SOMOS Spring 2012

somos

spring2012

latino literary magazine

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

somos spring 2012

letter from the editors established in 1990, SOMOS Latino Literary Magazine provides students with a space to share their culture and experiences through prose, poetry, and visual art. The writing and artwork we publish showcases the diversity of Latino culture as well as the strength and talent of the Latino community.

Ana Irma Patete's "Seis Haikus" captures the complexities of love, beauty, and passion within simple stanzas A heavenly vision in the rays of the morning sun is described by the narrator in Esther Escotto's "Zarcillos." And Jose R. ApontePierass poem "El Mar ofWords" explores the clashing of cultures in the Caribbean wrth a rhythmic and hypnotic beat.

Josh Rowe presents an intriguing short story, "A SuperfTcie", where the psychological revelations of a diner waitress end up being more than mere desires but leads to an investigation.While Estes Bolsos"by Elaine Hsiang is a tender and joyful poem that deals with our day-to-day wants and how small details CT k? -m somethin§ emotional and valuable. Untitled" by Elizabeth Gonzalez immerses the reader into the agony of love, and exposes the strenuous force of true passion. Caroline Steinfeld's "Estoria

witk136*6 ^nngS a sP'ralinS awakening with graceful nuances in a poem that is both charming and profound.

The themes of this semesters art selections varied from the biological, to the representation of euphoria, to the embodiment of abstract expressionism The artwork evoked a quality of Latino

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warrrfy ***" s ^'h" P itte °r thrOUgh the|r subtle—and perhaps subconscious— alUsion to magical realism, a common style embraced ,n Latin American literature V,brant

We are honored to present our Spring 2012 issue of SOMOS.

^ Editor-in-Chief

Publicity Direct

Cd Andrea McWilliams '12 +->

Julio Reyes '12

Spanish Editor

W Juan Carranza ' 12

Art Director

Claudine Fernar

S ,

O Layout/Design Editors

Marina Camim '14 CD Valeria Fantozzi '14 -C W

n

Portuguese Editor

Contributing Ed

Carlos Aramayo Nestor Bedoya' Alejandra Ceja 'I Stephany Foster

Silvia Gondim Dos Santos-Pereira '12 Special thanks to: Ann Hall, Graphic Sen Undergraduate Finance Board, Third V\ Center; all contributing authors and artists

latino literary magazine

contents -5 Q* s_i 3 Q

wangz, I Le Tran

>-> only human, 4

untitled, 2

^

Pamela Lee

D, Caroline Steinfeld

untitled, 3 Claudine Fernandez

O, HIN1,5 TP ^ _ 5_i ^

Sophia Diaz

Lizette Chaparro

TP

estoria de peixe, 7 estes bolsos, 10

^

Elaine Hsiang

^

lost & found, I I

la morada de los

cr Juan Carlos Carranza O £-i seis haikus de una pobre

muertos, 6

^ enamorada, 14

Stephanie Vasquez

Ana Irma Patete

homenaje, 28

a superficie, 15

Stephanie Vasquez

Josh Rowe

pastel still life, 9

hipotermia, 17

Paola Bonilla

Marielle Alvino

piernas y pies, 13

zarcillos, 17

Emily Gonzalez

Esther Escotto

juntos nos dormimos, 18

word picking, 20

Michelle Vander Ploeg

Ayoosh Pareek

guac, 19

two men in santa clara, 21

Paola Bonilla

Lizette Chaparro

untitled, 22 Pamela Lee

untitled, 23 Elizabeth Gonzalez

acolhendo noite, 24

ankles and oranges, 27

Nicholas Donias

Samuel Cordero

tomatoes, 25

el mar of words, 29

Monica Sanchez

Jose RAponte - Pieras

silence, 26 Tomas Quihonez-Riegos

somos spring 2012

wangz Le Tran '13 photography

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latino literary magazine

untitled Pamela Lee '12 o i l on canvas

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somos spring 2012

untitled Cl audi tie Fernandez '14 mixed media

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latino literary magazine

only human Lizette Chaparro '12

Chino was the handyman at our residence. He fixed our showers, replaced light bulbs, and picked up our rationed food whenever it was available. Chino also made it his duty to help all the students in the residence understand Cuba.

A lot of "rt, it seemed, had to do with sex. He warned us about the marriage proposals from Cubans and told us that the catcalls were mostly compliments, but he also let us know where to go if we wanted to dance or see a good show.

