SOMOS Spring 2010

spring 201

Table of Contents

Text

Artwork

3

Soledad, Rocio Bravo '10

2

4

Most of the Way, Lily Meyer' 13

2 Figures, an Interpretation of Picasso, Kimberly Arredondo '11

10

Social Capital, Alejandra Ceja '12

4

Kyokujitsu-ki, David Hernandez '11

12

Winter Out, Ayoosh Pareek '12

8

14

Shadow of Shame, Esther Escotto

11 Memorial a los detenidos desaparecidos de

Del maguay, Samantha Roque'10

17

Ya no queda nada, Juan Ruiz '12

Paine, Ana Fox-Hodess '10 13 Some mornings are so foggy, even the

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A las horas del agua, Sara Mann'10

20

Tus manos, Rocio Bravo '10

mountains don't know where they are,

22

Sin Ti, Rocio Bravo '10

Jan Bruder '10

24

I Heard the Ocean Call My Name, Margie Lane

26

Las Paraguas Del Mar, Sara Mann'10

14 Donde esta la gente rebelde?, Ana FoxHodess '10 15 El camino real de los tejanos, Samantha Roque '10 16 Chiapan Lullaby, Samantha Roque '10 23 Daydream, David Hernandez '11 25 1992 NBA Finals, David Hernandez '11 27 El sueno (Memorial a Violeta Parra), Ana Fox-Hodess '10

ngures, an Interpretation of Picasso | Kimberly Arredondo Charcoal

soledad

by Rocio Bravo

Estoy parada en miedo de la calle.

La lluvia cae fuertemente sin piedad.

No siento el agua sobre mi piel Ni el frio sobre mi cuerpo.

Estoy viendo el mundo pasar.

Lo quiero detener y no puedo.

Quiero gritar pero no se mueve mi boca.

Quiero correr pero no responden mis pies.

Estoy parada en el silencio de la noche.

El agua cae pero no ya no me moja.

No siento nada porque no existo.

Nadie me ve, nadie me siente.

Estoy gritando y no me escuchan. la lluvia cae y no me toca.

most of the way

by Lily Meyer

G

onzalo is fast asleep, forehead mashed against the fogged Plexiglas window, when

the bus breaks down five kilometers north of La Ligua. The conductor shakes his shoulder till he wakes up and tells him, "I'm sorry, Sr. Arancibia, but we're having engine trouble, and we can't have any passengers on the bus while the driver deals with it." Almost everyone has already got­ ten off; they mill on the side of the road, checking watches, making phone calls, watching the driver, complaining. "Okay," Gonzalo says, rubbing his temples tiredly. "No problem."

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When he gets off the bus, Gonzalo is suddenly confused. The cold air makes his eyes sting and the Cordillera is there looming out of the blue eve­ ning, and he doesn't understand how this is pos­ sible when the last time he was awake it was mid­ day and the hot Atacama sun was beating down on the bus' sheet-metal roof. He's made this trip every Friday for nine months, ever since he started as a mine director at Collahuasi, but he still hasn't gotten used to its geography. After five days in the Martian desert landscape, five days of flat sky and pitted coppery dunes, he can barely imagine the green mountains and avocado trees of Chile's Quinta Region, where he's lived his whole life. Still, he misses it, looks forward to coming back to Limache every weekend almost as much as he looks forward to seeing his wife and daughters.

Kyokujitsu-ki | David Hernandez Graphite on paper

"Permiso," someone says, tapping him on the

This separation has turned them both back into

shoulder, and he turns to see a flat-faced, chubby woman holding a huge glass jar of pickled olives

moody, horny teenagers, complaining and bicker­ ing on the phone for hours during the week and

in one arm. "Do you have a cell phone I can bor­ row?" she asks.

pouncing on each other like puppies every week­

"In a minute, all right? I have to call my wife."

She thanks him and steps back discreetly, and he fumbles his phone out of his pocket, pressing keys without needing to look. Maqueta answers on the first ring and doesn't bother to say hello.

"Are you in Quillota yet?"

end. "Calmate, mujer, it's just a few hours' delay.

Tell the girls whatever you want. I'll see you to­ night, okay? I love you."

