SOMOS Fall 2013

STAFF Editor-in-Chief Marina Camim

Art Director Valeria Fantozzi

Layout Editor Lillian Dominguez

English Editors Gabrielle Guadalupe Joseph Rosales

Treasurer Penelope Kyritsis Publicity Chair Gio Moraes

Spanish Editors Anaisa Quintanilla Angelica Wagner Portuguese Editors Carolina Gomes

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS SOMOS Latino Literary Magazine represents Latino culture through prose, poetry, and art. This semester, SOMOS is proud to showcase the work of extremely talented artists and writers. The art pieces in this issue range from photography to oil and mixed media, 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 to cross-generational reflections, these poems and stories 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 many times, Latinos can find themselves between borders and boundaries of distinct cultures, languages, and identities. Our team is proud to present the Fall 2013 issue of SOMOS. Sincerely,

The SOMOS Team

FEATURING: ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

POETRY & PROSE

1

Trek Through The Cube Canyons Sarina Mitchel

The Lost Little Hypercube & The Sunflower Man

2

Journey To The Polar Places

Sarina Mitchel

1-2

3

Sarina Mitchel

4

Laura Fe Valle-Gutierrez

5

Katharina Windemuth

6

Shehrose Mian

8

Zainab Syed

10

Esmeralda Lopez

15

Untitled 18

Untitled Las Minas, Veracruz

14

Acapulco, Guerrero

19-20

A Series On Names Gabrielle Guadalupe

21-22

Karina Primelles

Tasbih Zainab Syed

25-26

Karina Primelles

16

Wanderer Zainab Syed

Sarina Mitchel

13

An Old Idea Nasim Azizgolshani

Danielle Torres

11-12

Hogar Es Donde Empieza Tu Historia

This Was Me Sarina Mitchel

9

Firewood

Blinded Sarina Mitchel

7

Broccoli

Hanged Sarina Mitchel

7

Isla Que Me Escapa

Landscape

Untitled

Pirasos Nicole Salvador

Danielle Torres

16

For Truth, For Justice Dominika Fiolna

17

Untitled Danielle Torres

20

Marielle Isabelle Sanchez

22

Untitled Danielle Torres

23

Seasons Of New England Manu Sharma

24

Featured Cover Photo

Lover Katharina Windemuth

27

Untitled Danielle Torres

27

Pucara De Tilcara

GOUACHE -Manu Sharma

Dominika Fiolna ii

THE LOST LITTLE HYPERCUBE 6" THE SUNFLOWER MAN - SAR1NA MITCHEL-

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 wise Sunflower 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.

TREK THROUGH THE CUBE CANYONS

1

She gazed at coordinate constellations, 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 a friend, the Lost Little Hypercube longed for her home at limits end.

So she packed up all her corners and traveled the road she knew, all the way back to What-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 she was not lost, but strong.

JOURNEY TO THE POLAR PLACES

2

Isla que me escapa.

Yo busco las palabras, Pero estoy danada.

I speak with words I 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 mundos que no conozco.

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.

Y de mi alma llueven oraciones.

Suplicandole a dios, Que me permita vivir en mi isla de encanto, Or in my Eden of Knowledge.

And in this new Paradise I easily Forgot. I searched without knowing, Ceaselessly learning and forgetting Not knowing what I sought.

And with each passing day I lost Tiny, forgettable pieces of my soul.

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 forgetfulness and bliss With your Green eyes and blue lips Con tus ojos verdes y labios azules, 1 am broken.

Estoy rota. Rota. Rota...

ISLA QUE ME ESCAPA - Laura FeValle-Gutierrez-

3

LANDSCAPE (oil on canvas) - Katharina Windemuth -

4

j

BROCCOLI - Shehrose Mian -

Noum poked and prodded the vegetables and fruits on his plate.

"Eat your broccoli, Noum."

Despite his mother s scolding, he continued 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 that spilled light upon his legumes.

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

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

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

Brussels sprouts shaped bushy brows of a man walking with no care. Cel­ ery stalksmoved and danced—sprightly legs carrying him across the field.

"Come with me," said the vegetable man to which Noum whispered okay.

