Vagabond Multilingual Literary Journal, Spring 2021

VAGABOND

UCSB MULTILINGUAL LITERARY JOURNAL | SPRING 2021

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VAGABOND Spring 2021

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UCSB Multilingual Literary Journal

VAGABOND Spring 2020

Note from the Editors-in-chief In light of the current situation that the world finds itself in, we want to begin this issue with an expression of gratitude for our team members and our contributors for braving through uncertainty and committing themselves to this issue’s publication. We recognize the diversity of challenges and situations that the UCSB community is facing this spring, and we are proud to have worked to Foreword present you with | this edition.

Foreword

Every year, the privilege of working on Vagabond is to be reminded of the diversity of human experience and expression. Our furtive hopes and fears take so many forms, and try, in so many Now more than ever, it isways, imperative thatour we strive to fearlessly pushso through what can seem be a fog of uncertainty in to escape own hearts and minds that they might reachtoothers.

There are so many order to nurture a vibrantlanguages, curiosity for diverse of expression, different methods of thinking, and new of being words andmodes symbols, brushstrokes and lines, between these covers.

Theyways are all paths in our increasingly globalized world.

The multitude of voices featured in UC Santa Barbara’s Vagabond represent a variety for meaning to make its way, opportunities to understand and be understood, points of connecof backgrounds and a wide scope ofwhat academic We are embody and publish athe diversity tion—over makesinterests. us different, andproud what to makes us unmistakably same.of student voices as we strive towards understanding and appreciating how humans communicate and express themselves. Through access to works in foreign languages, we to aresay driven to celebrate found commonalities across different cultures, This year, the least, has beenour different.

And so Vagabond willpeople be too,ofeven if much about languages, and literary traditions.

Experiencing linguistically diverse literature offers us the gift of discovering shared joys it remains the same. It will still be filled by our hopes and fears, by the emotions of this strange and anxieties with peopleand of all backgrounds, handtime, out of the also fog of own fears and prejudices. Our hope is difficult year. But,a guiding for the first it will beour filled with color. to serve as your lighthouse as we embrace the complexity of our modern multilingual world in the Spring 2020 edition of Vagabond, UCSB’s multilingual Becauseliterary meetingjournal. one another again, in whatever way, is worth celebrating.

Acknowledgements We want to express our deep appreciation and gratitude for those who helped make the 2020 edition of Vagabond possible. It has been easy to find a silver lining during these times thanks to the continued support of faculty and student contributors. First we would like to recognize and thank our faculty advisors who have fostered the creation of a space for undergraduate students at UC Santa Barbara to come together and express themselves: Dr. Sarah Roberts, Dr. Valentina Padula, and Marion Labatut. The success and completion of this edition would not have been possible without their tireless efforts and dedication to the student body. We also wish to recognize lecturers Yoko Yamauchi, Carla Pattone, Kelsey White, and Professor Eduardo Raposo for their invaluable assistance with editing many of our published works. Finally, without the financial support from the Departments of Comparative Literature, French and Italian, German and Slavic, and Spanish and Portuguese, our journal would not be possible. We are grateful for their continued support and the opportunity to bring together this group of brilliant writers and illustrators. The Vagabond Team greatly appreciates all efforts made toward the continued publication of our student-curated journal.

We pride pride ourselves ourselveson in offering a space space in inwhich whichstudents studentscan canexpress expressthemselves, themselves,their theiremotions, emotions,and andtheir fearsfears freely, at times We freely, at underunder pen-names if theyifso choose.

The ideas hereinherein do notdo necessarily reflect reflect the beliefs of our of staff. times pen-names they so choose.

The presented ideas presented not necessarily the beliefs our staff.

Read our past issues here !

Facebook, Instagram & Twitter To contribute , please email

issuu.com/ucsb.vagabond VagabondUCSB ucsb.vagabond@gmail.com

Cover illustrations by Sophie Naylor

Cover by Samantha Teemant

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VAGABOND Spring 2021

Table of Contents | Anheqiao, Hongpu Min (Chinese)

1

Gaze, Lianshi Qiu (Chinese)

2

The Beauty of Isolation, Wyatt Ames (French)

4

A Love Letter to the Sea, Gwyneth Lor (French)

6

My Star, Max Prichard (French)

8

Each Trimester, Katie Wert (French)

11

I Continue, Constantina Karalis (Greek)

13

Almost Here, Stacy Canchola (Italian)

14

The Stranger, William Nguyen (Italian)

14

Excerpt from Bread and Wine, Keegan Pedersen (Italian)

