminating fixture was the blue light coming from my computer. Now you could see the sleep deprivation on my face. This is the third sunrise I have witnessed consecutively. Unlike me, my roommate has a “normal” sleeping schedule.

“Why are you still awake, Silvia?” my roommate asked suddenly.

I replied with: “I have a test to finish in 12 hours. I can’t waste a second.”

“You’re crazy,” she replied.

“Mentally unstable,” I corrected her.

After our brief conversation, she got up. To presum ably use the restroom. I vividly remember my roommate struggling to free herself from her blanket. I remember her struggling to find her glasses; their black frame often blended in with our mini fridge.

“Can you pass me a water bottle?” I asked.

“Yeah, when I come back,” she replied. As she got up to leave, I don’t recall whether she put her sandals on, but I do remember the loud locking sound that followed the slamming door. I found that to be out of character. She is very considerate of our hallmates and does not let the door slam.

I finished reading a chapter and realized that she still had not returned. Reasonably, I begin to worry. The restroom is two doors down the hall, she should’ve been back already. That’s when something caught my eye.

“It’s actually fairly common for sleepdeprived people to hallucinate when sleep-deprived for long enough.”

Brandon Peters, M.D.

“I try to live every day but the fact doesn’t change”

Aaron Taos, “Control”

“We can’t change the things we can’t control” Foster the People, “Imagination”

My roommate, sound asleep, turns over in her bed. Her glasses, still on top of our mini fridge.

“How did I not see or hear her come back? How do I know that’s really my roommate? Did she ever leave the room?”

Several questions such as these raced through my head. Shock turned into fear. “How do I know what’s real and what isn’t?

Would I still have gone through that if I had just slept?”

ACCOUNTABILITY?

Sometimes I don’t know who to blame. Myself? The school system? My parents? Is there anyone to blame?

“Going to college [is] not a choice for first-generation stu dents, it [is] necessary in attempt to push their families to a higher economic standing” (Hernandez). Growing up my parents made it excessively clear that the only “right” pathway for me was that of a college education. It seemed as if “no querás terminar como yo” became my father’s catchphrase whenever we started a conversation. He never missed the opportunity to lecture me on the importance of obtaining a higher education.

Due to certain circumstances, my parents never went to college, let alone finished high school. Their unfinished educa tion has proven to be detrimental to their livelihood and has made it an obstacle in providing for my siblings and me. Although we are more economically stable now, it is still not enough to make a comfortable living.

For this reason, I was expected to enter a respected college. I was expected to further my education. I am expected to do better in life than they ever could.

It took me a few years to understand why. Why they would express great disappointment if my grades dipped to a B. Why they would view my breaks as lazy and unproductive rather than resting.

Although they meant well and only had my best interest in mind, the mentality they instilled in me was “place your educa tion above anything else.” Unfortunately, to my interpretation,

this included my health. So that’s what I did; my sole focus became school. If I could fit a club or some community service hours on top of my eight-class schedule, I would. If I had to sacrifice a few hours of sleep, I would. Annually, I would create strict schedules that revolved around school. I would choose whichever program I believed would look better on my college applications. I chose Cajon High School (CHS) over Middle College High School (MCHS).

• MCHS is a relatively small high school that integrates some of its classes with the local community college. Each grade level consists of 100 students or less.

• CHS is a much larger high school that provides stu dents with the option of entering the International Baccalaureate program (IB). Each grade level holds about 600 – 700 students.

Lo Siento Madre. Saboteé las dos entrevistas para Middle College High School.

By choosing Cajon, I was choosing IB. I put myself in this situation. I was the one who consented to it all. What I didn’t realize at the time was the cult-like environment that IB creates. At least that was the case for my graduating class. Rather than generating a supportive environment that allowed room for growth, IB was devised with toxicity and high competitiveness within those who had high ranks. You were seen as nothing but competition to other high-ranking students.

Besides the cut-throat environment, IB classes tended to be over-demanding. The assignments themselves were manageable; it was the load in which these assignments came that was truly terrifying. In the blog Nail IB, dedicated to helping IB students, one of the authors wrote, “Every IB student that I have ever met on this planet has pulled a lot of all-nighters. I once remember a time when I drank almost 8 cans of Red Bull to make it through the night for

“[F]irst generation college students report getting fewer hours of sleep and would prefer to get more sleep at night compared to their colleagues.”

Lhia Hernandez

the sake of finishing assignments. Interestingly, I was only a little dosage of caffeine away from being hospitalized.”

I regrettably positioned myself in a place where I couldn’t change my school environment, therefore, by destroying my sleeping schedule it felt as if I were regaining some control. But now I can’t help but feel like the villain of my own story.

WORSE THAN BEFORE

My troubles with sleep started around my sophomore year of high school. However, at the time these problems were justified due to the environment that I was in. Now that I’ve begun college I no longer carry such an immense burden. I learned to let go of the mindset that was contributing to my deteriorating health.

Despite this my insomnia persists, worse than before. Why?

When Andrea and I had that conversation about my insom nia I didn’t place as much significance in her words. If my insom nia was inherited, then why didn’t I experience trouble with sleep earlier in life? Why did it have to start at the most crucial point of my high school career? Turns out there was some truth to her words, as I’ve recently discovered I have a handful of family members who also struggle with insomnia. But none have reached the extremities that I have.

CEREBROSPINAL FLUID, PETER TRIPP, AND RANDY GARDNER

There was a point in time when I tried scaring myself into sleep ing. I read research suggesting that during deep sleep there’s a moment where our brain releases Cerebrospinal Fluid (CSF) through itself to conduct a deep clean of the brain tissue. Studies suggest that “the CSF provides buoyancy, nourishment” (Spector) and it removes waste that is accumulated when we are awake. It has been speculated that if this process were to be disrupted, such as not entering deep sleep, our brain will

Figure 2. My Apple Sleep Tracker

begin to build up waste. Even the idea of having unhealthy waste piling up in my brain can’t put me to sleep.

I also read up on the case of Peter Tripp, a radio host who stayed up for 8 days as a stunt that would help him raise money for charity. During the fourth day, he too began experiencing hallucinations. After the stunt, he claimed to feel the same, but he “continued to show psychotic symptoms . . . lost his job, divorced his wife, and was rarely heard of by the public ever again” (Medium).

Randy Gardner later went on to beat the world record of days without sleep. In the name of science, Gardner spent eleven days awake. By the end of the experiment, Gardner had been experiencing moodiness, paranoia, problems with concen tration and short-term memory, and hallucinations.

As unhinged as this may sound, my initial thought after reading about these two was, “as a female, I need to defeat both of them.” I won’t do it, mainly for health purposes but also because Guinness World Records no longer accepts entries for the longest time without sleep.

THE WANDERER

Staying up during the night is never the hard part, at least not for me. The real struggle begins at sunrise when the golden sun rays expose my dark circles to the world. I’ve found that the real challenge is to keep my brain stimulated throughout the day, especially during classes.

12:00 AM

It was around midnight when I had left my dorm. Now I found myself wandering through my housing community. Strolling around campus has become my nightly routine. A soothing feeling accompanies the calm and refreshing night.

I also picked up this habit because I didn’t want to disturb my roommate. She’s a light sleeper and I don’t want my problem affecting her.

I cross the School of Art and use the bridge to make my way to the School of Humanities.

12:30 AM

When people find out I have insomnia they usually question all the ways it affects me. They question my mental health, physical health, and academic performance. Then they question the steps I’ve taken to possibly resolve this problem. Whether I take medication, talk to a sleep specialist, anything. But they never consider how it affects the people I’m close to.

I have woken up my roommate on numerous occasions when I return in the morning. Although she’s told me that it’s okay, I can’t help but feel guilty.

I have lashed out at certain friends, more than I’d like to admit when I experience mood changes from the lack of sleep.

I reach the School of Humanities and briefly admire the light academia aesthetic.