One day, hurricane season began. From our fourteenth floor penthouse, we could see the ocean thrusting itself over the Malecon as the windows rattled. We were all amazed and looked at the scene from the window next to the balcony. Chino sat on his rocking chair, barely even amused by our excitement Someone had the idea of stepping out onto the balcony. I vacillated because that day I had run out of underwear.The gusts of wind made it foolish to hang laundry on the balcony. And worst of all, I had also run out of pants. I was wearing an ankle-length, red skirt I figured the skirt's length would have been my saving grace, so I decided to step onto the balcony. I opened the

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glass door and held on tightly to my skirt.

One tiny part of my skirt fluttered in the wind and I held it down. The next second, my entire skirt came up and encased the upper half of my body until I looked like a tulip. I managed, in the wind, to bring it back down and left the balcony.

Everyone tried to hold back their reaction except Chino. Chino, who was frantically rocking in his chain put his hand over his chest.

"I'm only human," he told me with laugher "You should feel my heartbeat, it's racing."

I knew then not to get mad at Chino; to trust intentions; to smile and proceed to my room.

Months later, the windows would still be rattling, but with a cold December wind. Someone's parents would be visiting and the residence staff would put together a big dinner. The parents would bring gifts for everyone on the staff and Chinos gift would be a Pink Floyd t-shirt. His excitement would be greater than anyone's I had ever seen in Cuba He would be as happy as American children are on Christmas morning. I would watch him from across the room and feel tremendous emptiness.

somos spring 2012

Sophia Diaz '14 mixed media

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la morada de los muertos Stephanie V'asquez '13 photography

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somos spring 2012

estoria de peixe Caroline Steinfeld '14 Uma estoria de curvas, e ciclos Uma estoria de ondas de mare alta Uma estoria de mare baixa —Ou de pescador, quern sabe?— Uma estoria de descidas e escadas sem fim espiralando na curva de uma concha Escadas as quais descia e nas quais tropecei uma noite qualquer (uma noite azul): brincava de pescar deparei no peixe, e dai pra frente o problema. engasguei nos espinhos, cortei o dedo nas escamas, e ao abrir a ca ueparei-me com o amor incrustado no intestino. era pedrinha preta ou perola, irregular mas lustrosa irradiava um som de luar confundia os sentidos e convocava as estrelas o cheiro de maresia e a vermelha ferrugem metalizava-se no instante amargura na minha boca, mercurio: instantanea fisgada no estomago.

As maos; sangravam, e nao paravam e a garganta atravessada com um espinho estragava a voz e arranhava o som entao parei, calei.

Perguntei em silencio para esse peixe.

E na brancura brilhante do olho morto A cinica situa^ao espetava-me o sentir: ja era uma carcaca: nunca responderia!

Soltei a faca, suspirei e olhei em volta: muitas cores, e as sombras das grrtantes gaivotas danpando na areia suja,

afJIc 5 ,a§ulhando° horizonte algas verdes alinhadas na praia a m°arJn^aS'^nUiaS a maioria quebrada,

muitas conchinhas

n P6 d qUem caminhaFofasstm roi assim ? que °r ficou, ffisgado, esse cinico olhar na minha mente.

Ja, no meu corapao, uma escama a mais acumulava-se n. ,JSS'm ^Urgia a Per§unta verde-azuladasabe-um dia serei peixe tambem?'

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latino literary magazine

homenaje Stephanie Vasquez '13 photography

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somos spring 2012

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latino literary magazine

estes bolsos Elaine Hsiang '12

recentemente tenho estado afim dos bolsos grandes eu posso segurar tanto: garrafas.telefones, carteiras, chaves, nossas maos, podemos segurar maos nesses bolsos recentemente tenho estado afim dos bolsos grandes eu posso esconder tanto: doces, moedas, diarios, protetor labial, nosso amor, podemos esconder amor nesses bolsos ultimamente tern estado um pouco frio, tenho vestido casacos com grandes bolsos vamos segurar e esconder as nossas amor-maos neles, segure, onde so podemos sentir o calor

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somos spring 2012

lost & found Juan Carlos Carranza '12

the things i've lost A pair of blue and white striped, Old Navy flip-flops, forgotten at Mission Beach after a bonfire in 2007. My faith in humanity: once when my older sister informed me that the people in Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers were not actually real, simply actors: and again, when she maliciously told me that the people inside the Rangers' suits were stunt doubles. My aversion to miso soup, after giving ft another try at Sushi Deli 2, and finding out that it's actually pretty great.