"I love you too. Oh, and Gonzalo?"

"Yes?" "If Anglo American doesn't transfer you back

"No, the bus broke down outside La Ligua,

to the mine here in December like they promised, either you're quitting your job or we're getting a

and no one knows how long we'll be stuck here.

I don't think we'll be in Quillota before ten at the

tiredly. Even though he knows Maqueta doesn't

earliest, and then I'll have to wait for the micro, and

divorce." She hangs up, and he shakes his head

you know the one that goes to Limache doesn't come that often."

mean any of her threats, she makes them almost every day now, and he can't help worrying a little.

He looks around for the woman with the olives,

"Pucha, Gonzalo," she says, and he can imag­

but she's borrowed someone else's phone and is

ine her rolling her almond eyes and scowling at the floor. "The girls have been talking all day about

arguing with whoever's on the other end, stamp­ ing her feet and twisting her mouth angrily. Maybe

how Papi's coming home, and now you won't be back until after they're asleep? That's shit. I bet

she hasn't seen her husband since Sunday either, he thinks.

there wasn't any breakdown. I bet you missed

The driver can't fix the engine, and after an

your bus because you were busy fucking your

hour a different bus comes and everyone hauls

desert woman."

their bags and boxes aboard; it pulls into the sta­ tion in Quillota's main plaza just after ten-thirty,

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almost three hours late. Gonzalo grabs his back-

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pack and bounds off the bus to call Maqueta, but this time she doesn't pick up, and he leaves a

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"You know there's no such woman, and I can't help that the bus is going to be late. Tell Paula and Violeta I'll come give them kisses when I get home."

"You want to wake them up?" Maqueta snaps,

message saying only, "I'm most of the way home,

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and Gonzalo can't help laughing a little—he's

I love you." At first the passengers stand in a mass

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used to getting yelled at, to Maqueta pretend­

on the sidewalk, complaining to each other and looking around for the husbands or wives or taxi

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ing she's angry at him instead of at his absence.

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drivers who are supposed to pick them up, but one by one the rides come and soon Gonzalo is there alone. He's resigned to a long wait—Quillota's little microbuses are unreliable even during the day, and after sundown the one to Limache, which is forty-five minutes away, runs every sec­ ond hour at best.

The only other people in the plaza are a group of teenagers roughhousing and eating and oc­ casionally breaking into pairs to kiss aggressively.

They all have the same tight jeans and pierced lips and angry hair slanting into their eyes, and Gonzalo can barely tell which ones are boys and which girls; he wonders what he would do if his little daughters turned into kids like these. He can't believe that they will, though. He can barely believe that they're going to grow up at all, but it seems like Violeta, his six-year-old, is another centimeter taller every weekend, and three-yearold Paula can say more every time he talks to her on the phone. When he called home yesterday evening, she said, "Today I saw a purple flower and Mami said it has the same name as Violeta, but what about the Paula flower? It's more pretty, right? and he almost cried. There's no way, he tells himself, that she could ever look like this. He feels like an old man, watching them and disap­ proving, but he can't help wanting to walk across the plaza and say: Fix your hair, take all that ridiculous metal out of your faces, and learn how to act.

You're going to be adults soon, you know.

As if he could read Gonzalo's mind, a boy with blue-tipped hair and a ring through the midO die of his nose takes a final bite of the chicken

leg he's been gnawing and flings it towards him, making the entire group burst out laughing. The bone skids greasily to a stop in front of Gonzalo's bench, and within seconds two stray dogs bound out of the darkness, claws scrabbling on the con­ crete, and pounce on it. For a second they play tug-of-war, but the smaller dog, a rangy black ani­ mal with a pointed nose and only one ear, quickly wins the drumstick, and the other, which is so big and shaggy it has to be part wolf, clamps its teeth around the black dog's neck instead. They roll in front of Gonzalo, snapping and snarling, and he pulls his feet onto the bench protectively

t f H e c a n barely imagine the green mountains and avo­ cado trees of Chile's Quinta Region, where he's lived his w h o l e life, J J and looks for a branch or rock to throw at them.

