Sazón

The Route 9 Literary Collective Presents...

SAZÓN

Latin American Heritage and Culture Magazine

Fall 2022

route9.org instagram: @route9wes

About us

Why Route 9?

Route 9 is the road that connects Middletown to the rest of Connecticut. It is the central artery of movement that every Wesleyan student, faculty, staff, and Middletown resident has driven on. It connects us and moves us forward; need we say more?

Why Sazón?

Sazon has been flavoring food across Latin America and the Carribean for centuries!It is a spice blend that while there are several variations, always contain the key ingredients: achiote (also known as annatto), coriander, cumin, garlic and oregano. Achiote is derived from the Amazon Basin in Brazil, but with time, arrived in South America, Central America, Mexico and the Carribean. Furthermore, it is an herb that dates back to the 15th century as being used by the Taino people in Cuba, Hispaniola (Haiti and the Dominican Republic), Puerto Rico, and Jamaica. As a spice blend that is popularly used throughout Latin America and the Carribean, it is a reminiscient of our unity as people and the differences within our culture.

The Team

Abby Frankenberg, Carissa Herrera, Julia Byrne and Alice Pereira

Cover Design

Carissa Herrera

Cover Image

Amary Figueroa

Special Thanks to

Oliver Egger for not blinking twice when I proposed the idea of creating this issue and for his continued support throughout this process.

Emily Rodriguez for her unfailing friendship and encouragement in pursuit of this small dream of mine.

The Wesleyan English Department for continuously providing a space where members of the team can come together and discuss what we like to do best.

The Editing Team for your willingness, care and dedication during a painfully long editing session; all in an effort to support me and this issue.

Note From the Editor

Welcome to this special edition from the Route 9 collective!

This edition contains stories about all the biggies; love, family, self-reflection and heartbreak. Who doesn’t love a little heartbreak?

I’m so excited to be able to present an issue dedicated to highlighting Latinx/o/a authors and artists!After reading through and staring at each of the submissions I stood back in awe (actually fell backwards into my chair) of how much talent there is here. It was inspiring to me and I hope it is to you reader, whoever you might be.

To the writers and artists: Thank you for opening up, being vulnerable and sharing work that you thought would never make it out of your notes app and google drive.

To readers: Sit back in your comfiest chair (or poorly cushioned bed), maybe pour yourself a cup of coffee and play Top Latin Hits on Spotify...or Apple music...if thats your jam....Enjoy the vibes!

Sincerely Grateful,

Carissa Herrera

La Distancia Cambia

By Luz Elena Ángeles Saldaña

La distancia cambia.

Te cambia los zapatos, te cambia el color de tu piel, te cambia el nombre, te cambia a ti y te cambia a los demás.

La distancia fue creada, la distancia nació y creció y creció y nunca dejó de crecer. La distancia envejece pero no se achica.

La arena rodea la distancia, pero también el agua, las nubes, y los bosques, y la carretera que mandó el gobierno a construir para hacer la distancia más corta.

Pero la distancia no se acorta. Sigue estando lejos, lejos. Sin nombre, sin zapatos, sin cara, sin piel, sin ganas.

Dime distancia, cuándo fue que te conocí? Acaso fue cuando vi por primera vez los ojos de mi madre, llorosos y drogados por la anestesia?

No, creo que fue cuando abrazaba a mi abuelita por la espalda en las noches de lluvia y truenos.

¿Qué tal cuando me subí a ese avión con destino al norte?

La distancia es una construcción social. Es un enigma. Es un taboo. No digas esa palabra en esta casa. Te lo prohíbo.

Un día la dista…perdón. Un día ella se enamoró en el norte. Se dejó querer por primera vez de un extraño. Se dejó tocar, se dejó desarmar y se transformó. Se creía imposible lo que sucedió. Finalmente, se achicó. Pequeña, ella podía sentirlo todo con fuerza y potencia.

Te reías tan fuerte que los vecinos te mandaban a callar, hablabas tan directo que intimidabas, olías tan profundamente que inventabas tus propios olores, escuchabas tan claramente que te teletransportabas a otras galaxias. Sentías todo en esa pequeñez. Estabas alegre.

