Rainbow Rainbow Voices Voices
I S S U E O N E
a youth-led organization and digital publication supporting young writers and artists
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
ON RAINBOW VOICES
We’re so excited to share the first issue of the Rainbow Voices Literary Magazine with you! Our editing team has been working hard to perfect all the submissions, and our graphic designers helped develop the front cover and inside layouts. As a youth-led organization and publication dedicated to uplifting marginalized youth voices, we were pleased to receive several submissions that tackle complex, relevant social issues facing youth today. From poems about unrealistic beauty standards to personal memoirs about the cost of living authentically, we hope you find valuable insights, stories, and deeper meanings in these literary and artistic works we ’ ve curated.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Argon Sun by Hallie Kunen
1. To Be A Girl by Charlotte Ly
2. Social Anxiety by Areeba Aslam
3. Talks and Identity by Carolyn Maldonado
4. had i known by Kelly Su
5. family line by Madeline Lee
6. Cuento Corto by Grace Coffee 7.
This is our world where we put a rose on the head of a decapitated human to pretentiously capture the strife of an unimaginable iniquity for which there are no words. This is our world where 8 months after an incomparable genocide we repost an AI image a tawdry acrylic over massacre cupronickel from the bullet to make it irradiant while white people learn extra to sit in silence with Tibetan flags claiming the whole color spectrum but only in a way that suits them. They say we all have the same sky but how can we
I swear in the West our corporations weld it an extra cyan while ignoring science while the rest of the world’s is infused with arsine warnings a nescient opal masquerading as a colony of gulls. Emma Lazarus said “None of us are free ‘til all of us are free,” but no one listened— violence begets violence and the people who claim to be the most free are the most defended I wish I could incise through a soul as easily as a plane blade slices through the air but now I just wish the earth would tear and guzzle us all in except for the Palestinians.
by Hallie Kunen
To Be A Girl To Be A Girl
To be a girl is to cry on the bathroom floor
Mascara running down your face
Dress strap biting into your skin
Heels blistering your feet
And still feel the need to be pretty
To be a girl is to take pictures of yourself crying
Making sure your hair falls right
Your lips are parted naturally
Your arms are positioned correctly
So that even in tears, you are pretty
To be a girl is to avoid your reflection
Kiss the towel after washing your lips
And hope a mark remains
So you can convince yourself you are still pretty
That you were once pretty
To be a girl is to hate yourself
And make that look pretty too
By Charlotte Ly By Charlotte Ly
“Social Anxiety” by Areeba Aslam
TALKS AND IDENTITY
by Carolyn Maldonado
How do I tell you the story of my most challenging conversation? Do I tell you about the boiling fumes coming out of me? Do I tell you about the tears flowing out of me? Or the torrent of anxiety that caused my legs and body to malfunction like an experiment gone wrong until all I've known up to this point has been completely forgotten?
On Monday, January 29th, 2024, I tried out for the girls' lacrosse team. My friend Dina was probably even more anxious than I. In terms of worrying about little things, they beat me by miles. Initially, it was just one of those things I would join. But according to my track record, that always held up to zero. They forced me against my will to come. I was stuck and trapped. Every time they asked “are you coming?” the more the shackles of responsibility forced me to try out. What could go wrong?
The next day, the school called me in. I’d never been called in before. What did I do wrong?
I never got detention, I never broke the rules, and I had never been in the office, even for everyday purposes. It was a foreign land. Unexplored and unfamiliar. They had called me in because of my tryout for girls’ lacrosse. All the worries and waves of death and fear vanished, but in their place, awkwardness took over. It was because I was transgender. In order to play, I had to change my gender and name.
Name and gender change had been my goal this entire time. But the shackles of anxiety and judgment had always held me back. It could be signed by a parent, guardian, or student. So I did.
The following day, in the car ride across the Dumbarton, the coffee he put down in the morning was like the Hulk smashing an elevator. I was held captive with no escape from his wrath—the flaming anger of my father.
I got an email from the school, my dad said. Oh.
Why are you trying out for the girl's team? he questioned. I tried out because my friend forced me to, I lied.
In reality, I wanted to try out after the first day. I was using Dina as an excuse to withhold the truth. To withhold how I really felt. I had to keep my eagerness and spark hidden and replace it with a joke- a bad joke. My heart raced, and my breath got more shallow with each vowel coming out of that mouth. My words contradicted what my brain was saying. My brain wanted to shout. My brain wanted to scream at the top of its lungs. I wanted to play lacrosse with girls.
All I said was, I just tried out for fun. He knows I am trans but has always become distant around the topic and my self-expression. Every time my gender would come up, it was like the stereotypical dad going out to get milk.
He changed topics quickly and turned his back on my identity. He tried his best to stop me from joining. Why not play boys' lacrosse? Why don't you try track? Why don't you…..?
All I could hear was "no" and "stupid idea." I had to blame Dina. I could not say I actually wanted to play lacrosse. His views of me would have completely shattered. I couldn’t cause more damage than I already had. My body was sunken and full of uncertainty. This was the first time he had not ignored my transness, but his voice was full of a subtle rage. His voice was full of uncertainty, a fear of losing control.