There's nothing around, though, and so he watch­ es as the wolf-dog flips the black dog onto its head, sending the bone flying out of its jaws. Both dogs leap for it, but this time the wolf-dog is faster by an instant: it grabs the drumstick and the other dog latches onto its throat instead. They're under a streetlight, and Gonzalo can see blood glisten­ ing around the black dog's teeth and in its matted neck fur; it's a tie, he decides, they should share the bone. Instead, though, the wolf-dog clubs the

other with its heavy front paw and the black dog falls away. It twists in the shadow, trying to lick the cuts between its shoulder blades as the wolfdog gulps the bone down in two huge snapping bites. When the wolf-dog has finished eating, they both shake themselves and lope, almost together, down the street. Gonzalo twists to watch them and to look for the micro, which of course isn't coming, and when he turns back there's a woman standing in front of him.

she asks, and leans over to rub his arms, giving Gonzalo a perfect view down her shirt to her tetas spilling out of her white lace bra. He doesn't want to look, and he doesn't want to compare her body to Maqueta's, to imagine how different and new her breasts would feel in his hands, but he does, and even as the blood rushes between his legs he feels a knot settling in the hollow of his throat. "I don't mind the cold much," he says.

"Can I help you?" he asks politely, and she

"Well, I just hate it. Look, why don't we go somewhere warm, just for a little while?" She

purrs, "I don't know, m'ijo, can you?" and he

cocks a thinly plucked eyebrow at Gonzalo, and

knows immediately that she's a whore. He's a little surprised—Quillota's a quiet town, and a conser­

he raises one back at her and realizes with a sud­ den rush of adrenaline that he wants to say yes.

vative one even by Chilean standards, and so the

It's been a long day and he's annoyed with the

putas generally stay inside and let men come to

teenagers across the plaza and waiting for the micro and the bus breakdown and traveling, and

them. Gonzalo went to a brothel once, the night he graduated from high school, and he remembers

he wants to go with Yesica, if that's even her real

the girl he was with that time looking a lot like this

name, and clear his head for two or three lucas.

one: same glossy black hair, same heart-shaped

Still, he's a married man, and so he says, "I'm sor­

mouth, same hungry eyes, and same huge chest.

He knows it's been thirteen years and she must

ry, but I'm waiting for the micro, remember? I have to stay in the plaza."

be saggy and worn out by now, but something in

"Oh, my room's just above the empanaderia,"

him insists that this is the same woman, and so he asks, "What's your name?"

she says, pointing across the street at a brightly

"Yesica." It's not her, of course, and his chest tightens sadly. "What's yours?"

"I'm Gonzalo."

"Well, Gonzalo,"—she stretches his name out, breathing through the vowels—"what are you do­ ing out here all alone?"

"Waiting for the micro to Limache."

"All the way to Limache? That could be hours, and you'll get so cold! Aren't you cold already?"

lit shop with a blackboard in the window listing the twenty different kinds of empanada they have that day. "You'd be able to see the micro out the

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window easily."

"Well, all right," Gonzalo says slowly, still look-

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ing at the empanaderia instead of into Yesica's

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face. She puts her long-nailed thumb under his

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chin delicately and tips his face towards hers; he expects her to kiss him and isn't sure whether

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he'd like her to or not, but instead, she says, "Are

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Del Maguey you hungry?" He nods and suddenly thinks: this can be my test—I'll get an empanada, buy one for her too, and if the micro doesn't come while we're eating, I'll go up to her room for a little bit. Then it's C/5 O just chance, and chance is fair. Besides, I'll make it fast with her, and then I'll be better, slower, for O 05 Maqueta tonight. "Let's go get empanadas," he says, standing up. "My treat."

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There's only one person working this late at the

Digital Photography

empanaderfa, an old woman who speaks with a southern Chilean accent and collapses her face into a pouchy scowl when they come in, but she brings them empanadas—de queso for Yesica, de pino for Gonzalo—still hot from the oven and tells them without inflection to have a nice night.

