SOMOS Spring 2011

SOMOS l a t i n o

l i t e r a r y

m a g a z i n e

c a a n " O n e s i d e a n d t <* o o c

s p r i n g

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Color Study Octopus Alessandra Castillo '13 Oil on canvas

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SOMOS l a t i n o

l i t e r a r y

s p r i n g

m a g a z i n e

2 0 1 1

Representing Latinos and Latino culture through prose, poetry, nonfiction, and visual art

SPRING 2011

Letter from the Editors Established in 1990, SOMOS Latino Literary Magazine offers students the opportunity to share their culture and experiences through prose, poetry, and visual art. SOMOS is proud to be a medium for the Latino voice, and for the past four semesters our graduating seniors have worked restlessly to increase the quality of the magazine and the visibility of our organization. This issue is particularly significant because it acts as their farewell and as a testament that their hard work set the precedent for the future growth of the magazine.

Adrianna Salazar's "A Race Unfinished" uses powerful im­ agery to embody the historical struggle for the territory that was taken by "the hands of white real-estate reapers." Her poem brings to light issues that are a source of historical tension and speak to the struggle of the contemporary Latin community.

The Spanish pieces explore a multitude of themes and topics.

The simple and powerful love of a grandmother is the focus of Phoebe Romero's "El Arrullo," and Felipe Umana's "Mi querida Abuelita." And Felipe Valencia describes a young woman's life-changing journey to her country of origin in his short story: "Escritorio del choco."

Our Portuguese submission provides a touch of nostalgia through natural metaphors and vivid imagery. Written by Anthony Urena, a student that has recently returned from a semester abroad in Brazil, "Pena de ouro" delicately paints images full of sentiment and human emotions.

The growth of SOMOS over the past year has allowed us to work alongside a growing number of Latino Brown University visual artists in addition to reaching a wider and increasingly diverse body of readers. The visual art builds upon on the written works found within.

We are honored to present our Spring 2011 issue of SOMOS.

SOMOS Staff Editor-in-Chief

Pablo Calindo-Payan '13

Publicity Director

Kimberly Arredondo '/1

Layout/Design Editor

Andrea McWilliams '12

Art Director

David Hernandez '/ 7

Spanish Editor

luan Carranza '12

Portuguese Editors

Siliva Gondim Dos Santos-Pereira '12 Camila Moraes '7 7.5

Contributing Editor

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Julio Reyes '12

SOMOS

Table of Contents Art & Phtography Color Study Octopus, Alessandra Castillo

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Wings II (Tierra y Libertad), David Hernandez

5

Puerta, Mark Burwick

7

Cidade maravilbosa, Elizabeth Gonzalez

9

Big Blue (Portrait of Ben), David Hernandez

10

Portrait of Julie, Mark Burwick

13

Heart of the City (Self-Portrait), David Hernandez

14

Dark Hummingbird, Allesandra Castillo

16

Pico Naiguata, Mark Burwick

17

Untitled, Esther Escotto

79

Las hermanas, Yanely Espinal

20

Dawn, Angel Mojarro

23

Break, Mark Burwick

24

Barcode, Monica Sanchez

26

Palapa, Roxana Gonzalez

29

Terror and Erebus, Mark Burwick

31

Slow Motion, Francis Gonzales

32

Asimiliationnation, Alejo Stark

32

Newport Polo, Angel Mojarro

b

Poetry & Prose El ascensor, Lizette Chaparro

4

El arrullo, Phoebe Romero

5

Untitled, Nicole P&rrish

6

The Neighbor, Antonia Angress

8

Penadeouro, Anthony Urena

77

Virus, Carmen Moedano

12

Escritorio del choco, Felipe Valencia

15

Won't You Take Your Socks Off?, Ayoosh Pareek

78

Untitled, Rocio Bravo

27

Velas, Carlos Aramayo

22

Mi querida Abuelita, Felipe Umana

25

Canto, Anthony Urena

27

All Too Familiar, Kristina Acevedo

28

A Race Unfinished, Adrianna Salazar

30

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SPRING 2011

El ascensor

by Lizette Chaparro '12

Cada viaje en ese ascensor fue la parte mas

tomabamos el ascensor casi todos los dfas.

espantosa de mi dfa.

