ISSUE 2
wet
adjective 1) wet paper: damp, moist, soaked, drenched, saturated, sopping, dripping, soggy; waterlogged. ANTONYMS dry. 2) a wet pulpy mix: aqueous, watery, sloppy. ANTONYMS dry. verb 1) wet the brushes before using them: dampen, damp, moisten; sprinkle, spray, splash, spritz; soak, saturate, flood, douse, souse, drench. ANTONYMS dry. noun 1) the wet smothered the concrete: wetness, damp, moisture, moistness, sogginess; wateriness. 2) the photoshoot was held in the wet: rain, drizzle, precipitation; spray, dew, damp
EXECUTIVE BOARD PAULINE THAI PRESIDENT AND CREATIVE DIRECTOR ZORI SWANEGAN VICE PRESIDENT CONNOR THOMPSON HEAD OF FINANCE AND OUTREACH TERESA JI HEAD OF MARKETING RISLEY CLINE HEAD OF ORGANIZATION BRENNA MCNAMARA EDITOR
CREATIVE STAFF ALEX TILLMAN, ASHLEY LANUZA, BOB SU, CRYSTAL NGUYEN, DAKOTA DUFFY, EMILY BORCHERS, EUNICE SONG, HANNAH KIM, HARISH BALASUBRAMANI, JESSICA LIN, JON YEN, JORDI NG, MACKENZIE COFFMAN, MARIANA LOZA, REGGIE LIN, RIO HAYASHI, ROCKY AVALOS, SACHI HILLIARD, SOPHIE MATTHEWS, TAYLOR LEONG, TRACY TAN
It’s about those moments of extreme embarrassment that come flooding back to you while you are brushing your teeth before bed. It’s about that time when you thought of a funny joke when no one was around but laughed out loud anyway. It’s about nights where you can’t sleep because your mind has too many tabs open. It’s about how we all honestly spend our Saturdays—between attempting to relax or be productive yet accomplish neither. It’s about throwing away Target receipts in the hopes of forgetting how much money was spent. It’s about how many times you delete and re-download Tinder. It’s about the guilt that follows after eating too many Oreos in one sitting. It’s about that anxious feeling of bubbling in too many A’s in a row on a scantron. It’s about that awkward moment when you say ‘goodbye’ to someone and then both of you walk away in the same direction. It’s about learning from other creators what cannot be taught in a lecture hall. It’s about the absolute need to share. It’s about the life-long process of gaining and maintaining confidence. It’s about asking yourself, “Who am I really creating for”? It’s about the realization that no one actually knows what they are doing. Kiwi Magazine is just that—the rawness of experience that rests somewhere between the outlandish and the sincere that manifests in creating art for yourself without the limitations of a classroom setting. Risley Cline
Why “Wet” Take a look at yourself in the mirror. Is this the person you remember? Look at your arms. Are you still the same person who left those scars on your wrists so many years ago? Look at your lips. Can you still feel the kiss he left there during that crazy May trip? Look at your nails. Do they still make you feel vulnerable? Do you fear that vulnerability? Look at your hands. Can you still feel his hand slip away from yours at that final goodbye? Look at your eyes. Can you see your own tears? Watch them carve down your face and canvas your cheeks. Do they make you wet? Wet is about coming to terms with change and growth. It’s about those drowning feelings of love, loss, and complex emotion. It’s sexuality, it’s nostalgia, and in the spirit of Kiwi, it’s anything you want it to be. Connor Thompson
mmmmmmmmmmmoist Images by Reggie Lin
Image and Words by Pauline Thaiin
NEON HIGH I crawled up onto your desk as quietly as I could, pushing myself into the corner between the bookshelf and the wall. I giggled, pulling the duvet to my chin and remembering your remark about Americans and their lack of proper bed covers. You looked at me, stupid grin still spread across your face, blue eyes still huge and dilated. Moving beside me, we tried to hush our laughter; a series of whispered secrets passing between us. We hardly fit there, you especially, being so much taller than me. It was the most ridiculous place for us to sit. But we knew going onto your bed would have ruined the situation - there was something so ever precious and delicate being on the desk, and we were in silent agreement that the bed would have broken the childish charm. Beneath the blanket you gripped my hand and I tried to ignore the part of me yelling to break away. Our eyes were locked; we both looked completely exhausted from not having slept. I wanted to kiss you. But I didn’t. I was terrified to. Not of kissing you of course. Rather, I knew this was the end of the story and I didn’t want to finish it quite