1:00 AM

I begin walking on the outer ring road, with the School of Biological Sciences as my destination. I breathe in the crisp air and Andrea’s voice travels through my head: “You know the temperature is good once you start going numb.”

The sprinklers go off and I stop in front of the Anteater Learning Pavilion. My attention travels towards the water. The aroma emitted from the sprinklers reminds me of the smell found at Disneyland’s Pirates of the Caribbean ride. I’ve always liked that smell.

I come out of the nostalgic haze and begin my walk toward the Science Library. I don’t stop to look at the statues behind the

Figure 3. Photo taken at BioSci bridge.

library because my destination is a pink-colored wall in the BioSci School.

1:30 AM

For the most part, Irvine is a relatively safe space. I had found comfort in the night, a false sense of security. I suppose that’s why I didn’t take any of the safety precautions most people would have. As I crossed the bridge connecting the science library to the school of Biological Sciences there was a white van conveniently taking a stroll underneath. The only reason I noticed was because I dropped my phone and had to look around to find it.

When I saw the van, my heart sank to my stomach. What were the chances that a van had stopped exactly when I stopped at relatively the same area at nearly 2am? Perhaps, whoever was in that van had no ill intentions and it truly was a pure coincidence. However, I weighed my options; if I were to continue to my destination, I would probably have a very low chance of survival. That night I found out how fast I could really run: pretty darn fast. I made it back to my dorm; I did not sleep that day.

CONVERSATION WITH A RESIDENTIAL ADVISOR

RA: You do know the health complications that come with not sleeping, right?

Me: Yeah, I’m actually writing a paper about my problem right now?

RA: If you know what can happen, why don’t you just sleep?

Me: It’s not that simple.

RA: Have you ever heard of melatonin?

Me: Yeah, and Unisom. And Kirkland’s sleep aid. My mom had me try some vitamins, she thought those would help, but they didn’t. A friend gave me a mild tranquil izer once. That didn’t work either. Yes, I have also tried those sleep hygiene routines, like not drinking coffee, not using my bed for anything other than sleep; I tried not using my phone before sleeping. I’ve tried some recreational stuff too. My brain just refuses to let me sleep.

RA: Silvia, you worry me. What are you going to do?

Me: The only thing I can do. Learn to be productive at night.

Figure 4. Accidental photo taken as phone fell.

WORKS CITED

Gardner, Kate. “What It’s Like To Be So Sleep Deprived That You Hallucinate.” https://www.self.com/story/sleep-deprivation-hallucinations.

Hernandez, Lhia. “Past Your Bedtime? How Much Sleep Are First Generation Students Getting Compared to Their Peers?” (2019). Sociology Senior Seminar Papers. 34. https://creativematter.skidmore.edu/socio_stu_stu_schol/34.

“How Sleep Deprivation Drove One Man Out Of His Mind.” Medium, 2022, https://medium.com/@sleepybears/how-sleep-deprivation-drove-one-man-out-of-his-mind-7fd44722c7d0.

“Insomnia.” Stanfordhealthcare.org, 2021, https://stanfordhealthcare.org/medical-conditions/sleep/insomnia.html.

“Is IB Worth It: 5 Ways IB Program Can Ruin High School For You - Nail IB.” Nailib.com, 2021, https://nailib.com/blog/is-the-ib-program-worth-it.

Roth, Thomas. “Insomnia: definition, prevalence, etiology, and consequences.” Journal of Clinical Sleep Medicine: JCSM: official publication of the American Academy of Sleep Medicine vol. 3.5 Suppl (2007): S7-10.

Spector, Reynold. “A balanced view of the cerebrospinal fluid composition and functions: Focus on adult humans.” Experimental Neurology vol. 273 (2015): 57-68. doi:10.1016/j.expneurol.2015.07.027.

Vedantam, Shankar. “The Haunting Effects Of Going Days Without Sleep.” Npr.org, 2017, https://www.npr.org/2017/12/27/573739653/the-haunting-effects-of-going-days-without-sleep.

Walker, Matthew. 2017. Why We Sleep. Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin.

Hear Silvia discuss “Chronic Insomnia”

Inevitability of the Gun

STANTON, CA – As soon as the door to the FT3 Tactical gun range swung shut behind me, I lost all control and compo sure. Terrified, I could only hear gunshot after gunshot, BANG! BANG! BANG! With every shot, my entire body perspired, my heart rate increased, my cheeks reddened, and my stomach dropped. With every shot I saw flashes of victims’ faces, followed by their killers. BANG! Uvalde. BANG! Sandy Hook. BANG! Columbine. A mixture of grief, terror, and regret seeped over me, as I entered a room full of the objects that have aided in the massacre of thousands. I was being led by my gun safety instructor, Paul, to our reserved stalls on the gun range. It was a busy evening, around 6:30pm, I imagine many folks had just clocked out of work. People were chattering, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. It was a diverse group of people; I even saw a woman with kitty cat ears over her headgear. And there I was literally shaking in my boots. I wanted to leave. I wanted to fire one shot, just to write this article, and leave. It felt like when I was too little to be on roller coasters and my stomach flipped as the chain of the motor pulled us higher and higher. In those moments I wondered if it would be worth the theatrics to halt everything and retreat to my comfort. But in both moments, on the roller coaster and at the gun range, my main motivation to stay was the experience I’d walk away with, which could only be achieved by doing the thing I feared most.

my main motivation to stay was the experience I’d walk away with, which could only be achieved by doing the thing I feared most.

II.

The first mass shooting I remembered vividly was Virginia Tech. I was in third grade at Oscar Loya Elementary and my teacher, Mr. Goularte, encouraged us to talk about current events. My mom kept the news on at home, and I remember consuming too much of the shooting coverage at my tender age. For the first time in my life, I felt a deep sorrow and darkness form within me. I attribute this mass shooting as the trigger that began my battle with depression. I gained 100 pounds that year and didn’t leave our two-bedroom apartment for those twelve months. That same year, while I was in third grade, my home town of Salinas, CA was experiencing a surge in gun-related homicides, mostly due to gang wars. We lived in the East Side, known as the most dangerous part of our town. I remember there were murders every single weekend for months. I smelled the gun powder in the air. Whenever I thought I heard shots nearby, I’d hit the floor.

Over the years, my fear of gangs and gun vio lence transferred to an anger with white supremacy and unchecked police power. In 2014, the political event that began my devotion to social justice was the murder of Michael Brown, and his killer’s acquittal. In that same year, Carlos Mejia was murdered by the Salinas Police Department one block down the street from my house. In the viral video of his death, I recog nized the neighborhood bakery that I’d pass every day. Mejia was murdered down the street from my middle school, in the light of day. He was severely mentally ill and holding garden shears. The police were certain that their lives were in danger.

Since 2014, I have remained committed to advocating against police violence. As the mass shootings continued to occur, I began to view gun control as something that the United States would unfortunately never meaningfully or effectively implement. There are too many obstacles to make it happen, especially as it is the Second Amendment to what many con sider our nation’s most important document. My focus has moved from gun reform to the obliteration of white supremacy. To me, white supremacy is the uniting ideology and “reason” for most, if not all mass shootings.

III.

The recent mass shooting in a predominantly Black part of Buffalo, NY was perpetrated by a white supremacist who had a slur etched in his killing weapon. The El Paso shooting of 2019 was carried out by a white man who drove out of his way to shoot people in the majority Mexican town. Dylan Roof murdered several worshippers at a historic Black church. The Columbine shooters were revealed to have been racist bullies before they killed themselves. Some shooters act out of misog yny, which I would argue is an arm of patriarchal white supremacy. The Educational Fund to Stop Gun Violence published a study that claimed “two-thirds of mass shooters [are] linked to domestic violence.” The Uvalde shooter shot his grandmother and frequently harassed women online. The Sandy Hook

78

shooter killed his mother. The Isla Vista shooter went on a rampage because he claimed that women did not want to sleep with him. While the gun control debate centers around the availability of guns, I see less people outright pointing to white supremacy and misogyny as the fundamental problems.