En anos previos, habfa tenido el privilegio y la fortuna de pararme en ascensores bellfsimos, con

La verdad es que cada vez que estabamos los do; en ese ascensor, mi unico deseo era que dejara de

funcionar. Querfa quedarme allf con el y dejar que I;

espejos en el interior, llenos de luces que lo hacen

verdad saiga silenciosamente como resultado de una

ver a uno como modelo. Una voz automaticamente

sola mirada.

anunciaba que habfa llegado al "piso siete, floor

Creo que existfa en el un deseo similar porque

seven". Luego las puertas elegantes se abrfan con

cuando nos dimos cuenta que podfamos apagar la

gracia mientras yo me despedfa de mi reflexion

luz del ascensor, el tomo la costumbre de apagarla.

embellecida.

Tambien habfa visto ascensores viejos y

La primera vez que lo hizo, me ref, pero pronto me c

cuenta que era cosa seria. Nos quedabamos callado

deteriorados. De los que tienen capa tras capa de

y mirabamos hacia arriba. Parados debajo del hueco

pintura para cubrir las proclamaciones de amor escritas

contemplabamos la luz del sol mientras el ascensor;

con marcadores negros. Los que tienen insultos que

demoraba.

han sido grabados solamente con el filo de una Have y ira pura.

Pense que lo habfa visto todo y que nada me podia sorprender, pero este ascensor fue algo especial. Tenfa

Y luego llegabamos a nuestro piso y se nos terminaba el momento. Segufamos en rumbo con el dfa, manteniendo la promesa secreta de nunca decir nada a nadie.

la desgracia de ser el mas terrible. La puerta se movfa

La ultima vez que tuvimos uno de esos episodios

lentamente, como si estaba tartamudeando, o como

fue por la noche. No habfan luces a las cuales

si querfa decir, "ya no. hoy me rindo." La pintura le

podfamos mirar. El se me acerco y apago el bombillc

habfa ganado a la puerta, ya que se habfa rendido

Por un breve instante, mientras su brazo paso por

hace tiempo. Se podfan ver las previas capas en cada

el mfo, vacilo. Nuestros dedos se conocieron por

pared. Y encima de todo esto, un dfa tuvo que haber

primera vez. Y por primera vez, me enamore. No du

una crisis de botones porque habfan seis botones que

mas que dos segundos y el comenzo a alejarse de m

pretendfan llevarlo a uno al piso ocho.

Me despedf en ese entonces de aquella emocion. Nc

Nos habfan alertado: ese ascensor paraba de

quedamos en un silencio que nunca habfa durado

funcionar frecuentemente. Incluso, el techo no estaba

tanto tiempo.

completo; tenfa un hueco que servfa como salida de

Ese fue el susto mas grande que tuve en ese

emergencia. Pero como vivfamos en el piso catorce,

ascensor.

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SOMOS

Wings II (Tierra y Libertad) David Hernandez ' 11 Graphite on paper

El arrullo

by Phoebe Romero ' /

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Escucha el arrullo de su abuela, Como la cancion de un hada desde su estrella.

Y mientras que ahora es solo una beba, Un dia crecera como yo, Una nina adulta; paradoja viviente, En gran falta de el la.

Un dia sera como yo, Cerrara sus ojos y pensara en el la, Y en el arrullo de nuestra querida abuela.

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SPRING 2011

Untitled.

by Nicole Parrish '12

When she dances it's difficult to tell whether the brilliance comes from spotlights on sequined skirts and sateen slippers or from her smile.

She danced until she could stand no longer— reached up on her toes, on legs that never end, until she could reach no more.

Dressed like a flower that worships the very sun above, her dancing made us feel God in our veins.

It was the way she channeled her soul to the rest of us.

Yes, she swayed face upturned to heaven dreaming for something more.

She danced past sores until her pink pointe shoes turned red.

Red to match rouge lipstick makes her mouth seem all the bigger, and her eyes smiled with it.

The way she moved could stop royal courts echo reminders that there is something more to our worlds; with soft step and warm gaze, she pirouetted around injustice and true love swirling them together & sentenced us to undeniable admiration.

Yes, her dancing made us feel God in our veins.