"Sad old bag," Yesica comments as they step back outside, crunching into her empanada hun­ grily. Ropes of white cheese stretch between the

dough and her mouth, smearing her lipstick and

but the doors stay open and he grabs the rail on

leaving a trail of grease on her chin; her appetite attracts Gonzalo, and he bites into his own em-

the side of the micro with his greasy hand and swings himself inside, and as soon as he's firmly

panada, wanting to finish it quickly. The filling is

on the stairs the driver closes the door and shifts

different from the pino that Maqueta makes—the olives and eggs and raisins are chopped into the

into gear. "Thank you," Gonzalo pants, "thank you very much, senor," and the man smiles and says,

ground beef instead of mixed in whole—and he

"All the way to Limache, no?"

doesn't like it as much, but it's more than good enough for right now. He closes his eyes for a mo­

"That's right," Gonzalo says, slipping a tenpeso coin into the fare box. "How'd you guess?"

ment to enjoy it, a habit of his with both food and

"You lived closer in, you wouldn't have run like

sex, and when he opens them the micro to Limache is at the far end of the plaza.

that." He laughs, and as Gonzalo settles into a

For a split second Gonzalo is angry, wishes it had come twenty minutes earlier or twenty min­

seat he pictures himself sprinting to the micro, how desperate he must have looked—how des­ perate he was. He glances out the foggy win­

utes later, but before the thought's even formed

dow and sees Yesica curled on a bench with

he's already running towards the micro. He can hear Yesica chasing after him, high heels clacking,

her shoulders hunched and chin tucked in like a cat, watching something in front of her. At first he

calling out with her mouth full, "Wait, we haven't

can't see what she's looking at, but as the bus

had any fun yet," but he ignores her. The driver

rounds the corner the headlights sweep over the

is already flickering the headlights, signaling that

plaza and Gonzalo sees the black dog and the wolf-dog fighting again. The wolf-dog has some­

he's about to start, and Gonzalo flails his arms and makes himself run faster, knowing that this is

thing clenched tightly in its jaws and is whipping

the last one to Limache for the night. If he doesn't

its shoulders back and forth to shake off the black

get on this micro, he won't get to be with Maqu­ eta tonight. He won't get to wake his daughters

animal's hackles. They're moving in a slow, shaky

up early in the morning to juice oranges and fry

circle, and as they come close to Yesica she

eggs for them like he always does on Saturdays.

stretches, stands, and knees the black dog off the J

He'll have to spend the night in a whore's room

wolf-dog. Both of them run away, past the micro ^ and into the street, and as they go by Gonzalo G)

above the Quillota plaza, and now he can't believe

dog, which has dug its teeth deep into the bigger w

that he ever wanted to go there at all. He can see

sees his half-eaten empanada gripped in the wolf- o

into the micro now, and he waves his arms to at­ tract the driver's attention in the rearview mirror.

dog's teeth. Yesica looks at them and then at the o micro and Gonzalo waves at her half-heartedly;

The half-eaten empanada flies out of his grasp,

she doesn't wave back, but from the look on her face he's sure that she noticed.

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social capital

by Alejandra Ceja

Mine is somewhat rigid, frizzy, and difficult to manage.

Hers is light, soft, and TV-commercial shiny.

The early unforgiving light exposes my tired eyes and groggy demeanor.

I slouch with a bag of books plastered on my back, apathetic but on edge.

She walks around erect, her long hair blowing in the wind, a tiny bag sitting on her shoulder...

Her head held high, she exudes confidence with every second of her existence.

With her petite figure and designer jacket, she is a sight to behold by every hormone-crazed, single-minded male on campus.

She causes double takes, stares...

And I just scowl.

Caring only of my caffeine withdrawals and pressing assignments, I walk past her.

I look down at my penguin suit of a jacket and the jeans I probably wore not too long ago.

I am conscious of my wide hips with every stride I take, my unkempt hair, my out of place face, and my wearing boots.

And suddenly ... I am transformed into an alternate reality, The place behind the looking glass perhaps?

I envision my life as different, as easy, as the one she probably had.

Personal tutors, expensive cars, nannies she learned cute phrases of Spanish from.

Her perfect, worry free world...

But while I strive to make connections, she has them handed to her on a silver platter.

While she has trust funds, I have an apron I wear until my face turns pink.

While she has the social capital, I have the social stigma.

Memorial a los Detenidos Desaparecidos de

Fox-Hodess | Digital Photography

You see she is the girl that has it all, while I have very little.

