Page 1



{m}aganda magazine, xxviii C all for Submissions

criticalmass The smallest amount of matter needed to cause a nuclear reaction. The minimum number of individuals needed to effect a social movement. Both born from connectivity. Critical mass is a decisive majority that may or may not yield positive change, but it will redefine the norms. Once the critical mass is reached, it will realize who or what has influence – power . Critical mass does not generate a simple spark. It creates an explosion. ___________________

We are at the summit The threshold The b r e a k i n g p o i n t Of our existence. Seen or Unseen We are one. We stand together. We have the ability to empower one another. The potential to provoke change.

Now is the time for

collective action

Of no longer moving from the margins to the margins There is POWER in numbers

Now is the time for rising action

When the future is uncertain Which direction will you go? Which crisis will you face?

Now is the time for


Because injustice That does not know its limits Still exists

We have reached critical mass. How will you revolt reclaim ignite the movement?

letter from t h e e d i to r When I first heard the term “critical mass” at our theme deliberation meeting, I was intrigued. “Critical” and “mass” are already buzzwords on their own, and together, they form something even more provocative. To me, critical mass means “power in numbers” - a phrase that I, as a Filipina artist, apply directly to the importance of the representation of people of color on stage and in media. We chose critical mass as this year’s theme because we saw the immediate relevance of critical mass in every part of our identity. As Pilipin@ Community members, critical mass plays out in our community’s programming – PCN, Senior Weekend, PAHM, all of which are dedicated to visibility and power in numbers. As Berkeley students, we take critical mass to heart through the revolutionary nature of our campus and our commitment to free speech. Not to mention, this year marked the 50th Anniversary of the Free Speech Movement. We chose this theme in mid-September. What we didn’t know was how critical mass would grow in relevance as the year went on. In October, we saw the rise of #BlackLivesMatter through the Ferguson protests, which happened in response to the fatal shooting of Michael Brown, an unarmed black man killed by a white police officer. We as Berkeley students saw these protests happen not only on screen through national media coverage, but right outside of our apartments and on the perimeters of our campus. Also in October, in response to the mass kidnapping of 43 students in Iguala, Mexico - a kidnapping that was masterminded by Iguala’s mayor and his wife - we saw the Ayotzinapa protests and rallies. Shortly after, in November, Berkeley students protested tuition hikes. And today, with the protests in the streets of Baltimore, we are still approaching critical mass. Importantly, critical mass is not just about the “explosion.” We have to consider the rising action - why are we approaching critical mass? And once the explosion happens, we have to consider the reaction - what’s left after critical mass is reached? Above all, critical mass is about action. It’s time to stop being complacent and start being observant, and see what’s really happening beneath the surface. Listen to the voices that are so often silenced. Do not be afraid to question those in power. And, in looking for answers, do not be afraid to share what you may find. Nicole Arca {m}28 Editor-in-Chief


special thanks Pilipin@ Community at Cal, including: Pilipino Community 2014-15 Senator, Baltazar Dasalla Incoming Pil Community 2015-16 Senator, Benedict Llave Pilipino Community Council Chair, Ley Cerezo Pilipino American Alliance (PAA) Pilipino Association of Architects, Scientists, and Engineers (PASAE) Pilipino Academic Student Services (PASS) kapwa Partnership for Pre-Professional Pilipinos (P4) Pilipino Association for Health Careers (PAHC) hardboiled APA newsmagazine {m}alumni R.I.S.E. (Rising Immigrant Scholars in Education) AF3IRM Angelica Patricio Jomer Polanes Christian Almeida Lead Center Publications Advisor, Kelly Morr

{m} Mission Statement {m}aganda magazine is a student-run academic publication based at the University of California, Berkeley. Founded in 1989, it has evolved from its beginnings as a bi-annual magazine, and is now a diverse anthology of submitted work that is published once a year. We serve as a vital forum for the presentation of diverse experiences and opinions through all platforms for creativity–including art, prose, poetry, film, music, journalism and scholarly writing. We record our lives as “cultural historians,� not forgetting that our forefathers and foremothers have blazed this path for us, making publications like {m}aganda possible. We come from a strong tradition of Filipino and Filipino American writers, a tradition which includes Dr. Jose Rizal, Paz Marquez Benitez, Estrella Alfon, Jose Garcia Villa, Nick Joaquin, Carlos Bulosan, Bienvenido Santos, N.V.M. Gonzales, Renato Constantino, Jose Maria Sison, Ninotchka Rosca, Jessica Hagedorn, and the Kearny Street Workshop Writers. Because of them, and for the future, we proudly give our community {m}aganda. {m}aganda aims to foster critical dialogue within and across our communities through arts, literature, and education. We come from a heritage of Pilipino/American artists, writers, and cultural historians, but we extend our hands and voices to any and all who own truths that need to be spoken. We believe in the necessity of art as a means of influencing social change. We attempt to accomplish this by providing integral spaces and opportunities for all of us to develop ourselves as creatively conscious individuals in our communities.


T a b l e

o f

{m} 28 Call for Submissions 1 Letter from the Editor 3 Special Thanks 4 {m} Mission Statement 5 For Whom is Our Labor? by Kathleen Gutierrez 8 Talkin’ Bout Revolution by Anggo Genorga 9 Tipping Point by Tony Daquipa 10 Sun by Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi, PhD 11 The Dance by Strider Marcus Jones 12 I Can’t Breathe by Janet Veil 14 Bagtas by Jey Filan Climacosa Reyes 15 Speak by Ogunsina Temitope 16 Now We are 10 by Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi, PhD 17 Fair Game by Angela Gabrielle Fabunan 18 Theme from Critical Mass by Anggo Genorga 20 I Forgot the Stance of Cliffs Meeting Water 21 by Eileen R. Tabios A Visit by anonymous 22 It’s So Quiet by Strider Marcus Jones 23 Grasa by Elizabeth Ruth Dreyo 24 Invisible by Sarah Bernardo 25 Movements by Karen Marie Kwanig 27 Salamangka’s Barbershop 29 by Robert Francis Flor No Justice by Amy Prindle and 42-43 History of Violence by Jaye Yoshimoto Brain by Lizzy Klingen and 44 Blind by Mira Dayal Listen to me by Nemesis Contreras 45 Babaylon on Fire by I. Cuison 46 What Your Mothers, Sisters, and Daughters 47 Hear Everyday by Amy Prindle Por Vida by Jamila Cervantes 48 Series by Nigel Jones 49 Allyship 51 My Bright Future by Seoyoung Joon 53

Frontin by Angela Efe 54 Let It Out by Brea Weinreb and 55 The Ocean of Consciousness by Seoyoung Yoon Critique by Tilde Acuna & Dennis Aguinaldo 56 Change by Joeminel Docuyanan and 57 Building Bridges by Ryann Kitchell Respiration Series by Angela Efe 58 Ferguson Protests by Cj Van 60 Conscious Capitalism by Christian Guerrero 63 Series by Marian Cordon 65 Series by Dulce Lopez 67 Pope’s Visit to the Philippines 69 by Hermarie Asuncion Bayanihan by Natalie Pardo Labang 70 Miedo by Jeannelene Jimenez and 71 Uprising by Anggo Genorga Bata, Bata, Paano Ka Ginagawang Aktibista? 72 by Marco Lorenzo Ferrer Tambaw by Jey Filan Climacosa Reyes 74 Kamayan by Dominico Vega 75 Filipino Visibility Day by Aaron Cadiz 76 Hybrid by Saba Amna Bhumbla 77 Pitipines by Sarah Macaraeg 80 Alipatos by Jey Filan Climacosa Reyes 81 Erasure by Marie Artap 82 The Filipino Is by Marie Artap 84 Talisman by Jaehtheo 85 X In Between Dreams by Tess Crescini 89 I Forgot the First Woman General 92 by Eileen R. Tabios Pilipinas by Anggo Genorga 97 Untitled by Astor V. Delgado 98 Contributor Bios 99 Staff and Intern Bios 104

C o n t e n t s

For Whom is Our Labor Kathleen Gutierrez, 2011

For whom is the sweat that traces the temple of the dancer-peasant as she descends to the earth for her daily viand? For whom is the fracture etched in the metatarsal of the athlete-refugee as she runs full speed to the land of milk and honey? Do you know? I ask, for whom is the myopia that daily worsens the lively eyes of the academic-child hunched in literary scrutiny beneath quivering light? Surely, you must. For whom then is our labor, so timed, measured, numbered, and sold, between the hours of wake and sleep— birth and wake? Because, certainly, it is not ours.

talkin’ bout revolution We have reached critical mass. How will you revolt R e c l a i m IGNITE the movement?

We have reached critical mass. How will you revolt R e c l a i m IGNITE the movement?

We have reached critical mass. How will you revolt R e c l a i m IGNITE the movement?

set fires on the streets. take the fighting from the mountain and into the city. don’t listen to your idols. turn off the tv and keep the radio on AM. be your own opinion. stop dreaming of change but if you must, then you should also act on it. live outside the law, yet, be honest. these seems to sound idealistic and old. hell, i’ll probably hack the internet and make a statem

set fires on the streets. take the fighting from the mountain and into the city. don’t listen to your idols. turn off the tv and keep the radio on AM. be your own opinion. stop dreaming of change but if you must, then you should also act on it. live outside the law, yet, be honest. these seems to sound idealistic and old. hell, i’ll probably hack the internet and make a statement.

set fires on the streets. take the fighting from the mountain and into the city. don’t listen to your idols. turn off the tv and keep the radio on AM. stop dreaming of change but if you must, then you should also act on it. live outside the law, yet, be honest. these seems to sound idealistic and old. hell, i’ll probably hack the internet and make a statem

Anggo Genorga


tippingp Almost there, not quite yet though We’re always working hard, we’re always on the grind Our eyes are always on the prize, victory always on our mind Generations of struggle only now beginning to bear fruit The system is on the run, the people are in hot pursuit Those that have are tightening their grip But more and more through their fingers will slip So it’s no longer about democracy, and no longer about God All of the old methods are working less and less And less people are surprised by all of this unholiness We have to keep up the pressure, we can’t sit back down

tony daquipa

You see there are fewer resources, so they care less about façade

oi nt

We’ve come a long way, but still got a long ways to go

We gotta spread the word around and shut the whole thing down Cuz there ain’t no turning back, we’ve already come too far The liars have already been exposed with their hands inside the cookie jar It’s time to choose sides, it’s time to take a stand We may even have to turn on loved ones who refuse to understand And as we increasingly become surrounded by unfamiliar faces People from different backgrounds, different creeds and different races The question must be asked, “Do we feel better or worse?” Because it’s scientific fact that, as a species, we are actually quite diverse But we are also quite the same in terms of what we need And we should start focusing on that instead of selfishness and greed We all have to play nice and share, we all have to get along Cuz though our time together may be limited, our connectedness is lifelong And will be passed down through generations, whether it’s empathy or jealousy The choice is now ours to make:

What will be our legacy? What will be our legacy? What will be our legacy?

Sun A m i ta b h V i k r a m D w i v e d i , P h D

Sun will also rise, When there are clouds, Cool shower and stiff breeze, And when there is cold and shadow. I will also rise, And shine my soul then, I will write poems Till you read them, And my sun will also rise.


the dance Str ider Marcus Jones

pull the roof off knock the walls down touch the forest climb those mountains and smell the sea again. watch how life decomposes in death going back to land to reform and be reborn as something and someone else. there’s no great secret to it all. no need to overthink it through

food and shelter fire and shamans clothes and coupling used to be enough with musicians artists and poets interpreting the dance.

i nt e r p r et i n g

the dance

then warriors with armies religions with god and minds buying and selling stole the landscape and changed time. smash the windows break down the doors melt the keys rub evil words from their spells and puncture the lungs of their wheels

o utsi d e

the dance

before they kidnap you from bed call you dissident hold you without charge wheel you out on a stretcher from waterboard torture for years without trial in Guantanamo Bay. they are selling the sanctuary we made with our numbers bringing back chains making some of us slaves outside the dance in the five coloured rings making winners and losers holding flags and flames.