A black floppy disk that con­ tained 'The Legend of the Knight's Sword," the 60+ page story written in the 4th grade, after being inspired

by The Hobbit The Olympians (star­ ring Eavesdrop, Phantom, Mantis, and Meteor!) written and drawn in the 8th grade at commencement of what would be a life-long love of comic books. My copy of The Kite Runner, after forgetting who I lent it to and never getting ft back My D&G eyeglasses and a san­ dal, while inner-tubing down a de­ ceptively rapid river on a camping trip wrth Alan, Isaac, and Jesse in the summer of 2009; the same night Alan drunkenly kissed me in our tent. My virginity, in a forgettable event with a loser that I would later end up regretting. The valentine I that I received from Sierra in the being inca­ n,N.§??e' My fearof pablei of love, in the winter of 2010

nJr.?y P°Unds' while worl<ir.g over the summer in Miami and sur L g on a diet of oatmeal, green sleen n 1 endure it S'S' £?o?n?„now

tlme 1 exPei"ienced

» usually My 0asters in** a g ade, after riding The Big Dipper in

erSf 7

L

1

wrthout a

'

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Belmont Park three times in a row.

My bright-eyed and bushy-tailed naivete when I watched the World Trade Center smolder and crum­ ble as I got ready for school. The chance to see Coldplay in concert because Mom was having surgery the next day. My belief that Dad had all the answers, after hearing him worry about getting laid off the same week I left a note for the Tooth Fairy, asking her to give my tooth money to my parents.

My hope of ever getting a little brother, after the third Christmas in a row that Santa failed to bring me one. My hopes of ever grow­ ing a manly amount of stubble or five o'clock shadow. A red Brown University water bottle, forgotten on the 92 trolley while rushing to make ft to a tutoring shift at Carl Lauro Elementary School. Pudge, an American Eskimo puppy from a litter of nine, who was no longer in the backyard one summer morning.

The race for Homecoming King to Benny Garcia but I knew that would happen. The mix of anxiety and repulsion I'd get from directly touching my eye, after about three weeks of wearing contact lenses.

The ability to wake up before 7 am without the use of an alarm dock The belief that women don't have facial hair; after seeing coach Sovay's bleached mustache up close.

My favorite green ink rollerball pen, after stupidly letting a girl in my seminar borrow it freshman year The ability to hear a Disney song without enthusiastically sing­ ing along to it The anxiety that comes with trying to figure out what comes next while simultane­ ously adopting the motivation to find what I love.

latino literary magazine

the things i've kept The movie ticket stub from the night I came out to my dad: Conan the Barbarian; an anxious moment that wound up being extremely and surprisingly serene. A small scar on the side of my right foot from a cut that needed to be reopened and squeezed for a blood sample immediately after I was bom. The 3rd season of Smallville I borrowed from Phil in 2006 and forgot to give back before he moved to Dallas.

A generalized fear of home­ less people, manifested at the age of twelve, after being harassed and threatened by a homeless woman while picking up trash for communi­ ty service. A strong fear of heights.

A crippling squeamishness around needles, especially when thinking about getting my blood drawn.

The habit of tapping any metal door handle with my nails before grasping it with my hand, after get­ ting zapped while opening a door inside Circus, Grcus, Las Vegas. A slic­ ing sarcasm that was developed in response to fifth-grade bullies. My first memory of snow, driving up to the mountains to the small town of Julian with my family in the winter of 2000.

An obsession with anything XMen related, established after read­ ing X-Men:The Ultimate Guide in the seventh grade. Two scars on the back of my head: one from falling ofF of a porch; the other from smashing my head against the comer of our entertainment center while per­ forming a somersault. My first pair of glasses, from the second grade.

The nickname "Carlitos" despite now being taller than all the men on my mom's side of the family.

Countless old shirts and jeans that no longer fit quite right but

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can't bring myself to throw out # I Babysitter mug, given to me by my cousins Ari and Luca. Ribbons from my brief and exciting career as a competitive ballroom dancer.

A cassette tape of classic Disney songs, made by my grandpa when I was six.

A baby blue rosary that would soothe my nightly fears of de­ mons and monsters. The irratio­ nal feeling that the entire world is staring at me when I have a zit on my face. A box full of novels from my classes at Brown and a few hundred comic books from my childhood collecting dust in the basement of my parent's house, both of which I plan to display proudly on my bookshelf once I have a place of my own.