Her promenade stitched each piece of me together and final bow declared me to the world her 'preciosa' Si, su baile me hizo sentir Dios en mis venas.

En mis manos En mis suefios... faint^nd^a^lid^6 '

tC> never wake

from, but I encounter her with eyes red now and lips

She has hidden from the sun for so long.

Some days, she looks in the mirror and thinks... this... is not where she imagined she would be.

Some days, she wakes up and wishes she were still asleepsleep the only stage left upon which she can continue her dance.

For waking life is far too heavy and walking so much a burden, but the sun demands she rise.

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SOMOS

Puerta Mark Burwick '12 Oil on canvas

She lets me bury my head into shoulders warped with dark knots from nature's mistakes rendered tender, joints can scarcely hold my heavy heart.

But she barely says a word, just cries sun-drop tear stains.

She holds me close and calls me 'preciosa' while my own tears rust closed locks around her sequined skirts, her sateen slippers, and the key long bartered with time for my future.

She dances sacrifice in her palms and reminds me God still courses in me.

I remember the day her smile wore away and flower's sun betrayed stained deep brown tear drops on her cheeks.

Her tears unravel me.

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SPRING 2011

The Neighbor

by Antonia Angress '12

I grew up in a little white house between amidst a

tantrum-prone muchacha terrible with unruly ever-

field of banana trees whose fruit never ripened and a

uncombed hair. A devil-child. When I misbehaved,

wide expanse of guarias moradas, purple orchids that

Karla pinched me. My hands were forever dotted with

bloomed only in April. My next door neighbors—who

little red spots. Out of sheer childish malice, I pinched

were also the landlords—were severe, hard-working,

David when she wasn't looking. His face scrunched

and devout Catholics. The husband was a taciturn

up and he wailed pathetically, and though I always

dairy farmer and the wife was a cook at a nearby pri­

felt guilty afterwards, I could not bring myself to stop.

vate school. They were the kind of Catholics that got

When I was in the third grade, all my classmates

up at six on Sundays, week after week, and walked

were preparing for their first communion. For a while

three miles to mass. The kind that held prayer circles

I was too embarrassed to ask what that was, exactly.

when a church member was sick, that said "que

My father finally explained that it was something like

Dios te bendiga" when they passed me on my way

a bar mitzvah, although that was nearly even more

to school. And I, bleary-eyed, heavy-footed, starched

mysterious because my parents had given up on He­

navy uniform stretched tightly over my flat chest and

brew school after I had thrown a tantrum in the lobby

buttoned up to my chin, dutifully replied "gracias

of Templo de Jerusalen. I was scared of God. I secretly

senor, gracias senora, que Dios los bendiga tambien."

believed I was a sinner, and my classmates, noticing

Although after so many years, the words began to run

my absence in catechism, were quick to confirm this fear.

together like the ink in a Bible that has been smudged a thousand times by a thousand people. Diotebengi-

Karla helped me braid my hair in the mornings

dasenora, Diosbengidasenor, Diosbengida, queteben-

before school sometimes. The dark dawn ritual: the

digasenora.

comb running through my curls, snagging snarls on its

We moved to the little white house when my

journey down.

brother and I were too tiny to walk. My father, the

You're hurting me, you're hurting me.

eldest son of haggard German-Jewish immigrants,

"Are you going to catechism today?" Karla asked

brought his young wife to a country where they did

me, and yanked the comb, and yanked it, and again, and again.

not speak the language. Why? I don't know. Perhaps to spite his parents. Perhaps to emulate them. My

"Yes, yes" I lied. "Ay Karla, me duele."

father arrived at the neighbors' doorstep holding a

She put the comb aside and embraced me from

Spanish-English dictionary in one hand and a map

behind and met my eyes in the mirror. Olive skin

of the town in the other. My mother, pale-lipped and

brushing olive skin, dark hair fading into dark hair.

jet-lagged, grasped his arm a little too tightly, cast­

The doughy roundness of her belly pressed up against

ing frightened eyes around the unfamiliar land. The

my jutting spine. She was not much older than me,

neighbors did not know what to make of us, but we

but there stretched between us a gaping chasm of

stayed anyway.