He followed the man through the green pastures of his plate—through the valleys a few miles yonder. They trekked the trail without saying a word; they simply took in the sites: the carrot-tinged rocks of the rifts and the potato-skin ground.

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

Noum continued walking but the vegetable man vanished. He wandered about until the blueberry sky turned blackberry, the corn sun disappeared, and the rolling hills of green beans were no more.

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

Yet he took no notice. Banana lightning strikes spread across the sky. The wispy clouds of white turned gray with dirt and grime. Noum continued walking, but his gait slowed to a crawl. His celery stalk legs, dehydrated and brittle, couldn't last much longer.

"Noum, eat your broccoli!"

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

5

HANGED (charcoal on paper) - Sarina Mitchel -

6

BLINDED - Sarina Mitchel -

THIS WAS MEW"11 - Sarina Mitchel •

FIREWOOD - Zainab Syed -

Perhaps the idea is to burn slowly to let yourself be fully 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 burn slowly to burn slowly is to listen to the sound of your own firewood cracking to know you have let all of your warmth bleed into a room full of strangers to watch it latch onto them as they sing the night to sleep to know in the morning you will be swept aside And to still be okay.

8

UNTITLED - Danielle Torres-

9

Pateo las sabanas frescas hacia el suelo, con prisa dejo mi sueno placido, estoy lista para despertar a mi realidad.

Despierta y alerta comienzo a despertar a mis hermanas menores.

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

Con mi sonrisa les digo que pueden dormir en camino.

El ruido y aroma que viene desde la cocina es mama preparando el lonche para el dia.

Papa esta ocupado en el comedor alistando el papeleo.

Caminando en aire frio del amanecer, Soy testigo del renir entre la luna y el sol Cada uno peleando por su lugar en el cielo.

Todos alistamos el carro y vamos a el field de cherries.

Se escucha el movimiento de la gente en busca de trabajo.

Cuando todo esta listo nos vamos a la pisca La palabra que viene a mi mente cuando mis hombros se esfuerzan bajo el peso de la cubeta es necesidad, Porque solo los necesitados se "dejan" ser marginados.

He llegado a apreciar nuestra hora de almuerzo no solo porque descanso y como pero porque escucho los recuerdos de mis papas.

Ellos me cuentan de sus pueblos, piensan en su casa. La que dejaron por mi.

Mis papas llenan nuestra casa con recuerdos de sus pasados y deseos por el futuro.

Esto es hogar, No una infraestructura, pero una familia.

Esta experiencia,

Trabajando en las huertas como campesina, ha formado mi definition de casa.

Fue alii bajo el calor del sol, Escuchando las historias de mis papas, en donde pude comprender que casa es familia.

Aprendi que el hogar que llamo casa no permanece igual, No son los adornos de nuestro cuarto, ni los libros, ni la cama en donde dormimos que crean nuestra description de casa.

Aunque me encuentre lejos de mi casa fisica Todavia estoy en 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 -

10

LAS MINAS, VERACRUZ - Karina Pritnelles -

13

ACAPULCO, GUERRERO - Karina Primelles -

14

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 coast smiles alongside modest desire. mourning happiness, it will haunt you.

15

UNTITLED - Danielle Torres -

FOR TRUTH, FOR JUSTICE - Dominika Fiolna -

16

UNTITLED - Danielle Torres -

17

:

I

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

talk about you the way my city speaks of monsoons:

the sky turns a dusty pink :he winds gather into a storm and the streets let out a sigh, 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 grandmothers roses. 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 1 am a child again I dance beneath the stars no shoes or broken smiles less dusty and so light. at night I can hear the winds inside of you 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 -1 have begun to hoard the silences between your thundering downpour •eating all of the things you leave me with every time you gather around me. unable to confine ourselves to one 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 turn a dusty pink •ere, we will walk the city's streets allcallused and split and so full

• -n the afternoon breaks into rain -•'"fenceswill unravel

WANDERER

^7 w they may be)

- Zainab Syed -

let our,,ones spill

18

A SERIES ON NAMES - Gabrielle Guadalupe My father's mother was named America The parallels between her And the country to which she came are cruel and numerous: Full of people in need, of empty places Decaying walls, dark lungs, crying hearts, Full of smoke, of alcohol, of pills Polluting the rivers, the veins, blurring the eyes 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, free from 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 my aunts, uncles, cousins And my dad made it out.