The urge to burst out in a co­ ordinated dance number when­ ever I walk down the street listen­ ing to music. Wisdom from my younger sister, delivered via text after expressing my desire to go back home at the start of my ju­ nior year: "Don't be silly! You got this :)" Songs About Jane, Maroon 5; the first CD I bought myself with my own money. An irrational fear of the security sensors mis­ takenly going off whenever I exit a store.

A lifelong friendship and devo­ tion to Harry Potter. The habit of pretending I am using telekinesis to open automatic doors. A cari­ cature of Alma, Alexis and I, drawn in Sea World the summer before our senior year Advice from Dad that has gotten me through tough times, everything happens for a rea­ son. The desire to know what it feels like to fly.

somos spring 2012

piernas y pies Emily Gonzalez '13 oil on canvas

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latino literary magazine

seis haikus de una pobre enamorada Aaa Irma Patete '13

Ayer pense en la histeria de la mujer.

Lloro por ella.

Naturaleza, dijo la nina rubia, me hipnotiza.

No puedo parar de verlo sonreir en mi boca triste.

Y hay momentos que atrapan y consumen los besos de ayer.

La belleza se disuelve con tan solo un golpe feo.

Hay algo de vos en mi mirada fija y audaz. / ^Lo ves?

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somos spring 2012

a superflcie Josh Rowe '12

Eu sabia que havia alguma coisa quando voce nao vottou.

Eu SABIA. Voce nao aparecia todos os^ dias, mas era consistente. As vezes voce vinha as 8h antes de dar aula, ou as vezes ao meio-dia durante o intervalo. Mas voce sempre aparecia, pelo menos uma vez por semana e ate tres vezes.

Voce sempre sentava em urn lugar diferente.

Nossas conversas nunca foram nada de se reparar Muitas vezes so trocavamos um "Oi" e voce pedia as vezes um suco de laranja as vezes um bagel, ou um cafe—sem aqucar, claro. Nos dias que voce estava mais disposto a falar voce soltava um "Tudo bem?", mas so, e voltava a se ocupar.

—Oi. —Bom dia —Tudo bem?

—Tudo.

Um donut, sem recheio e um cafe por favor.

—So um minuto.

E foi assim por cinco anos seguidos.

Duvido que voce percebesse qualquer parte de mim no diner. Seu olhar nunca demorou nas minhas coxas, nunca acariciou minhas ancas, nunca travou quando eu buscava dobradinha, alguma coisa ou outra de baixo do balcao. Para ser justa, eu tambem nunca te dei razaopara desconfiar da minha tachada composta.

Aquela altura eu era tfmida e reservada. Sempre busquei seu pedido rapidamente, sendo atenciosa mas nao demais.

Nunca demorei no meu serviqo, e depois de te servir eu seguia para uma outra parte

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do balcao para atender aos outros fregueses. Eu era a garqonete de um diner qualquer.A quete serve. A que nunca deixa que sua caneca se encontre vazia A que voce nunca lembra porque ela ja foi esquecida Nada traiu meu sigilo—nenhum toque sem querer movimento fora do lugar; ou segurv do olhar para tras. Sofri, mas contive a paixao revoltada que borbulhava pouco, por baixo desse sorriso modesto meu.

Cinco anos me controlei, dissipando o calor que surgia por baixo do meu avental quando voce entrava por aquela porta Nao sei quantas vezes eu supliquei ao meu corpo, que ele nao me desvendasse, que voce nao percebesse a humidade que encharcava minha calpa Foi impossi'vel suprimir o que transbordava quando eu assistia voce saborear delicadamente cada migalha Assim eu imaginava que voce me saboreava...

Eu bem podia ter puxado assunto com voce. Eu devia Alguma coisa do tempo, uma pergunta sobre onde voce trabalha, ou algo do fim de se­ mana A rotina poderia ter nos aproximado, Deus sabe que havia tempo suficiente. Eu perguntaria como estavam as aulas, voce responderia que a meninada deste ano e mais cabepuda do que a do ano anterior mas que eles aprendem bem.Voce faria graqa perguntando se eu tinha mudado alguma coisa na receita do cafe, e eu respon­ deria que so se a cafeteira tivesse quebrado, porque voce bem sabe que nada nesse diner muda nunca

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latino literary magazine

E gradualmente a gente se falaria mais, Um dia voce me convidaria para sair, eu recusana, dizendo que eu trabalho muito.Voce sabe como e com tudo que tern que ser feito em casa.. Mas voce insistiria e me surpreenderia, me esperando do lado de fora do diner no final do dia E tudo aconteceria muito rapido, e bem...