My dad cannot handle something that is unpredictable. He likes to be sure and thorough. My identity goes against that. It goes against the security and comfort he so desperately wants - especially in this day and age, when being trans can get you killed, assaulted, and raped. I've heard the protests and disgust of others. It consumes me every day. But having my own father and my family reject me swallowed me up in the worst 40 minutes of my life.
All the shackles, the prison keeping me from exploring my identity, would finally be rightfully free. But in my first period, I got a text.
It said, "Carlos, I have thought about this; I am not going to sign anything." I knew this would happen. But that text he sent saying he WOULD NOT struck my heart. It was like someone was squeezing it and tearing it apart. Why did I care so much? But he is still my father even if I feel nothing towards him.
“Why does only being related by blood dictate my life and access to hormones and happiness?”
He is my father. I hate that statement. Why does only being related by blood dictate my life and access to hormones and happiness? He was always worried about other kids bullying me, but the biggest bully was him. Why were he and my mom the biggest bullies in my life? It should be teens. Not the people that are supposed to love and care for me. It was over something so stupid, too. A sport. Lacrosse.
I needed someone. I needed my friend. I need Ivy.
Ivy is one of the kindest people and always gives me warmth and comfort. She has always been there for my rants. Her presence is able to lift up my spirits and make me forget about everything. A true guardian angel. My friend.
Walking out of the first period, trying to keep my breathing under control. I can't. My body tensed up with every step I took. My sight slowly vanished with every step I took. My identity crumbled with every step I took. My world shattered.
This was the first time I cried in front of her. All the years, all the struggles, all the bottled emotions flowed out with her. All my mental and physical strength dissipated. I finally broke my limit. The last time I had an anxiety attack, I needed a wheelchair. All the tension built from my steps muzzled and obstructed my movement. I could not stand, I could not move, I could not speak.
Am I going to need a wheelchair again? Am I going to be like my brother, unable to walk? Why?
Luckily, this time, I had Ivy. While it was not perfect, I did not have to deal with the anxiety, fear, and disappointment by myself this time. She helped calm the storm of emotions.If only my dad and mom knew the stress that they put me through, the tears they brought me to. They were the bullies they worked so hard to protect me from. My identity was nothing to them. I was just a "gay boy" to them. I don’t even like men.
My dad later clarified the reasons why. He questioned, But what if people disagree? I don't want to deal with the backlash.
I've seen it. People will always disagree. No matter what, you can't change people's opinions like that. I know the dangers. I've read it, I've heard it, and I've experienced it at times. I can't keep waiting until they are comfortable so that I can be myself.
My brother claims he is “trying his best” and “trying to protect me.” I know he is trying, but it's been over a year since I came out. I can't keep hiding myself because of his “protection.” I can't wait forever for my life to start. I refuse to wait until the chance to be myself has passed by. I only have one life, and a person who is pretty distant from me should not have the right to determine how I live it. He's already had his life to live in high school. Now let me have mine. It's my life, not yours. There's no need for all the commotion; it's just a trans girl trying out for the lacrosse team.
by Kelly Su
by madeline lee
you and your cousin were never close. you’re sixteen, and he can legally drink. at a rare family reunion dinner, you have possibly the first real conversation of your life, laughing about zodiac signs and pop culture. but then you go back to your own corners of the world, you to your silly friends and shopping and him to the dark corners of his mind, the late-night doomscrolling. you watch from a distance as he slips away, into mental facilities and smashed plates and deleted phone numbers. your relatives shake their heads and say, we should’ve seen the signs. your dad shrugs and cuts him off.
you watch your mom and little brother interact easily, share stories and smiles and hugs, and you wonder why all of that is so hard for you, why there’s an invisible weight on your tongue that blocks those words: i love you. then you realize that not once have you heard those words leave your dad’s lips, and not once was there a moment when the memory of your mom shaking and crying in your childhood bedroom, his yells still echoing in the hallway, wasn’t running through the back of your mind. maybe it’s not so hard to understand why.
the girl at camp smiles at you, asks you to go watch the sunset. you desperately want to hear those words fall from her lips - i like you - as much as you don’t, as much as you don’t trust yourself to be kind and sweet and normal about all things love. you run and run and run down the sidewalk but the block is a circle and you end up right back in the same place: her arms. maybe she is braver and more honest with her heart than you will ever be.
you and your big brother grow back together, sharing stories from school and laughs on the drive home, until one day he says: i don’t think i can ever forgive our cousin for what he did to our family. outside the car window, the sun sinks away, readying itself for the next cycle of growth and death, love and hatred. you say, i think we’re the ones who should be apologizing to him. maybe you can choose to not be like your dad. maybe you can be the daughter who breaks the cycle.
because you know that you didn’t try hard for him, and you weren’t there when he needed it, and that’s just something that family should do. that’s a duty inscribed into the unspoken contract that comes with sharing blood and family trauma and holiday celebrations. you were young and confused, but you deserve to shoulder the guilt as much as anyone else. maybe love conquers all. maybe all he needed was one phone call, one thinking of you text.
maybe someday, when he comes home from sterile white hospital sheets and clock-regulated mealtimes, you’ll be brave. maybe you’ll be done running. maybe this time, it won’t be so hard to say those words: i love you. i’m sorry. let’s try to do better.