Since these mass murderers are misogynistic racists, I do find it somewhat empowering when women and People of Color elect to learn how to defend themselves with a firearm. If they are being targeted by people with guns, why not know how to use them against the people who want to kill them? In fact, there have been diverse pro-gun groups forming across the nation, such as the Socialist Rifle Association, created by and for social ists who want to defend themselves and their communities, or Arm the Girls, a Black, Indigenous, and PoC-led project that aims to equip members of the LGBTQ+ community, but specifically transgender women, with firearms. Black transgender women are murdered at a higher rate than any other LGBTQ+ demographic and arming them could aid in preventing another life lost. With these progressive groups among the ranks of gun enthusiasts, I felt less controversial about choosing this topic for my article. But during the process, I was met with valid reasons to hesitate.

This article was assigned to me on May second. According to the Gun Violence Archive which classifies a mass shooting as the death of four people or more, there have been 75 mass shootings. In the last week, there have been sixteen. The Uvalde shooting occurred right in the middle of the writing process, and I seriously contemplated picking a different topic. I ultimately decided to follow through because I felt that my unique experience with gun violence would allow different perspectives on the use of firearms in the U.S., and the diverse groups who might take an interest in their proper use.

IV.

Back at FT3 Tactical, I settled in the classroom upstairs from the range. I arrived first and talked with the instructor, Paul, who told

me a lot about himself. Paul was a direct and confident person.

In his late-thirties, Asian-American, with a bulky, muscular build. He said he had been in the military for nine years, having toured Iraq twice. Though I surmised from his demeanor that we had chasms between our political affiliations, I respected him for the expert knowledge he brought to the course. The first question I asked him, since our meeting took place days after the Uvalde shooting, was whether interest in gun safety increases or decreases after a mass shooting. “It actually goes up,” he alleged. He pivoted to talking about the high murder and rob bery rates in California, claiming that the increase in crime was the driving force behind a rise in gun purchases. The Public Policy Institute of California corroborates Paul’s claim that homicide is increasing. Additionally, the SF Chronicle wrote in 2021 that gun sales in California “skyrocketed.” Paul’s information was correct, but I found it troubling that that was his response to my question about mass shootings. The second, and last, person to join us was a middle-aged Filipino man named Michael who brought his own gun and ammo. We introduced ourselves and Paul began his slideshow presentation.

Paul described firing a gun like the yin and yang of Taoism—it requires as much gentleness as strength. “You’ve got to be gentle with your hands, but firm with your arms.” The first part of the presentation detailed the various parts of the firearm. Paul claimed that movies portrayed inaccurate depictions of guns, such as referring to the cylinder in the gun chamber as a “bullet” when it wasn’t. “This one really annoys me,” began Paul. “The bullet is only the tip of the object, the whole thing is called the cartridge.” He proceeded to draw a diagram of the parts of the cartridge: bullet at the very end, followed by gun powder, wrapped by a bullet casing. The next part of the course covered the fundamentals of gun safety. Paul introduced to us the 4 Points of gun safety: “Always treat firearms as if they are loaded,”

“Always keep your finger off the trigger and alongside the frame until ready to fire,” “Always be aware of your surroundings when using a firearm; this includes what lies beyond your intended

79

target,” and finally: “Never have your firearm pointed at anything you are unwilling to destroy.” Paul’s philosophy was that in order to have a well-rounded firearm safety course, the student must understand the consequences of using this weapon. “Accidents happen when you get lazy, so education is key.”

As we moved on to the next part of the presentation, I felt a succession of vibrations beneath my feet. POP! POP! POP! For a second, I forgot that our class room, the first location where we would be taking our gun safety course, was upstairs from the shooting range. My nervous system went into survival mode, and I dissociated out of reality. I thought to myself, This is what it sounds like when your classmates are being murdered in the other room. I snapped myself out of it and continued to pay attention to Paul’s slides. The next portion detailed the various laws of deadly force. He read the first law: “You must be in reasonable fear of death or great bodily harm.” Examples of great bodily harm he offered were bone fractures, permanent loss of a limb, loss of consciousness, and rape. The second law: “Potential threat(s) must have the ability to carry out death or great bodily harm.” He adds, “Threats alone, without the capacity to follow through, does not authorize the use of deadly force.” Third law: “There must be intent to cause death or great bodily harm.” Paul includes two important legal terms: Reasonable Man Standard, which means that a person must act “reasonably” when using deadly force; and Disparity of Force, which justifies using deadly force if the person attacking you is significantly bigger than you. Underneath all three laws of deadly force is written: “Ignorance

of the law is not an excuse!” Paul referenced CA Penal Code 23515, subsection 197, which contains the laws of legally defending oneself. He also referenced two different court cases, People vs. Ceballos (1974) and People vs. Piorkowski (1974). The former case sets precedent that a burglary is not enough reason to use deadly force. The latter case sets precedent that using deadly force during a robbery at a place of work is still punishable.

We reached the end of the presentation, and the final part of our classroom training required us to practice holding a gun and aiming. Paul provided a gun replica for us to practice with in place of the real thing. As the time grew closer to the moment in which I’d pull the trigger, the lump in my throat grew heavier. The process of shooting a gun, as Paul instructed, was Sight, Trigger Press, and Follow Through. First, I had to form the proper shooting stance while holding the gun correctly, looking through the front sight (located at the tip of the weapon) towards my desired target. The next step was to gently pull the trigger with out releasing it. Lastly, follow through meant that I had to watch the bullet travel. Follow through, like in basketball or archery, means that you must watch your projectile until it reaches its destination to ensure an accurate launch. Paul had us practice our shooting stance: “Pull with your left, push with your right! Put your feet shoulder-width apart and bend your knees! Lean forward! Keep your finger off the trigger!” I was overwhelmed, but I got into position, took a deep breath, and set my eyes on the front sight of the practice gun in my hands. Before I felt ready

As the time grew closer to the moment in which I’d pull the trigger, the lump in my throat grew heavier.

82

to shoot, Paul instructed us to take our belongings and walk downstairs to the shooting range with him. It was time. We made our way downstairs. I picked up my rental gun, ammunition, and ear protection. We walked through the large metal doors that lead to the range. After my initial shock mildly dissipated, I stood in my designated stall. Paul loaded the gun for me, a Glock with .22 caliber cartridges—about as wide as a pencil eraser. He clamped the target, the outline of a body with a bullseye for the head and the heart, to a moveable wire that ran from us all the way to the back of the range, the length of a semi truck. He adjusted it to five yards away from me, saying that most gun fights occur within this short range, gave me the gun, and asked me to shoot. Overwhelmed with stimulation, I got into my shooting stance. Paul was behind me reminding me to aim, release, and pull. I focused on the rear sight, looking through it towards the bullseye. Beads of sweat formed on my brow and upper lip as I took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. The small bullet instantly shot out, releasing a warm casing that ricocheted and hit me on the arm. I didn’t flinch. “Great job, another one,” Paul told me. I kept shooting until the magazine emptied. My hands were shaking, and the sweat continued to secrete. Paul noticed and said, “You’re sweating!” I answered, “I am, I’m very nervous,” and I let out a weak chuckle. He had me put my weapon down. “Have you ever heard of the Box Breathing Method?” He told me he used it in the military when his mates would get shell-shocked. “Inhale for four seconds, hold for four, exhale for four, hold for four, and repeat,” he guided me as I tried the breathing exercise. We completed a couple

cycles, and then I was ready to keep shooting. “Ready?” he asked me. I gave him a thumbs-up and he reloaded the Glock. I did not expect to be com forted in the middle of a shooting range by this prob ably-Republican war veteran, but life is full of surprises. I wasn’t as nervous anymore, and I continued shooting. Paul would alternate between me and my classmate, adjusting our stances along the way. After I got more accustomed to shooting, Paul came back and gave me reassuring feedback: “You have a better shot than half the people in this range!” My confidence soared as Paul affirmed that I had skills better than some of the regulars.