Eu podia ter dado esse primeiro passo... E quantas vezes eu queria! Mas eu nao consegui lan^ar o papo. Eu temia que o canto de minha boca talvez tremesse, que eu falasse a coisa errada que voce desconfiasse da limpeza anormal dos pratos que eu te trazia Limpar era a unica maneira que eu conseguia desviar o tesao que me inundava o tesao da sua presenqa Foi na agua calorenta, ensaboada lubrificada que eu despejava a vibraqao que me vascolejava Na superfine lisa estava tudo normal. Mas ela so escondia o tumulto de maos submersas, de dedos que deslizavam e exploravam a forma de cada copo rigido, de cada faca mordaz. Cada canto que eu sentia era um dos seus cantos, Como eu queria conhece-los.

O pouco que eu sabia de voce eu roubei dos gr'rtos alegres do seu amigo professor.

Ele as vezes sentava junto."Pois. se nao e o famoso John Landers! Ilustre professor de ingles da primeira serie e guardiao de haute cultura na nossa prisao, desculpa, colegio."Voce so sorna e bebia goles do seu cafe.

Eu via pelo canto do meu olho.

E uma semana voce nao apareceu.

Voce achou que eu nao la perceber? Que eu ia inventar uma desculpa? "£), talvez ele nao gosta da comida daqui," ou, "Talvez ele achou um emprego num outro lugan" Nao. Nin­ guem frequenta um diner por cinco anos e do nada dissolve no ar. Ninguem sai sem dar sinal de vida, sem reaparecer nem sequer uma vez!

Depois da segunda semana ja comecei a ficar preocupada.

Os onibus da escola iam e vinham todos os dias, entao voce nao estava de ferias. Nenhuma entrada ou sai'da pela porta do lanchonete escapou sem ser investigada, sutilmente claro.

Depois de um mes liguei para a escola e pedi para falar com voce. Desliguei envergonhada. Foi a escola errada.

A quarta vez eu acertei: John Dewey Central High. Fingi que eu era uma conhecida sua, uma professora de uma outra es­ cola.

A recepcionista foi simpatica mas o torn dela era triste.

Ela me relatou que quatro semanas atras voce tinha desaparecido. Ela acrescentou que voce era um dos melhores professores do colegio, mas que um dia voce nao chegou ao trabalho. Foi estranho, ela explicava, porque voce nunca faltou antes. Ainda mais, desde entao ninguem descobriu nada novo. Desliguei apavorada.

Comecei a ler os jornais compulsivamente. Todos os dias eu vasculhava os obituarios, buscando teu nome entre os de avos queridos, tias, e maridos recem-partidos.

Quando mais um mes passou e nao descobri nenhum rastro

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seu fui para a biblioteca. Puxei os jornais da cidade toda e me assegurei de que nada tinha me escapado nos ultimos dois meses. Durante horas e dias eu procurei ate que meus dedos enegreceram de tinta. Tres vezes eu li os obituarios da ci­ dade inteira.

James Wilkenstein - Avo e marido adorado...

Nao. Susan Rawl...

Nao. Johnathan Landsworth Marido e filho amado. Morreu no dia 4 de abril aos 65 anos...

Caralho! Nao! As tragedias nessas paginas me assaltavam e encurralavam.

Houve vezes em que senti que eu ia enlouquecer lendo elas.

Nao pude parar de projetar voce em cada catastrofe que li.

Passaram mais dois me­ ses. Comecei a perder o sono pensando em voce sentado ao balcao. A cena que assisti por cinco anos passava sem parar: voce levando a caneca aos seus labios delicados, voce respirando fundo, e, gole por gole, tomando o liquido preto e quente, depositando-o para fundo. O seu fundo. Agora voce penetrou o meu. E como voce mexia com ele, mesmo desaparecido. Talvez mais do que nunca.

Entre as tragedias diarias nos jornais nenhuma foi igual a que eu vivia cada hora enquanto eu trabalhava nesse diner, e cada vez que eu frtava essa porta maldita por qual voce deixou de entrar.