CUENTO CORTO Grace Coffee
a short story by
God has many faces. For every soul, from the smallest spider to the largest whale, He has a face that He wears that reflects their own idea of what the face of the universe must be; the face of everything good in the world. To speak with the boy, God wears the face of his mother, a cold woman with the love of God illuminating her eyes.
The boy, Manuel, had called on God to save the souls of his parents.
“Why are they there?” Asked Manuel, “They haven’t done anything for which they have not already suffered so much.”
God regards Manuel with a smile unfamiliar to the face that He wears.
What happened the day you passed?
And Manuel, looking in the eyes of the universe, told the story of the tragic Sunday.
“The birds woke me, with the light of the sunrise. The very air sang the melody of summer, and everything was well.
“On Sundays, we attended church, and I wore my best clothes to profess my love to you. My mother helped me to dress in a shirt as white as virgin snow. My perfect shoes of warm leather glowed like dandelions in the sun.
“The priest of our old church recounted the story of Abraham, the father prepared to kill his own son to follow your mandate. My father loves you, and I know he would do the same if I was still there. Abraham knew that his son would have a better life in heaven, and my father knows the same.
“We left the church, and the sun woke us from our religious fugue. The sun, striking us with its burning ire, followed us as we walked along the long path home.
“Next to the road, the blackberries tempted me, and I plucked some, filling my hands with their dark sugar. I tasted the black fruit, warm thanks to the ardor of the sun. Their juice stained my fingers like purple watercolors, and some drops painted my white shirt with the colors of a sunset.
“Seeing the colors staining my clean shirt, my father hit me across the head to teach me that I need to be careful with the clothes that I wear to your sacred house.
“My mother did not see that my father hit me, and for that I am grateful. She always grew sad when she saw him teach me.
“The sun continued on its daily path, counting the minutes that we walked home.
“Upon arriving, I ran to drink water, and my dad grabbed a beer. The cold water calmed my dry throat. With a beer in his hand, my father sat in his chair to rest for the remainder of the day.”
They arrive at a fountain and Manuel stops speaking, fascinated by the beauty of the droplets dancing in the air, filling the courtyard with millions of microscopic rainbows.
“Thirty-eight years here, and I never stop being surprised by its beauty.”
But down there, what happened?
“Ah, yes. My mother allowed me to do whatever I wanted that afternoon. She was in the kitchen, and she didn’t leave to tell me when I should bathe for dinner. Therefore, I spent the afternoon playing in the street.
“In the heat, I found a respite from the beating sun beside a stream that ran alongside the road. The fish and the frogs played in the clear water, and the crickets sang when the sun decided to give us a reprieve and retire below the horizon.
“While I played with the fish and the frogs, I didn’t pay attention to the state of my clothes. It was only when I returned home for dinner that I saw how filthy they were. I had left my shoes beside the water when I entered, but in the three hours that I played, they had fallen among the rocks and were full of water and mud. My starched pants were now soaked and my shirt looked more like dirt than snow.
“When I entered the house, my mother did not see me immediately because she was still finishing preparing our dinner plates.
“When she turned and saw me, She grew justly angry and gave me a hit as she sent me to change my clothes and bring dinner to my dad.
Look what I am wearing.
“While you wear those beautiful silken rags, we must dress more perfectly to display our affection.
“I changed my clothes, put on pajamas, and returned to the living room to bring food to my father as my mother had asked.
“‘Son,’ she told me, ‘if you don’t learn to move faster, the world is going to leave you behind.”
“‘Yes, Mama’ and I brought the food to the living room, my eyes to the floor.
“If you don’t
learn to move faster, the world is going to leave you behind.”
“I saw seven bottles, three dead flies, and my father’s two large feet there on the cold wood.
“‘Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to bring me my dinner?’
“‘I’m sorry sir, here it is.’
“I gave him his food as he emptied his eighth bottle.
“The light of the sunset reflected off of his fork as he tasted the meal. The bottles on the floor distorted the light, painting dark flames on the ground.
“‘Cold.’ My father looked up at me. ‘You gave me cold food.’
“And he used the bottle in his hand to teach me that I could never bring him a cold meal.
“The bottle broke and my crown broke and red drops painted my clean shirt like the tears of the sun.
“When he taught me, he revealed to me the lights of the fairies; the tiny stars that danced in my closed eyes.
“My parents saw that I had learned my lesson, and they watched me with wide smiles.
“Red drops painted my clean shirt like the tears of the sun.”
“They knew that I was coming here. They saw that my life would be better here than anywhere down there.
“They saved me. ”
You know that I cannot let them come here. They are cruel people.
“But they have suffered so much. I have lived my years here in heaven, but they have suffered there on the earth, that infernal world. They already served a life sentence.
“I know that they love me. They are the poets who say that the more you love someone, the more you hurt them. To kill me was their transcendent expression of love. Look where I am. ”