Her name is Sally or Sue or Megan, while mine is hard to pronounce and underlined in red on the computer.

In falling down rabbit holes and meeting the mad of this world, I find then that I see blonde hair instead of brown. white skin instead of brown skin.

And then I see that girl who seems to have it all together, The same prototype of girl I come across most days, And suddenly she is plastered on the cover of every movie of my childhood.

I see that girl who has it all,

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and I realize that as a little girl, she was what I envisioned me being.

But yet, that girl is not me. And I am angry I ever wanted it to be.

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A flash of insight, this world crashes to an end,

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I see how unjust these differences can be, And I realize

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most days, I'm not just fine with it being that way.

winter out

by Ayoosh Pareek When I am with you, Every second is like The warmth Of the best cup of tea.

Summer is in me now, Orange colored autumn leaves My insides.

Some mornings are so foggy, even the mountains don't know where they are Jan Bruder | Digital Photography

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shadow of shame

by Esther Escotto Let there be light where there was shame And its shadow shall be lifted and raised up And it will stretch and writhe itself In sodden and broken pieces, it will fall to the ground Where crevices that harbored the eveil will welcome its own

ya no queda nada

by Juan Ruiz

Ya no queda nada sino recuerdos y memorias de amores ciegos, trayectorias de horas congeladas, pasmadas.

Ya no queda nada sino los vientos y los truenos que atormentaron nuestros suerios y vaciaron tu mirada.

Cantan las fantasias del pasado del olor de las hortensias y van corrompiendo mi demencia con su brio porfiado.

Las lunas blancas adornan mi soledad; el Eden que sonaba con alcanzar y al que me humillo esperar no irrumpe nada sino la verdad.

a las horas del agua

by Sara Mann

Me dijiste una vez que estaba todo dentro de la palabra. Extranar: la exportacion de las entranas fuera del cuerpo.

insectos, como agua. Sigue hasta la garganta, el estomago. Te encuentras a ti mismo en un lugar seco, esteril. Un hospital.

Cuando extranas, me dijiste, habras dejado una parte de ti misma en el lugar que ya no tienes; el lugar que tal vez, por lo que sepas, ya no existe.

Existiras en dos pianos: en el cuerpo que te sigue, y en un pasado que asciende a una diapositiva de ti misma.

Contemplas esa frase que me escribiste alguna vez, la doble lejania. La lejania, el lugar que parece inalcanzable y tambien el espacio entre ese lugar y vos. El lugar que anoras, el lugar tan imposible que se separa de tu cuerpo. Y la doble lejania: algo infinito aumentado. Como multiplicar cero por cero por cero, y en vez de terminar con el mismo cero, encontrar campos y desiertos de trigo seco y una garganta como carton magullado de los intentos de gritar cuando nadie te pudo escuchar.

El proceso empieza antes de la ruptura. Los rasgos de la falta que viene se plantean en tus pasos por la vereda, en tus pensamientos sobre el grafiti en las paredes de los edificios, en las palabras de la ciudad y en tus mismas palabras. ^Cuanto tiempo falta para que me vaya? te preguntas. Cada dfa, escuchas que la respuesta disminuye. Un poco mas de dos meses. Dos meses. Un mes. Una semana. Tres dfas. Una hora. Treinta segundos. El tiempo que intentas sostener en la mano se convierte en corazones de manzanas tiradas.

Quizas entonces experimentes la sensacion del brote de la llanura dentro de tus miembros. La sensacion corre por tus manos, como hilos vacfos que se escurren en la ruta de tus venas. Como

Me dijiste una vez que tus sentimientos eran como el agua, que no los solias enmarcar. No entraban en vasos. Lo que tenias, me dijiste, era una pecera rota, el agua y los jirones de vidrio nadando por todos lados, inundando la casa.

Me parece que al final, esta todo ahf, frente a tus pies metidos en los centimetres de agua que cubre el suelo de tu casa. El agua te deja ver la ausencia como si fuera una presencia. Y quieres sentir tus pies mojados, sin motivo sino para saber que estan ahf.

tus manos

by Rocio Bravo

Veo tus manos morenas, quemadas por el sol, y me recuerdan quien eres tu y quien soy yo.