I fired sixty rounds of cartridges, and our time in the range had come to a close. I’d been there for about one hour shooting. My terror never went away, but the guidance of Paul helped me avoid a fullblown panic attack. Paul, my classmate, and I exited the range and returned our equipment. We then sat at some tables in a resting area of the building. I thanked Paul for calming me down and asked if he had to use the Box Breathing Method often with his students. “There was one guy who was violently, nervously shaking. It was dangerous for him to hold a gun moving like that,” he told me. “I pulled him aside and had him do the breathing technique with me, and by the end of the class he had the best shot out of everyone,” Paul alleged. While I have no confir mation that his student really did have the best shot at the end of that class, it was evident that many people of varying backgrounds signed up for Paul’s class. I imagined that the nervous student felt like me—he couldn’t shake the fatality associated with the object in his hand.

I did not expect to be comforted in the middle of a shooting range by this probablyRepublican war veteran, but life is full of surprises.

V.

After completing the firearms safety training, I am more confident in my ability to protect myself and others. Knowing that I have good aim reassures me that if I were to ever find myself in a situation in which I had to protect my or anyone else’s life with a firearm, then I could do it. Nonetheless, this doesn’t mean I want to go out and purchase a gun. I am still terrified of them and the damage they can cause. I am devastated that the nihilistic attitude in this country towards gun control has led me to the shooting range.

I did not pursue this activity because I like guns, but because I am deeply afraid of them.

I did not pursue this activity because I like guns, but because I am deeply afraid of them.

“The Inevitability of the Gun”

TEFFINA ZHU ZHENG

WHEN I TRY TO LOOK BACK

memory works like an old roll of film—the images dam aged by too much exposure to light.

I remember a personal driver hired to take me to school each day in a suburb far away from home.

He wore eyeglasses. When he dropped me off, he pointed the tip of his index finger at his right cheek. He wanted a kiss. So I kissed. I put my lips to hivs oily skin and enlarged pores. I thought about my nanny’s wrinkled cheeks and coarse hands. I would have kissed her a thousand times.

My friend and I are running in a large and dark garage, our laughter bouncing joyfully off the walls of our own cubed, con crete world. Until one of us falls. My left knee is covered with blood and small grey stones.

I don’t cry. Not even for one second.

But I’m afraid of heights.

The next day at school everyone went to hike a small mountain. My injury was the perfect excuse to stay behind. But an empty school meant that I was left behind in the care of the janitors. I sat on a plastic chair in a room looking at several monitors that showed images of empty school corridors that would fill up with children again tomorrow. Janitors came and went. Nobody seemed to notice me. My heart filled with regret that I did not go with my classmates.

“Close your eyes,” he said, smiling as if some thing wonderful would happen.

I was confused and hesitated for a few sec onds, but I trusted our teachers.

I closed my eyes.

One second . . .

Two seconds . . .

I waited for him to let me open my eyes, but instead, I felt lips pressed on my lips.

I pulled back and opened my eyes. His were closed, waiting for me to kiss back.

To end this terrifying entertainment, I kissed him, as I had been taught to do, on the cheek.

“Why don’t you kiss on the lips?”

I fled to my dorm room like a frightened lamb.

“Don’t touch me!”

My father tries to hug me, to kiss me.

But my father also cooks hometown cuisines for me like his parents used to; he tells his stories with a passion for seeing my eyes smiling; he supports me behind every reasonable decision I make.

How could I explain my behavior? How do I tell him about these memories? How do I even know that these memories are the reason for my rejection? And even if I do, touching him will still feel the same.

i wish to be wrung out like a wet towel, my tears oozing out of me and dripping onto the kitchen floor, seeping into the cracks between the tiles that the chair legs always get stuck in when we try to push them closer to the table, an aggravating flaw produced by my father who built this house, accompanied by the impossible-to-close windows and the upside-down light switches and the toilet that takes too long to flush and the paper-thin walls through which i can hear my neighbors having sex and the sink faucets that aren’t labeled so that i can never remember which side is the hot water, accidentally burning my dog when i bathe him

Ispent most of my life living with my grandmother in Nayarit, México. Her two-floor orange house filled with so many windows that looked out to the cobblestone streets of her lower middle-class neighborhood was the place I used to call home. Living at my grandmother’s house was not my mother’s initial plan, but after a failed marriage, my grandmother became her support system. My mother used to work as an English teacher in a middle school near our house ever since I was six years old. My mother would leave early in the morning and come back at around 6PM, leaving my siblings and I with our abuela. My abuela would cook, do our laundry, and help us in any way she could. In the absence of my mom, my abuela became a second mother to us. Out of all the things she did, the one that stuck to me the most was her cooking. I remember how much she liked to cook, it gave her a sense of control, and gave the family a reason to come together, to reunite. My abuela’s cooking was special for all of us, not only because of that tasty flavor that leaves you wanting more, or that signature smell that could

be perceived from a mile away and you would instantly know that it was her cooking, but because we knew that our stay in her house was only temporary.

I have vivid memories of my abuela’s cooking. I remember that every time I came home from school, she would have the whole kitchen table filled from end to end with a wide variety of different dishes, enchiladas, chilaquiles, pozole, fried chicken, chicken noodle soup, roasted chicken, roasted beef, you name it, she would have it. I remember being at school and feeling eager to go home to eat her delicious food, (the chicken tosta das she used to make were my favorite), just waiting for that loud and weirdly comforting dismissal bell, impatiently waiting to leave that small and colorful elementary classroom—waiting, waiting, and waiting, just to go eat with my abuela.

Even with her broad variety of recipes, there was this one dish she would only make on special occasions. It was her favorite dish, chilaquiles.

Chilaquiles are a Mexican dish made from corn tortillas cut into small pieces that are later fried and dipped in either red or green sauce and are usually eaten during breakfast. My abuela loved red chilaquiles, those darn tangy red chilaquiles with salty malodorous cheese on top was her favorite food, but it was the food I hated most. The strong taste of tomato coming from the vibrant red sauce used to marinate the crunchy and oily tortilla chips made me feel like I was drowning in poison. I never really understood the appeal of this dish, the whole experience of eating it mixed with the pungent smell of the cheese made me hate it.

On my tenth birthday my abuela made chilaquiles. When I first saw the chilaquiles, my blood started boiling. I was so mad she made the food I hated most. I remember thinking how out of all the dishes in the world, she decided to make chilaquiles. I got mad at her, “why would you do this, I have told you more than a thousand times I hate chilaquiles, all you want to do is eat what you like and do as you please, you don’t care about anyone but yourself,” I mumbled, loud enough for her to hear. My

grandmother started crying after I said this. I disrespected her and her food. I saw her eyes filling up with tears, her red and puffy nose, the tears travelling down her cheeks. I remember thinking that she was being selfish by cooking what she liked instead of the food I liked on what was supposed to be my special day, and of course, I felt bad, but my resentment was even stronger than my shame, my frustration was stronger than my anger, and my pride was stronger than any other feeling. I refused to eat that whole day, in my mind, the cause of my starvation was my grandmother and her carelessness.