yet. The window stretching across the bedroom’s width allowed a view of the entire Los Angeles skyline, being that it was on the tenth floor, only the most fortunate location of all the residence halls. You had dragged us back here specifically for this. I confirmed again that your roommates were not coming back and you reassured me that we had some final moments left alone. The sun was starting to rise in the distance, illuminating the skyline of tall rectangular buildings downtown. “Look”, you said, “See the palm trees over there? You can even see Santa Monica from here.” I laughed and teased him, voicing my skepticism. My hand fit into yours, warm and dry. I wanted to laugh, cry, and leave your side all at once. There was a bitter, cold reality beneath all the warmth and love of your body heat. Underneath the softness of your hair against my cheek and the pressure of your palm, we recognized the falseness of this dream-state. We watched the sunrise. Its warm watery colors leaked into the muddled darkness of the sky. Its soft pinks rose to melt into the pool of orange and red. Hints of yellow began to vibrate and push their way into the sky, becoming brighter and brighter. The pool of clouds sunk back, opening to new, strange hues. And with the break of dawn, came rushing reality. As quickly as our friendship, our love, and our adventures came - often comparable to the acidic, burning, exciting zing of vodka - it faded like the credits following a sticky romcom.
PT I hope you know you ruined sunrises for me. And bus rides. And late nights at the Griffith. I can’t go a single place in Los Angeles without seeing you. I can’t come back here after I leave. It’s flooded with you. Remember the time I avoided you at the pool? Because you were a lifeguard and I didn’t believe you were into me? Remember the time we first kissed behind the tennis courts? Remember the time we left the shooting hysteria at school for the Venice skatepark? Remember the collection of handles you were accumulating on your dorm bedroom windowsill? Remember our first conversation? High, pseudo-intellectual blabber about society, politics, and lads for approximately five hours, from midnight to the crack of dawn? Remember when we walked back from the library, and you told me you loved me? Remember when we made promises to travel to Japan after graduation? Remember when we said final farewells outside of the elevator? Remember how we both started crying? Remember how not a single person around us could understand that the goodbye was a little more than a couple years? Remember how you called me when I stood crying next to the Eiffel Tower? Maybe you’ve forgotten now. Maybe you’ve moved on. Maybe you’ve found love in whatever new country you’re in. Maybe it’s ok. Maybe it doesn’t feel that way, But the busses still run in LA. PT
Image and Words by Pauline Thaiin
It Rained Last Friday Words by Dakota Duffy
I wish Frank had lied. But he was right. It usually doesn't rain in Southern California. At least not lately. The skies are empty. It feels distinctly different. Like I'm a stranger in my own home. The climate is foreign and the visits are few With nothing to look up to. The rain found shelter. The new light dried my will But watered my eyes. I'm glued to my bed And stuck inside my head. But it rained last Friday. Bringing peace with it. I thrived and I found friends. I got new glasses And I actually like my classes.
Exhaustion isn’t common anymore. I want to work. I want to be. With new leaves and bright friends, There’s a fresh time ahead. Gray skies yielding white noise. I found my happy place. The sound drowns out our world. Tumbling over my background thoughts Helping me truly be lost. The flicker of headlights Bursting off the darkened pavement Adds eye candy Typically reserved for EDC, With a little help from LSD. A rush of cold air grants an excuse to bundle up. Read a book. Like a literal literate burrito. The murky gray skies give way to a blank slate For stories to take place. The characters dance through raindrops, Showing me the world they need to unlock. Window knocks invite me to the 3 a.m. solitude. I join owls and snails in the breathless weight of isolation. They’re a comforting clarity within. I wish my mind was always as free as it is on rainy days, Like an uncaged bird that’s found its way. It’s a shower everywhere. So I sing. So I dance. And I’ll dance under the shadow that’s cast. And I’ll sing while it lasts.
