Fall 2013

STAFF

Editor-in-Chief

Marina Camim

Layout Editor

Lillian Dominguez Treasurer

Penelope Kyritsis

Publicity Chair Gio Moraes

Art Director Valeria Fantozzi

English Editors Gabrielle Guadalupe Joseph Rosales

Spanish Editors Anaisa Quintanilla Angelica Wagner

Portuguese Editors Carolina Gomes

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

SOMOS Latino LiteraryMagazine represents Latinoculture throughprose, poetry,and art. This semester,SOMOS is proud to showcase the workof extremely talented artists and writers.The artpieces inthisissue rangefrom photographyto oiland mixedmedia, exploring the inner self as well as foreign cultures in the Latin world. Both the use of abstraction and realism, especially in photography, portray an intricate exploration of space and perspective. The English pieces take us through personal journeys—from imaginative daydreams tocross-generational reflections, thesepoems andstories allow entry into voyages to discover oneself, understand the world, and find peace. The Spanish pieces transport us beyond space and time by reminding us of places we have been, have yet to go, and hold dear in our hearts. They are able to convey a sense of belonging while acknowledging that manytimes, Latinoscan find themselves between borders and boundaries of distinct cultures, languages, and identities. Our team is proud to present the Fall 2013issue of SOMOS.

Sincerely,

The SOMOSTeam

Just before infinity's bend, in a world called What-land at the asymptotes end, lived the Lost Little Hypercube.

The Lost Little Hypercube cried, cried sadly in the night, because all was wrong and nothing right— all seemed wrong with her each night.

"I do not belong in What-land, nor anywhere else here," she told the wiseSunflower Man, as he heard with open ear.

"Look far and wide, and you shall find home," said the Sunflower Man.

So the Lost Little Hypercube set off on her journey alone.

To Why-land, Where-land, and When-land she went, but none felt right. Ihrough Cube Canyons and Graph Forests, our hero trekked many a night.

THE LOST LITTLE HYPERCUBE

THE SUNFLOWER MAN - SAR1NA MITCHEL-

TREK THROUGH THE CUBE CANYONS

JOURNEY TO THE POLAR PLACES

She gazed at coordinateconstellations, peered into the Polar Place, hopped the angles of the Flat World, and jumped logs in Three Space.

But after many months of meandering, scaling scalene sides without afriend, the Lost Little Hypercube longed for her home atlimits end. So she packed up all her corners and traveled the road she knew, all the way back toWhat-land, where everything seemed new.

She ran to The Sunflower Man crying, "I'm here, I'm home, and I'm the only me I know!"

And the wise Sunflower Man grinned, for he had known all along that the Lost Little Hypercube would find that shewas not lost, but strong.

Isla que me escapa. Yo busco las palabras, Pero estoy danada.

Gracias a dios tu me cantabas Desde que yo era una bebe. Pero con cada luna nueva Me recogian los vientos y me llevaban a Una isla nueva.

And in this new Paradise I easily Forgot. I searched without knowing, Ceaselessly learningand forgetting Not knowing what I sought. And with each passing day I lost Tiny, forgettable pieces of mysoul.

Y al fin de otro ciclo, Las olas me devolvian a ti. Y en tus brazos encontre paz. Una familia que yo no sabia Que tenia me amaba! Una madre y un Hermano me abrazan. Me llenan Con alegria. Alegria. Alegria...

And »n this ocean of forgetfulnessand bliss With your Green eyes and blue lips Con tus ojos verdesy labios azules, 1 am broken. Estoy rota. Rota. Rota...

I speak with wordsI don't understand, Y escribo con palabras que no puedo repetir.

Isla mia. Sweet Paradise. Mi encanto.Colorful sunrise, Y mar profundo. Vivo bailando entre una frontera De dos mundosque no conozco.

Y de mi almallueven oraciones. Suplicandole a dios, Que me permita viviren mi isla de encanto, Or in myEden of Knowledge.