Son tus manos, chapeadas con manchas obscuras las que cuentan mi historia, nuestra historia.

Siento tus manos y siento su fortaleza, como las raices que sostienen la grandeza de un arbol.

Sostengo tus manos y siento su suavidad, como la arena caliente junto al mar bajo el sol.

Son tus manos las que me han ayudado a seguir adelante, a nunca darme por vencida.

Porque fueron tus manos las que me detuvieron cuando empezaba a caminar.

Fueron tus manos las que me despidieron cuando me dejaste en la universidad.

Tus manos, cansadas de trabajar, son simbolo de los obstaculos que has tenido que pasar.

Tus manos, cubiertas con cicatrices, son muestra de tus luchas y de tiempos dificiles.

Porque han sido tus manos las que han piscado uva, fresa, mora y trabajado bajo el ardiente sol para darme a mi lo mejor.

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Han sido tus manos las que han injertado rosales para cambiarlos de color, y a pesar de las espinas que te han hecho sangrar, no cuentas de tu dolor.

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Papa, veo tus manos- quemadas, manchadas, cicatrizadas- y se quien soy.

Mama y su pajarillo | Andrea McWilliams | Digital Photography

Y tanto te lo debo a ti, Porque me has ensenado a luchar, a sonar y a vivir.

Porque han sido tus manos las que nunca me han dejado sola Las que, cuando me gradue, merecen junto a mi recibir ese diploma.

Gracias papa, por lo que me has dado, por las raices que me has inculcado.

Lo que tengo hoy es por ti, y espero que siempre recuerdes que eres valorado.

Papa, no te preocupes, que ahi la llevamos Y un dia, te comprare esa casa grande, y ya no tendran que trabajar tus manos.

sin ti

by Rocio Bravo

Que soledad que siento Esta soledad que me no deja ser La que me acompana sin querer Que soledad que no me deja ser feliz Porque miento al decir que estoy bien Y sonrio sin sentir Que soledad la que empana mis suenos La que me quita mis ilusiones E invade mis deseos Esta soledad me atormenta al dormir Cuando el silencio llena la noche Y la obscuridad me recuerda que no estas aquf Que soledad la que llena mi corazon Que se aduena de mi cuerpo A mi mente le quita la razon. w O O CO

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I heard the ocean call my name

by Margie Lane

I heard the ocean call my name.

With the excitement of childhood, My heart answered with a wild beat.

As fast as life would let me, I rushed to her side.

Leaving behind all that controlled what I did, I brought with me only what was me.

Bubbling with the joy of seeing an old friend, I reached to touch her hand.

Reaching back for me with frothy fingers, she tickled my toes.

I danced back out of range just to tease.

Then—teaser that she is—she surged forward to tickle me once more, up to m\ At her side I am as ageless as she is.

We are very young and very old, together at one time.

She shares with me secrets of all time.

I share with her secrets of my life.

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los paraguas del mar

by Sara Mann

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En esa epoca todos vivfamos el viento severo que perseguia tu a la deriva en paraguas sobre paraguas. Tus jeans gastados, el mar. El agua estaba llena jaspeados con llovizna. Te ofreci de paraguas y paraguas, el borde de mi paraguas para todos blancos y puestos que te estabilizaras. "Gracias," sobre la superficie boca abajo me dijiste. Tu voz me parecia como tazas de te. Algunos haber llegado de lejos. viajeros boyaban dentro de sus paraguas en grupos de dos, o La corriente dejo que flotaras de tres o de cuatro. Algunos cerca de mi en las estaciones se movian empujados por la que venfan.

Como siempre corriente. Yo flotaba solo. A en esa epoca de paraguas, veces la corriente me alejaba ninguno de los dos sabfamos de las masas de paraguas y por donde ibamos, pero el agua me dejaba girando en la bruma. debajo de tu paraguas por el Ninguno sabfa adonde nos momento estaba tranquila. Nos dirigiamos. vefamos de vez en cuando.