Drawings by Rio Hayashi
I wake up feeling less human than the day before A feeling that greets me with familiarity I look in the mirror Admit I’m not the me I remember Admit I’m not here anymore It’s the question of where I have gone And where am I going That follows me out the door into the day I miss falling in love And feeling loved I miss that neon experience, that light in the dark Of floating in his current Wet with desire and optimism I miss my best friend I miss the comfortable silence of each other’s presence And the life we had planned together Hollowed by my decisions My regrets
Words by Connor Thompson
Images by Rocky Avalos
Images by Jessica Lin
Drawings by Brenna McNamara
Words and Image by Mariana Loza
Speak of the first 2 words that stand out in relation to water
“This first two words that I saw were conservation and hydration. This makes me think about how important water is to our bodies, how it can rejuvenate us/restore our health. Although it’s vital to our lives we often forget its importance in the day to day. Conservation is a word that reminds me to appreciate water and remember the value it holds.” -Lyndsey “Water keeps the body pure.” -Octavio “Pure: Privilege for few countries to have purified water as for most countries this isn’t an option and they deal with bacteria Hydration: Main source to be alive, to keep the body running and working properly. Contamination: Because of the Japanese radiation and toxic waste, the Pacific Ocean will be in danger of having contaminated water.” -Eli “The first word I spotted was food and in relation to water almost all foods have some percentage of water in them important for their production and composition. For example, cucumber is about 96% water and also requires water for growth as do all other fruits and vegetables. This water is an essential part of food products. The next word I spotted was hydration which automatically makes me think of water because water is the main source of keeping hydrated. It is said that we can live longer without food than without water because our body consist of 70% water which needs to be replenished in order for our body to continue functioning.” -Josie
Water can provoke thoughts of tranquility, balance, health, or even fear. It is so essential to our lives and the lives around us, but because of that, we sometimes overlook how much we depend on it. That is why it is crucial that we stop and remind ourselves to find ways to preserve it and be vocal about issues related to the preservation of our water and mother earth. The construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline is one of the current problems that has to be talked about. This pipeline will transfer fracked Bakken oil through four states and two hundred waterways. Not only is it going to affect the lands and water of the Standing Rock Sioux Native American tribe, but also of millions of other people. It will end up contaminating a huge portion of precious bodies of water. There are groups of Native American tribes camping and protesting along with other people who have gone to stand in solidarity. Already, Indigenous tribes are the ones who are protecting waterways and the beautiful biodiversity that we still have in more than 80 percent of the world. This is the time to help in whichever way we are able to and stand together because it will affect us all. #Waterislife
Images by Teresa Ji
Images by Sophie Matthews
Illustrations by Sachi Hilliard
laundr
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e s se d s ob
fill your eyes
Mis sU2
py e sle
time
hop
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with feeling
FIRMAMENT Illustrations by Taylor Leong
Images by Risley Cline
photographs by Risley Cline
BLOOD, SWEAT, TEARS AND HERBAL SOUP
Words and Illustration by Jordi Ng
When I was four - an impressionable, precious child in the making - I went through a frightening phase of experiencing severe hallucinations. To borrow/completely plagiarize a line from a well-known cult movie, it was a very strange time in my life. It was a time when I came to believe the world as fundamentally mangled, cosmically warped. Reality was an unnatural and contorted concept, a ghoulish shapeshifter that had its hands around my throat, tightening as it pleased. If you have ever watched The Shining, you would have a good idea of what my visions entailed. No, I sadly do not have ESPN like the kid did. But I did see some fucking trippy things. My visions came not in the form of friendly imaginary beings that kissed your forehead gently on lonely nights. Violent and aggressive, my visions had wrinkled and tortured souls that exhaled mists of misery. They were cold, howling winds that swept at me the way an ocean assaults the sand. In the light, they would hint at their presence and remind me that I was never alone. But in the darkness was when they would take their shapes. The walls of my bedroom grew faces that would stretch and distort, its skin cracking loudly with blood spilling through its crevices. There was a boy who I could never see, but only hear. His muffled shrieks spoke to me in a terror that cemented my own. There was an old man who would meticulously lacerate himself with a brilliant fingernail and then slowly shed his skin, much alike an ugly, morphing caterpillar that had too much to eat. Little pink dwarves would have the strength to rip lamp posts from the ground and start a murder rampage. They had eyes as black as death and an unsatisfiable hunger for torment. There was a slinky female stalker with a voice like sugar and fingers that could shoot out like blades. Even the floors of my bedroom couldn’t be trusted. On the coldest of nights, it transformed into a pit of emerald acid that ate through your veins and dissolved your very bones. Very soon, I lost the ability to sleep at night. I became nothing more than a lifeless, liquid alloy of sweat and tears that poured copiously from my subconscious. The only way I could find sleep again would be in the afternoon, when light lustered violently through the window panes and the visions dared not show their forms and faces. They were still there, of course, but I knew they trembled at light the way I trembled at darkness. I fell sick easily - my body was a fragile, decrepit machine of loose and rusty nails, caving into exhaustion from fear, fear from exhaustion. In some ways, then, the monsters had gotten to me.