E um dia eu te vi. ...continua na proximo ediqao

spring 2012

hipotermia Marielle Alvino '15 Mentolatum, eres polvo de adviento en mi garganta Depuras la arena de mi esbozo decadente Y me reduces a una cedula de gemidos Imberbes por inflexion. El rigor De ampollas surfaceas brota Flematico Desde el zocalo De un hipotalamo en llamas.

For]'an dote un verbo infinrtamente Cinetico. infinitamente hipotetico A' otro lado de esta Comala Mientras me hundo en suerios de guerrillas urbanas.

Las nuevas sustancias trazan ideas en el aire ideas que se deshacen en el cielo cera de la conciencia como los fragmentos de un avion que va perdiendo cordura

y luego se va el lenguaje inarticulado de esta fiebre llena vaobs.

Los mensajes viajan del panico al extasis hasta envolverse en sonidos voragines las leyes cuanticas son ecos de movimiento llueven sobre una Metropolis de sudor Me recuendan del ibuprofeno que me olvide de ingerin

zarcillos Esther Escotto Mirando a los zarcillos de la mariana que se enroscan por lo alto Llegue a ver angeles volando en el aire Ellos cargaban una perla de gran valor y 7 significado.

Era un Espfritu herido, en camino a la perfeccion

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latino literary magazine

juntos nos dormimos Michelle Vander Ploeg '12 photography

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somos spring 2012

g, uao

Paola Bonilla '12 oil on masonite

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latino literary magazine

word picking Ayoosh Pareek '12

I. Something about me I was walking around thinking how we could wander the streets of New York together there is nothing more romantic than diners at 3am than park benches in the rain, than New York City streets, just New York City streets. my city is beautiful, do you want to burn it with me? until it bleeds your lipstick color; or skyline blues? we have beasts within us, wolves, and we should let them loose for just a little while, or at least let them howl at the moon together, I have always been obsessed with the moon, and you. just you, but think about scrambled eggs and french toast, smell of cofFee, diners at 3am, New York has so many of those when dreaming of jumping ofF skyscrapers for you, I let myself fall,I don't care, I've felt the ground before.

II. Something about you I am picking the best words to describe you, they call it word picking, and I am a frequent visitor running into you is how heart transplants feel, clear intentions and cloudy eyes, talking to you is infinite intoxication.

III. Something about us It's as if we can talk for hours, and that's lifetimes to people as young as us, and even in the rare moments of silence between our talks, I am etch-a-sketching hypothetical conversations imagining when we will combine like sugar cubes melting in the hot tea. this time, it felt like the first time I got out of your covers at dawn, and the air was about to tingle with tension silence in the presence of comfort

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somos spring 2012

two men in santa clara Lizette Chaparro '12

i ne museums in Cuba seldom torn seemed to objectify impressed me. They just met my Objectify. What a liberal intellectual expectations. Most were a collec­ I had become. These men didn't tion of relics meant to immortalize care about my guilt though. They the revolution. They sat on faded insisted. green cloths and were framed in "Psst, una foto." some kind of plastic that was too I smiled again. "No gracias,"and opaque to be plexiglass. There began to walk away, back towards stood the last bowl that Che the train cars. My steps were slow, Guevara touched, the shoes of a almost apologetic. I wished they woman who escaped from torture, could understand my reasoning. and the uniforms of soldiers with And then,"Oye, gorda!"

50-year-old bloodstains. This was My step hesitated for a mo­ important to many Cubans. Or, to ment. One of the guys in our group the government, at least.These rel­ looked up and I bowed my head ics were a way to reinforce the fact in embarrassment. I had been de­ that the revolution was bold; that feated; the phrase lingered, threat­ many suffered to achieve equality. eningly, in my head.

So, wherever we went, if there was As everyone else got out of the a museum, we went to it. train cars, the men remained on the The one in Santa Clara com­ street, behind our bus, watching us memorated a battle by lining up board. I avoided looking at them three rusty train cars and and stood behind my friend Dan. I potting rifles, clothing, and pic­ grabbed his arm as if that could of­ tures inside of them. We were sup­ fend the men. Dan turned his head posed to step in and out of them and noticed the men watching us. to gain some kind of appreciation We settled into our seats and or understanding.