Oh mi amada, se mía y solo mía. Te mostraré lo que es glorioso y único. Habrá dolores pero jamás de los jamases serán intencionales. Ella respondió que era algo absurdo hacerle tal declaración, puesto que ella ya se había entregado sin pensarlo.

The Distance Changes

By Luz Elena Ángeles Saldaña

Distance changes

It changes your shoes, it changes the color of your skin, it changes your name, it changes you and it changes everyone else

The distance was created, the distance was born and it grew and grew and never stopped growing. The distance becomes older but does not shrink. Sand surrounds the distance, but also water, the sky and the forests, and the streets that the government constructed to make distance shorter.

But the distance does not shorten. You are still far, far. Without names, without shoes, without a face, without skin, without desire.

Tell me distance, when was it that I met you? Was it perhaps when I first looked into my mother’s eyes, teary and drugged by the anesthesia?

No, I think it was when I embraced my grandmother from around her back during the rainy, thunderous nights.

How about when I boarded that plane with its destination to the North?

Distance is a social construct. An enigma. A taboo. Do not say those words in this house. I prohibit it.

One day the dist…I’m sorry. One day she fell in love in the North. She let herself be loved for the first time by a stranger. She let herself be touched, she let herself become disarmed and she let herself be transformed. What happened she believed it to be impossible. Finally, it got smaller. Small, she could feel all of its strength and potency.

You laughed so hard that the neighbors called to tell you to be quiet, you spoke so direct that it was intimidating, you smelled so deeply that you invented your own smells, and you listened so clearly that you teleported to other galaxies. You felt everything in that smallness. You were happy.

Oh my love, be mine and only mine. I will demonstrate to you what is glorious and singular. There will be a pain, but never will it be intentional. She replied that it was absurd to make such a statement to her since she had already given herself up without thinking.

Love Reading by Amary Figueroa

Lo que cuentan mis tatuajes

By Kay Araceli Dominguez

Las palabras, memorias, y pensamientos son como tatuajes

Escritas en tinta permanente

Dibujos que traen tanta alegría

Y recuerdos de la persona que nunca seré otra vez

Son pequeñas heridas decoradas con color para construir una historia en mi piel

Tengo tatuajes que me encanta enseñar, y tengo tatuajes invisibles que solo son para mi

Dicen que los tatuajes requieren una tolerancia al dolor, y tenían razón

Pero los tatuajes que más duelen son los que no ven y los que se hicieron sin querer

¿Por qué me siento como si no tuviera control de mis tatuajes?

Mis tatuajes te dirán más que lo que yo podría expresar

Mis tatuajes son mi historia.

What my tattoos can tell [Translation]

Words, memories, and thoughts are like tattoos

Written in permanent ink

Drawings that bring so much happiness

And memories of the person I will never be again

They’re little wounds decorated with color to construct a story on my skin

I have tattoos that I love sharing

And I have invisible tattoos only for myself

They say tattoos require a tolerance to pain, and they were right

But the tattoos that hurt the most are those they don’t see and those that happened by accident

Does it feel like I have no control over my tattoos?

My tattoos will tell you more than I could ever express

My tattoos are my story.

Abuelita by Julissa Cruz

RIP by Erick Buendia

Life, Leaving and After

By Isabelle Lozada

Papi says he used to climb orange trees on this farm his parents once owned When his father was alive and blind and couldn’t see him run off

Papi used to walk two hours to school and back But amor you have it good here You don’t play soccer barefoot and your mother knows where you are

Papi’s brother used to race on a motorcycle through the mountains in this town He was good and made money and they called him El Diablo

Papi left home in his twenties

Took six months to find this land found out it was broken and wished he had never left

Vignettes of the Kitchen

By Genesis Pimentel

Noemi sits on the white couch wrapped in plastic in the living room, contemplating how to enter this kitchen full of women and ask her mother for permission to go out. It’s hard enough to convince her borderline agoraphobic mother to let Noemi leave the house; to ask to leave the house with no destination, with no parental supervision, and with boys around is a suicide mission. But she’s eighteen, and it’s the summer before college. Why the hell can’t she ask her mom to go out after 5 P.M.?

Noemi would rather save herself the trouble of having her mother tell her she can’t go out tonight. She knows her mother cares so deeply, so anxiously, that Noemi has internalized the anxiety deep inside herself. Noemi picks at a small rip in the plastic covering the arm of the sofa before deciding to be a grown woman. And then, finally, after a moment to breathe, she walks into the kitchen.