I Can't Breathe

I can't breathe I am suffocating in senselessness Our people are murdered Our girls are raped Our children are shot I am not noble I am nothing I do not compare to the eight year old girl who grieved our world I do not hold a candle to anyone who is actually doing something I am outraged I am ready to walk off set there are five people pushing him into the ground and


Janet Veil 14

B a g t a s

Je y Fil a n Cli m acos a R e y e s


Sa pagbaybay sa lirip, Isang estranghero ang nadala Ng mga higanteng agos sa isang lugar. Umapaw, lumitaw sa ibabaw ng mga hiwaga. Sistemang pinanday ng panahon ang pumailalim, Uuguyin hanggang sa maliyo saka bibigyan ng reseta, Orasyong taglay nito ang babaon sa kaisipang papalubog. Nag-ugat sa pagkakasulo sa hiyas na sa kaluluwa ay sumisilab. Gunita ay napukaw ng mahika at dahil sa sumpa ay nawala sa sarili, Minanipula ang inog ng lahat, lumalang ng kumunoy at dito lumusong. Aakayin patungo sa isang patibong at saka isasalba pagkatapos manumpa. Ginawaran man ng ilaw ang mga naliligaw, lalamunin nito ang mga susuway. Iginawad ay solusyon subalit sa kalaunan, ito ang magsisilbing bagong balakid. Namulat sa ganoong takbo kaya nalimutan kung ano ang pakiramdam ng malaya. Gumon sa halimuyak ng rangya, nabaon sa limot ang dahilan ng pagpapahalaga. Aarugain para may alilain ang sumambulat sa taong tinangay ng alon. Nangatwiran ang banyaga, tinutulan ang pinapatahak na landas. Ginayakan man ng kaapihan, tuloy pa rin ang pananaig ng pasya. Rason man ay kalakip ng mga along hinding-hindi pagagapi, Uusigin pa din ang tumatalilis sa latigo ng mga talipandas. Marahil sa pagsunod, ligtas ang nagpagapos sa tanikala, Ang alay naman ay laya para lang ito ay makamtan. Rehas na kalawang, ang sa mga aba ay sumalubong, Ang dayo ay hinuli saka isinama sa mga nasa gulod Ginimbal niya ang mga nahihimbing na adhika. Ang pananabik sa tubig, ang nagpanais sa bukal. Saan ang sariwang bukal? Nasa pagitan ba ng umaga at gabi? Ang mga naniniwala sa likod ng dingding, patuloy sa pag-alpas. Nakipagsapalaran upang mawakasan ang mga sapantaha. Ginalugad ang bawat sulok ng silid; ilaw ay nabuhay, Kinanlong ang mga pusong nilamon ng desperasyon. Asam na lagusan ay natuklasan ng mga may pag-asa. Tinahak ito at sa paglisan, hambalos ang siyang humagad. Ubos-lakas sa pagtakas kaya naman lumagapak sa lupa. Batid ang nagbabadyang wakas, sinulong ang bakal. Isinalba ang buhay ng iba; dugo ng sampu, Gabay patungo sa bukang liwayway. Ang mga natirang kasangga, Nag-aklas at lumaban.


S P E A K O g u n s i n a

T e m i to p e

Society is anti-truth But speak the truth like Ken Sarrowiwa Kills fear,life is for warriors Speak out,freedom is what you speak Speak for right like Bob Speak to educate like Nas Heals society myopia with words Speak out,speak up,like M.L.K Don’t keep your head down in revolution Revolution is act of love So,speak out,speak up,speak about,speak against. Injustices like Nelson Mandela


Now we are 10 Now we are 10 Now we are 10 Now we are 10 Now we are 10

The equation is “10.” I am single and free. And he is no more.

Now we are 10 Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi, PhD

Now we are 10

His presence was a burden. A life that I passed in a den, Our marriage was an incident; No, an accident that occurred As a life imprisonment I was sentenced to. I lived those years As if I were dying Day after dayMonth after monthYear after year But now I have won the war finally. One is to zero, Yes “10” is my score. I will rejoice. I will sing. As I were born again; I am free today.

Now we are 10 Now we are 10 Now we are 10 Now we are 10 17

fA I R g A M E

by angela gabrielle fabunan


Fame preceded you like a shadow, always hovering about you A scholar, a resume, cries the rooster in the AM. I was unfit for the stage homes you created, with their plush couches, So you cast me as the maid, the belle of the sidelines, To dance away in tap shoes, to interrupt with trays in hand in a checkered dress with an apron, while not speaking. “Look at her like she’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen,” you said. Pretty were the butterflies in my dad’s garden by our hydrangeas, Not me, not free. But I had longer hair then, I washed it every day, I was like grass that grows on the Main Quad, perhaps I was pretty. But I was no Salome—I didn’t have the privilege to cut off heads, and when I recited in your class a Neil LaBute monologue of broken snippets of reverie of a rape of a mind-hold, I heard “let freedom ring,” noticing the golden ring on your finger. How dashing you were up there on that stage I made of you, My barrage of images will never cover you, standing, At the head of the classroom, clad in a white button-down and blue jeans, pontificating at what is written on the board, the words, “Sex. Violence.” And I fell headfirst to the ground, like a pig searching for a truffle. There is no closure to something that never happened on your couch.


I only wanted to say “mahal,” as parting words. But you could never have understood, how much of an expense love is to me. I only half understand my mother tongue, because I only have half the baggage, if you are still counting by hand my years spent in the mother country. Which country is the Mother, to cavern me? It only takes language to assimilate—the accent differs from town to town. Make sure your voice is heard from head to toe. So that they can understand you. As an exile, I have assimilated into both my countries, each country a nation of difference. It was not the land I loved, but the people. I was the archipelago; you were the continent. I am a difference, I am a minus sign, I am negative. To your positive, to your addition, to what you are molding the country into. I am its baggage. There were once countries I resided in. They were neither here nor there.

III. I’m back in the l a nd of per pet ua l summer Sampaguitas, Narras, rain that never leaves the storm clouds. No more winter. My old tow n is caught in the fringes— Olongapo City, the streets of Magsaysay riddled with American men and Filipina girls. Their boots are scattered like puzzle pieces landing wherever there is conquest, the boat docked, guarding like a statue. Woman, I too had dreams of white picket fences and white bodies, pale and ashen and pink but not from the blush of innocence. We a re good at w ithholding pleasure, at making them look, but not yet touch not just the body but the memories. I s i t a n a rt — f r a m i ng ou r selv e s a s ob j e c t s of Desire, our audience always interactive, look and touch, thrill and titillate? Women of Olongapo, is it what we want, to be always standing still in the showboats?

Would they love our country more? Would you?

Or would anger wrap itself around you like a snake, winding and winding with its head at your back, a Medusa rifling anyone who looks at your lithesome body. But there is no action, no climax, no wrap-up— Only what time has proven, what time has approved, leaving silent marks on the body, on the mind.

theme from critical mass

resistance sparks consciousness, i read and desperation

should take things to the next level ; something must be done aside from writing a poem ----this call for submission should lead to what is really revolutionary.

anggo genorga


I F o r g ot t h e S ta n c e o f C l i f f s M e e t i n g Wa t e r by E i l e e n R . tA B I O S

I forgot I began drowning in air. I forgot the rice cooker flirting with its lid. I forgot camouflaging my body into a Christmas tree. I forgot the stance of cliffs meeting water. I forgot appreciating a delicadeza moonlight as much as any long-haired maiden. I forgot discovering the limited utility of calm seas. I forgot green calyx emphasizing the burden of generously-watered corollas. I forgot prominent breasts sculpted on immobilized Virgin Marys. I forgot entrancement with the layered auras of decay. I forgot my bones became hollow, flutes made from reeds. I forgot tipping Bing cherries into a blue bowl until I lost the sky to a crimson moon’s overflow. I forgot mahogany dining tables whose royal lengths still failed to include me. I forgot truth is disembodied. I forgot love is always haggled.


A Visit

A walk into darkness Alone and surrounded Candles flicker against concrete Past the pews Worn and weary I kneel before Him Before my Lord My tiny tiny Lord Within a box Beside the alter The only red candle Lighted still I bow before His presence “Lord help me” “Lord please” “Lord please help me” Lifting up my arms Still in silence Scars to His heart His unmoving image on the cross Saying, “Heal me Lord” Yet He beckons, “Speak” “Heal me” “Lord I am lost” “Mend my brokenness Crying eyes, Fill my cracks with gold” “Return to me” Only echoes fill the air Night grows darker still “Look up.” I bow, cross, wash, leave His hands Still air sits Bleeding “Goodbye my God” His feet In the silence Bleeding His arms outstretched His side Wrists clean Bleeding for me “Don’t leave” His heart aflame Waiting “I love you” “I will stay with you.” Kneeling on concrete Folding before Him “I am not worthy” Face to the ground Palms to the air My arms My Red Broken Ugly


I to He “No, not worthy” His heart cries out “I love you” A flame My hands to fists “Be with me Lord.” Within me, “I am” The red afire We stay.

IT’S SO QUIET T’SQUIET SO IT’S SO QUIET QUIET SIT’S SOSO UIET QUIET it's so quiet our eloquent words dying on a diet of midnight toast with Orwell's ghostlooking so tubercular in a tweed jacket pencilling notes on a lung black cigarette packetour Winston, wronged for a woman and sin re-wrote history on scrolls thought down tubes that came to him in the Ministry Of Truth Of Fools where conscience learns to lie within.


not like today the smug-sly haves say and look away so sure there's nothing wrong with wanting more, or drown their sorrows downing bootleg gin knowing tomorrows truth is paper thin

by strider marcus jones

at home i n sen sor y percept ion w it h t apped a nd t r acked phone t he T hou g ht Pol ice a r rest me i n t he cor r idor s of a f fec t ionwhere d ic t ator s we a r, red t hen blue , rever sible coat s i n col l apsi n g hou ses , a l l sel f-m ade a nd sel f-pa id sm a r my scrotes -

now the Round Table of real red politics is only fable on the pyre of ghostly heretics.

they are rubbing out all the contusions and solitary doubt, with confusions and illusions through wired media defined in their secret encyclopediawhere summit and boardroom and conclave engineer us from birth to grave. like the birds, i will have to eat the firethorn berries that ripen but sleep to keep the words of revolution alive and warm this winter, with resolution gathering us, to its lantern in the bleak, to be reborn and speak.



markang iniwan ng kotseng bagumbago minamaneho ng anak ng pulitikong ilang termino nang nakaupo ilang plataporma na ang nabuo wala pa ring pangako ang natutupad

pinturang bakas sa mukha ng mamang lumayas sa kamalayan tumakas sa katotohanan ng realidad hindi na batid ragasa ng sasakyan hindi na tanda sariling pangalan at edad

sagisag ng giyerang hindi aatrasan walang katapusan hangga’t hindi nawawalan ng bala ang baril ng gahamang taksil pagtigil pagpigil sa pamumunong makasarili

kasindumi ng mukha’t damit ng yagit na natutulog sa punit-punit na karton may banig na hinabi mula sa pira-pirasong dyaryo panlaban sa lamig ng hangin at titig ng mga dumaraang diring-diri



INVISIBLE by Sarah Bernardo Do you know what it’s like To be a brown face in a race that’s called Yellow? To live in a Black and White world when you’re neither, To have your struggles dismissed because you’re “practically white”

To be crushed under pressure to live up to your race, To have your hard work reduced to a lucky win in the racial lottery, To have your failures laughed at as a surprising anomaly

Do you know what it’s like To learn about the repression of others but never be taught about yours, To be considered forever a foreigner in the only land you’ve ever known, To be asked where you’re really from and expected to speak a native tongue

Do you know what it’s like To dream of breaking transcending dismantling the bamboo ceiling, but feel like you can’t Because when you turn on the TV peer in the lectern search the seats of Congress or scour the Fortune 500 you always see so few like you, Or none

Do you know what it’s like To be exoticized stereotyped fetishized typecast ignored and forgotten

Do you know what it’s like To ache for a revolution yet be met with indifference, To cry for support but be assaulted with silence, To be an ally for movements that do not fight for you Do you know what it’s like

Do you know what it’s like to be invisible?

B ecause I always wish I didn’t .





Exoticized Typecast




ignored invisible


“Because I invisible a l wa y s wish I didn’t” fetishized



ignored Typecast



ignored 26

Karen Marie Kwanig


Seven minutes until the Fremont line arrived. “Everyone, can we do a prayer?” Lani asked. Grace took a couple steps back until she could feel her back against the red brick of the BART station and held Lani’s hand. Her other hand reached out for Sam’s. Everyone bowed heads. No one said anything. She could feel other commuters staring, and instead she chose to focus on the warmth of their hands. After listening to the official announcement that Darren Wilson would not be indicted, her body couldn’t stop shaking. She was remembering other members at the community center sitting together listening to the announcement. The only detail she could really remember besides Black women screaming and crying in the room was the white man’s description of

was as if she shook from the weight of a target sign that persistently grew larger and heavier on her back. With each year of her life, her brown skin was a burden so heavy, often anchoring her in her place and revealing herself. Within seconds of seeing her, anyone wovuld know everything they needed to know about her. Lani and Sam’s hands were so warm. Although the people from the community center differed in their race, sexuality, and ethnicity, they were all invested in protecting marginalized communities. Of course Black lives mattered. They always mattered. They wanted to scream. They wanted to march. Standing between Lani, a Ghanaian woman, and Sam, a Pinay, she gripped their hands tighter. ---


Grace-YouareBlack./Gra a bullet wound in Michael Brown’s head. She wasn’t sure what made her shake so much in the first place. It was forty-seven degrees, but tonight the justice system had legalized the murder of a young Black man. It


“Grace! How are you?” Grace looked up and squinted her eyes to see Nani walking in her direction. The worry and fear in her dark brown eyes that Grace remembered from the march during the previous night were no longer there. She seemed much more relieved. “I’m good!” Grace reached

out and gave Nani a tight hug and a smile. “How are you feeling after last night?” “Girl, I don’t even know. When I got home, my feet were so sore and I had to stay up studying for this damn quiz. How the fuck are they trying to expect me to keep up when there’s so much going on?” Grace nodded in approval. “Me too”, Grace said looking down at her dirty Nike’s. She sighed. “I just feel like a mess in general. I’m not prepared for this quiz, I’m sleepy and my hair is just not being versatile today.” Grace laughed and tugged on her gray beanie. Although the weather was becoming colder in Berkeley, she usually wore her beanie so that she wouldn’t have to deal with her poofy curls.