When I was around thirteen years old, my mother decided that it was best for us to move to the United States. Moving to the United States had a significant impact on the way I perceive things and how I used to take so many things for granted. The first year living in the United States was the hardest, the only thing I wanted was to go back to Nayarit. I wanted to see the cobblestone streets once again, I wanted to see my neighbors, I wanted to go to the beach with my aunt like we used to do every summer, I wanted to go to the park with my cousins, I wanted to go back. I missed my friends and family, but espe cially my grandma. I missed talking to her, eating with her, being with her. I missed her a lot, and unexpectedly, I missed her chilaquiles too. Being in a whole different country with so many cultural differences and a different language made me feel really lonely. Although the United States is home to so many cultures, especially in California, where Mexican culture is widely spread, it never felt the same. In some way, I felt like I was pretending, pretending to like the food, pretending to be

adjusting nicely in this unfamiliar country. By being the oldest daughter in a newly immigrant family, I was forced to pretend not only for myself but for my family too. I was a marionette, a puppet, an actor performing a play. I wanted to be someone else in order to feel less lonely, to fit in. I was trying so hard to hold onto what I knew, what I know and what I won’t know. I wanted to hold onto the place that was my home for so many years, how could I let it go overnight? How could I just forget about a part of myself? But there I was, in a middle school classroom in California, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with milk for lunch, eating to fill my hunger, but my hunger wasn’t fulfilled, it was never fulfilled. Feeling the sandwich traveling down my throat as I tried to assim ilate the new environment created a knot in my throat, was it from the dryness of the bread or was it by the tears I was holding back?

As time went by, that feeling of longing started to disappear and I started adapting to the United States. The place that looked so unfamiliar and unsettling started to feel like a house, but it still had something missing, it wasn’t a home.

Even now as I’m writing this, making the United States a home seems impossible, being an undocumented immigrant in the United States means living in constant fear and uncertainty, fear of the unknown, wondering if I will ever go back to Nayarit. It’s been five years since I moved to the United States, but I still hold onto the memory of Nayarit, holding onto that hope of reuniting with my family, the hope of seeing my abuela once again.

On the day of my fifteenth birthday my mom made the infa mous chilaquiles. I honestly did not know how to feel, I had a lot of emotions piled up after looking at those red triangles, those red chilaquiles that my abuela would go over the moon for.

I remember thinking that the scene from Ratatouille (the one where the food critic is given the famous ratatouille and is taken

back to his childhood memories) was silly. How was that even possible? But when I took the first bite out of the crunchy fried tortilla, I was taken back to my tenth birthday and how I felt that day. My anger turned into shame and sadness. I regretted talking to my grandmother in such a way, I would’ve given anything to have my abuela by my side eating her favorite food, eating her red chilaquiles.

Having the taste of the chilaquiles, the same taste that was once pungent, running through my mouth took me back to México, it gave me the sense of belonging I was looking for all these years. I did not have to pretend anymore; I did not have to perform. The play ended; it was the epilogue.

The taste of the chilaquiles took me back to my home and back to my grandmother. Even if I’m not physically with my abuela, she is with me. Chilaquiles are now my two-way ticket to Nayarit and that is why they are my favorite food, that taste that once was hideous is now comforting to me. When I eat chilaquiles I can feel the sauce coming into my mouth, drowning my tongue slowly, filling it with a salty taste. I feel all the ingredients from the sauce coming into my mouth, taking turns to indulge me. I can taste the garlic, the green oregano, the salt, the dried peppers, the freshness of the tomato. How could the taste of something I used to hate make me feel this way? How can I find comfort in a taste that was awful for my taste buds and turn it into something likeable?

When I eat chilaquiles I can feel the warmth of the tortilla warming my entire body. I can feel the warmth turning into one of my abuela’s hugs, one of those comforting hugs telling you that she’s there, giving you that sense of being cared for. I can feel México, I can feel my abuela and I can finally feel me. The thing I considered poison is now my antidote, it was the answer I was looking for, and I have been cured.

THE FIRST TIME I heard someone tell me I had “el nopal en la frente” I was about twelve years old. It was at a family gathering with my sixteen other tías and tíos. You see, back in the day, especially in Mexican households, it was almost an expecta tion to have ten to twenty kids in a lifetime. That was one of the things I loathed. Especially because that meant the more people the more mouths to feed. My chosen language at the time was English and I refused to speak any Spanish.

On to the story. I was sitting at my table staring at my plate of beans, nopales, and barbecued chicken. I would always eat the chicken first. It was the least traditional “Mexican” meal there. It was soon after I ate it that my tía Geny would catch me playing with my nopales and beans—trying to make some type of weird mixture. I used to do similar things to the free school food we would get when it looked too indigestible. From the green enchila das to the so-called “tamales” (which were always way too dry).

For me, eating beans, let alone nopales, was a rarity. You would usually have to pay me. Looking back now, I was quite

a greedy kid growing up. Something about the fact that I would never see anyone other than my immediate family eating nopales or beans on a daily basis really irked me. These sort of things always fueled my vendetta against Mexican food.

“Hoye Leticia Padilla Solis,” my tia called. I cringed. I hated when people used that reference to address me. The telenovela character was the “ugly duckling” of the bunch. Constantly being compared to her because of my name, reaffirmed my belief that I truly was just another ugly Mexican girl. My own name began to repulse me. I looked at my tía as a form of acknowledgement to go on, knowing if I replied with a “yes,” she would simply say “se dice sí.”

She continued, “¿Por qué no te comes la comida mami?” she asked. One thing I never understood about Mexican culture is why people much older than me would use “mami” as a term of endearment when it’s originally meant for mothers. As much as tweenage me hated to admit it, I loved when people called me that (it made me feel so special).

I brought my concoction up to my lips just so I wouldn’t have to hear her complain about me later. I felt a strong need to eat it just to prove to her I wasn’t weak. As it hits my mouth my brain tells me to stop before I can even swallow. The warm and homely mixture of the beans and nopales hit me. I’m transported back to my childhood and innocence. Reminiscing both the good and the bad. I remember entering my first year in kinder . . . My first ever teacher was Ms. Horn and she was a fiery white woman, with large thick-rimmed glasses.

My first language was Spanish, and from what I was told (not remembering anything past the age of six) I was amazing at it. My mom told me she couldn’t get me to shut up at times. So on my first day of class I was completely afraid of being away from family. There was Ms. Horn, towering above us and screaming at us the second we got into class. I never understood why people ended up doing things they hated. Why even be an elementary school teacher if you are going to be rude to kids?

Anyways, it came time for our first arts n’ crafts project and I was one of the only kids who had yet to even touch my materi als. I saw Ms. Horn approaching and I could feel my heart exploding from my chest. That whole moment is a blur but I know as soon as she opened her mouth tears began to well up in my eyes. I tried my best to keep everything locked up inside but again, being six years old, it didn’t work out that well. I could not speak a lick of English so as I tried to explain myself she would end up telling me, and I quote: “Shut your mouth if you aren’t going to speak English.” I wouldn’t find out what she meant until a bit later once I was forced to learn the language but just from her tone I could tell it was bad. This would become a core memory for me in the long run.

Eating the nopales would mean I was admitting to who I really was—so I made a decision. I spit it out and looked at my sister, who was silently sitting next to me, in defeat. She already knew what to do.

At that point, it was routine for both of us and she didn’t even hesitate. As soon as my sister replied to her that I wasn’t

hungry in Spanish I could see a scowl forming on my tía’s face. I knew it was coming but I didn’t care. I mean, I did—but there was nothing I could do about it. It was like a psychological battle going on in my head. An indescribable war on Mexican food (which sounds silly compared to say Nixon’s “War on Drugs” or Johnson’s “War on Crime,” but hey, Leticia’s “War on Mexican food” is just as catchy). I didn’t want to claim the uncleanliness that I had associated with my culture and family. It’s all I could see growing up.

It wasn’t until I was just about to throw out my “nofrijol” (the name I decided to give my intermingled enemies) that I heard my tia telling one of her daughters just how bad my mom had raised me. I never really thought my phobia was anyone’s fault. Especially not my mom’s. She spoke purely Spanish for god’s sake. How was she the cause of all this? If anything it was me.

“Tiene el pinche nopal en la frente, ¿qué esperabas?” My cousin replied with a sneer. That was when it hit me. I didn’t belong with the Americans or the Mexicans. I had no idea what the term meant but I knew for certain it wasn’t positive. Again, the cycle repeats, but this time I chose not to understand. Instead of going back, I decided to take a walk.