I tried to tell Dan what happened, I suspect it was my exceptional but before I could get a single word cynicism that allowed me to finish out, he said: "They got their asses first. I walked on the grass, away capped." from the train cars, and closer to I did not understand what he the sidewalk I took out my camera was trying to tell me. Was he try­ and contemplated the view: a few ing to console me? Had someone, closed storefronts and an empty maybe the tour guide, seen what atorsIdrawncT ^ by °n happened, and in my defense, told off the men?

"Hey, psst."

"Who, those guys?" I asked. them.0t th'S Shit aga'n- 1 'gnored He looked at the trains on the bright green field. "Yeah. I guess the "Tomanos una foto." winners get to write history."

1 I raised my eyebrow and but shrugged. As I sank into my seat I shook my head I haTf ginning. be- felt irrelevant. I remained silent and photograph strangers £* looked out the window until we What' reached the next town, the next I thought. So I could h friends back home? No.This'c^ museum.

catcllingTsS'TT^"'

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Pamela Lee '12 o i l on canvas

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somos spring 2012

untitled Elizabeth Gonzalez '12

A escuridao da noite traz uma inquietude no meu peito. Aqui dentro de sinto-a Aquela ansiedade. E voce meu vi'cio?

Cada pessoa tern seus defeitos...

Para mim voce e a paz que falta—minha tranquilidade.

Meus olhos fecham e vejo seu rosto.

Sempre Ouqo sua voz, suas palavras, seu riso.

Sinto...sinto sua presenqa alem de sua ausencia Aqui comigo.

Minha paixao por voce nao se acalma..

Um grito que nao consigo calar.

Estou perdendo esta batalha contra sua lembranga.

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latino literary magazine

Nicholas Donias '12 photography

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somos spring 2012

*

*4

tomatoes Monica Sanchez '13

photography

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"

latino literary magazine

silence Tomas Quinonez-Riegos '15 graphite on paper

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somos spring 2012

ankles and oranges Samuel Cordero

I was bom on June 25th, 1994 to two Mexican parents. Jose was from Oaxaca, and Marta's family was from Acapulco, where they ran a cheap tourist hotel — El Parafso Encontrado — on the edge of town.

One summer Jose made his way up fromTehuantepec in search of work, and Marta's father was in need of a pool boy. But Mama tells me that Jose was not the kind of pool boy that she now watches on daytime re-runs of Desperate Housewives as she tries to fall asleep. He worked long hours while my mother watched him from the reception desk He was 24; she was 19.

I should have been bom on or after June 26th, 1994.That was the day Jose and Marta had planned to arrive in Pecos after crossing the border from Ciudad Juarez into El Paso.

The word for anchor in Span­ ish is "ancla." When I was 12 and in school in Pecos living with my Tfo Juan, we did a unit on Greek mythology. I learned about Achilles and the origin of the phrase 'Achil­ les heel." It was then that I heard "ankle" and thought it was "ancla" in English.

I was supposed to be an anchor baby, but I ended up becoming an Achilles heel.

ment coyote on July 4th, 1994 at a bar near the Rib Bravo. The fire­ works from the celebration in El Paso reflected on the brackish wa­ ter He looked at me and shook his head."Lo siento." I'm sorry.

When Jose got Marta pregnant — or maybe it was when Marta's belly began to swell — Marta's fa­ ther fired Jose and kicked Marta out of the house, which was really just two hotel rooms joined together at the far end of the El Parafso Encon­ trado. Jose had a cheap apartment on the other side of town so Marta moved in with him. The apartment was small, and neither one had a job. Jose picked up occasional work at another hotel — one of the big chain ones — but it was only as a substitute groundskeeper. Marta tried to get a job as a dishwasher at The Hard Rock Cafe but was forced to quit when the manage­ ment could no longer ignore her pregnancy.

By the middle of June they had made up their minds to head north.

On a Thursday afternoon they gathered their most essential be­ longings and headed to the bus sta­ tion.After buying two tickets to Ciu­ dad Juarez, they went into a nearby shop to buy some food for the 23hour bus ride: a 10-pack of tortillas When Jose and Marta met the and some oranges. My mom slept first replacement coyote on July on my dad's shoulder for the first 3rd, 1994 he took one look at me 10 hours while he watched their and shook his head. "Es demasiado things; they switched after a short riesgoso. Its too risky. Jose and stop in Delicias.

Marta couldn't tell if he meant that At the bus stop in Juarez my dad it was too dangerous for me or for made a phone call to the coyote his him. friends in Acapulco had suggested.

They met the second replace­ They made plans to meet up on

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latino literary

Sunday afternoon.