Grace – you are Black. Grace kept repeating these words over and over again in her mind. She didn’t understand why she felt an immediate rejection to Nani’s words. She was Black. But she was more than that. She was also Filipina. But she understood that there was no way that Nani could have acknowledged this. After all, they only talked about Black things. They talked about the fear of having a Black son, public health issues in the Black community, how close Ghana was


Grace - You are Black. / Grace - Y Nani grabbed her wrist like when they were holding on to each other in the screaming and crying crowds in Oakland. “No, don’t say that!” She looked deeply at Grace. “Grace – you are Black. Of course you have versatile hair!” They both noticed that the door to the lab room was open. Within the group of students, Grace filed behind Nani so that they could enter the room. Grace – you are Black.

to Nigeria, and how talented J. Cole was. They didn’t talk about how far away the Philippines was, issues affecting Filipino/Filipina students on campus, or how talented Jericho Rosales was. --As Grace was scrolling through her Facebook newsfeed, she saw picture after picture of an afternoon rally at the Golden Bear Café on campus. The Black Student Union was making immediate calls for people to show their solidarity and to shut down the café. Although she felt a deep sense of urgency at


the first Oakland protest after the indictment announcement, she couldn’t lift herself off her bed. She lay still, feeling the weight of her brown skin sink deeper and deeper into her mattress. How could she stand in solidarity when half of her was supposed to be nothing more than an ally? Grace was closing her eyes for a few minutes thinking about whether she had it in her to link arms with other Black students after experiencing a brief moment of rejection of her Black identity. She groaned, knowing that rejecting her Blackness was a betrayal, regardless of whether it was in defense of her Filipina heritage. Grace thought about how Blackness has historically been hated – from Black hair to Black skin to Black love. Black radically opposes eurocentricity. You could never straighten those curls nor lighten that skin. Blackness


through Facebook once more and realized that she had received an event notification for a vigil for Jennifer Laude, a trans Filipina woman. “Shit.” She had forgotten that she was personally invited to attend Jennifer’s vigil. Grace tossed her phone and closed her eyes. She thought about Jennifer, lying down just as she was. Except instead of feeling weighed down by guilt, the weight of a white man pinned her down and forced her to stop breathing. Grace was bothered by this but not as bothered as she was of the death of Michael Brown. She knew this was an evil thing to admit – even to herself. She felt an increasing sense of emotional disconnection from this issue in the Filipino/Filipina community since she’s been so involved in demonstrating that Black lives mattered. But what did she know about the Pinay perspective anyway? She questioned whether she really had to navigate her life as a Filipina

ck. / Grace - You are Black. / Grace - You ar was inescapable. But Grace knew that Blackness is powerful. Blackness had endured insurmountable physical and spiritual pain over hundreds of years. Blackness needed to be protected, nurtured, loved, and never forgotten. Regardless of people protesting, screaming, and crying to be free to love their Blackness, it was still targeted. It was shot in the head and left lying in the street. Without absolute protection, what would Blackness mean? Grace opened her eyes and picked up her phone. She scrolled

since the world just didn’t see her that way. She laid there, cold and motionless. How could she stand in solidarity when half of her was supposed to be nothing but an ally?


Salamangka’s B a r b e r S h o p Robert Francis Flor




CHARACTERS Tony Salamangka - fifty-year old, Filipino barber in white barbers outfit Carlos Bulosan - forty-year old, Filipino males, wears a worn suit, fedora Ramon Espejo - twenty year old, Filipino, wears college sweat-shirt, jeans Bobby Balcena - forty-year old, Filipino baseball player (Seattle Rainiers uniform) SCENE 1 (Chinatown, Seattle, late 1960’s. It’s early Saturday afternoon. Tony Salamangka, a barber, sweeps his one-chair barbershop after a customer who has departed. The radio plays a Sinatra song in the background. He hums and sings as he works. The shelf behind the chair is full with bottles, pomades, gels, barber equipment, a mirror etc. Empty customer chairs, a small table with girlie magazines and a coat-rack line the wall. Ray, a Filipino young man, college-age, enters the shop.) RAY:

Drove down for a haircut. Got time, Manong Tony?

TONY: Sure, Ramon. Not busy yet. Still Saturday morning last I looked. Hop into the chair. (Beat) How’d you like it? RAY:

(Ramon gets into the barber’s chair.) Short. Wanna look good.

TONY: Something special? RAY: TONY:

Nah, Manong. Just make it decent.

(Puts an paper neck wrap and apron around Ray and prepares his equipment.) How you look’s important. You let your hair get really long. You look like that group…I forget. They’re from England.


The Beatles.

TONY: Yeah, those guys. Sure got a lot of girls chasing them. They even look like girls. Very confusing. RAY:

Just a nice cut, Manong.

(Slumps in the chair.)

TONY: You seem upset. Sit up. Bad for your posture. Something wrong? RAY:

Nah. (Beat) Nothing’s wrong. (Beat) Nothin’.

TONY: You can tell me. Barber’s are like priests. We never tell what we hear in confession. RAY:

Please, Manong. I gotta be somewhere. I’m in a hurry.

TONY: Alright. Alright. (Beat) It’s always good to tell someone if you have a problem. (Beat) Where you going in a hurry? (Begins trimming his hair and continues barbering as they converse.)



Just gonna drive around. It’s no big deal.

TONY: What’s your big hurry then? I can give you a real nice cut. Razor trim. Shave. Facial. The works. You can tell me. RAY:

I don’t wanna talk about it.

TONY: You look like a man with a…a girl problem? That’s it, isn’t it? RAY: RAY:

(Silence. Figets. Purses lips. Looks down.) I’m quitting college. Dropping out.

TONY: Hindi! I’m surprised. Your dad worked hard when he was your age. After service, he finished college. Your folks will be very disappointed. They looked forward to your graduation. I thought you’d be dying to finish. RAY:

That was then and this is now, Manong. Gotta do things on my own.

TONY: Your own way? Sounds selfish. They’re thinking about your future. You’ll need to make a living someday. Take it from me. (Beat) You’re not telling me everything. RAY: TONY:

I’m thinking of enlisting.

(Long Pause) You’re either very brave or very foolish. You’re father fought with the Americans during the war. He was very brave. That’s how your family got here. They came when he was stationed at Sand Point. He’ll be furious. He and your mom sacrificed for your education. (Beat) There’s a war … Vietnam.


I know.

TONY: You sign the papers? RAY:

Not yet. I took the tests. Passed. Know what I mean?

TONY: So sudden, you must only have a year or two to graduate. Your dad always brags about you when he comes in. Ray does this…Ray studies that. He’s on the honors list. (Beat) Better, you talk with him and your mom. RAY:

They won’t change my mind. (Beat) The Marines asked if I wanted to go to OCS.

TONY: A Marine officer… that’s an honor. Your dad was a steward in the Navy. That’s about all the Pinoys did. Still, he got rank…became a Chief. That wasn’t easy. He’ll be proud. RAY:

Humm….I haven’t decided. I don’t want a career like his. Just serve and get out.

TONY: Do you duty, huh? It wouldn’t be that bad. Take your time.



I need space.

TONY: Space? You should join the Air Force. RAY:

(Laughs) Not the Air Force. I wanna get away. Leave town. Get my head together.

TONY: What happened with your girl? RAY:

Thought we had a good thing. Talked marriage…having kids…raising a family after I graduated. She didn’t want to wait. A few weeks ago, she says she’s back with her ex. I didn’t see the hurry. I tried talking but got no where. We’re done.

TONY: And now, you want to drop out of college and join the service. Allah! How will that solve your problem? Doesn’t seem like a good decision. You’re too emotional. Weren’t you planning to become a writer, a doctor or a lawyer? RAY:

I’m not sure I want to go….at least not yet.

TONY: Your girl dumped you and you’re running away! You’re quitting. RAY:

…for now. (Beat) I just wanna move on. Know what I mean? Get my head straight.

TONY: …or blown off. Seems shortsighted. My advice. Finish school. If you want to enlist, there’ll be plenty of time. You’re giving up too much. You shouldn’t rush into things. RAY:

I need to figure things out. I’m not sure what I want.

TONY: Take your time. Write your girl. She could change her mind. Who knows? You could change yours. RAY:

I could go to Canada. Vancouver’s close. I’d stay in touch.

TONY: A vacation would be good. Gives you time to think. Nice get away. RAY:

Not a vacation, Manong.

TONY: I don’t understand. RAY:

I wouldn’t return….at least not for some time…after the war’s over.

TONY: Now I’m confused. I thought you were thinking about enlisting. How would you finish college? Correspondence courses? Those aren’t worth much. RAY:

If I don’t leave or enlist, I’ll be drafted. I have a low number. I’m close.

TONY: Uhhh…I see. You’re trying to escape. RAY:

I want to do the things I want to do. It’s my life. I want to take some time…work a little… write poetry…stories…think. Like you say: There’s a war. I don’t see marching through some


jungle shooting at people I don’t know or care about. And, I don’t want them shooting at me.

TONY: You’re afraid. RAY:

Some, I suppose. Wouldn’t you be? It’s not that.

TONY: You took the test for the Marines. I don’t understand. RAY:

If I’m drafted, I have to go. If I join, I choose the service I want.

TONY: If you enlist, you’ll have to go where they send you. Can’t you wait to finish college? You should do that. You graduate, you’ll be able to do whatever you want. You’ll be prepared for your future. RAY:

Dad always says the same thing. He always talks about how important it is to give back to America. Our family probably wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t joined. I don’t know if that’s true.

TONY: Many Filipinos followed his path…joined the American Navy. You’re between finishing college, join ing…or running away. RAY:

I can’t decide. No way I’m following dad’s footsteps.

TONY: How’s that? The Marines are a department of the Navy. RAY:

True, Manong. They’re the MEN’s Department.

TONY: (Chuckles) Trying to outdo your dad, huh! RAY: The military would give me a chance to grow up …see the world. Don’t you think? What could hap pen? TONY: Risky with the war. Why not finish college? You want to be a writer. Let me introduce you to Carlos Bulosan. He wrote many poems and a novel… “America’s in the Heart”. You can talk. He died here in Seattle in 1956. He could give you something to think about. RAY:

You’re joking, Manong. A ghost.

TONY: Hummm…. This is the Salamangka Barber Shop. It’s MAGIC. No ghosts. Just living spirits. See that door. (Points to the backroom door.) Behind is a very special room… no barriers to time. RAY:

(Scoffs.) You’re making this up. (Laughs)

TONY: You’ll enjoy meeting. He’s in my back room. I’ll get him. You talk. (Knocks on door to room.) RAY: Ahh,.. Manong, don’t kid. There aren’t any Filipino writers. He’s probably just some old, cannery worker. TONY:

(Knocks on the door again the calls out.)


Carlos! Carlos! You busy? There’s someone I want you to meet….a young man.


(They talk through the door.) I’m busy. Can’t it wait? I’m working on some new poems. Who is this important young man?

TONY: Name’s Ray….Ray Espejo, a young man thinking about quitting college. He might go into the military or leave for Canada. He’s interested in writing…poetry. I told him you’d talk with him. Talk with him about America. He’s interested in being a writer. You’re a writer. CARLOS: Tell him to do something else! Look what it got me. All I left when I died were a pair of socks, an old typewriter and a twenty year-old suit full of holes. TONY: You’re a legacy. CARLOS: Who cares? He’ll waste his chances. He should stay in college…study something useful. TONY: A few minutes ….salamat. CARLOS: Well….you’ve been kind enough to let me use your room. I suppose…. (Carlos opens the door and steps out. He’s thin, disheveled.) TONY: Carlos, this is Ray. RAY:

Hello, Manong!