The smells of the makeshift salon overpower her. The burning hair hits her first. The floral aroma of the shampoo being washed out of her aunt’s hair in the sink comes second, and the muted stench of the hot wax to remove eyebrows, mustaches, and all excess hair third. One of her aunts beckons her to eat.

“No, I’m not hungry. Thank you, tia.”

Everyone stops. They all look at her.

Another aunt: “Gorda, you don’t wanna eat?”

“No.”

A chorus of voices echo one another. ‘Ta enamora.

Noemi stands there, awkwardly. “Yo no ‘toy enamora na’.”

She turns to her mom. Her mom is sweeping, pink tank top on, rolos in her hair.

“Mami, can I go out?”

“With who? Where y’all going? What time you getting back?”

“I’m going with Aliza and Isaac. And it doesn’t matter where. I’m grown now, Ma. I gotta start being able to do shit on my own without telling you.”

Noemi sits down on top of the kitchen table. Her mother turns to her aunts, shaking her head at Noemi’s boldness. “Y’all think she got a boyfriend?”

They nod. Ta aficia de un tipo por ahí. Esa loca.

“Es que no, yo no toy aficia’ na’. Ustedes piensan como que hay hombre’ bueno por ahí pa’ aficiame.”

They speak again. Okay, okay, ya. You wouldn’t know what it’s like to be asfixiada.

They pronounce the word entirely and deliberately, forcing it to hold weight on their tongue and letting it sink into the room as they say it.

Oh, Noemi. You don’t need to know what it’s like to be in love like that. It’s dangerous. It’s abusive. You don’t need a passionate, impulsive man. You need a stable one. A boring one. One that comes home in the evening with his feet hurting, his stomach empty, and

and his eyelids closing. Like your father, yeah. He’s a good man, and that’s only because your mother learned. After Aracely’s father, he’s the right choice.

Aracely’s Father

Ay, mija, what don’t you already know? It’s not like our love was passionate. But he was. He was an envious, possessive man. If there was anyone in the world who was all-uppercase, bold-lettered, underlined aficiao, it was that man. He would show up everywhere I was, had the entire police force under his control, and had our neighbors fed up. I remember my neighbor would yell at me, ‘Leave with that man already! Tiene a uno jarto!’ And when I did, he would hit me. I remember that one time he hit me when we were in his brand new car. I punched the windshield as hard as I could for as long as I could until it shattered. I pulled the windshield out and started beating on him, and we were just swerving on the road until I opened the car door and rolled out. You’re lucky you have a mother like me, creating boundaries for you and keeping you safe. Mami se degaritó a Venezuela when I was a child. She was a bad mom, and that’s how I ended up getting held at gunpoint by Aracely’s father, escaping him until he ran out of money. Then, when he made his escape to Haiti, I made mine to New York. You would think your aunt Marisol would fare better than me. I mean, I raised her. But she’s just like your sisters, Aracely and Crisleidy. Those girls just don’t listen when it’s good for them.

Marisol’s Marido

Why your mother says I’m not faring better than her, I’ll never know. I just don’t believe in the marriage thing. It was all because Chico was a drunk. We’d still be together if he could put the liquor bottle down. And don’t look at me like that because I don’t drink that much anymore. I haven’t stolen a bottle of tequila from your cabinets in over two years. At first, he couldn’t keep his hands off me, in a good way. Then I got pregnant. He was cheating on me when I was pregnant with your younger cousin, and when he would come home, liquor was on his breath and coursing through his body, making his hand hot and heavy when it landed on my skin. But we’re cool now. You know I bailed him out of jail a couple years ago. He was living with me, but paying me rent and keeping it real business-like until he was up and gone. And while he was in jail, I would talk to God. Tell God to send me a sign.

Four nights in a row I have the same dream, just me, my children, on the shore of the beach by ourselves watching a man drown. Seven ships pass him. I wake up, and I know two things. One, I’m not meant to support a man the way you gotta support un marido. Two, he gave me the loteria numbers just like that. Four nights, three for me and my children, one man, sevenships pass him. I wake up, and I know two things. One, I’m not meant to support a man the way you gotta support un marido. Two, he gave me the loteria numbers just like that. Four nights, three for me and my children, one man, seven ships, and fifteen to sum it all up. Plus, now you know me and Juan have a good thing going. Well, after he left esa gringa loca who kept showing up at my house. He pays for everything here, and we love each other. It’s the least he could do after driving off the

Egyptian again.