He's still fighting the reality That he made it out alone.

Gregorio, my abuelo's name In his white wife-beater, with yellow stains ofswti and beer He sits in his room, watching telenovelas Drinking, smoking, drinking Leaving only to buy cigarettes. To play dominoes With the other old men of Spanish Harlem When we would visit near Christmas, he stayed ir. his room And my brother and I would carve out a path through the smoke To give him a kiss on the cheek, "hola abuelo," That was as far as the interactions went.

We stopped visiting a few years back Guns, drugs, liquor in the apartment My mom said she didn't want us to go back My dad wore a long sad face When he said he understood.

Rafael, my father's name He grew, pulled away from his roots Away from the hut in Puerto Rico Wherein he was born And America to him: Meant a mother from which he was taken awav In a country to which he came.

America the beautiful It was the system of the country which won out.

It was, in the end, the alcohol that killed her And so he changed his name It killed her son as well—he was seventeen, "Ralph," it was whiter, Americanized.

My uncle Richie, whom I never met Aside from the afro, from the full hps Maria, Maria, the first daughter He might have been any other kid.

My aunt we lost to AIDS, He donned different uniforms, trying to become And there's Lydia, her sister Something. Anything. Football jerseys, wrestling My titi, who can't keep the days straight singlets, Who wanders and doesn't seem to understand White doctors coats, and eventually casting all ust how this country, America, her mother's namesake them off, Is supposed to work To carve his own space out of the country But that's not to say she doesn't make it to church every morning ' To which he came.

He needs to find Christ," she said 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.

19

Angel, my fathers middle name, it's too fitting— ;r.ere are black and white photographs

The way his does: grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins Rice and beans, music, dancing

Of Americas old apartment,

Somehow they kept it together.

Two big holes in the wall, Li the picture, my father holds a very young Georgie

Angel, Alex's middle name,

The holes behind him : ok like angel wings, to anyone that doesn't know

It's too fittingHe looks over his family, wants to care for all of

That they were just holes, just the wall

them The way my father does for his.

Falling into itself.

In a parallel story, Alexander, mi novio, :i:s name means "protector of mankind,"

It might have been Alex holding his nephew Wearing angel wings Made out of the holes in America's wall.

it's too fitting— • ntting he uniformed up, buzzed his hair

The middle name they share,

hey call him Private Garcia now.

Private First Class, I mean.

Of course it's a coincidence.

Alexander Angel Garcia and I,

:Jos aun no me dan libertad He told me.

Once he has his freedom, Plan to carve our own space out of America

Ihcy didn't give me my freedom yet.

The country he serves, namesake of my abuela,

family is from Puerto Rico, too And I would be lying if I said

The county to which our families came.

i cidn't wish my family gathered every Sunday

MARIELLE (monoprint) - Isabelle Sanchez -

20

TASBIH - Zainab Syed -

Ask

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

Ask

all the women to stand behind them the way God asked them 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 carry Gods name.

Let them breathe it so it may ground them— lull their turbulence into silent submission, gracious their creator has granted them His self, In hope hearts will turn to Mecca with each prayer breathed on a bead.

Yet, they speak from rote.

God's name laced on their tongues though weightless pity on the false prophets and their supplications, and we are all guilty.

With haste now, and tenderness address your creator—

21

Tell Him

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

Ask Him

to turn His beloveds head to Mecca make his lips wet with honey sweet tasting reverence dripping into wind chimes and birdsong and scripture strung into a tasbih inside of him.

*Tasbih: Rosary

UNTITLED - Danielle Torres -

22

SEASONS OF NEW ENGLAND - Manu Sharma -

23

LOVER (oil on canvas) - Katharina Windemuth -

24

UNTITLED

PUCARA DE TILCARA

- Danielle Torres -

- Dominika Fiona -

27

FALL 201 3 SOMOS

Latino

Literary

Magazine provides students 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.