TONY: Carlos… CARLOS: Tony told me you had problems. Said you want to leave college to join the service…or run away. This over a girl?! What’s wrong with you? RAY:

Nothing’s wrong! Isn’t it better to follow your heart and go into something you really want?

CARLOS: Doesn’t sound like you know what you want. RAY:

Well…uhhh….uhh. I thought I did. Maybe, I’ll just write.

CARLOS: Just write! (Beat) Like I did? Look, I can barely afford to eat. Think about how you will get by… how you’ll live. RAY:

There’s more to life than money.

CARLOS: Of course, Ray. That is true. Aren’t you good at other things? RAY:

Sure. I’m good at science and math. Aking mga magulang…dad and mom hope I’ll become a doctor.

CARLOS: Writing and art are important but you should use your gift for science. Think of the people you could help. RAY:

I want a good life when I grow up. Not like… (Stops as he catches himself.)


CARLOS: …me. (Beat) you can have a good life no matter what. Your life deepens when you think about oth ers. (Beat) Tony said you’re considering the enlisting…or running away. RAY:

I…I don’t know.

CARLOS: Afraid? It’s okay to be afraid. RAY:

I’m not afraid. I’m uncertain.

CARLOS: A coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant taste of death but once. RAY:

Shakespeare. I recognize the quote.

CARLOS: Yes. A fine fellow. We talk often. RAY:

I can’t believe that, Manong. He’s been dead for hundreds of years.

CARLOS: True! True! But we exist in a hologram. People call it heaven. Anyone who ever lived is there. Great people…even loved ones who’ve passed away…even your favorite dog. TONY: Compadre! You’re not suppose to mention the hologram. You should know better. CARLOS: Ooo, paumanhin! You’re right, Tony. Sorry! (to Ray) Forget what I said. I forgot… TONY: Always…conveniently forget. RAY:

(to Carlos) You think I’m a coward. I’m not. I’m not a coward.

CARLOS: Well… TONY: (to Ray) You’re not a coward, Binata. No one should say that. (Beat) You’re thinking of joining. That’s enough. CARLOS: Yes. I didn’t mean that. I mean you need to face your problems. Not run away. RAY:

I wish I knew what to do.

CARLOS: It’s normal, Binata. My brother Polon served in World War I. He was in the Philippine Nation Guard and went to Europe. Tragic war. Fought the Germans. Eleven went from our town in Pagasinan. Three returned. They were never the same. TONY: Polon had a sad ending. CARLOS: The ones who returned had a difficult time. They wandered. They drank. Father said boys grow up fast in war. They were lonely…defeated. RAY:

Manong Tony said you’re a legacy.


TONY: He writes about America. People remember him for the truth…his concern about country’s poor and disenfranchised in his poems. RAY:

(to Carlos) Give me an example, Manong….a poem. I’d like to hear one.

TONY: Carlos, how about “These Are Also Living.” CARLOS: All right. Just one then I must return to work. (Beat) “These Are Also Living” After the dreary walk and the tinsel city That thrusts its tongue hollowly into the night; After the crowded streets and the tenament houses Where the lost and the dying flash mocking eyes With indelicate movements, waiting for death; After the flight of water-soaked steps and dark halls, The uneven door and the cold room above the stairs The anger in your face settles down – suddenly – Your lips tremble as we look into the street below Where hungry men are passing into the night, moving Close to tht building for warmth and comfort. These are also living men thrown as we are thrown Into the troubled room of earth, crying for bread. Their continuous procession into the dark streets Lifts a stabbing arrow of pity, striking your eyes, Pushing a nervous wave through your rain-soaked body. Why are you sobbing profusely? We too are hungry. RAY/TONY: (Silence.) RAY:

You write about the poverty and inequality in America but you also believe Filipinos should be loyal to America. Why is that? From what I understand, minorities can’t catch a break.

CARLOS: I write about the American idea, Binata….about the country’s ideals…the idea of equality and democ- racy…of a fair chance for each person. The country has a long way to go. It can’t reach it if young Pinoys like yourself don’t demand its promise. TONY: Manong, the government ruined your compadres and you. CARLOS: There were excesses. No doubt. (to Ray) Whatever you decide, Ray, follow your dream. Don’t let others distract you. You needn’t be one dimensional. Do things that you love but help others. I tried to give you things to consider. (to Tony) It’s time to go now. (Carlos turns and waves to them as he enters the back room. He leaves, returning through the door. A bright light shows through it.) RAY:

Salamat, manong. You have.

TONY: Anyone else you want to meet? We have time. RAY:

I heard of Bobby Balcena. Dad loved watching him. He talks about watching him play.

TONY: The first Pinoy baseball player to make the majors. A dream for many Filipino boys. RAY:

He was the first. (Beat) Would it be difficult?



He was the first. (Beat) Would it be difficult?

TONY: In Tony Salamangka’s Barber Shop, nothing is impossible. RAY:

Really, Manong!

TONY: Let’s see if Bobby’s around. (The door to the back room of the barber shop opens. Bobby Balcena enters. He’s in a Seattle Rainiers uniform. Holds a baseball bat, a ball and his glove.) BOBBY BALCENA: Tony. Great seeing you again. I was getting ready for a game. Gonna hit a few fungos. Who’s the young man? RAY:

I’m Ray Espejo. (Beat) You’re not really Bobby Balcena.

BOBBY BALCENA: I’m not? Why would I wear a Seattle Rainier uniform with number 24? RAY:

How’d you get into baseball?

BOBBY BALCENA: I played in high school. Quit and joined the Navy. I played ball there. When I mustered out, I pitched for a semi-pro team in San Pedro then played for the Yugoslav-American Baseball Club. RAY:

Really, the Yugoslav Club?! Weird.

BOBBY BALCENA: Red Zar, the team organizer, took me aside. Said I should give pro-ball a try. I played outfield for the Mexicali Eagles. Kicked around the minors. Different teams. The Rainiers gave me a shot after they saw me play for the San Antonio Missions. That was in 54-55. In ’56, the Cincinnati Reds called me up. I wasn’t up long… seven games. But I was there. TONY: You were great to watch. (to Ray) Sick’s Stadium filled with brown faces. BOBBY BALCENA: A big step. What year is it now? TONY: 1968. BOBBY BALCENA: I’m outta baseball. I live in San Pedro, my home town. The Filipino community asked me to return. I put on the old uniform once in a while. Memories. TONY: You look great! BOBBY BALCENA: Tony, why’d you conjure me? TONY: Ray asked to see you. His dad was a fan back in the day. Ray watched you play when he was little. RAY:

Yeah, my dad took me to see you. Say, you’re still alive. How….??

BOBBY BALCENA: Tony didn’t mention the hologram.


TONY: Shhh! You know better. We can’t discuss it. RAY:

Carlos talked about it. I thought it was only for the dead.

TONY: Works like this. The hologram records everyone’s life from birth. RAY:

Like an eight-trak tape.

TONY: That’s a good metaphor. You can interact with people at various stages of their lives through the ho - logram. We are who we are but we transform through life. You’re seeing me when I was a player. Pretty simple system …but difficult to fathom. BOBBY BALCENA: Tony’s barbershop’s a portal where you can interact with spirits. You’re seeing my espiritu. Tony’s a babaylan…a mystic…a shaman. He must want me to speak with you. RAY:

I love sports and doing things but I’m too small for most things. In America, if you’re big, you get ahead. People respect you.

BOBBY BALCENA: Now that’s where you’re wrong. Look at me. I’m barely 5’6”. The little man has to work twice as hard in sports as the big man. You can’t let the big fellows get to you. If you’ve got your mind on them, you won’t concentrate on what you have to do. RAY:

So you to say! The game was probably easier then.

BOBBY BALCENA: When I’m at bat and a big, rough pitcher squints down, I think of David and Goliath. I hope he’s not wild and sticks one in my head. I don’t try to hit the ball out of the park, just get on base. When you hear the crowd, you know you must have hit a good one. I feel the stands with me. It’s a great feeling. I always tell smaller fellows who want to play: “Don’t let your size discourage you. In anything you do, hustle is the mainstay of anything. The big guys have got no corner on that.” TONY:

(Returns to cutting Ray’s hair. To Ray) Don’t let things keep you from your dreams. You’re a young man…still maturing.


What I learned from Carlos Bulosan is you can inspire people. (to Bobby) What about baseball, Manong? What about sports?

TONY: Bobby gave Filipinos hope. He showed they could play America’s game. They could be part of the nation. BOBBY BALCENA: Special players make a living but it’s difficult. They usually have some unique talent that sets them apart. In the future, there’ll be a few Pinoy players who succeed. If you have a gift in anything, develop it. RAY: (to Bobby) You joined the Navy…left high school. I might too. BOBBY BALCENA: That was a while ago. I wasn’t going to college. I left high school. I longshore now. Hard work with out the glamour of baseball. TONY: Ray’s in college and thinking of dropping out. BOBBY BALCENA: Real shame! (to Ray) Don’t you have any sense?! Use the brains God gave you!!


RAY: Well…uuuuh…uuuh… TONY: Girlfriend dumped him. RAY:

Enlisting would solve a few things.

BOBBY BALCENA: …or create new problems. You can’t run from life. Don’t make an emotional decision. You have a gift. Not baseball so much. You have a chance to be educated. Don’t blow it!! RAY:

You joined.

BOBBY BALCENA: Our callings are different. You’ll see. RAY:

(to Tony) You said the Salamangka Barber Shop didn’t have time limits. You’ve shown me the past… what about the future….my future?!

TONY: It depends on your choices. Life isn’t predictable. BOBBY BALCENA: In the hologram, the future’s like a home run over the fence. You know it’s great but you don’t see it land. RAY:

Filipinos say “bahala na”…”what will be will be” God will take care. Is that it?

TONY: Your choices are your choices. The ones you make change your path. RAY:

Show me my path. I want to know what happens.

TONY: I… I don’t think that’s a good idea. RAY:


Then, I’ll enlist. What else is there …??

BOBBY BALCENA: Give him a peak, compadre. Gotta go now. Gotta work out…stay sharp. Bye, Ray! Good meeting you. If you’re down San Pedro way, stop by. (Exits through the door. Ray follows him to the door.) TONY: I …..okay. Okay. I’ll open the door. (Tony steps over and opens the door to the room. At first, it’s dark but then a bright light comes up. Momentarily, we view a flag draped casket. The door closes. Lights down briefly. Lights up in the barber shop. Ray has nodded off in the chair. Tony jostles him awake.) TONY: There, anok. all done. How do you like it? (Shows him his haircut in a mirror.) RAY:

Great, Manong. Looks great! Was…

TONY: You fell asleep. Warm today. Your dad should be by soon. You talk with him.



Yeah. Okay, Manong. How much do I owe?

TONY: On the house. Save your money for your education. RAY:

Salamat, Manong.

(Starts to leave.)

TONY: Leaving your things behind??? (Points to a book and a baseball on the table.) RAY:

(Picks them up and scans them.) Ohh! “America’s in the Heart” Carlos Bulosan ...(Beat) an autographed baseball…”Bobby Balcena”. (Looks quizzically at Tony) For real?!!

TONY: Talk with your parents. They’ll understand. Make wise choices, Binata. That’s all we ask. RAY:

I promise, Manong. I promise. (Ray exits. Tony sweeps and cleans his shop..put up his equipment. Turns up the radio to a Sinatra song.) (Lights down. The end.)