ISLA QUE ME ESCAPA

- Laura FeValle-Gutierrez-

LANDSCAPE (oil on canvas)

- Katharina Windemuth

BROCCOLI

- Shehrose Mian

Noum poked and prodded the vegetables and fruitson his plate.

"Eat your broccoli, Noum."

Despite his mothers scolding, hecontinued to sculpt his plate. He lined his green beans on top of each other, creating rolling hills of emerald.He gathered his corn together on the top corner of his plate, a radiating sun thatspilled light upon his legumes.

"Noum, don't play with yourfood. Listen to your mother."

Diced tomatoes became flowers;blueberries formed thesky. The bare white plate,wispy clouds that followed the engraved scratches that adornedthe dish from overuse.

"Do your homework, Noum,"said his mother.

Brussels sprouts shaped bushybrows of a man walkingwith no care. Celery stalksmoved and danced—sprightly legs carryinghim acrossthe field.

"Come with me," said the vegetable man to which Noum whisperedokay. He followed the man through thegreen pastures of his plate—through the valleys a few miles yonder. They trekked the trail withoutsaying a word;they simply tookin the sites: thecarrot-tinged rocks of the rifts and the potato-skin ground.

"Noum, get a job," his father berated.

Noum continued walking but thevegetable man vanished. He wandered about until the blueberry sky turned blackberry, thecorn sun disappeared, andthe rolling hills of green beans were nomore.

"Noum, Papa passed away," bawled his mother.

Yet he took no notice. Banana lightning strikesspread across thesky. The wispy clouds of white turned gray with dirt and grime. Noum continuedwalking, but his gait slowed to a crawl. His celery stalklegs, dehydrated andbrittle, couldn't last much longer.

"Noum, eat your broccoli!"

Noum turned to his mother and ate his last piece of broccoli.

HANGED (charcoal on paper)

- Sarina Mitchel

BLINDED

- Sarina Mitchel

Sarina Mitchel

FIREWOOD - Zainab Syed

Perhaps the idea is to burnslowly to let yourself befully broken by fire to catch spark and rise before turning into ash and after to sit on the stone floor without any of your colour

Perhaps to live is to burnslowly to burn slowly is tolisten to the soundof your own firewood cracking to know you have let all of your warmth bleed into a roomfull of strangers to watch it latch onto them as theysing the night tosleep to know in the morning you will beswept aside

And to still be okay.

- Danielle Torres-

Pateo las sabanasfrescas hacia el suelo, con prisa dejo mi sueno placido, estoylista para despertar a mi realidad. Despierta y alertacomienzo a despertar a mis hermanas menores.

Sin hablar sus ojos preguntan, "iQue estas haciendo? Son las 4 dela manana."

Con mi sonrisa les digo quepueden dormir en camino.

El ruido y aroma que viene desde lacocina es mama preparando ellonche para eldia. Papa esta ocupado en elcomedor alistando el papeleo.

Caminando en aire frio delamanecer, Soy testigo del renir entrela luna yel sol Cada uno peleando por su lugar en elcielo. Todos alistamos el carro yvamos a el field de cherries.

Se escucha el movimiento de lagente en busca de trabajo.

Cuando todo estalisto nos vamos ala pisca

La palabra que viene a mi mente cuando mis hombros seesfuerzan bajo el peso dela cubeta es necesidad, Porque sololos necesitados se"dejan" ser marginados.

He llegado aapreciar nuestra hora de almuerzo no solo porque descanso ycomo pero porque escucho los recuerdosde mis papas. Ellos me cuentan de sus pueblos, piensan en su casa. La que dejaron por mi. Mis papas llenan nuestra casacon recuerdos de sus pasados y deseos por el futuro. Esto es hogar, No una infraestructura, pero unafamilia. Esta experiencia,

Trabajando en las huertascomo campesina, ha formado mi definition de casa. Fue alii bajo el calor del sol, Escuchando lashistorias de mispapas, en donde pude comprender que casa es familia.