We left the hospital on July 2nd.

(My premature birth meant there were some slight complications.)

My mom had gone into labor just as the coyote was about to pick them up from a gas station on the out­ skirts of town.Although he wouldn't give my parents back their money — he said it was a non-refundable deposit — he did drive them to the Hospital Santa Ana I was bom at 10 p.m., and my dad went out at I am. to buy another package of tor­ tillas and some more oranges. (The hospital cafeteria was closed, and my parents literally needed food for thought as they tried to decide what came next).

At first the third replacement coyote was more open to the idea of taking a baby across the border Plans were made to cross on Friday, July 7th right before dawn. But on the night of the 6th he called my parents at the bus station — where they were sleeping on benches and answering the pay phone as if it were their own — and said that his boss, who coordinated the cross­ ings, was not comfortable with the idea My Tfo Juan and his wife had been having trouble conceiving a child in 1994. My dad called him on July 9th to see if he knew of any­ body willing to take a two-week old baby and two adults across the border. To Jose's surprise, my tfo said he and Magdalena his wife, could. Confused, my dad asked him what he meant, and Juan explained that he and his wife could pretend to have had me. They had a friend

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who worked in the right sort of of­ fice and could get a fake birth cer­ tificate for me. Then they'd come pick me up in Juarez and take me back across the border as if I were their own.

Jose had hung up without say­ ing a word, but when Juan called the bus station telephone two hours later he did pick up. After about 20 minutes of hushed conversation — Juan has always been paranoid that the government is or might become involved — he hung up and went over to his wife. They embraced in the crowded bus station.

On July I Ith Tfo Juan and Tfa Magdalena came down to get me.

On July 12th my parents moved into an apartment in Juarez so that they would be closer to me but still be on the right side of the border Marta found a job at a maquiladora, and Jose began work at a mechan­ ic's shop.

I see my parents every other weekend, and it's easier for me to spend a summer in Mexico than it ever is for them to spend time here.

'Tfo Juan" is what I call the person I'm supposed to call "Dad" when I'm in the US. Sometimes I still refer to my father as "Dad," but now I've begun to just call him Jose, just like everyone else who sees the name embroidered in red on the blue coverall he wears every day.

Tfa Magdalena took me to school every day just as Marta, my mom, would finish up her shiftWhenever I visit my parents they pick me up at the same bus station where they first decided that it might be better like this.

somos spring 2012

el mar of words Jose R.Aponte-Pi eras '13 Tro tra tra-tra-tra, tra tra tra-tra-tra En el Caribe el mar es belleza, el mar es una cerca que con nuestra lengua nos encierra.

La isla del encanto, we are fricase de polio echale un poquito de alguna cosita y se pone mas sabroso.

Como cuando USA llego y el 'espikin' english se quedo, al igual que el espariol no desaparecio cuando solo la corona cedio.

En este pais Disglossia seria una enfermedad comun everything infested, chroni­ cally manifested, porque aquf se nos hace dificil hablar espariol, ingles o aleman.

Es la unica forma en que nos podemos comunicar; effortlessly, efficiently, clearly, porque un solo lexico no es suficiente para expresar todo lo que se siente.

Tra-tra-tra El bajo se vuelve a escuchar en los carros al pasar y es que el ritmo de la constante metamorfosis cultural lo dicta el tra-tra-tra.

J por que sera que algo tan monotono pueda gustar en un lugar donde la mezcla siempre reinara debe ser porque ya la gente aburrida esta

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de lo complicado de lo que tiene mas de un significado.

Somos puertorriquerios no nos queda mas remedio.

No podriamos ser nada mas por mas que lo pudiera alguien desean porque en la historia grabados estan the ties that bind to the rest of mankind.

Somos lo que somos porque hacemos lo que hacemos.

Ven pa' las fiestas de la calle y te voy a enseriar el revolu que se va a formar porque si hay algo que en la colonia sabemos hacer te aseguro que sabemos fiestar jVoy subiendooooo, voy bajandoo, tu vives como yo vivo yo vivo vacilando!

Aunque se nos haga dificil hablar; cuando estamos aca o alia buscamos maneras de relajar Al final, cuando nos vayan a preguntar: "What do people do to keep on living?", les tendremos que contestar con el tra-tra-tra..A Que hacemos lo necesario para seguir enriqueciendo el fricase de polio que who knows en que boca va a parar; but whatever