My mother was fraught with worry. She took me out of school, made me go to a doctor who specialized in kids with similar problems - kindred, troubled, half-complete spirits like me - and I was prescribed medicine that ensured I wasn’t slipping into psychosis. I had trouble finding the words to illustrate to my mother and doctor the things I would see because how was I to describe something that was watching me every minute of the day, just waiting in the shadows for me to slip up so it could pull me in and consume me whole? I took the green pills that my mother made me take, the magic beans that were supposed to make it all go away. And for a while, I thought I was becoming better. But I soon became possessed with a singular idea that my medicine was hurting me, rather than releasing me. This idea threatened to dismantle the bedrock of my recovery. I wholeheartedly believed that the green pills were part of the pink men’s plot to scramble my mind even further and push me head-first into a pool of hypnosis. I had repeatedly told myself that the things I saw weren’t real. Even if they were real, they were of an alternate universe that couldn’t touch me. They were there, and I was here. But what if the evil had found a way to transcend this flimsy line between our parallel worlds? What if the pills was their way of slipping quietly and stealthily into my universe, ominously reaching for my light the way waves of the ocean slowly but gradually lap up onto an unprecedented shoreline? I simply refused to take the pills after that. It was my mother’s tears versus mine. A welling pot of isolation and frustration brew dangerously inside me, threatening to spill over. I came to hate my mother for not believing the danger she was putting me in. To her, I was battling only myself. But it was much more than that. How do you convince a person that you saw a second moon in the sky? The answer was simple - you couldn’t. So I gave up. I resigned to the conclusion that this was a pain whose shape only I knew to recognize and understand, the way one’s head comes to recognize the familiar shape of his own pillow every night.
But it was also a pain that dissipated when my mother brewed me her signature herbal soup. A simple mixture of an assortment of herbs, pork ribs and dried mushrooms, it was a bowl of soup that cradled me in its arms and lullabied me home. It was one that softly sang to me of a fortress of ice, a meadow of light and a cosmos of solace. It bubbled with a warmth that metastasized from the tingling toes of my feet to my very cheeks. Its smell reminded me of a familiar peace - a peace that I carried in my heart not too long ago. It was immaculate and pure, like a newborn baby - something that you couldn’t corrupt even if you tried. I was a dead knot, but something about that soup loosened me - slowly, but surely. It came to be the only thing I trusted, the anchor to the seabed of this one reality I so desperately clung onto. I drank from the bowl religiously. If you’re wondering if this trippy, depressing story has a happy ending, well, it does. My hallucinations disappeared after about a year or so, and sleep found me again. What took over almost more than a year of my life gradually scattered into the ashes of yesterday. It felt like I was reborn, anew, fresh-faced to this world of wonder with a touch of residual cynicism. For a long time, I never thought about how these dwelling demons were extinguished. I was too ready to put the darkness behind me and finally embrace the real world - the same one everyone was looking at. Today, I marvel at the peculiarity of the human mind. The way it’s able to house and feed a devil that corrupted your fundamental understanding of the universe. The way I distrusted my medicine and my own mother. The way I placed an irrevocable and blind faith in a bowl of soup that for all I knew, just tasted good. When my mother revealed to me many years later that she had mixed the medicine into my soup, I remember being silent for a long time. A simple lie, stretched out for more than a year, saved me from the dangerous depths of phantasmagoria. Even so, I could not bring myself to call the soup a fraud or an adulteration. After all, what could possibly be purer than the ingredient of a mother’s stubborn love for her unhinged child?