Aprendi que el hogar que llamo casa no permaneceigual, No son los adornosde nuestro cuarto, nilos libros, ni lacama en donde dormimosque crean nuestra description de casa. Aunque me encuentre lejos de micasa fisica Todavia estoyen ella. Es un espiritu que vive en mi Es una encarnacion de historia, Se manifiesta en mis sentidos en Aromas, Sabores, Sonidos, En memorias, Y esto es hogar para mi.

HOGAR ES DONDE EMPIEZA TU HISTORIA

- Esmeralda Lopez

LAS MINAS, VERACRUZ

- Karina Pritnelles

ACAPULCO, GUERRERO

- Karina Primelles

AN OLD IDEA

- Nasim Azizgolshani

An old idea resuscitated in Peru pulls fish from the sea

youngfisherman awaiting happiness gnaws profound yearning. his ghost boldly touching the water (does he reduce the character?) wives love and beer.

struggling nothing the coastsmiles alongside modest desire.

mourning happiness, it will haunt you.

FOR TRUTH, FOR JUSTICE

UNTITLED

- Danielle Torres

- Dominika Fiolna

- Danielle Torres

I talk about you the way my city speaks of monsoons:

the sky turnsa dusty pink :he winds gather into astorm and the streets let out asigh, waiting for how hard the rain will fall the way it will heal their split skin collect in crevices and sit heavy on the soft petals of my grandmothersroses.

every afternoon I watch from inside my childhood home, marvel at the rain how it takes away all of the hazeleaves me a new city.

m the quiet 1am a child again Idance beneath the stars no shoesor broken smiles less dusty and solight.

at night

Ican hear the winds inside ofyou soon you will let out a sigh there is so much of the world to be seen you might take off for a while and leave me to gather dust

after all, you are a wanderer I have known it all along

1have begun to hoard the silences between your thundering downpour •eating all of the things you leave mewith every timeyou gather around me. unable to confine ourselves toone home both of us will roam and roam and roam through this earth

"J - impasses point us toward the next monsoon season *here the sky will turna dusty pink •ere, we will walk the city's streets allcallused and split and so full

• -n the afternoon breaks into rain -•'"fenceswill unravel ^7w they may be)

let our,,ones spill - Zainab Syed

: ^ traveller has no plans and is not intent on arriving"

My father's mother was named America

The parallels between her And the country to which she came arecruel and numerous:

Full of people in need, of empty places

Decaying walls, dark lungs, cryinghearts, Full of smoke, of alcohol,of pills

Polluting the rivers, the veins, blurring theeyes Shaking hands, from the cold,from the hunger Shaking hands, which would fall in maddened blows upon her children.

She brought five sons and three daughters. One found a tangled version of the American dream; He made it out, freefrom the "cycle of poverty," they call it

But they don't tell you when you find freedom, You find it alone, The cycle doesn't stop for you.

It turns, with or without you, And you've only saved yourself. America, my abuela, She started the cycle for myaunts, uncles, cousins And my dad made it out. He's still fighting the reality That he made it out alone.

America the beautiful It was, in the end, thealcohol that killed her It killed her son as well—he was seventeen, My uncle Richie, whom I never met Maria, Maria, thefirst daughter

My aunt we lost to AIDS, And there's Lydia, her sister

My titi, who can't keep the days straight Who wanders and doesn't seem tounderstand ust how this country, America, her mother's namesake Is supposed to work

But that's not tosay shedoesn't makeit tochurch every morning '

He needs to find Christ," shesaid of Georgie Marias youngest, '

Who I remember my father visiting in jail Her grew up in and out of homes And was in and out of jail for awhile But now I hear he's settled down.