Amy Prindle



Jave Yoshimoto

A h i s t o r y o f V i o l e n c e


44 Blind- Mira Dayal

Brain- Lizzy Klingen

Listen to Me- Nemesis Contreras



Amy Prindle


Por Vida

Jamila Cervantes


“Critical Mass is right in front of our eyes, with the biggest topic in the state being immigration. We are constantly hounded by the ills of immigration both legal and illegal in this country. We fail to show the importance of both unskilled and skilled labor. In addition to this, I am interested in understanding why people desire to come to California so much. Since I am not removed from California, the voracious desire to start a new life in California that harkens back to the Gold Rush era is foreign to me. This a large scale project and I look forward to gleaming all sorts of people who come to California to achieve their goals in a state that considered to have too many people already.� -Artist: Nigel Jones

as a first-generation asian american, woman of color, it is immensely crucial for me to be present at these events. there is power in standing united with my community here at cal and beyond. i may not physically identify with the people who are being directly attack every moment of everyday, but i know as an ally, as a friend- i need to be here for them. in these spaces, it is not about me, it is not about what i have to say, but rather it is about reclaiming spaces, disturbing the “peace,” because solidarity begins with my positionality. allyship begins with knowing, understanding, deeply rooted historical forms of oppression that have thrived in this world for far too long. Far too long for me to just simply exist.

a l ly s h i p chapel hill shooting vigil | thurs 2/12/2015 berkeley, ca


we got your back ferguson | thurs 12/4/2014, sat 12/13/2014 fight the tuition hike | fri 12/21/2014 berkeley, ca

berkeley con ayotzinapa | thurs 11/20/2014 berkeley, ca

mobile phone photos


My Bright Future


Seoyoung Yoon

Frontin’- Angela Efe

Let it Out B*******- Brea Weinreb

The Ocean of Unconsciousness- Seoyoung Yoon


Tilde Acu単a and Dennis Aguinaldo 56

by: ryann kitchell

By: Joeminel docuyanan



Respiration Series

A n g e l a 59

E f e

Ferguson Protests

location: berkeley, ca by: Cj van




We all need some cash in this capital game But what if your dollar comes from the back of a slave? Building killings for corporate gain Pillaging villages at a systematic pace

Conscious Capitalism by Christian Guerrero

My bad, was that too heavy? Do you want a brand new Chevy? With that black drop top to get your ego ready Rocking steady, looking deadly at the levee - but it’s d r y Cause we all fight for a slice of American Pie Think a little bit about that dollar that you chase Is worth the trouble if it takes up all your days? No more time for yourself On the grind for your wealth Then you ride through the city Bloody diamonds on your belt Though you really need help, cause you’re feeling in hell All this time you spend working is just killing your health But you got no other choice, gotta pay them monthly bills Signed away your childhood joy in exchange for being



But is it worth the pain? Can you buy enough clothes to reverse the shame? That was purposely ingrained by the church and the state To keep you working as a servant in this worthless game



Gotta wake up and change our mental state Be aware of where we spend our cash after we get paid Do the workers get a fair wage or a bad trade? Let’s not give up our soul just for a brand name Don’t be a victim to this marketing system That targets your heart through pop star addiction And political division – left, right positions But two sides of the same house isn’t that different Quit dissing; go build bridges Politicians are wicked for leaving the children Cutting education, but going overseas building bases

" Benevolent Assimilation ” 63

Profit over people for the stockholder payments Are we a Stockholm nation? Praising the same corporations that enslave us Through manipulation of media stations It’s outrageous, but I’m done complaining All this negativity is bad for the brain and We should be cautious of what our enters conscience Or else we’ll get nauseous focusing on the awful Gotta focus on the awesome Even in a dark womb a beauty can blossom


So support the causes that improve the process Of gathering wealth for more social progress Yea that’s right - it’s an economic fight We can change the game if we play the inside With a chess move - building up a business Then using that revenue to improve conditions If you’re with it, then vote with your dollar Use the cash to appropriate the power Put in back in the hand of the little man Understand - we can change the world with a five year plan Are you catching the rhythm? Using cash consciously breaks capitalism And updates the system to a newer edition Of a free market economy with useful ambitions Like helping the poor, which raises us all Cause the weakest link in a chain is hooked on the strong So look at what’s wrong - get at the roots and the cause Then do what you can to improve on the flaws You don’t need to go crazy; your steps can be small A dollar is a lot in a third world vault What is the result of the way we move? Does it help to sustain a worldwide view? With these simple questions we can tackle the issue Of monetary play in political positions Poverty and hunger - we can change this now brother I can show you how – but first… Give me a dollar.





Series by:


Marian Cordon

What If You Were #44- Dulce Lopez

El Indio-Dulce Lopez



For the Sake of Our Future World-Dulce Lopez

VivB Mexico-Dulce Lopez

Papal's Visit to the philippines By: Hermarie ASuncion



Up]ZWeZ_X`_Vdd`f] Feeding the needy. Offering simple acts of kindness. That is bayanihan. No amount of rain can transcend the power of this spirit for it is mightier than nature’s rage. It is our calm after the storm.



Miedo - Jeannelene Jimenez uprising is no picnic. you gotta be d e s p e r a t e

“Uprising� Anggo Genorga

enough that your life almost depends on what you stand for. 71

Bata, Bata, Paano Ka Ginawang Aktibista?

Isinilang siya sa kanluran, burdado ang ama at ina Susunduin si tatay kaya lumipad mula ‘Tate, pa-Maynila Address ng tahanan may kaunting pagkakaiba Pulong Diablo sa Pilipinas, Los Angeles sa Amerika Kataka-taka si tatay, bigla na lang bumabait Laking Pulong Diablo pero hindi na sanay magalit Dahil siguro ang pag-alis sa Pilipinas ay mapait Nilulubos na ang natitirang oras na kapuranggit Laking brocolli si nanay, laing naman ang kay tatay Ngunit parehong magulang ay may tattoo na makulay Lumaki mang inglisera, pilit nagtagalog si nanay Gilas at galing ng magulang, siya ngayon ang may taglay Pagbalik nila sa Amerika, si Tatay ay angkas na Pamilya na silang tatlo na sasabak sa California Nagtagalog ang ina, mag-iingles na ngayon ang ama City of Angels at Pulong Diablo pinag-tagpo ng tadhana


Tatalas ang isipan at magsasalita nang may tapang Residente ng Pulo kaya wala siyang takot sa magaspang Gagamitin ang dunong upang pagtanda ay ‘di gumapang Pasaporte niya ay pang-’Kano pero Pilipino ang yabang Los Angeles sa Amerika, Pulong Diablo sa Pilipinas Magkalaban sa ngalan pero di nalalayo ang antas Katakut-takot na puna pero lalaban siyang matigas Pinaghalong Pulo at ‘Kano, ang matapang magsi-labas! Dahil ang tunay na Pinay ay hindi lang laki sa hirap Lalong hindi uubra kung ginhawa lang ang yayakap Halong literatura at angas ang matitinding sangkap Bata na palalakihin para ipaglaban ang Alapaap Kanyang unang aklat, A is for Activist ang pamagat Ilang taon pa, kaya na rin niyang magsulat Susuyurin niya ang bawat pahina ng lahat Maghihintay ang buong Pinas sa pag-uwi ng Alamat

-Marco Lorenzo Ferrer


T a m b a w

J ey Filan Climacosa R eyes TAMBAW

Madami pero nananatiling mag-isa, Umaaligid na tila ba estranghero sa karamihan. Lamig ang bumalot sa kaluluwa at nagtaboy sa liwanag, Anino ang sa

kanya ay kumanlong; buhay na napinid sa dilim.

Sinagwil ng lilim

ang init ngunit kapalit nito ang kanyang pandama.

Aral na makakamit Pinagsisihan na ang

ay nakulapulan ng abo na sa lupa ay naging ulap. pagtalilis sa katotohanan dahil sa natamong parusa;

Ang wakas ay taliwas,

ang pag-iwas na masulo ang sanhi ng pagkabulag.

Ngayon ay naninibugho

sa iba na may tanglaw; hindi inaalintana mga lubak,

Ginagalugad ang tinahak

na landas, tangan ay pag-asang kaakibat ng tiwala.

Ulan ay dumating kasabay

ng kanyang paglisan, tinutuntungan ay nabuwal,

Nasadlak sa isang guwang

kung saan tanging tagimpan ang naghahari,

Ginagayakan ng ilusyon ang

paningin, nililinlang patungo sa bangin,

Ulirat ay naglalaho, isipan ay

tinatangay sa kabilang daigdig.

Lunggati ay pumapaimbulog sa

pagtangis na makalaya,

Iniibsan ng mga sugat ang takot,

iniiwas sa himlayan.

Lunos ang sa kanya ay nagsilbing

sandata at kalasag.

Ang kawalan ng dahilan ang dahilan


Sinasandalan ang pag-asang makita

ang bagay na

Umusbong ang panibagong lakas;

lalagpasan ang

May panahon pa upang taglayin

ang kanyang nais


marating ang dulo,

Isusugal ang pagkakataon sa

pagnanais na malasin


lulunas sa puso.


ay magsisiliyab.

Babasagin ang iniharap Oras ay

na salamin; mga

naising bumalik, nawawala. mga

ilalaan sa pag-alam kung


ng puso ay



ano ang ligaya; paghihilumin.

I Tear Flesh We know because

from the white bones of tilapia with my Hands and the Hands of those who scan the sea with their nets like the mothers who seek tomorrow in the aisles of dollar stores, with the calloused hands of those who topple trees for our boats and the hands who tear sustenance from the Earth.

these Hands bring life to our mouths and the hands of the few will try to gag us. But remember their hands can only hold so much

So their smooth hands can not choke us all for their hands Let them are too soft cover our eyes hydrated our by our blood. Hands Bring our hands to the fire know enough. Pero hindi kami masusunog Our We will not burn Hands feel For pain does not destroy resilience struggle But rehydrates it when we place in the rhythm of Our Hands the calls to sea for kasi hindi kami malulunod. help of the elders we bathe Take our and the splash home, history, food, and tongue, of seed but in paddy waters We that we will Will never Know. taste, And for struggle you is the must lover know we caress whose that Our Hands faces will only take turn our Hands into so much. scales so Yes you may gouge out our eyes d o m i n i c o v e g a

kamayan 75

F i l i p i n o V i s i b i l i t y Da y AARON CADIZ

Ako ay Pilipino

I am Filipino But some days...

Some days I forget what that means. I don’t even know what that means.

My soul is more than a mixture of lumpia, lechon, and pancit on the night of a Manny Pacquiao fight. My mind is more complex than the halo-halo you eat at some Pinoy-Pinay get-together.

Flashback to past conversations with other

My brown skin is rooted in something far more intricate than some burnt rice meant to accompany chicken adobo.

Hey man, are you really Filipino? Because Cadiz sounds like a Latino-ass last name, bro.

Check this, I am a grandson to Guia Guillermo Lopez,


Does your kind eat dog like all those other Asian people? Hey, I don’t mean to be offensive, but do you suck at driving?

Dude! You’re pinoy?! That must mean

you’re hella good at math.

Oh my GOD, you’re Filipino, you must

want to be a lawyer, nurse, doctor, or singer one day!

who’s brother died in the Bataan death march in April of 1942 due to his opposition to invading Japanese forces in the Philippines. I am a revolutionary who speaks with the audacity against injustice with the thunder held by Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio, and Emilio Aguinaldo. I am a poet, who will speak for every Filipino who can’t find the voice to speak for themselves.

Some days... some days I forget who I am.

Where I come from.



I am

Aaron Anthony Cariaso Lopez Cadiz. I am Filipino.

Ako ay Pilipino. 76


I don’t understand my Filipino heritage. I never spoke a word of it. My mother speaks no words of it.

My color is different. It does not fit into a category My mother of Filipino blood My fathers tongue greeted everyone,

B ut my e yes speak of it.

My eyes speak for my soundless mouth. They speak loudly, everyone hears now. Through my almond shaped eyes and cornered tips. T H E Y A L L H E A R M E N O W, They understand my Filipino heritage.


. I look different alongside my sisters, We l o o k d i f fe re n t . We feel different, They Treat us different.

My vision is here, but my mentality lacks. Lacks to, Grasp my i n f u s e d e x i s t e n c e . My Asian embodied soul

Was different bad

It felt inaccurate, Different felt defective, like it sounded.

I can fe el my hy br idit y.

I stare piercingly into my dark colored eyes, The glistening made my eyes appear as if they were exotic beauties, Glistening, because my eyes shined Shining with a glare.

I of Pakistan I of The Philippines Ran in the midst of both.

EMBRACING the blood that runs through my veins Asian blood pushing my body, Pushing my body to Live and Love.

Oval transparent sorrow fell down my cheek, Down past my non-existent jawbone Where it eventually trickled down towards the ground. Laid down beneath me, a deep sink of sorrow I am broken I don’t fit into a category, I AM OTHER. When did other ever matter? Other never meant of importance. It means Other. Unalike. Different. Distant. Other.


DELUSIONAL. My mind reminds me of my fantasy. The delusion of feeling complete, complete as one. Complete did not exist in my mind. They didn’t let me forget it either. Blank cold stares E xpressionless. They didn’t let me forget.

I belong to my country. I am a product of it. I am Pakistani. My skin speaks for me, I am not fair, I am shaded a bronze color. They call me beautiful, But my color isn’t.

Will I ever belong, My eyes will remain My skin will remain My blood will remain My hy b r i d i t y will remain Remain unchanged.

My color comes from the roots of my country. How can it be anything other than beautiful.

I ask my mother. Where I came from, She tells me, a part of you is Pakistani. She tells me another part is Filipino. You come from both, You belong to both. You are beautifully unique. Your eyes dark brown Your skin vibrant You are beautiful my dear ,

My words can speak your conformist language Yet, my mouth remains soundless It is ashamed. Ashamed of words it can speak. Ever so fluently, My dialect illuminates my native tongue, I can speak. I understand. I hear you. I’m still waiting to be heard. I am seen, before I am heard. I am spoken to, Only to speak of what is seen. They speak to what they see. They refuse to hear me.