unimaginable depth and blackness. She stood on one

My neighbors had a daughter, a pleasantly round-

side and I stood on the other, and we thought we

faced girl named Karla. She often babysat my brother

could see each other clearly, but it was really just a

and me when we were young. I was always jealous

trick of the light. Sometimes I felt as though she was

then because my little brother David was the one

trying to coax me across, and although it looked invit­

she cooed and fussed over, the blond one with the

ing where she stood, my legs were frozen, and I could not jump.

dimpled limbs and the shadows of freckles on his wide-open face. I was the black-eyed one, the dirty,

That day I came home from school on the early

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SOMOS

Cidade maravilhosa Elizabeth Gonzalez ' 12 Digital Photography bus, empty of its usual chatter and chaos because half

seemed to change. David's once-dimpled limbs

the children were at catechism. Sitting beside me,

sprouted long and lean, and his freckles faded into the

David pressed the buttons on his Game Boy. His hair

background of his lengthening face, and his downy

was darkening but it would never be quite as dark as

hair darkened to a chestnut brown, but he was always

mine. I stumbled home from school and cried and

her favorite, her golden boy from a strange land, her

gravely told my mother I was a sinner. She laughed

machito Undo.

and said, "You are not a sinner, you are just Jewish."

During Christmastime one year when David and I

I sullenly watched my hips fill out and my breasts begin to bud, and when that happened, my neighbors

were still kids, Karla stepped across the sea of guarias

thought I was a sinner because I brought boys home

moradas and came into our house. Ignoring the me-

and kissed them shamelessly, ravenously in the sea

norah in the corner of the living room, she presented

of purple orchids that lay patiently waiting to bloom

us with a hand-painted nativity scene. A wooden

between our houses. One afternoon during the height

baby Jesus, a Mary, and a Joseph, plus a lamb and a donkey, all smiling beatifically.

"I don't like dolls anymore," I told my father, but I said it in English so Karla couldn't understand me.

"Don't be ungrateful," my father snapped.

of the scorching dry season, I lost my virginity, to my faint surprise, in the stifling silence of my dimly lit bedroom while Karla and her mother raked leaves outside my window.

"Ay, me duele," I whispered to the boy, but my

"Gracias," he said, turning to Karla.

muffled words were drowned out by the scratching of

David danced around the living room, chanting,

the rakes against the dark defiant earth.

"Ungrateful, you're ungrateful, ungrateful, ungrateful," until my mother yelled at him to stop.

My father helped David set the nativity scene up

Scritch, scratch, scritch, scratch. You're hurting me.

Outside, the rake dragged its fingers through the

in his bedroom, and at his insistence, it remained

dirt and I whined in pain. I knew Karla could hear

there year-round, much to our neighbors' puzzlement.

me. I pinched the boy's bare back, hard, so that he

In time we grew up, David and I, but Karla never

would cry out and she could hear him too.

9

SPRING 2011

Big Blue (Portrait of Ben) David Hernandez '11 Watercolor and Crayon on paper

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SOMOS

Pena de ouro

by Anthony Ureha '12

As noites sao frias e estamos sozinhos Uriidos por sonhos que criamos No pouco tempo que passamos dormindo.

Ate que o sol brilha sobre o mundo abaixo.

No topo da arvore mais alta O passaro pode ver o seu lar E todos que partilham-no.

Separados pela distancia de uma historia Nao ha tempo suficiente para contar quantos passos dei Para entender o que se sente enquanto se voa.

Sua cangao muda brevemente Tons desvanecendo Enquanto resplendor danga sobre seu bico afiado.

O sol dorme mais do que eu E no seu sono eu ougo uma musica da saudade Assobiando por meio de um coragao solitario.

A luz brilhante abre os olhos E enquanto ele observa a terra Ele acorda de um sonho.

Nas profundezas das arvores subindo acima de mim Reside um passarinho tao orgulhoso Penas de ouro em asas negras.

A musica que ele cantava era a de esperanga Pelo fim da solidao De uma forma familiar.

Certamente seus olhos viram muito com o passar de cada dia Pois ele descansa tranqiiilamente no topo da mais alta das arvores Olhos fechados e penas erigadas para se manter aquecido.

Uma maravilha de se ver Uma criagao tao divina Ciume ocultado na esteira do seu voo.

E ainda assim a beleza nao e suficiente Rara liberar a vontade engaiolada Do passaro solitario.