18

Just a Child’s Thoughts, Crystal Gong (Japanese)

23

To Know One’s Place, Henry Berg (Latin)

25

Beloved Stones, Andrew Zanazanian (Russian)

26

Madame, Andrew Zanazanian (Russian)

26

Red Queens of the Cornfield, Edward Colmenares (Spanish)

27

Searching, Nelly Fraide (Spanish)

30

Death is Tinged with Gold, Luis Ledezma (Spanish)

31

My Old Man, Carolina Ramirez Moreno (Spanish)

33

Staff | Haley Lawrence Editor-in-Chief Aidan Pedersen Editor Keegan Pedersen

Editor and Treasurer Yichen Li

Editor and Designer

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Dr. Sarah Roberts

Faculty Advisor and Founder Dr. Valentina Padula

Faculty Advisor and Founder Marion Labatut

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《安和桥》 / Anheqiao | 闵泓朴

Hongpu Min

四号线的尽头 在车厢晃荡得惰怠时抵达 我把夜晚 藏在困倦出现时的间隙

I meet the end of metro line 4 When the carriage is tired of the sway I hide the night Between the intervals of tiredness

我从安和桥北下车 又转头望向来往的人们 于是离去的身体 姿态却更像是在等待

I get off at the Anheqiao North station Turning back to see the people traveling around My body is leaving But it also looks like I am waiting

等待常常被看作一种告白 却不过是孤独者生命的常态 我不需要性或者是爱 我只想确认人类在这世上真实存在

Waiting is always related to love But it’s commonplace in a life of loneliness I don’t need sex or love My only wish is to check humans’ existence in the world

车站前的路很窄 却同时连接着出发和到达 归途亦会是我的来路 却未阻止我的热爱关于前行

The road in front of the station is narrow But it connects arrival and departure My way back will also be my way forward But it never stops my enthusiasm for the future

树影婆娑斜倚着河岸 害怕有人经过也害怕没有人来 灯光在允许通行时最为明亮 绿灯闪烁时，连带着明媚了对街的路牌

The shadow of the trees lies at the riverbank It’s afraid of passersby and afraid if no one comes The light is brightest when passing is allowed The green light shines at the sign on the other side

因今夜孤身 我用影子与桥合影 路灯与车灯围绕，我的影子便有了千百面 所幸桥不是人类，否则必会叫嚷我不够真

Because I am lonely tonight I can only take photos with my shadow and the bridge The streetlight and the headlights cause my shadow to vary a lot Luckily the bridge is not a human, otherwise it would criticize me for being fake

迎面撞上了一阵风 我便给它一个趔趄的拥抱 我常常误把自己当作风的一部分 我总是向往轻盈与自由

I walk into the wind I give it a hug I always misunderstand myself as a part of it I always look forward to freedom

我因为人类烦恼 又对人类成瘾深重 我无力手捧爱的鲜花 只能怀揣一股真诚的孤独

I am vexed by humans And I am addicted to them I can’t hold the flowers of love So I can only hold my sincere loneliness -- 1 --