Dominican men. They have whole other families, but God forbid you try to find the love of your life.

Griselda Runs a Tight Ship

You know, men are like dogs. A well-trained dog never causes you any trouble. A dog you let grow up untrained will only keep pissing on your carpet no matter how much you try to correct the behavior. Your uncle? He’s aficiao in the best way possible. He’s been by my side for thirty years, and he has never strayed once. Even when I did. When I did, he was coming around asking what he did wrong and how he could fix it. Did I threaten him with a baseball bat in the beginning? Yeah, but I never used it. It’s really about establishing your dominance with a man. They like to test the waters, see what they can get away with, increasing the offense until they have to repent. And when they repent and you forgive them too quickly, they’ll go back and do it again. There is no repenting, and there is no water here. You know what I got? A house, a ring, three children, a chef, and head from a man who eats it like he still has something to prove.

–

The story circle dissipates with murmurs of agreement. All that’s left is her aunts muttering their disapproval of Marisol’s sleeping with a married man while the room fills with the water running through their shampooed hair, the hair dryer heaving, the wax strip loudly ripping hair off an eyebrow. Noemi clears her throat.

“Que paso, gordita?” one of her aunts asks.

Noemi shakes her head. She starts to walk out of the kitchen, but she never gets to the living room. She’s stopped by her aunt who’s waiting on the wax to cool before using it.

“Noemi, esperate.” She grabs Noemi by the shoulder, hovering her face too close to Noemi’s own.

“Tanto bigotes. Sit down. Te tienes que hacer la cejas, mai.”

Noemi is forced into the chair. Knowing this is a fight she’s already lost, she shuts her eyes as the hot wax is spread above her right eyebrow. Her aunt moves away to get the paper strip. In a brief moment of time, there’s no movement around her, so she clenches her fists around the chair’s armrests. She inhales, holding her breath, preparing. Rip.

She exhales.

Off with the hair, all the pain, a ritual of getting pretty for the boys that her mother talks about existing but whom she will never let Noemi meet.

Love Reading by Amary Figueroa

Maquillaje Entre Montañas1

By Isabella Lozada

My tias2 awaken to the smell of café and arepas Ready for a day of primping and prodding

They begin with the swiping of powder on their cheeks

The drawing in of dark, thin eyebrows that no longer exist Then the five layers of lipstick the most rojo3 you’ve ever seen

They must forever reign as beautiful Protectoras, reinas, hermosuras4 things to be treasured Because qué más hay?5

I come to visit the mountain town they stride on and through And I am princesa I too am primped and prodded in preparation for nothing but Chismeando and arreglando6 by other tias who call me preciosa but fix me up anyway

This is how we bond as mujeres 7 because lo demás es para los hombres8 And we are nothing without this face of maquillaje 1

Castillos De Arena by Amary Figueroa

Ramirez by Gissel Ramirez Gissel Ramirez

And — I already messed up because classrooms always told me don’t start a sentence with “and” even though you’ll find Google says there’s nothing wrong with this. How I hate starting. I’m always wrong anyways, just look — my first word keeps leaving Microsoft’s red stain behind. Did I mean my name was Gisela? Or Gisele?

Perhaps one more L - Giselle. Quietly just ignore the suggestions (all of them) — en los Estados Unidos se habla ingles. I still don’t know what sound x makes in English, or why y is sometimes a vowel. Today I’ll say zero but never say cero like I’ll say Giselle not Gissel.