Ele canta uma musica todas as noites Com a mesma melodia Ao mesmo tempo.

Por horas ele vai derramar nota sobre nota Chorando pelo amanhecer

Em seus sonhos ele ve uma figura e comega a cantar suas memorias, Cada som acompanhando seu desejo esquecido.

Mas, como ele acorda para a realidade do dia, Ele abraga o silencio E voa mais uma vez.

Ele nunca acorda com seu amante ao seu lado Pois se ele estivesse la, O canto teria cessado.

Mas a cangao do passarinho ainda ressoa clara a cada noite Com o mesmo torn Ao mesmo tempo.

E ainda me pergunto se voce pensa nisso tambem.

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SPRING 2011

Virus

by Carmen Moedano '12

El virus existe.

Una mascara no te protegera.

El virus te infectara cuando menos lo esperes; La infeccion durara anos aunque resistes.

La inyeccion no causara dolor.

Sera la sensacion de la infeccion Corriendo por tus venas, Que te quemara En manera intolerable.

El Virus existe.

Armadura no te protegera.

El insecto que te inyecto se llevara sangre tuya.

El insecto que te inyecto se llevara una porcion de tu alma.

El insecto vivira en paz Sin enterarse del dano que dejo atras.

No tiene sentido intentar venganza al pobre insecto Solo esperar con paciencia La cicatriz.

12

SOMOS

Portrait of Julie Mark Burwick ' 11 Oil on canvas

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SPRING 2011

Heart of the City (SelfPortrait) David Hernandez '11 Graphite on paper

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SOMOS

Escritorio del choco

by Felipe Valencia Ph.D '15

Lisa vive en una casa blanca, relativamente pequefia pero comoda, en un canton cualquiera de la Suiza-alemana. Theo, su unico hermano es tan bueno como ingenuo, no se sabe si por cuestion de genetica o debido a la educacion que ha recibido por parte de sus padres. Herr Gustav es un empleado bancario de segundo orden y su mujer, una senora grande con cuerpo y movimientos de ballena que se pasea mayormente en la casa excepto cuando ejerce como ayudante en las misas protestantes de los sabados.

Lisa es suiza de pasaporte, aunque en el fondo sabe que con este pais no comparte sino el idioma y la educacion que sus "padres" le han tratado de inculcar a punta de mucho esfuerzo. El los ven en ella la compama perfecta para Theo y una solucion de familia despues de las recomendaciones medicas que recibio Misia Mathilda luego de su primer parto tardi'o. Lisa comparte con el los la mesa, la casa y ha aprendido, mas por costumbre que por sentimiento, a llamarlos familia.

El viajefue primero idea de Mathilda, quien inspirada por las misiones humanitarias de su congregacion, no tuvo problema en convencer primero a su marido y mucho menos a sus hijos -el de 18 y ella de 17. Ir a Colombia, al fin y al cabo, era algo que tendrfan que hacer tarde que temprano, en honor a Lisa y, por que no, como placer exotico que aliviara la monotonia de los horarios bancarios de Herr Gustav.

Con las vacaciones escolares y algunos ahorros familiares modestos, no fue problema llegar a Co­ lombia, vfa Basilea-Madrid-Bogota. Lo que sf resulto complicado fue llegar al caserfo en el Departamento del Choco, en donde decfan los certificados de adopcion habia nacido Lisa.

Huerfana de padre y madre por causa del conflicto armado, Elisa Katherine Rondon Mosquera "Lisa" no tenfa sino recuerdos lejanos del corregimiento que ahora recorrfa. Un pueblo humilde, mas bien pobre, pero tambien limpio y ahora seguro. Un sitio donde solo comen pescado, segun Theo, un lugar con gente piadosa, segun Mathilda y un municipio sin siquiera una sucursal bancaria, segun Herr Gustav.

Pero para Lisa, las casas con pilotes, la vista al rfo, la humedad, y el olor a pescado y vegetacion despertaron sensaciones inusitadas. Reencontrarse con su tierra, habiendo crecido en una ajena, iba mucho mas alia de la falta evidente de comodidades materiales.