My mother hears my weeping, She hears my cries. She cannot comfort what she does not know, How do I express I myself, am LOST.

I am not worthy to be heard, What they see is what I am. How can it be anything else, this is me. It’s engraved in my mind. I am not pure.

Labeling me, As if I am to be placed in a . A category that ceases to exist. I DO NOT FIT IN TO A CATEGORY.

They see me as different, Oh how I long to fit in. To connect with the Filipinos, To be a part of the Pakistanis, How I long... Long to belong.


I stand in my sink of sorrow, As it elevates past my ankles It continues to deepen,

I am conscious of myself, I am a rare beauty , not an odd blend. I s e e m y b e a u t y. I f e e l m y b e a u t y. T hey will see my beauty. They will see it. The sun sits on my luminous skin They notice it. I embrace it.

My eyes swollen Swollen red My almond shaped eyes dripping, Dripping with thoughts down my face, Thoughts of otherness, I rid these thoughts, My sink of sorrow lessens as I weep I feel my ankles I feel the wrinkles on my toes

I am here, I belong here.

I feel liberated. I can breathe, I can live.

This blood in my vein runs, it will always run It Runs to te ach me , Teach me to love, cherish, and live.

I AM ME. I am a product of my mother. I am a product of my father. I am of Filipino h e r i t a g e . I am of Pakistani c u l t u r e .

Love my fluent Urdu tongue

Cherish my Filipino heritage And live Live to embrace my blended identity.

I am hybridized. My eyes shimmer My skin golden My Language musical


Philippines: helpless hermana Typhoon Yolanda Advertised as “the biggest yet” Angered wind gods at 195 miles per hour no google search for missing people Aerial shots of people for aid like marching ants turning point for humanity Now every country wants to chip in act like they care but not a competition of which country cashes out World powers pouring out money to “help” boost their national egos Thank you but no pity necessary Morality? Check. Kindness? Check. Intention? Please. None of the above. like it matters anyway my country will not turn it away Corruption engulf our money Pork barrel scams: the latest trend Senators pockets money Philippines Islands in an inflexible position constantly depending on the first world like a teething little child

Pity Party for the Philippines Fake hand shakes and diplomatic dickwads Social network users chiming in “If you do not appreciate our help, give back our money” Enraged at inconsiderate comments Strained eyes rereads the same line Nope, not mistaken Jackass people

Sorry China for inconveniencing you 100K as your initial donation Is that pocket change to you?

But my people survive illustrated by our historical narrative presented as savages at the World Fair Colonized by the Spanish military post for the United States Let us add pity party to the list of injustices Killed my people but remain strong Pilipino community pushing and selling pins at Sproul Plaza Identify as Filipina and American my privilege in the United States not in vain my veins longing to reach my island humility and respect to our parents raised 5K helping others cause of generosity not your damn national pride

Smile, Yolanda for the next four weeks headlines read “China Boosts Aid to Philippines After Criticism” Forks up almost two mil Caved in to social pressures

Pitipines Sarah Macaraeg 80



Saan mapapadpad naghahanap ng asam? Agos ng daigdig, nagtangay sa liblib, nakita Kislap na maaya, hiwaga ng mailap naakit Iyong naligaw sa daan, nasukob ng ligaya, Tinahak landas patungo sa liwanag, nilapit Ang sarili sa ilalim ng siklab ng dakila, Yumanig hangaring matanto malihim. Humiling sa maunawaing nilalang, sana humayo, Ipamalas karilagan, ilaw na taglay, halina. Nahimok, lumapag, para mabatid tunay na pakay. Dininig pagsamong ipasilip sinag na kaytagal inasam, Inilahad mithiin, kasabay ng pagpatak nitong tubig Na nagmula pa sa batis na dumadaloy sa kaluluwa. Alay ay tinanggap, tiwalang kaloob sa pangako umasa. Ipinagkatiwala sarili at nang masapit nabanggit at tinurong lugar Sinilo kinang sa langit na pumanaog sa lupain, kabutihan sinamantala. Nalinlang marikit ng nagbalat-kayong butihing mayroong kubling pangil. Ginapos bagwis, pinagaspas pa rin hanggang sa mabali, nangibabaw lason. Ubos lakas sa walang humpay na pagpiglas sa hawlang hindi magiba. Nabahiran ng pula, nangibabaw itim, ilaw na asam Init na kaakibat napuksa ng lawiswis dulot ng pagpapabaya. Tinupok hanggang sa maging abo ang kariktan; pighati dumulog Sa pagkawala ng kinang, sa pagtalikod ng tuso sa aba habang nasisilab. Ang gahaman na naglagak ng kayamanan sa kumunoy, biniktal ang tali, Binura ang ugnayan sa lipas na hiyas, ibig tumugis ng sariwang alab. Abong umindayog sa saliw ng hangin, umikot-ikot na tila nagbunyi. Wala ng apoy ngunit malas pa rin alab sa kaanyuang waring tulog. Alimpuyong lumigid sa diwang naghahari pithaya, Tumimo sa abo; ningning ng bagong buhay, Simbuyo ang nakapagpadaig sa lamang nalipol. Ulap ay muling hinawi sa paglaya. Gawad na kinang sa nagbalik, Agad dinala, Tiyak gigilas.

Je y Filan Climacosa Re yes 81

ERASURE M a r i e

J o y c e

A rta p

There are approximately 175 dialects 100 million peoples, and exactly 7,107 islands (sometimes) Every number set resets. The words are not our own.

The language of the poor was not always Tagalog, Nor did the language of the enlightened have to be English.

Cebuano Ilocano Hiligaynon

Lorena Barros (poet, student activist, shot dead at 28) wrote in English, until appealing to the masses meant something.

Waray-waray Kampangan Northern Bicol

Not everyone goes to school. Not everyone learns in English.

Pangasinan Southern Bicol Maranao

Maguindanao Kinaray-a Tausug

Two hundred years before the next fifty, España declared the land Las Islas Filipinas. Gave us clothes and religion, Gave us some words too. The next fifty we spent on Uncle Sam’s lap.

Benign assimilation was another way to say The history on your lips sounds better in my tongue.

Surigaonon Masbateño Aklanon

When you are taught on your knees, you only learn by looking up.

Chavacano Ibanag (mother tongue, the list will never end)


there is never enough not for your families not for your livestock not for your produce and you are always on your knees waiting for a change that never comes a nation not dormant Her muscles twitching waiting for a body to become the way to keep a bird from flight is to clip its wings the way you keep a bird from song is to hold them down and muffle sound a movement that harms is violent whether it touches you or not this is becoming

Someone lit a match and the friction of The head struck against the rough surface And a flame ignited into a fire that became The heat of revolution Because no one could turn their heads away from the imminence of this moment.


Ma r i e J oyc e A rta p

Filipino Is The

Yellow ribbon on yellow suit weaved through the slit for the yellow button. Your fingers curl into a fist, then your index extends into the air and Your thumb sticks out as a mark checked, Laban. Who was worth dying for? You wear yellow, and you speak to a crowd Who has given you a voice, one that allows your own to rise as loud as a prayer, stirring a body into Being. Cory, they chant. They want the beat of your words to be the center, The bowl where all blood collects. Bayanihan, Kababayan, kapatid, dugo. You do not want to be the bowl that collects the sorrows of a nation, and a failed revolution. So you mark your index and thumb into a check, Laban, and your final thought before dawn is: Who was worth dying for? Sampaguitas are white and bloom for the nation. This, too, another irony. Blood threads our veins into each other. Blood stains. Where Ninoy fell, blood bloomed. Softly humming, “Tie A Yellow Ribbon around the Oak Tree,� Some will forget but you, you will always remember who was worth dying for.

T a lJ aie hst hme o a n i. This thin sheet holds the liberties we long for our heroes and lovers immortalized in these books and diaries

all this sketched inside a blueprint going according to the plan of a monster investment for blockbuster ticket sales and oil.

these thin sheets pages carried across continents to spread sacred words gospels, prophecies scriptures indoctrinated.

What power this thin sheet wields for those bent on changing the world!

Funny how a thin sheet can carry ideas so powerful, the universe bends to its truth variations of the same drawn out storyboard illustration used for film after film of white-savior-complexdriven plots will justify exactly why a whole country sits by to let their heroes bomb entire peoples they are irrationally afraid of one signature will send a hundred thousand troops on a hunt for one man in Afghanistan and a massacre of a million other stories in the Middle East one satirical depiction of a religion’s Beloved Prophet on a French newspaper will agitate two of the religion’s extremists into killing twelve people in the paper’s publishing office which will agitate the Western World’s phobia towards one and a half billion people who practice that religion peacefully

this ancient Chinese innovation is indeed the greatest weapon in the warfare for hearts and minds these blank slates are battlegrounds for mastery battles between the dreamers and the debt collectors between the free thinkers and the corporate think tanks.

ii. Most believe the pen is well, just a pen I say it is the holy grail its ink is the blood of the messiah its markings spell victorious inceptions of hegemonic matrix codes or a collage of liberation movements to bring forth an inevitable revolt which chapter are you writing your history in? some share the pen and let the people master their fate some use it to breed illiteracy to master the art of herding miseducated masses

like sheep, we are tricked by the shepherd and their crook by politicians who are crooks their promises, crooked paths which favor dollar bills lending their ink in favor of crooked bills which bail out the banks and businessemen with rubber band stocks the truest hustlas who really run the streets and only see paved roads when hopping on the backseat of limousines those who negotiated these numbers which tell us exactly how we would live our lives who among us will make nine thousand dollars an hour joy riding in the comforts of their private island resort and which of the rest will slave over just one paycheck that one thin sheet we kill ourselves for the faster and faster we work for as prices inflate and our monthly bills gain more digits.

iii. How did we let these big wigs with their feathered quill pens hold all the ink? these paper kings and queens whose royalties are just that– on paper the paper says their lives matter more in the name of God that they can own the shores of Monterey Bay like the rest of the shores around the world so we may not inconvenience their peaceful golf games they need enough elbow room in their golf courses

to fit their egos to swing tiny balls into holes across acres of freshly watered lawns during California droughts so we may not bend a single blade of grass by crossing their fences and taking a step on land which is not ours “officer please my husband is working at the shipyard a decade spent trying to see him to have him meet his daughter for the first time can’t you read our eyes instead?” “our ancestors have long been here our names buried under these streets named after our conquistadors our people have long rested their bones books and cheeks beneath this pavement and you say they didn’t exist because no one has their names written on a piece of paper?” “these borders were created behind our backs on our backs isn’t this truth enough to honor that we belong here? you will send us to die in a desert land we’ve never set foot in just because we don’t have that damned piece of paper? how could we be illegal in our own ancestral land?” perhaps the big wigs are right the land is not ours it never was we all belong to the land yet we bent to the truth they claim through deeds and titles their fancy thin sheets we let their legal jargon,

their matrix code speeches, fool us into thinking that they are smarter than us that the land we are stepping on is theirs.

iv. How much we have given away for nothing but these stupid numbers on our paper so concentrated on this paper, our minds became pulp our souls paper thin if this is what it costs, then they can have it all! the greatest innovation of our time was made for libraries not to wipe the asses of the rich our Return On Investment for sacrificing our bodies like cannon fodder for their strategies dying for the print on these dollar bills is a bargain between how much the bosses can get away with and how far grim our conditions will be until we decide not to take it anymore until we burn away the matrix of this old system and paint our revision on a new slate…

if I may spread a little herb on some rolling paper to put my mind at ease as I unfold verses without ever folding to the fear of being paperless I have folded only my enlightenment into origami a crane which cuts through the hot wind of propaganda to fly and witness the paper trail from a bird’s eye view I have seen how the money is being expressed whose service it is signed, sealed, delivered for this why I keep our consciousness high to rise above the budget cuts against our education if our minds be pulp, may we remold with the courage to grow as our glue it is never too late to seize your life hold it together like papier-mâché.

vi. This world is not mine but our slate to fill there is a writer in all of us beyond the pen and ink

v. The big wigs will wither away cold and naked left only with paper to cover up their ugly truths in their prison cells made from gold

we write with our every deed like your smile, or your raised fist– a legend written in the mind of those who capture it so write thoughtfully with a daily practice to manifest masterpieces

the expendable dollar bill will wash away like seaweed beaching on the dead shores of a long overdue world bound to be wasteland

we are small people, perhaps but there is no canvas large enough to fit our dreams we are no slaves but creators to this paper so author a story authentic to you don’t let the digits on your thin sheet authorize anything besides the legend you were meant to immortalize

and I will continue to unroll scrolls to read timeless tales

you are someone’s hero and another’s lover written in their books and diaries I write with a frontline of dancers armed to draw storyboards with fingertips to stencil, feet to brush paint imaginations in motion for our equity and justice by the investment of the people in pursuit of the signatures needed to finally bring our troops home may they be deployed instead, to join our collage of liberation movements our tiny tribute to the inevitable revolt.

vii. This poem is written on a paper plane may it land on your lap encase you like a parol lantern to remind you of the shining star you are may it be your parachute your balloon like a kongming, a sky lantern to carry your light like a victory in the dark this is for you for life like an o-fuda issued by a Shinto shrine to protect a temple, this poem is a talisman issued by our stories to protect our humanity no check of any amount can buy this it is given earnestly like a hug not a “I hugged everyone else so I guess it’s polite to give you one” kinda hug more like a “I’ll wait til you finish talking to three other folks on the other side of the room because I can’t leave without hugging you” kinda hug

because we care about you we love you and we think about you beyond this paper even if at this moment, this is everything we can offer the ink we danced on this sheet was choreographed by you who taught us how to create how to dream these are our sacred words gospels, prophecies the scriptures we indoctrinate, together one piece of paper that doesn’t belong to the debt collector’s interest the crooks may tear this sheet apart, but they won’t be able to tear apart our legend from the pages written in our hearts and minds.