Images by MacKenzie Coffman
Words and Images by Alex Tillman
Polish
Words by Crystal Nguyen
My mom always told me, “Why pay for someone to do something that you can do yourself?” Back then, as a jobless child, I took her words to heart. Fast forward to the present, as an employed yet somehow consistently broke college student, her advice has saved me from hitting that overdraft fee every time the rent deadline rolls around. Finances aside, her words resonated with me in every aspect throughout my life. Dissociating the words from my coupon-clipping protégé of a mother, I interpreted her spiel not a sign of stinginess, but rather a lesson to never doubt your abilities and to take initiative in determining the direction of your life. Even if it meant that we couldn’t go to Jamba Juice because we had a blender at home. And even when it came to painting my own nails, because salon manicures were a luxury we couldn’t afford. Sauntering down the aisles of my local department store along the rows upon rows of multifaceted bottles reflecting the fluorescent lighting is a daunting task in itself. Being that person who is always hungry but can never decide where to go eat, I am uncertain with what I want in life from the get-go. My indecision over something as simple as choosing between a virtually identical Rosey Nude or Dulce de Leche nail polish shade stems from my lack of self-awareness and restricting fear of stagnation, commitment, and what others would think of me. Whether it be my string of failed relationships or tendency to constantly jump daytime jobs, my phobias continue to follow me everywhere I go. I have to give props to nail artists for one, sitting all day immersed in the strong odor of chemicals and two, applying perfectly streak-free polish under pressure from direct scrutiny of their customers’ watch during the entire session. The process of painting my own nails compelled me to be my own worst critic. I grew up taking things into my own hands, but I lacked confidence in what I did. Messing up on the first stroke because I didn’t wipe off the excess formula on the rim of the bottle was such a minor overlooked step, but discouraging nonetheless. I am hard on myself with failures. Shaky hands as it is, running into obstacles such as having to paint my left hand nails when I am left-handed was like relearning how to color within the lines. Any progress of confidence I accumulated from successes was immediately set back with one failure.
Words and Illustrations by Ashley Lanuza
Illustrations by Bob Su
Words by Jon Yen
XXX It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment I fell in love with the Monogatari series, but early on in the Hitagi Crab arc, I realized I was watching something special. At the very beginning of the second episode, Senjougahara is showering in her apartment while Araragi waits. Despite her emotionless and cold nature, Senjougahara is almost oppressively confident and self-assured, striding out of the shower naked and forcing the principal narrator, Araragi, to react to her every whim. It’s a potent scene that shows off what makes Senjougahara so compelling - her relentless (and often brutal) honesty, her poise, and her sheer force of personality (not to mention her naked body) are all on full display. The way this is done is by utilizing a tactic that’s garnered considerable negative attention among anime fans and the medium’s western critics: depictions of sexuality, or as many anime fans love to call it, “fanservice”. Sexuality is a complex thing. Depending on who you ask, it can take any of a number of forms: a source of pride and empowerment, a whimsical experience rife with pleasure, a root of embarrassment, or a trigger for painful and traumatic past experiences. But in visual media and anime specifically, it’s treated across the board by many fans as simple pandering - that a sexually liberated woman could be anything but a cheap trick to tap into the wallets of basement-dwelling neckbeards is unthinkable. There are definitely cases of that kind of pandering imagery in anime. Watch 5 minutes of any generic harem slush and you’ll be overwhelmed with glaringly obvious boob shots, ass shots, and the ever-so-trite boob grab fall. Sex is uncomfortable, sure, but it is the things that make us most uncomfortable that are ultimately the most powerful for us. When done right, sexualization is a remarkably potent tool and is essential for a society that has so much trouble with depictions of gender and sexuality right now. right now.