De la misma manera, reencontrarse con un unico primo hermano, de quien por anos habfa guardado una foto como talisman en su billetera, desperto en ella un caudal de emociones inconmensurable. Hablando mas por senas y con los ojos, que con palabras de un espanol correcto pero oxidado, Lisa y Ruben se entendieron a la perfeccion.A la presentacion formal y la cena en familia (otra vez pescado) en un restaurante tfpico, siguieron una salida nocturna de los dos primos a solas, a punta de chirimfa, algo de cerveza y aguardiente, asf como palabras cada vez mas arriesgadas. Pero no es que Lisa se estuviera enamorando de su primo, aunque no se pudiera negar lo contrario, sino que por su mente empezaron a pasar los planes de fuga, los delirios de escape, y las ideas mas revolucionarias de sus diez y siete anos de vida civilizada y luterana.

El entusiasmo de Ruben, apenas unos anos mayor que ella, solo ayudo a precipitar lo inevitable. Sin el coraje para enfrentarlos personalmente, agradecida, apenada, pero convencida de su destino, Lisa les dejo a sus padres adoptivos la siguiente nota, que Theo primero vio y luego le entrego a sus padres sin leer, como dispondrfan los mejores modales:

Aunque les estoy eternamente agradecida por todo lo que han hecho por ml, considero que es imposible seguir viviendo con ustedes. Un dfa en estas tierras, que son mi verdadero hogar, me han ensehado lo que no habfa podido aprender en 17 a n o s d e a u s e n c i a . P o r favor n o s e p r e o c u p e n p o r m f , pues ya han hecho mas que suficiente. Los extraho y los espero volver a ver algun dfa, Los quiere, Lebewohl, Lisa

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SPRING 2011

Dark Hummingbird Alessandra Castillo '13 Mixed Media

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SOMOS

Pico Naiguata Mark Burwick ' 12 Oil on canvas

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SPRING 2011

Wont you take your socks off?

[Tip toeing temptations still creak when stepped on]

by Ayoosh Pareek '12

I. Walk into Spanish bodegas [because no one knows you there] There you will buy a cheap bottle of beast, uncork the madness that has been plugged up far too long II. this is the first time in a long time the thoughts dripping out of your thinking during gondola rides absorbing the steam of fresh dumplings in Cantonese restaurants I speak in absolutes often and there is nothing better right now than your thoughts surrounding me like roots keeping me anchored into place HI. the city I live in is so magnificent do you want to burn it with me? [until it bleeds skyline blues] and howl at the night sky together, there are beasts within us and we should let them out for a little while IV. do you like how we sat together on the cold floor a couple of days ago, huddling in the shade like two butterflies, or two forks in the dishwasher you can't quite untangle?

1 don't know if our ends were supposed to tie knots V. our attraction is merely conceptual like the theory of fission, we will shake ourselves until we break ourselves and create new people who've learned not to care about the old VI. Even slowly speaking asterisks sounds like aster-risks aster, radiating flower heads of fear risks, you radiating hands out to reach those who might not reach back because it's not words which hold true meaning (it's imagery) and asterisks are at the end of our every exchange endnoting the finish line of our mentality

18

SOMOS

Untitled Esther Escotto Digital Photography

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SPRING 2011

Las hermanas Yanely Espinal '11 Colored Pencil

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Untitled

by Rocio Bravo '10, M.A. '11

These eyes see more than you might think, for they hold secrets no one knows. And if hurt, exchange tears for a blink.

You would see that if detached from my body, my heart is like ore, for it has been torn apart. But continues beating even stronger than before.

These abs are really made of metal, you see, for they have taken life's punches. Never too scared to flee.

And these hips are more than bone, for they have learned to dance without music. And have danced alone.

These knees, scarred and all, are really made of rock, for they have support­ ed me when I could not stand. And transformed my crawl into a walk.

And these feet, these feet are made of gold, for despite it all, they've marched with a steady stride. Always ready, always bold.

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SPRING 2011

Velas

by Carlos Aramayo '14

Coloridas fuentes de deseos, de suplicas y "milagros".

Que dia a dia queman, en pequenos, tristes cuartos.

Monumentos reducidos de la esperanza e ilusion.

Iluminan los deseos, que derrama el corazon.

Parpadeando en el silencio, entre lagrimas y amor.

Las velas lo ven todo, con inmovil atencion.