X IN B E T W E E N DREAMS Tess Crescini

“We’re all going to die; I might as well enjoy the ride while I can.”



between dreams where identities are negotiated, modified, and sometimes transformed, I struggle to wake to find the Self who won the wrestling match with the multiple personalities that wrangle with each other for dominance. In my waking reality, I need to be on time to a place I don’t want to be, but need to be… with my eighty-year-old father at Modesto General Hospital to watch the poking; prodding for a vein; for the blood-letting into tubes and more tubes; to be there for the insertion of catheter in his penis; for the liver biopsy; for the draining of fluids from his lower gastro-intestinal tract only to be caught up in the waiting. Waiting for the laboratory results which can confirm or deny how much time we have to learn to die; how much time before we start to rot like the meat we are… definitely not the stuff dreams are made of… Spirit in-forming the Eternal with patterns of the collective, the spirals, the circles, the Alpha and the Omega; a Being of existing reality - all the phenomenon of being human.


hen there’s my mother. Like Alice in Wonderland who ate something that made her small, drowning in her own tears, tumbles in the flowing waters, fights with the cross currents not of her choosing. She holds on to me. I have become a tree rooted to the ground of my being, tapping into my inner world for strength before the underworld abducts me, too. I am strong and silent. My dying father says to me he dreamt he was lying down in his mother’s lap. She was rubbing his head, saying, “kasi ang tigas ng ulo mo, eh” (because you are so hard headed). He did not want to give up his cigarettes, his San Miguel beers, and the lechon kawali that he was told would kill him. To those naysayers, he would retort, “We’re all going to die; I might as well enjoy the ride while I can.” My father is no philosopher, but I think he grasped Kierke-gaard’s quote, “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.”


n between the living and the dying, my parents’ home became a hospice, a place for at-tending to the emotional and spiritual needs of the family. But hospice also came to mean not much time left; cancer is in the liver, in the thyroids, in the lower intestine, everywhere like a wrathful god, shifting the room around as the usual relationship patterns enter a crucible where they are heated and stressed; where sometimes cracks are made visible at the weak bonds forged by anger and regrets, but sometimes, beautiful shapes appear burnished by the difficulty to reveal unexpected rich moments of tenderness and forgiveness. Then my father took his last breath. In my dreams, I am the great Inanna, the Sumerian goddess of writing, fertility, and warfare, who descends to the underworld to be with her sister, Ereshgikal, only to find herself stripped naked, hung on a meat hook to die, decomposes into a green mass who with one drop of the Water of Life on her blue lips arose from the Great Below to return to the Great Above.

I Forgot the First W o m a n G e n e r a l E R . T by

i l ee n


I forgot you today looking at the same sky of luminous sapphire whose gap from earth she had erased with her singing, and I forgot begging the 21st century reader: Will you b r e at h e life into me by believing? I forgot envying scout bees charged with discovering new food supplies—how I coveted their eyes like a series of mirrors able to split light: “the trigonometrical bee will always / be able to trace the route from flower // to hive by taking a reading from the sun.” I forgot a set of instructions that ended with the order: Do not cry. I forgot we played in a Kingdom waiting to happen, where palaces contained empty thrones, where no one would have challenged had we sat on rubicund damask cushions. I forgot Marisa peeling the skin from a blue-boned fish, Shakira rustling up an old clothesline for tying hands together after mosquitos bit, Doris with ears attuned to lullabyes emanating from the wings of fireflies, Luisa who squatted besides betelchewing crones with crooked front teeth, and Marjorie who swallowed the scarless sky over Siquijor. I forgot I sutured words by setting my calloused fingers free to roam across a piano’s ebony keys. I forgot m e m o r i z i n g your scent of tobacco and milk. I forgot the Ilokano sea witnessing eighty virgin men dangling from trees to protect me. I forgot Diego lifting eyelashes to reveal soot. I forgot marble floors with cobalt veins never chilling the barefooted sleepwalker. I forgot nights lactating morphine, roses rebelling against the aftermath of blooming, and vampires about to sin.

I forgot foregoing milk for tapey rice wine as I preferred my tongue sodden— I forgot meticulousness in preserving memory as proof that someone will always remember you and me I forgot clouds of cushions recycling chicken feathers to soften every inch of narra furniture. Stitched lace and sequin tempted viewers to believe angels never fell and a harpsichord could last for ETERNITY. I forgot seashells sleeping on windowsills. I forgot to savor my childhood house where grandmother gave births with abundant abandon, where GENERATIONS DIED more radiant than a sun’s implosion. I forgot the charisma of letters that formed words like myrrh, honey, balsam, pepper wormwood—flavors used by Romans in Beaucaire to camouflage fermenting raisins spoiled in amphoras now lining the Mediterranean with thousands and thousands of shards. I forgot I could not forget the hollow cheeks on mothers cradling dead warriors. I forgot I considered all men my sons. I could not afford a single man who might compel me to recollect pearls never yellow when worn against flushed skin. I forgot I owned a widowhood to avenge. I forgot soldiers whispering by a paltry stream, their eyes locked on the slimness of my ankles revealed through ripped cotton. I forgot CHANTING calculations of false theorems, weeping as if there were gods to court. I forgot inhaling the biting scent of tar. I forgot the compromise of writing typhoid fever as falsely synonymous with ecstasy. I forgot writing typhoid fever as manifesting the sublime. I forgot Demeter’s statue languishing over water where orange manna set goldfish ablaze. I forgot not interfering with the tractor’s arrival. I forgot recalling the invasions of an older century. I forgot tiny scales and damp rocks glinting from mud. I forgot I had no excuse for not rescuing the weak. I forgot I had no excuse, not even HISTORY

I forgot photographs OVERCOME by sepia and certainty demolished by screams. I forgot never craving kindness. I forgot the coins I tossed at brass fountains wishing for the opposite of diminution. I forgot generous beds of unpicked mint—radically fragrant but untapped potential. I forgot the rice fields, sometimes mel ancholy at dusk, sometimes a rippling mirror of a sunset’s maidenly blush. I forgot the pages of my inheritance couldn’t cease crumbling between black leather, the font embossed in tattered gold as “Holy Bible.” I forgot smothering inch-high candles floating with decontextualized petals in crystal water bowls. I forgot that art cannot FULMINATE within gold Baroque frames. I forgot a lake capitulating with ripples from a stone’s impassive penetration. I forgot the teacher who likened the moon to an arsehole. I forgot how one can sag into night as if night was a lover. I forgot pyres of ashes rising with a verve matching Babel’s ambition. I forgot once longing for an intermission. But love is also a source of difficulty. I forgot hunger losing battle with courtesy—she was a petite doll urging sirloin on others while she settled for sauce on rice. I forgot you holding me up against a steel door, radiated by a GENEROUS halogen. I forgot whispering, “Step heavy. No such thing as a sonafabitch in turning art into flesh.”

I forgot PAINTING a floor red with my hair. I forgot backing myself into a corner: when you appeared to grasp my throat, your greedy footprints completed my painting. I forgot the salty pleasure of sisters elongating pink necks to snag spotlights beamed from men experienced in the utter aliveness of d y i n g . I forgot I defined e m pat h y through a bent spine craving for an ellipsis bulging to imply arrival, not departure or division. I forgot a video I created with lies: its choreography of phantoms rated “X” by bureaucrats expert only in a “failure to articulate.” I forgot we, t o g e t h e r , formed tuning forks longing for emphatic hits. I forgot the chandelier with 500 light bulbs branding immortal air. I forgot the fraying edges of fabrics still mustering to cover the shoulders of nonretired warriors. I forgot “civilized satiation” are words, not existence, though I had peeled away years to narrow the mutuality of our gaze into this moment when I finally ask, “How long must the sunrise remain between my thighs?”

Pilipinas Pilipinas Pilipinas What we need is to stop dreaming of change but to put change into effect a n d f u ck i n g m e a n i t .

Anggo Gonorga


Aster V. Delgado


Author and Artist Biographies Aster Delgado post@aster-delgado.de

Aster Delgado is a Filipina lesbian artist based in Hamburg. She started to paint in 1996 while she was still working at the Women’s Crisis Center in Manila. Aster’s often colorful and clear images depict the situation of women/lesbians as well as animal life and nature.

Tess Crescini tess@heritagehi.com

Tess Crescini received her Master of Arts degree in Engaged Humanities and the Creative Life with emphasis in Depth Psychology at Pacifica Graduate Institute in an effort to unblock her creativity. She was born in the Philippines and writes about her hyphenated identity while living in San Jose, California.

Brea Weinreb bmweinreb@berkeley.edu

Brea has been painting for as long as she can remember and doesn’t plan on stopping anytime soon. A third year Art Practice and English double major, she has contributed to multiple campus publications and hopes to enter the editorial world upon graduation.

Robert Francis Flor, Ph.D florbob@aol.com

Robert Francis Flor, Ph.D writes plays about the Filipino community in Seattle. His works include “Daniel’s Mood,” “The FAYTs (The Filipino American Young Turks)” and “My Uncle’s Letters.” “The Injury” and “Pinoy Hill” were performed in the Eclectic Theater Festival. “Salamangka’s Barber Shop” was recently completed. He co-chairs Pinoy Words Expressed Kultura Arts.

Eileen R. Tabios ertabios@aol.com

Eileen R. Tabios’s most recent books include the experimental autobiography AGAINST MISANTHROPY: A Life in Poetry, as well as the poetry

collections I FORGOT LIGHT BURNS and INVENT(ST)ORY: Collected Catalog Poems and New. More information about her is available at http://eileenrtabios.com

Lizzy Klingen eklingen@berkeley.edu

It only takes one person to make a change. A drop in the pool of thoughts causes ongoing ripples and waves bigger than ever imaginable. Lizzy Klingen is a third year cognitive science and practice of art double major interested in exploring transparencies of the human mind.

Angela Gabrielle Fabunan agtfabunan@gmail.com

Angela Gabrielle Fabunan, 25, is an M.A. Creative Writing student at University of the Philippines Diliman. She has lived in New York, Maine, Olongapo City, and, currently, Manila. Her poetics consist of the ties between Filipino American identity and the alienation that arises from it.

Nat Pardo pardonatalie72886@gmail.com

Nat Pardo is a Philippine-based writer. She has worked for several government agencies writing press releases, messages, and speeches. In times of confusion and solitude, she seeks refuge in poems and good stories. Some of her poems have been published in the previous issues of {m}aganda magazine, TAYO Literary Magazine, and other publications. She maintains a blog: iamadriftingsoul.wordpress.com.

Imee Cuison imeetwelve@gmail.com

Imee Cuison is a freelance writer based in Charleston, SC and Brooklyn, NY. She is the creative executive for Intrinsic Value Films, an independent film production company. Her work has appeared in literary journals and anthologies such as FishFood Magazine, TAYO Literary Magazine, and phati’tude Literary Magazine.

Strider Marcus Jones lorienmarcusjones@hotmail.co.uk

Strider Marcus Jones is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry are modern, traditional, mythical, sometimes erotic, surreal and metaphysical http://lulu.com/spotlight/stridermarcusjones1. He is a maverick, moving between forests, mountains and cities, playing his saxophone and clarinet in warm solitude.

Janet Veil janetmveil@gmail.com

Janet Veil is a Pennsylvania novelist, poet, and visual artist. She has recently completed the book-length project, Saint Agnes of South Street, and is in the early stages of a collection of essays on New York City dance culture. To learn more about her ongoing projects visit www.janetveil. com.

CJ VAN cjvan@berkeley.edu

“A third year freelance documentary photographer, I aim to shoot from a grassroots perspective. The camera allows the introvert in me to channel my love for people-watching and fulfills my lust for adventure in the danger zone!”