Monogatari is likely the one anime most accosted for its fanservice - just ask anyone their thoughts on Nisemonogatari, and I’d be surprised if they don’t mention fanservice in some form. It’s not completely off-base - just google “toothbrush scene” - but a lot of people misunderstand the sexuality in Nise and Monogatari in general. It’s about more than just objectification. Early in Nise, Araragi goes over to the house of Nadeko, his little sister’s friend. Nadeko, who for a long time had a crush on Araragi but was always too shy to express her feelings, puts her bangs up and wears an uncharacteristically revealing outfit to mark Araragi’s visit. For the first time, we see her character unrestrained, and this new forwardness is shown in her self-sexualization. This scene is a milestone in Nadeko’s development as a character, progressing from shy and antisocial to self-assured and sexually forward. Later in that same episode, Araragi heads to his underclassman Kanbaru’s house to help her clean her room, but finds her lying completely naked in the middle of the room. His natural response is to stumble and attempt to de-escalate the situation, but Kanbaru responds with the line “look long and well. This is who Kanbaru Suruga truly is. With nothing at all concealed”. Disregarding Nisioisin’s obsession with having his characters spew cool lines, this is a truly penetrating look at Kanbaru’s personality. She’s open, sexual, and most of all liberated - and she’s all the more stronger for it. This brings me back to the shower scene in Bake. As Senjougahara develops chemistry with Araragi throughout the series, she begins to explore her desires and feelings for him, but Senjougahara is not actively sexual in those early episodes. Still, we get to learn a lot about who she is as a person through the way she struts around the room, tries on outfits, flings them off, and takes shots at Araragi. Without these elements Monogatari would fall apart. Its strong cast of female characters would be lacking substance, but most of all, the show would feel dry. Scenes like the shower scene are wet with sexual freedom and autonomy - dripping with emotional weight - and they elevate the work, enhancing not just each individual character but the thematic resonance of the entire narrative. Take away their sexuality, and you take away their sense of self. This is not to say that controversy around depictions of sexuality and objectification are not justified. There’s a surfeit of examples of fanservice that are disrespectful to the characters and the tone of the show - the tentacle scene in Sword Art Online comes to mind - but it would be unfair to approach any and all depictions of sexuality as base humiliation. There’s so much more to it than that. And maybe, if you look deep enough, you might find something that hits home, something you can relate to. After all, isn’t that what art is for?
PASTEL MILKY WAY Images by Teresa Ji
Illustrations by Harish Balasubramani
Images by Hannah Kim
LOOKING BACK AT YOU Images by Emily Borchers
Drawings by Zori Swanegan
Words by Tracy Tan
Let me capture your attention for a minute Look away from your phone – All pixels and 8-bits Look to the sky, And listen. Do you hear that plink, Plink, plink? Everything is as it should be. Everything is wet.