A SERIES ON NAMES

- Gabrielle Guadalupe

Gregorio, my abuelo's name

In his white wife-beater,with yellow stainsofswti and beer

He sits in his room, watchingtelenovelas Drinking, smoking,drinking Leaving only to buycigarettes. To play dominoes With the otherold men of Spanish Harlem

When we would visit near Christmas, he stayedir. his room

And my brother and Iwould carve out a path through the smoke

To give him a kiss on the cheek,"hola abuelo," That was as faras the interactionswent. We stopped visitinga fewyears back Guns, drugs, liquor in the apartment My mom saidshe didn't want us to go back My dad wore along sad face When he said he understood.

Rafael, my father's name

He grew, pulledaway fromhis roots Away from thehut in Puerto Rico

Wherein he was born And America to him: Meant a motherfrom which he was taken awav In a countryto which he came. It was the system of the country which wonout. And so he changed hisname "Ralph," it waswhiter, Americanized. Aside from the afro,from the fullhps He might have been anyother kid. He donned different uniforms,trying to become Something. Anything. Football jerseys, wrestling singlets, White doctors coats, and eventually castingall them off, To carve his own spaceout of the country To which he came.

Angel,my fathers middle name, it'stoo fitting— ;r.ere are black and white photographs OfAmericas old apartment, Twobig holes in the wall, Lithe picture, my father holds a very young Georgie Theholes behind him : ok like angel wings, to anyone that doesn't know Thatthey were just holes, just the wall Fallinginto itself.

Alexander, mi novio, :i:s name means "protector of mankind," it'stoo fitting— • ntting he uniformed up, buzzed his hair hey call him Private Garcia now. Private First Class, I mean. :Jos aun no me dan libertad Hetold me. Ihcy didn't give me my freedom yet. family is from Puerto Rico, too AndI would be lying if I said icidn't wish my family gathered every Sunday

The way his does:grandparents, aunts,uncles, cousins Rice and beans, music,dancing Somehow they kept it together.

Angel, Alex's middle name, It's too fittingHe looks over his family,wants to carefor all of them

The way my fatherdoes for his. In a parallel story, It might have been Alex holding his nephew Wearing angel wings Made out of the holes in America's wall. The middle name they share, Of course it's a coincidence. Alexander Angel Garcia and I, Once he has his freedom, Plan to carve our own space out of America The country he serves, namesake of myabuela, The county to whichour families came.

MARIELLE (monoprint)

- Isabelle Sanchez

Ask all the men to stand in rows shoulder to shoulder the way God told them to.

Ask all the women to stand behindthem the way God askedthem to.

Tell each of them to hold a tasbih hard between their fingers and begin chanting—

let it rise above them slowiy-

It is heavy to carryGods name.

Let them breathe it so it may ground them— lull their turbulence into silentsubmission, gracious their creator has granted them

His self,

In hope hearts will turnto Mecca witheach prayer breathed on a bead.

Yet, they speakfrom rote.

God's name laced on their tongues though weightless

pity on thefalse prophets and their supplications,

and we are all guilty.

With haste now, andtenderness address your creator—

TellHim Ask Him

His beloved does not listen to the wind chimes the birds when they chantHis name at dawn and every leaf as itsits in prayer

to turn His beloveds head to Mecca make his lips wetwith honey

sweet tasting reverence dripping into wind chimes and birdsong and scripture

strung into a tasbih inside of him.

*Tasbih: Rosary

UNTITLED - Danielle Torres

SEASONS OF NEW ENGLAND

- Manu Sharma

LOVER (oil oncanvas)

- Katharina Windemuth

PUCARA DE TILCARA

- Dominika Fiona

UNTITLED

- Danielle Torres

FALL2013

SOMOS Latino Literary Magazine providesstudents a space to share their heritage and promote a dialogue of culture and history. We encourage all aspiring artists and writers to contribute their poetry, essays, documents, and all types of artwork such as sketching, photography,etc. An issue of SOMOS is distributed every semester with collaborated pieces of Brown students,faculty,staff and alumni, and the Latino community in Providence.