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SOMOS

Dawn Angel Mojarro ' 11 Digital Photography

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SPRING 2011

Break Mark Burwick '12 Oil on canvas

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SOMOS

Mi querida Abuelita

by Felipe Umafia '11

Desde mis primeras memorias, te quise sin pensario mucho, con tu sonrisa alegre y tu presencia carinosa...eso sf te lo conte, Abuelita.

And your respect for activity and work has become a major facet of who I am, never once idle, or undeservingly so... but that I never told you...

Tus pruebas con el ingles me daban risa, pero nunca una risa irrespetuosa; y como me lo dijiste una vez, tu tambien lo pensabas 'beri fani', no? Jaja...eso sf te dije, Abuelita.

And your cooking—oh, how I loved your cooking! I would always wonder with what magic you prepared, in my mind, your world famous soups... but that I never asked you...

Cuando te contaba de mis planes del futuro, fuiste alguien que jamas los puso en duda; los aceptabas con una sonrisa eterna de orgullo...eso sf te lo agradecf, Abuelita.

And when you visited me across the ocean, did you know that I asked myself where your delicate feet had traveled? Across three continents, through civil strife... but I never inquired further...

Sabes que siempre escribf tu tftulo de abuela con mayuscula? Like the title of a queen, like the title of one whose life impacted the history of the world forever. And that you did. For me.

But I guess you never knew...Oh, but you did.

Because if there is one thing I knew you felt, breathed, saw, lived, it was the adoration and respect I had for you. And you know, Abuelita, it's still there, unfaltering. This...this is for you.

25

SPRING 2011

Barcode Monica Sanchez '13 Digital Print

26

SOMOS

Canto

by Anthony Ureha 72

Otra cancion escondida Tantas palabras desconocidas Perdidas adentro de ti.

Sin alma, sin fe Te digo que nunca te olvides Y te rfes Y te rfes Y me arriesgo a la vergiienza Cada ves que hablo Con la voz Las cenizas de nuestro amor Usadasy inutiles Aclaran las palabras Y me dicen que nunca fueron.

Pero cantare sin embargo Caminare despacio Y recordare Y recordare Y rompere mi corazon Quemando las memorias de un amor que nunca canto.

27

SPRING 2011

All Too Familiar

by Kristina Acevedo '12

At first glance this path looked different.

The rocks were in different places, the trees unrecognizable.

Crashing against the cliff, the sound of the waves brought to life a new melody that ears had not heard.

The ambiance was striking, creating a feeling of solidarity that had nearly gone extinct.

It seemed that here things were different, the pace of time—immeasurable, perception of beauty—indefinable, the prospects of a journey—unpredictable.

To describe this place a peculiar fantasy, would be a criminal understatement.

Its mystical shadows were inviting, its dim rays of light foreboding.

Oh how at first glance this path looked different, how could it have been an illusion? were the rocks arranged at a particular angle? were the trees from a distant land unknown? how could the sounds have been mistaken? could our souls be incomplete, with a misguided belief of complete independence? was time miscomprehended, or were things moving, faster... slower... was beauty indefinable or were features blandly indistinguishable? maybe the prospects of a journey were remnants of a hopeful longing for past opportunities not taken. perhaps those rays of dim golden splendor, were perceived by blind eyes, for in the end the path that seemed so different was all too familiar.

28

SOMOS

Palapa Roxana Gonzalez '13 Digital Photography

29

SPRING 2011

A Race Unfinished

by Andrianna Salazar '12

I lead a history through Southern wars, Through travels scarred and blemished, To resuscitate unlisted names, A race that wasn't finished.

Each cousin looks on from behind With faces of Brown simplicity, As I inspect a nation's birth certificate For signs of authenticity.

I cut off the hands of white real-estate reapers, Who evicted and then thought we'd forget, And I glue every one to my spine just to prove That my back sure as hell isn't wet.

30

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SOMOS

Terror and Erebus Mark Burwick '12 Oil on canvas

31

SPRING 2011

Slow Motion Francis Gonzales '11 Digital Photography

Assimilationnation

32

Alejo Stark '12 Digital Art

Newport Polo Angel Mojarro '11 Digital Photography

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amos m u si c a -:ia s^u Hade

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