Gissel

Dos Entidades

By Luz Elena Ángeles Saldaña

Dos entidades

Caminan por el mundo, cruzando bosques, ríos, montañas y praderas

Por años

Sin verse

Sin tocarse

Sin saber que la otra existe

Hasta que un día, sus caminos cruzan

Se ven

Se tocan

Se vuelven dos en una

Se abrazan por las noches, en el silencio grande de la oscuridad

Por el día, llenan cada rincón de cada edificio de carcajadas

Los días pasan, sus células se entrecruzan

Las memorias se llenan de juegos, lágrimas, enojos, besos, secretos

Son dos almas enamoradas

Destinadas a estar juntas

Por siempre

O no

Las noches silenciosas se empiezan a llenar de desacuerdos

Los días se vuelven más tensos

Hay silencios más dolorosos

Se tienen que despedir

Hasta aquí llegó su hora

Uno se vuelve dos

Separación

Ruptura

Dos almas rotas

Dos caminos diferentes

Cada una llevándose un pedazo de la otra

Por el resto de sus vidas

Se aman a la distancia

Se extrañan en las noches oscuras

Se recuerdan de vez en cuando al pasar los años

Volviéndose memorias infinitas para la otra

Two Entities

By Luz Elena Ángeles Saldaña

Two Entities

Walk through the world, crossing forests, rivers, mountains, and grasslands

For years

Without seeing

Without touching

Without knowing that the other exists

Until one day, their paths cross

They see

They touch

They become two in one

They hug at night, in the great silence of darkness

By day, they fill each building corner with laughter

The days pass, their cells entertwine

Memories are filled with games, tears, anger, kisses, secrets

They are two souls in love

Destined to be together

Forever

Or not

The silent nights become filled with disagreements

The days become tense

The silences become more painful

They have to say goodbye

Now their time has come

One becomes two

Separation

Rupture

Two souls torn

Two different paths

Each one taking with them a piece of the other

For the rest of their lives

They love from a distance

They miss each other in the dark nights

They remember one another once in a while as years pass

Becoming infinite memories for the other

Sabor a Naranja by Amary Figueroa

Excerpted from All the Words I Never Said

by Carissa Herrera

To ex: lover, friend, partner,

I hope you read this with a cafecito in your hand, a token of my love and that my memory floods your brain until you need to confront it.

It was in the bookstore that I saw you for the first time since it all fell apart. I could tell it was you by the way your worn-out blue jeans hung slightly loose around your waist and how your curly hair peeked out from under your large silver headphones, calling attention to you. Funny because you always hated people looking at you or maybe it was just you and me together. Standing there with you in my view I had to will myself to move, to slink away and melt out of existence. I stood off to the side realizing too late that you needed to cross in front of me to get the rest of your books off the shelf. I pushed myself up against the wall to make space for you and everything that comes after you. If I could curl up and make myself even smaller than how I feel, I would do it to accommodate you. You.

The muscles in your neck strained slightly as you pass by and the scent of fresh pine wafted my way. It wrapped itself around me warmly asking me to come back home. Grinding down on my teeth, I considered saying something; a greeting or an apology. Maybe it was stubborn pride or an unspoken agreement to no longer care about one another. Whichever it was clamped my mouth shut. Walking back home, I soon realized that I had been duped,bamboozled; one could even say deceived. Julián, you cheated me of what I thought I was falling for from the moment that I met you.

I’m sure you remember that day. Drunk and bleary-eyed as I stumbled across your friend’s backyard party. You reached out a hand, steadying me, and I couldn’t help, but notice the roughness of your skin. I looked up and through the haze, your brown eyes met mine with what I could only describe as desire. You played nice for a while. Offered me a cup of water, a companion to walk me back home, and even stressed to me that your mama had raised a gentleman. And when I questioned your intentions all you said was, soon you’ll see over and over again.

Sitting between your fingers was a lit cigarette burning ever so slightly. You placed it in between your lips and I couldn’t help but become mesmerized by the way they formed a perfect O as you exhaled, smoke filling the air. Then you held it out to me wondering if I would take a chance. But as I mulled over the consequences you decided for me, you pressed the cigarette to my mouth, taking pleasure in watching my lips part and inhale. It was my first time ever smoking a cigarette, but you already seemed to know that. Coughing slightly, I exhaled my

throat burning slightly. Let me take another drag, I said, and you eagerly gave me my own cigarette. It was only then that you asked me my name.

You complimented me on my skin, a perfect shade of cinnamon. But as you whispered Marianna right before you kissed me, I ignored the subtle pang in my stomach. The creak, the ache would go away with time I thought. Sitting in your friend’s kitchen with the music blaring and watching sweaty bodies packed together tightly moving with the rhythm I thought that this was how all great college romances start.

Sabor a Naranja by Amary Figueroa