Having to remember these moments and thoughts hurts me so much. Writing it out, word by word hurts me even more because I have to admit that I was that person. I feel like that stage in my life was one of the reasons why I feel so discon nected now from my family. My refusal to eat my food and speak my native language was ultimately my worst choice.

The sad thing was I was not always like that. I was an avid frijolera and I absolutely loved nopales con huevo. So what happened that made me hate myself so much?

I know now that my first day of school was when my “nopal’’ began to sprout. I would never forget feeling that vulnera ble and I associated that with my identity. The school lunches were all I would eat. It didn’t matter that the sloppy joes were slimy and flavorless or that the vegan noodles looked as if they were completely uncooked. I was not going to be that weak little Mexican girl ever again.

As I aged, the wiser I got, the more I was able to relate my experiences with others. Having access to the internet helped me see I could be both successful and cultured. Being Mexican is not a disease that I should be afraid of. I should not shy away from my identity but rather flaunt it. My family, music, and food tells my story as a Chicana and my family’s history as hard working immigrants. I’m extremely fortunate to have this direct connection to my culture.

Now, I can say Nopales are my favorite meal in the world. I can eat them with almost anything from Carne de Puerco, Salsa, and even in Guacamole (which I hated for a long time as well). I own being a Nopalera despite trying to hide it for so long. I am extremely proud of my heritage now. I wish that I had spent more time loving myself for being the Mexican girl that I am, instead of loathing myself for not being fully white or “American.”

Author’s Reflection

My text engages with the typical conventions of a food memoir by utilizing stylistic writing techniques like food metaphors. The food I wanted to focus on was nopales because of my deep connection to them. It reveals my growth with self acceptance. The effects of my environment made me self conscious and as I grew I learned to love myself. As I learn to love my Chicana identity, I learn to eat my family’s food. My goal was also to connect the nopales in the story to the Mexican saying “tiene el nopal en la frente,” which essentially means that someone has a cactus on their forehead. Using the cactus because it has deep cultural significance to indigenous Mexicans. It is typically used to address a Mexican American (or Mexican) that negates their indigenous and Mexican roots. Instead of acknowledging it, they choose to only validate their white and Spanish ancestry. My purpose was to reveal the effects of our hierarchical environ ment. Western society in particular has built an implicit racial and xenophobic hierarchy. Whether that be within the media, the work force, or in politics. It was not always implied either. From the origins of colonization and racial slavery, this type of discrimination was openely accepted. Up until the mid- to late-twentieth century the acceptance of open discrimination began to decrease. Unfortunately, the remnants of this resulted in implicit biases such as micro aggressions based on race or ethnicity. This would then influence entire generations of Americans of all colors. Growing up in the aftermath I can confirm I was influenced by the systemic racism and xenopho bia that occurs in the American school system. I was forced to conform and I was still not accepted. You can never have one or the other.

Nopolera”

Bringing It

From Lucid editor Rachael Collins:

Alejandro was with me all of last year—in fall and winter as a student in my Composition courses and in spring as Lucid’s first official intern.¹ Since he stepped foot on the UCI campus, Alejandro has been committed to exploring a theme familiar to first gen students: higher education’s cultural “hidden curricu lum.” Along with the other students in my courses, Alejandro conducted interviews with family members, observed and wrote about the neighborhood where he lives, and performed unconventional research methodologies that invited him to interrogate and challenge which voices do or don’t tend to get a seat at the proverbial table and why.

To showcase his efforts to include his community in the experience of his first year at UCI, we collaborated with

¹

I teach Writing 45, “Intensive Writing” and Writing 60, “Argument & Research” in the Composition Program. Both courses are part of the Entry Level Writing Requirement (ELWR) for all incoming students at UCI. Instructors can choose their own themes. The theme I developed for my Writing 45 course is “Autoethnography” and for my Writing 60 course, centered around the teaching philosophy of bell hooks, “Education as the Practice of Freedom.” Both courses examine how dominant narratives and practices (in higher education and beyond) can create a silencing effect on minoritized individuals and communities. Then we rewrite the story in our own voices.

Alejandro to choose from a number of creative projects and class assignments that he made throughout the year. We decided, finally, on a clip from the video he made for Lucid with his mom, Rosalva, as she walks for the first time around a University campus; the “observation” assignment from Writing 45 that asked him to describe his neighborhood (El Monte) while walking through it; and the interview with his childhood friend, Angel Vazquez. The interview, which we’ve broken up here in segments, turned out to be a lengthy conversation that takes place in a neighbor’s front yard in El Monte. More a conversation between two close friends, the interview not only showcases Angel’s talents as a storyteller, but it also reminds us all—stu dents, teachers, administrators, and families—that students thrive in an environment designed to validate and support their whole lives.

Alejandro and I had many discussions about the hidden curriculum last year, and what he concluded was that the hidden curriculum isn’t just about the difficulties of learning to navigate institutional expectations or academic conventions as a first gen student, it’s also about exploring where and how a first gen student’s support system is integrated into or excluded from the discourse communities that dominate higher education.

In her first time visiting a university campus, Alejandro’s mom Rosalva spends a Saturday walking with him around UCI.

El Monte

M

Y WALK AROUND my neighborhood in the city of El Monte starts at 3:58 P.M. on Tuesday, January 11th, 2022. Walking out of my front door, I’m a few houses away from the corner of Gilman Road and Deana Street. 3800 block. I take a few minutes to take in my surroundings, as well as how they make me feel. “feels good to get out the house,” I write, along with some other notes that I jot down in my class notebook.

I walk down Deana, writing down what I see as I go along. Two guys in a truck. The windshield has no tint and the windows are rolled down so I can see them perfectly well. They’re

wearing neon orange shirts, a clear cut indicator that they’re either coming from or going to work at some sort of construction job. They’re playing corridos so loud on their radio that the music doesn’t start to fade out until they’re a good block and a half away. A makeshift basketball court made up of a milk crate that’s been nailed onto a utility pole with the bottom of it cut out. An elotero man on the other side of the street, honking his horn to alert the masses of his arrival into the neighborhood.

I turn right on Durfee Avenue and begin the same process. I never really noticed it before, but the avenue’s really dirty. Someone’s left out an old and stained mattress for the garbage man to collect. An empty box (a 24-pack of Modelo beer) has been crumpled up and left on the sidewalk. Rubbish and debris litter the curbs. I write it all down and then I start taking in the buildings. The Eastland Sub Acute & Rehabiliation Center. A Christian Church. Mario Flores’ house. The “Beware of Dog” sign on the fence around his front yard, warning people of Chomper, a mean looking black pitbull who’s actually a gentle giant in disguise. He starts barking at me but his barks quickly turn to whimpers, as he practically begs me to pet him. What a lousy guard dog.

At the end of Durfee Avenue is Ramona Boulevard. On that corner is a laundromat, the Coin Laundry, and next to it is a liquor store, Joy’s Market. I go inside the liquor store, buy a white Pro Club T-shirt, and come back out. I sit on the curb to document my transaction in my notebook when a homeless lady comes up to me from behind and asks me for some change.

“¡Raspados!”

“¿No tienes cambio?” she asks me.

“I’m broke,” I respond to her. Well, I guess I’m not really broke. I’ve got some money. But not enough to spare. My greed gets the better of me.

She walks over to the entrance of the liquor and waits for people to come out, asking them for change as they do. Once a couple of guys give her some money she goes inside of the liquor store and comes back out with a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor. Miller High Life. The Champagne of Beer.

I decide to continue my walk going down Ramona Boulevard now. At this point, the sun’s starting to go down. I pass by Burdicks Preschool, the place where my education began. Across the street is 7-Eleven. I sit down on a bus stop bench to write down these places. When I turn onto Penn Mar Avenue, I see another homeless person, this time it is a man. He’s pushing a shopping cart filled with all of his belongings while talking to himself. A bit further up, three guys are hanging out on a wooden porch. The paint on it is chipping, and in front of them is a bunch of dirt, with patches of green here and there, that passes for a front lawn. They notice me observing them and they think I’m trying to start something, so they stand up and start mad dogging me.