Thirst. To say how or when it all started would be a task of monumental proportions for me, because honestly, I don’t even know when it all started. The screaming, the crying, and the manipulation had slowly seeped into the cracks of my life over time, like the searing soundtrack of a horror movie that creeps up on you. It was always there, playing in the background, so that it just became my way of life. Sometimes it was louder, other times it would play quietly, but it never stopped. They didn’t listen, so I cut myself. The next day, my sister admitted me to the ER. It was there in the quiet hours of the night that my mother finally listened to me. Listened to all the resentment I harbored for her, for hurting me in ways that no mother should. I was in pain, as real and sharp as the glass shards I used to slowly carve down my arm. I stayed in the ER for two days until they transferred me to the first spot open at a psychiatric ward. Queen of the Valley, it was called. They unloaded me from the ambulance and I waited alone in a room, waiting for someone to come question me. I was finally allowed to change from the flimsy hospital gown to my own clothes. As the seconds stretched into minutes, I heard a commotion down the hall. A middle-aged man in a hospital gown had broken into one of
nurses subdued him, and his daughter tried to calm him down. He did not speak, but he moaned his dissatisfaction. They closed the door to my room, but I could still hear him. After my initial questioning, I was finally taken to the so-called After my initial questioning, I was finally taken to the so-called high-functioning unit. The nurse walking me promised, “It won’t be anything like what you just saw. It’s for high-functioning patients.” I nodded. High-functioning or not, I still didn’t want to be there. After I walked through those doors and the cool waves of air conditioning washed over me, the next week or so passed by in a blur. There are moments that stand out to me like the bas-relief of a sculpture. One of them, I remember quite clearly. I was waiting for my vitals to be taken when I spied a girl down the hall at the telephone. She was lean and thin, and her eyes had a sharpness to them, like a wolf’s. She stalked down the hall, slowly, and our eyes met. Finally, she turned away to ask the nurse for something, and another nurse came to take my blood pressure. Learning of my patient’s rights, I requested a trial for release and I asked for my mother to be present during the hearing. They said to me that she didn’t pick up the phone. This was an unusual occurrence, so I asked her later that night if she was busy or at work. My mother revealed to me that they never even called her. I came to the realization that they would not let me go until I took the medicine they pushed on me, all the while saying I had the right to refuse treatment. The other option was to wait until the maximum hold of two weeks was up. Resigning myself to the red tape of their bureaucracy, I decided to wait for my release. The days segued into each other, a monotonous routine of group therapy sessions, patio breaks, and early morning breakfasts. I got up at 8:00 am every day, and went to every session. I got used to the regular checkups, the half-hearted, mechanical “Are you okay?”s every half hour and the “Are you sure you’re really okay?” asked with a cheeky grin. During the patio breaks, we would go out in the dry, arid heat of the summer and the rest of the patients would suck on their cigarettes like it was their last, like it was child’s candy. An older man, recovering from alcohol abuse, didn’t even have the energy in his wheelchair to light up his cigarette, and required the nurse’s help to light up. A boy, merely 18 years old, would remark how he didn’t start smoking cigarettes til he got here. In the past, he used weed, meth, and ecstasy to numb out the pain. I would sit with the nurse on duty and peer out through the cracks of the tarp covered chain link fence, and I would squint my eyes up at the clear blue sky, wondering just what I was doing there.
When we had free time I would either stay in the day lounge or my room, reading the time away or watching the T.V. I was in the lounge when the 18 year old first came. He was admitted for drug abuse, and that first day, he sat there on the couch like an empty shell, with his two eyes peering out from the darkness of his hood. He wasn’t completely here. Even in my room, I stayed attuned to what the other patients were doing. Jacqueline, the girl with the wolf-like eyes, and Yousef, another user of heroin, whispered quietly to each other in the hall outside my room. Her ex-boyfriend was in the hospital for an overdose, she said. Her mother said he deserved it. “I can’t believe she would say that,” she snarled. I agreed. None of us deserved any of this. It was through eavesdropping like this that I got to know Jacqueline. She never went to group sessions, stating that sitting and talking about how drugs were bad for you only made her want to do more drugs. Maybe it was true, but I knew those group sessions were a part of my ticket out. We all wanted out. We were all thirsty. You could see it in our eyes. One day, a day just as hot and arid as any other, we were allowed to go to the community pool. Since we didn’t have much of our belongings with us, we were allowed to choose a swimsuit from their stockpile. I threw on a pair of shorts, and off we went. We traversed through the hall, past the locked double doors, and there! At last, we were free. Quarantined and herded, yes, but we were free of the stale hospital air that circulated the halls and froze us to the bone. We soaked our feet in that life-giving water and basked in the rays of the sun. I splashed my feet around as I listened to the other patients’ idle chatter. They were all talking about what they would do when they got out. The 18 year old would go to Arizona with his mom. I didn’t know what I would do. After about a week or so passed by, I broke. I couldn’t stay in there anymore. I would suffocate from the weight of it all. I admitted defeat. I asked the nurse for my medicine, and early the next morning, I took my pill for the first time. It was then that they finally let me go home.
GROWTH AND DECAY Images by Emily Borchers
Illustrations by Eunice Song
SPITTING IMAGE Images by MacKenzie Coffman