Tilde Acuña and Dennis Aguinaldo arbeen.acuna@gmail.com

Tilde Acuña, an M.A. Araling Pilipino student at University of the Philippines Diliman, received a B.A. Communication Arts degree from UP-Los Baños, and fellowships to three national writing workshops (IYAS, KRITIKA, CCWW). His works have been published in Kritika Kultura, Tomas, UP Forum, Ani, Pingkian, High Chair, Bulatlat, among others.

Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi, PhD amitabhvikram@yahoo.co.in

Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi is Assistant Professor of Linguistics in the School of Languages & Literature at Shri Mata Vaishno Devi University, India. As a poet, he has published around 50 poems in different anthologies worldwide. Until recently, his poem “Mother” was included as a prologue to Motherhood and War: International Perspectives (Eds.), Palgrave Macmillan Press, 2014.

Anggo genorga talkinlowbrow6@gmail.com

Anggo was born and raised in the Philippines and is currently juggling numbers as a telemarketer in Dubai. His recent writings are and will be featured in a variety of online and print publications. He is currently finishing his poetry manuscript called The Book Of Envy, a collection about writing poetry from the unpublished writer’s perspective.

Amy Prindle amyemeraldprindle@gmail.com

Born in the Bay Area in 1993, Amy grew up with a love for many art forms. She received her Associate’s Degree in Fine Art from Diablo Valley College and transferred to University of California, Berkeley, where she is currently studying visual art and art history.She gets much of her inspiration from a wide range of influences, including street art found throughout the Bay Area, as well as animals, music, fashion, politics, and nature.

Jey Filan CLIMACOSA reyes filanreyes@gmail.com

18 years old, is studying Bachelor of Arts in Communication Arts at the University of the Philippines Los Baños.

Christian Guerrero christian.j.guerrero@gmail.com

Christian wants to have fun and make you think through words and short bios. Serious about not taking things so seriously, check him out at @KuyaChris and hit him up for a collab any time.

Aaron Cadiz aaron.cadiz@berkeley.edu

Aaron Cadiz was born and raised in Vallejo, California and is currently a first year intended Legal Studies-Rhetoric double major at the University of California, Berkeley. His passions include spoken word poetry and San Francisco Giants baseball. He finds inspiration in his mom, sister, grandparents, Tupac Shakur, and Childish Gambino.

Dominico Vega dominicovega13@gmail.com

Dominico is 20 and lives in the San Fernando Valley. He likes watching Anthony Bourdain and cooking tilapia.

Nemesis Contreras ncontreras@berkeley.edu

To quote Nemesis, “Listen to the cries deep within my soul, I have feelings too.”

Ogunsina Temitope otopid12@gmail.com

Ogunsina Temitope a.k.a Topid Da Poet is from Nigeria, West Africa. He has been writing poems since age nine and has written a sound track for a drama titled “The dream comes true.” His poetry has been featured in many anthologies, such as Fearless Poets against Bullying, lnk Spot’s The Spoken Ink Written Collection, and Emanations: Foray into Forever.

Tony Daquipa mrt916@yahoo.com

Tony Daquipa is an an artist, musician, photographer, father, bicyclist, bureaucrat, horchata expert, and lover of tube amps. He is patient, makes great decisions, works hard, and almost always takes the high road. In case you didn’t know it, he’s also a poet. Raider Nation for life.

Mira Dayal miradayal@gmail.com

“I am a student artist living in New York City interested in exploring identity through the lenses of place, relationships, and color. Multimedia composition and collaborative methods have a large influence on my work.”

Jean "Jaehtheo" Teodoro jaehtheo@gmail.com

Jean Teodoro, or “Jaehtheo,” is a community organizer, poet and hip-hop artist. He is the coordinator for the Kabataan youth leadership program, and a member of the grassroots youth organization ALAY, both based in the Filipino Community Center, SF. He is the founder of the Versus Odds production group and is a co-founding member of the band Boondock Squad.

Jave Yoshimoto oshimoto@gmail.com

Jave Yoshimoto is a Japanese born, Chinese-American artist currently residing in rural Alva, Oklahoma. He received his Masters of Fine Arts from Syracuse University, Masters of Arts in Art Therapy from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, and Bachelor of Arts at UC Santa Barbara.

marco lorenzO FERRER marcolorenzoferrer@gmail.com

Kathleen C. Gutierrez gutierrezk@berkeley.edu

Kathleen Gutierrez is a doctoral student in the Department of South & Southeast Asian Studies. A proud native of Historic Filipinotown in the City of Angels, Kathleen spent past lives in adolescent health, youth organizing, and transnational activism. She now studies the history and poetics of early 20th-century Philippine botany and teaches her department’s reading and composition series.

Nigel Jones nigeljones@berkeley.edu

Nigel Jones is a documentary and portrait photographer from Los Angeles. He also works heavily in skateboarding and fashion photography. His influences include R&B, Kurt Vonnegut, and his grandparents. He working on two documentaries currently, one about immigration and another on aspiring rappers in California.

Seoyoung Yoon seoy@berkeley.edu

“I am Seoyoung Yoon who studies psychology and practice of art. I love making art and I use many different kinds of medium of fine art such as, drawing, collage, painting, sculpture, digital art, photography, video, and performance. I have compassion towards the people who have mental disorders. My dream is to combine the two passions well and work in both fields flexibly.”

Dulce Lopez dulce-marlo@hotmail.com

“My name is Dulce Lopez and I am a freshman at Berkeley. I have been drawing ever since I was a kid. I am passionate about art because you can tell many stories through it without saying anything and yet, everyone had their own interpretation.”

Hermarie Asuncion hermarie.asuncion@gmail.com

“I’m the first fruit of love of Hermo and Ophel. An Aries girl that is strong and brave. A woman who knows how to fight for herself. I’m a registered nurse in profession. I finished my bachelor’s degree 22 years ago at United Doctors Medical Center, Manila, Philippines. I reached Canada, being a nurse, and through that I mingled different kinds of people. I love people because I learn from them and they make me who I am. I love traveling because traveling is learning. My hobby is taking pictures, so I’m a woman that cannot live without a camera. At present I’m adventuring in business.”

Karen Marie Kwaning karenkwaning@berkeley.edu

Karen is a Pilipina and Ghanaian woman learning to navigate life while breaking past social constructions of race. Raised by a strong Pilipina influence, Karen developed a love for transforming her beautifully confusing experiences of being a Black Pinay into short stories. In addition to writing and mixed-race literature, she also has a deep love for lattes.

Saba Amna Bhumbla bhumbla123@gmail.com

Saba Amna Bhumbla was born and raised in the Bay Area. and is a graduating senior at UC Berkeley, pursuing a B.A. in Sociology and minor in Education.

Elizabeth ruth deyro deyrojane@gmail.com

Elizabeth Ruth is currently a college senior in the University of the Philippines Los Baños, taking up Bachelor of Arts in Communication Arts, with writing as her major. Her flash fiction, “Ang Mananahi”, has been featured as part of the latest publication of the anthology Silang mga Supling ng Makiling.

Jeannelene Jimenez jjanel.jimenez@berkeley.edu

“My name is Jeannelene Janel Jimenez and I’m a Filipina-American who is originally from the suburbs of Chula Vista. Currently, I am a third year Media Studies Major at Cal. I hope to one day leave my mark in the entertainment industry by creating a wider consciousness about social issues and diversifying the view points represented.”

Jamila Cervantes jcervantes@berkeley.edu

Jamila (Yah-mee-lah) Cervantes is a brown grrl from Southeast Los Angeles. Her hobbies include: running, spitting lines about intersectional feminism under the current alias Plato’ Yamz, and watching re-runs of the Fresh Prince of BelAir. Por Vida shows two beautiful WoC revolting through unconventional mechanisms and practices.

Marie Joyce Artap marieartap@gmail.com

A Cal and {m} alum, Marie Joyce Artap spends her time messily bleeding gold and blue, fangirling {m} hxstory, and forgiving people for thinking her name is actually Maria. She would like to thank Marie-a Vallarta-p for being her first source of Pinay inspiration.

Sarah Macaraeg itssarahmac@berkeley.edu

“Hi, I’m Sarah Macaraeg. Im a fourth year media studies major. Writing has always been my safe haven - it takes weight off my shoulders. Articulating how I feel and being able to write it is the rewarding feeling. I encourage y’all to pick up a pen and just start writing. It’ s amazing what you’re thinking or how you’re feeling. I hope those who read this can relate to what I have today. It’s the best feeling to know that my writing has touched people’s lives.”

Marian Cordon mmcordon@berkeley.edu Angela Efe aefe@berkeley.edu

Angela Efe is a Bay Area artist and raised in Vallejo, CA. She is graduating from UC Berkeley with a degree in Practice of Art. Her art is influenced by street art, graffiti, music, beatboxing, and takes inspiration from men and contemporary urban culture. As a female artist, she aims to break the boundaries between gender norms in the hip hop community.

Ryann Kitchell ryann_kitchell@berkeley.edu

Ryann is a second year UC Berkeley student majoring in Southeast Asian Studies. She is currently on staff at {m}aganda as Creative Director. Her hobbies and interests include songwriting, playing the guitar, painting, and drawing.

Sarah Bernardo sbernardo2013@gmail.com

Sarah Bernardo is a sophomore studying English and Legal Studies at the University of California, Berkeley. As a proud Pilipina-American, she is grateful for {m}aganda’s role in cultivating her Pilipina identity and nurturing her passion for social justice. Originally from Texas, Sarah explores her politicized identity through her poetry.

joeminel docuyanan joeminelol@gmail.com

Joeminel Docuyanan is currently a Society and Environment student at University of California, Berkeley. As a Filipino-American coming from Stockton, California, his hobbies include photography, playing guitar, video gaming, and drawing sometimes. His art portfolio includes work from his high school art class and sketches around his school notes.

F rom t he { m } 28 S taff & Interns

Nicole Arca

Marian Cordon

Nicole is the {m}28 Editor-in-Chief. For her, Critical Mass means “power in numbers.”

Marian is {m}28’s Public Relations Director. Critical Mass means our struggles are real and valid, and we are not alone. We have the power to make change, but the drive starts within ourselves.

Ryann Kitchell Ryann is on {m}28 staff as Creative Director. For her, Critical Mass pertains to society tottering on the brink of social change. Critical mass is the notso calm before the storm: when there is electricity in the air and revolution on the wind.

Sarah Bernardo Inspired by the movements sweeping America and the uprisings shaking the world, Sarah dreamt up the theme Critical Mass. As Events Coordinator, Sarah feels most at home with her {m}aganda family. Together, we have created this magazine for you. Our generation is on the edge. Join us in the revolution.

Jerry Cortez Critical Mass has to come out of somewhere, and that’s where Jerry comes in. As one of {m}28’s Distribution Directors, it is Jerry’s pride and duty to make sure critical mass is reached.

Synequeen Alasa-as Synequeen is {m}28’s Human Resources Director. To be part of Critical Mass means being a critical thinker to transform and do good work. It’s about intentionality and purpose deconstructing layers after layers of barriers.

Angela Efe Angela is {m}28’s Literary Editor. Critical Mass means “People for the People.”

Anna Grimaldo Anna is one of {m}28’s Distribution Directors. There comes a time for each venture to undergo changes and transform to redefine previous boundaries. When critical mass is reached, the people must unite their voices to begin anew and encourage others to join in on the revolution for the better.


Aisha Joshi Aisha is the {m}28 Layout Editor. Critical Mass is being on the cusp of breakthrough.

Jaydienne Paulisa Cruz Fontejon Jaydienne is an intern for {m}. Critical temperature, critical pressure, & critical density are analogous to critical mass in various respects. In these concepts, “critical” tends to transcend known boundaries. The individual effects don’t appear; the result is a mixture of effects that is exponentially greater than its individual subparts.

Jomer Polanes Jomer is an intern for {m}. Critical Mass is the defiant gathering of voices at every shrill tick of the clock. Until the harmony supersedes and proclaims a single call. It is a world being and seeing a constructive overturn.

Joeminel Docuyanan Joeminel is an intern for {m}. Critical Mass is effective unity. It’s working together for the greater good of society.

Sharon Borja Sharon is an intern for {m}. To her, Critical Mass is the convergence of voices waiting to be heard. Critical Mass is revolution.

Genevieve Ortilla Genevieve Ortilla is an intern for the Human Resources Director. Critical Mass is the gathering of people wanting to evoke change in society. Gen feels that it is a space where life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are exercised to the highest degree.



Profile for {m}aganda magazine

{m}aganda magazine | Issue #28 - CRITICAL MASS  

{m}aganda magazine | Issue #28 - CRITICAL MASS