I continue my stroll, when suddenly, a young kid swooshes past me on his bike, going so fast and coming so close to hitting me that I feel the air around me being displaced. He turns the corner to Zamora Park, precisely where I’m going as well. When I turn the corner, I see some gangster-looking dude leaned up against a tree smoking a cigarette. We make eye contact for a bit, then we look away. He doesn’t seem to mind my presence, so I take a seat on the park bench. The kid that swooshed past me on his bike is now greeting his friends who are playing on the basketball court. They can only play half court since the backboard and rim on the other end of the court is missing. On the other side of the park, a little league soccer game is being set up. I walk over and see a father watching his two sons practice.

He’s brought his own foldable chair from home, and he’s watch ing as his kids take turns being goal-keeper, using the outer wall of the park restroom building as the goal. It actually reminds me of my youth, and how my dad used to bring me out to this same park, and we’d play in the exact same way for hours. I used to love soccer then. Now the outer wall of the park restroom is cov ered with graffiti. I’ve made my contributions here and there. Where did I go wrong?

More parents and their kids start showing up. Their little uniforms are neon orange. I decide it’s time for me to leave.

Walking back down Deana, I can faintly hear music coming from an ice cream truck up the street. Gradually, it grows louder, and when I get to it, there’s a line of little kids practically throwing their money at the ice cream man. Some of them are barefoot. I think back to the days when the ice cream man’s tune brought all of us kids out onto the streets with so much excitement and eagerness that we didn’t even think to put on some slides. To be a kid again. Playing basketball and soccer at the park. No respon sibilities, not a care in the world besides what flavor of ice cream I’d be getting today.

A screenshot from the first clip that never made the final cut. Angel is on the left, Lesli is on the couch holding their son, and I’m on the right, notebook in hand, taking notes.

Interview with Angel Vazquez

It is the afternoon of January 22nd, 2022, a Saturday in El Monte, California.

I’m on Cogswell Road, right around the corner from Mountain View Park, standing in front of Angel Vazquez’s house. I’ve arranged to meet him today so I can interview him for my research project. He is my good childhood friend, but I consider him to be more like a brother. I call his mom “mom.” Per the suggestion from my teacher, I’ve brought him a gift. A plain white Pro Club T-shirt, a bag of Takis chips and some candy that I got

from the liquor store. I thought about buying him a pack of dia pers since Angel has just become a father, but I was there at the baby shower, and let me tell you, he definitely does not need any more diapers.

As I knock on his front door, I worry that my gift is super cheap. What am I saying with this gift? That his priceless contribution to my research project was actually just worth a plain white tee and some snacks? He opens the door, we dap each other up, and I hand him the plastic bag containing my offering. Instantly, he exclaims, “Aw, fuck yeah,” wasting no time in pulling the shirt he’s wearing off over his head and replacing it with the white T-shirt I’ve bought him.

Once we start recording for the interview, I reveal to Angel that I haven’t prepared any questions for him at all. At this point,

all I’ve done is a bit of research on my research project theme of adultification at this point, and I’ve come to the conclusion that Angels’ entire life is one big example of adultification. I want him to tell his life story—raw and real—depicting the harsh realities of growing up in our community.

I think that the interview revealed a clear correlation between adultification and lack of education. More generally speaking, the interview showed me how unfair life is.

In terms of challenges, there were a few. For starters, when we did our interview, it took us two attempts. Our first attempt was actually shot inside of Angel’s home. Like I said, I did not prepare any questions for Angel, I just wanted him to talk about his life story. As soon as I hit the record button, I asked him, “So, Angel, where does your story begin?” He sat there in silence for

a bit, which I thought nothing of at first. Probably just camera shy. After some more seconds had passed, along with a few “hmmmm”s and “uhhhhh”s, it finally hit me.

“You’ve . . . you’ve never reflected on your life before, have you?” I asked him.

He laughed, letting me know that he had genuinely never taken a step back and reflected on the things he had been through. He was just living day by day. Geez. I flipped to an empty page in my class notebook that I’d brought to take notes in. I drew a timeline, labeling the first point “June 21st, 2003” (Angel’s birthday) and the last point “Present Day,” and we began filling out the space in between with the most important moments we could think of. In the end, we did not include this

original recording clip in our interview, but it did have some valuable insights and great anecdotes.

After that, we grabbed some foldable chairs and posted up out front to record. I wanted to show the scene, but that too had some challenges. The noises of our surroundings were loud. Music can often be heard in the background (whether it was from the ice cream truck or neighbors playing music on their speaker), helicopters were looming overhead, and little kids were running around being little kids. As the sun started to set, more distractions started to occur. People can constantly be heard in the background, both Angel and I received phone calls in the middle of the interview, and, at one point, we even thought we were about to get rolled up on. Angel was in the middle of

speaking about his circumstances when he stopped mid-story because he recognized that the same car had spun around the block twice. Some guys inside of it kept staring at us.

The nighttime also meant that the quality of the video would be downgraded. It got dark a lot faster than I expected, and the lighting was very poor. We relied on the flash on my phone camera. Additionally, we faced technological challenges when the record ing unexpectedly cut off and we had to backtrack to where the camera had left off.

Another challenge is that the topics we discussed were touchy subjects. Angel was very vulnera ble while speaking frankly about his experiences. A challenge for him was being transparent in the video. A challenge for me was trying not to shed tears as he spoke about the things he has been through.

The last challenge we faced was having to cut the video short. Angel’s girlfriend, Lesli, had called him on the phone, telling him to go back inside so that he could take care of his son. In the recording, you can hear him say that we would continue the recording the next day. That day never came. Instead, he was called into work for an overtime shift, an economic opportunity he simply could not turn down, being that his girlfriend and son depend on him financially. After that, his work week continued as usual, clashing with my work week (I work morning-afternoon while he works afternoon-night) and making it impossible to finish the interview.

My friend Angel did not get to finish telling his story because he had to go to work.

MERCEDES SOLEDAD BARRIGA

Education Science

La Casa de los Abuelos (digital painting)

Mercedes is a first-gen college student who is proud to be born and raised in Santa Ana, California. Her family hails from Michoacan–known as “the soul of Mexico”–which she has visited each summer since she was young. In her free time, Mercedes enjoys reading historical romance novels, trying new cooking recipes she finds on TikTok, and listening to anything with a nice tune while she writes stories of magic, yearning, and self-searching.

BEATRICE WHITE Dance

Interconnected (dance/video, with Jessica Lopez)

Beatrice White is a sophomore at UC Irvine studying Dance and (soon) Education Sciences. She was born in Fuling, China but raised in San Francisco, CA. When she is not dancing, Beatrice enjoys making jewelry, hiking, and creating short videos.

JESSICA LOPEZ

Dance

Interconnected (dance/video, with Beatrice White)

Jessica Lopez Hernandez is a second year Dance major hoping to add the Education major soon. She was born in Mexico City and moved to Ventura, CA at the age of 3 with her family. There, with the support of her teachers and friends at Oakley Ballet Center, she fell in love with the arts. Since then, she has continued dancing and aspires to excel as both a dancer and an educator. Outside of the dance studio she enjoys drawing, crocheting, and finding new hobbies.

CASSANDRA FLORES

Social Policy and Public Service

Mi Castigo Por Ser Hija (creative nonfiction) Clavel, Niña Sufrida, & Untitled (poems)

Hi and hello! My name is Cassandra Flores and I was raised in South El Monte after my parents’ immigrated from Nayarit, México to East LA. In Harvey Mudd College’s Upward Bound program for first generation students, I spent my summers exploring politics and multicultural literature. This is where I began to dissect my own cultural identity through the words of writers like Gloria Anzaldúa and Oscar Zeta Acosta. I’ve always held a deep appreciation for vulnerability and confron tation in all types of writing, including music. Uninhibited lyricism from musical artists such as Clairo, Halsey, and Genevieve Strokes foster an intimacy I hope to capture in my own writing. Things that bring me joy include my cat, Kiwi, exploring new cities, and going to concerts! As a student at UC Irvine, I study Social Policy and Public Service, but one day I hope to open my own coffee shop where I will adorn the walls with art and poetry.