Por las noches humedas, a Hacfa un tiempo ya que yo veces nuestros rayos de metal giraba asf, solo, cuando te me se tropezaban, y por unos acercaste. Una oleada habia instantes mi paraguas enlazaba agarrado tu paraguas, y venias con el tuyo. Nos mirabamos con el pelo mojado y las manos a los ojos. Jugabamos cartas apretando el mango como para para ocuparnos. Tirabas reyes salvarte la vida. Recuerdo tus y ases desde tu paraguas al cejas- Tus meJillas coloradas por mio, las cartas cortando el aire

y salteando el agua y el alga marina entre nosotros. Siempre me ganabas. Un dfa te agarre la mano cuando estabas por coleccionar la baraja. Los dos paraguas quedaron quietos. "^Cuanto faltara para que te vayas?" Te pregunte. "^Como podrfamos saber?" Me habia acostumbrado a tu voz de lejos.

Una madrugada sone con que habia una visitante en mi paraguas. Pense que sentia los puntos de sus dedos tocandome la espalda.

Me desperte de repente. Caian sobre mi espalda unas gotas de agua tibia. Mi paraguas se habia inclinado un poco, como si estuviera preparandose para mecer. Por la tarde, los vientos aumentaron. Se movian paraguas y paraguas, miles de

paraguas en la lejania. Gritaste mi nombre. Tu paraguas tambien habia empezado a moverse. Nos despedimos con gestos.

Despues de que te fuiste, los cuerpos dentro de los paraguas que me rodeaban empezaron a desaparecerse. Veia paraguas blancas flotando a mi lado y algunas veces escuche voces conversando, una risa, un llanto—pero cuerpos no habia.

Te querfa encontrar, pero no sabia navegar.

Ninguno de nosotros, de todos de nosotros en el mar, sabia navegar.

El Sueno (Memorial a Violeta Parra) | Ana Fox-Hodess Enamel

Mi paraguas volvio a girar en las aguas profundas. Durante las tormentas del verano, a veces pensaba en encontrarte.

Pensaba que quizas algun dia un maremoto vendria y te traeria

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SOMOS editorial staff Editor-in-Chief Kimberly Arredondo '11 Art/Photography Editor AlexTudela '10 Layout Editor Andrea McWilliams '12 Publicity Director David Hernandez '11 Spanish Editor Pablo Galindo-Payan '13 Portuguese Editor Silvia Dos Santos-Pereira '12 Contributing Editors Alejandra Ceja '12 Bianca Figueroa-Santana '10 Christian Martell '10

Special thanks to: Creative Arts Council, Third World Center, Undergraduate Finance Board, Salsa Ahmed, Mezcla, Student Activities Office

Established in the 1990s, SOMOS represents Latinos and Latino culture through prose, poetry, nonfiction, and visual art. For the spring 2010 issue, SOMOS is proud to bring an eclectic mix of voices and media.

In Lily Meyer's short story "Most of the Way," Gonzalo, a commuter from Limache, Chile, contemplates the youth in Quillota and considers relations with Yesica, a prostitute, while he waits for the bus home. Alejandra Ceja writes about self-image and social stigma in a society that privileges a particular, put-together image. She examines "Social Capital" as she compares herself to a girl whose hair is "light, soft, and TV-commercial shiny."

It is truly amazing to be able to read through the Spanish pieces and realize that this beautiful and dynamic language has a strong presence in the literature written by Brown. In "Las Horas del Agua," Sara Mann considers the meaning of longing. She vividly depicts this

feeling by presenting the idea of "double lejanidad." Rocio Bravo, in "Soledad" and "Sin Ti," conveys the way solitude causes a physical and emotional numbness in one's being and strips the mind of reason. Juan Ruiz's "Ya No Queda Nada," articulates loss, emptiness, and solitude and demonstrates how these feelings are intensified when contrasted with the beautiful memories of the past.

We see that in the this issue's art pieces spring has arrived. Students discover new, interesting perspectives on characteristically spring themes from birds to trees, and created movement with their medium and technique.

SOMOS has expanded this semester, with a growing editorial board and a greater number of copies to release. We are honored to present our Spring 2010 issue of SOMOS. Sincerely, the SOMOS team

[cac] CREATIVE ARTS COUNCIL BROWN UNIVERSITY

The views expressed in this magazine represent those of the authors and artists, and not SOMOS or its staff.