DONNA HERNANDEZ Spanish Matilda (poem)

Donna is a first-generation senior majoring in Spanish with an emphasis in Education and double minoring in Bilingual Education and Linguistics. As noted by her fields of study, she loves language in its many forms. Being exposed to more than one language from a young age made her curious as to how she could grow to tell her own stories on an artistic level. She is no stranger to writing and performing her work for the public, as she has done in her adolescence by means of poetry slams and festivals.

HELENA SAN ROQUE

Literary Journalism

Cubed House (creative nonfiction)

Helena San Roque is a 3rd year Literary Journalism major at UCI. A child of immigrants, she was born and raised in the San Fernando Valley by her Filipino mother and Armenian father in Reseda and wrote “Cubed House” based on her childhood experiences. In her spare time, she enjoys playing guitar, cooking, reading, and skateboarding.

CRISTOPHER CASTILLO

Undeclared

My Name is Cristopher Castillo (video)

Cristopher Castillo is a second-year student at UC Irvine. He is currently undeclared under the School of Social Ecology and is pursuing the Social Ecology major. He is a first generation college student from a boring, small town in Southern California looking for more excitement in his college years. Even though he is still uncertain about his future, he is excited for everything it has to offer.

JOY JIN YANG

Psychological Sciences

Dad Teaches Joy to Play the Guitar (video)

Joy Yang is in her third year at UCI and is currently majoring in Psychological Sciences. She is on her journey, searching for the goals and passions of her life, and is prepared to face her fears and jump into challenges. She enjoys listening to music and spending time with the people she loves. She thrives to be thankful for even the smallest things in her life and stay positive even in the hardest times.

ISABELLA CAO

Biology and Music

Chopin, Piano Concerto No. 2, 2nd Movement (music recording)

Isabella Cao, 18 years old, is an incoming second-year student studying biological sciences and music. She showed her enthusiasm for piano at age 6 and made her concerto debut with the Coachella Valley Symphony at age 13. Isabella hosts KUCI 88.9 FM’s Classical Impacts with Isabella Cao, a show about classical music and music therapy. In her free time, she enjoys reading, traveling and playing with her dog.

IRIS KIM

English

Part-Time 사랑시, Part-Time Valediction (poem)

Iris Kim is a third-year English major and a multimedia creative from S. California. In her free time, she likes to create music playlists with extensive descriptions of specific moods and alternate universes. She’s especially interested in the themes of loving and losing within literature.

DEENA AYESH Chemistry

Pressure (creative nonfiction)

Deena is a first-generation transfer student studying chemis try and biology. She grew up in different states across the East Coast before settling in California during her final years of high school. Much of her time is taken away by her responsi bilities, though she often finds herself captivated by new pastimes as she discovers the beauty of them. She enjoys fashion, creating art, and kickboxing as hobbies, but her zeal is stronger for her passions in advocacy for health equity and human rights. One lesson she has internalized from her undergraduate journey thus far is that nothing comes easy, and this helps her find balance between the motivation and anxiety that comes with her longing for a career in interna tional medicine. For now, she is learning to appreciate the opportunities she has for bettering herself and the world around her, finding peace with taking it one day at a time.

SELAH GARRETT

English

A Bursting of Balloons (fiction)

For donations, please send to Selah’s Venmo handle: @Selah-Garrett.

SILVIA CHAVARIN

Psychology and Criminology, Law and Society Chronic Insomnia (creative nonfiction)

Silvia is a first-generation college student born in Los Angeles and raised in San Bernardino. Bound to Southern California her entire life, Silvia became no stranger to the dry and unforgiving weather. Not only did the climate subject her to an alarming amount of nosebleeds but she also experienced a handful of California fires which placed a tragic end to many of her plants. Despite these experiences, Silvia still enjoys propagating fruit and veggie scraps under the warm sun while listening to true crime podcasts. If you see her awake early in the morning, it would be safe to assume she never slept. Although Silvia has accepted her insomniac lifestyle she appreciates LUCID for providing her words with a platform.

XUÂN TRAN

English 30 minutes (poem)

Xuân is a recent graduate from UCI with a B.A. in English with a Specialization for Future Teachers and a minor in Creative Writing. She is currently working at an elementary school as an instructional aide where she encourages the youth to express themselves through storytelling and art. Aside from her love of reading and writing (as you’ve guessed), she loves dogs, getting milk tea from Sunright, and crocheting! A line she lives by from her favorite Rita Dove poem, “Cozy Apologia,” is: We’re content, but fall short of the Divine.

CINDY EL JAMRAH

Drama and Political Science

“Mapping Poverty in America” by the New York Times (creative nonfiction)

Cindy El is a first-generation college student, raised in Victorville, CA in a Guatemalan and Palestinian household. Cindy has been writing and carrying a journal around since they were a kid, but only recently found their favorite form of expression was through creative writing. Entering their last year in college Cindy plans to attend a MFA Creative Writing program in the future, and currently is focusing on improving spaces and opportunities for Latine students in theatre.

FELIZ AGUILAR

Literary Journalism

The Inevitability of the Gun (creative nonfiction)

Feliz is a non-binary, first-generation, Latinx scholar proudly hailing from the East Side of Salinas, CA. They are entering their 5th year at UC Irvine, double majoring in Literary Journalism and International Studies. The global injustices that occur daily push them to do something about it, whether it is writing or organizing with the community. Typically, their non-fiction pieces focus on injustices and those who are fighting against them

TEFFINA ZHU ZHENG

Psychology

The Kiss (creative nonfiction)

Teffina is a freshman majoring in Psychology B.S. She grew up in Shanghai, China. She is interested in clinical neuropsy chology and is on her way to exploring different possibilities in the future.

(Self-portrait by Teffina)

DONNA HAKIMBABA

Undeclared

as i watch the curtains breathe in and out to the rhythm of the gentle breeze (poem)

Donna Hakimbaba is a first-generation college student from Los Angeles. She’s lived in the same neighborhood her entire life until moving to Irvine for school, but her poem is about the home that she’s come to know while growing up. She’s majoring in Literary Journalism at UCI and hopes to become a writer for a fashion magazine.

DAYANA HERNANDEZ RODARTE

Undeclared

Chilaquiles de la Abuela (creative nonfiction)

My name is Dayana Hernandez, and I am from Upland, California. I am a first-generation college student at UCI. I was born and raised in Nayarit, Mexico and moved to California when I was thirteen years old. I love to read, listen to music, and draw in my free time.

LETICIA ESPINOZA

Undeclared La Nopalera (creative nonfiction)

Leticia is a first generation Sophomore majoring in Criminology, Law & Society at UC Irvine. She was born in Lynwood, California and grew up in South Central Los Angeles with four other siblings. She came to UCI to not only push herself forward but her family and peers. She hopes to thrive for the remaining years of her undergraduate experience as well as apply to law school. Criminology interests her extremely which is why she concluded law school was the best fit for her. Although being an overthinker she knows she can continue to push boundaries and achieve the unachiev able with her background.

ALEJANDRO CABRERA-MALDONADO

Undeclared

What does first-gen mean to you? (interviews)

Bringing It Home: A First-Gen First-Year Looks For His Path (multimedia project)

Alejandro is an undeclared second-year, first-generation college student at UCI. He commutes from the city of El Monte, California. Before he came to UCI, he worked at El Monte and South El Monte High Schools where he held college and financial aid workshops while offering guidance and support to students as they pursued higher education. He continued his commitment to first-generation students in his community in his first year at UCI where he worked as the first intern for Lucid journal and a team leader in the Encuentros Leadership Program. He hopes he has a good year.