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《凝望》 / Gaze | Lianshi Qiu 吉隆坡的夏夜，赤道骄阳的热浪还未完全消散，我走到红砖砌成的学校大门前， 驻足凝望…… 我到底在期许什么呢？一个已经快要消散的梦…… 我拿出手机，寻出她的号码，想要拨打。 不远万里跑到这天南海北，不就是为了见她一面吗？ 可是，这么突然来找她，她会见我吗？万一她不理我怎么办？ 想到这里，我浑身发凉，放下了手机。透过稀疏的树篱，我可以看见寄宿学校 宿舍里的灯火。唉，不知她一个人在异国他乡适应不适应，真为她担心。 现在才晚上七点，也许她还没回来？我应该在这里等等，哪怕看她一眼也好。 想到这里，我沉沉默默地笑了：十年前的我不也是这么等她吗？她不也是这么 等我吗？ 我们是小学同学，来自中国南方的一座小城。 一开始，我没怎么在意她，虽然她算是学校里的明星。她身材高挑，眼睛清秀 明亮，头发乌黑油亮，是个人见人爱的好学生。那时的我对这种“公主”没有任 何兴趣，觉得那些整天想和她交朋友的男生无聊透顶。 但有一天，一切都变了。 “啊，我们是同桌了！我盼这天好久了……”她兴高采烈地说。 我很惊讶：虽然我们是同学，迄今为止，我们基本没说过话。不过，她这么说也 挺好的。 之后，她对我越来越热情，让我有点害羞。但没过多久我就习惯了，我们开始 无话不谈。放学后，她总是和我一起走回家。我们有时不一起下课，每次我出 来，就看到她热情地招手，然后我们一起有说有笑地走回去。轮到我等她时，我 总是凝望着小学的大门，直到看到她笑吟吟的圆脸。夏天，她总是请我吃一种 叫“香雪海”的雪糕。那段时间我很幸福，第一次尝到了和女孩子来往的感觉。 这估计是我幼稚爱情的开始。 这样过了几年，转眼就该小学毕业了。优秀的她如愿考上了当地最好的中学。 我却因为父亲工作的原因要搬到广州去。本来是件好事，但我却没精打采：我不 能和她一起上学了。 跟她说这件事真是一种折磨。果然，她有点生气，但还是祝我一切顺利，保持 联系。我察觉到她很失落，甚至是有点生气。 那时社交媒体没现在发达，小学生也没有手机，所以我们只互相留了家里的电 话。小学毕业典礼结束，我凝视她坐上她家来接她的轿车，直到消失不见为止。 我直到现在都记得车牌号。 这些年，我一直都没忘了她，可是又没勇气联络太多。初中毕业时联系过一 次，才有了现在的电话号码，后来听朋友说她到吉隆坡上学去了。 这次来马来西亚就是为了找她，结果到最后我还是打了退堂鼓。等到自己混的 更好一点再来找她吧，我对自己说。 赤道的夏夜依旧闷热无比，就像我烦闷的心境……

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On a summer night in Kuala Lumpur, the heat lingered still in the humid air. Walking toward the red brick gate, I stopped and gazed inside.

What should I expect? A dream that was yet to fade away...…

Looking at her number on my cell phone, I was eager to call her.

Travelling so far to this part of the world, my sole purpose was to meet her.

However, would she accept such an abrupt visit? What if she refused to meet me?

A chill ran down my spine because of the dreadful thought, cold enough to offset the equatorial heat. Through the sparse hedges next to the gate, I could see the faint lights of the dormitory building. I was worried for her- had she got used to studying here, in a foreign setting?

It was only seven o’clock in the evening - Was she back yet? Perhaps I should wait here, even just to take a look at her.

I smiled quietly to myself. Didn’t I wait for her like this ten years ago, and didn’t she for me?

We used to go to the same elementary school in a small city in Southern China.

She was like a star in our school, and everyone loved her for her thickly lustrous black hair, gleaming eyes, slender build and good grades. I, at first, didn’t care much about her, and found those boys who were constantly trying to win her favor enormous bores.

One day, everything changed.

“Ah, we are desk-mates now!” her eyes sparkled with excitement, “I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time!”

I was a little surprised: As classmates, we barely spoke to each other. It was nice of her to say so, though.

Day by day, she wore out my shyness with her growing friendliness, and eventually became a friend to whom I

could tell everything. We’d always walk home together after school. Sometimes, when our classes ended at different times, I would see her waving excitedly to me when I walked out of school; and when I waited for her, I would gaze at our school gate until she came out with a smile on her face.

In summer, she’d always buy me a popsicle. I was always thrilled to be with her- that was the first time I befriended a girl, and, probably, also the beginning of my naive and innocent first love.

Time flies, and in the blink of an eye we graduated from elementary school. She got into a prominent middle school as expected, while I had to move to Guangzhou because my father was promoted. It was good news for our family, but not for me: I could no longer go to school with her.

It was like a torture to both of us when I told her the news.

She was a little angry, but still wished me all the best and asked me to keep in touch with her. I couldn’t help but notice her disappointment deep inside.

Back then, there was no social media, and elementary school students like us did not have phones. We could only exchange our home telephone numbers when we said goodbye. After the graduation ceremony, I gazed at her father’s car as she stepped into it, as they drove away, and as they gradually faded out of my sight, for so long that I can still recall its license plate even today.

I haven’t forgotten her, but I could never gather the courage to call her even after all these years. I last contacted her when we graduated from middle school a couple of years ago, and, later, I heard from a classmate that she went to a school in Kuala Lumpur.

That is why I came to Malaysia. However- at that very last moment- I backed off. “Not now,” I said to myself, “maybe when I’m better off someday.”

On that dull tropical summer night, the scorching heat lingered still in my anguished heart...

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La beauté de l’isolement / The Beauty of Isolation | Wyatt Ames Seul et isolé comme un bateau dans une bouteille On peut voir le monde mais ne jamais l’atteindre, Ne jamais le toucher.

Alone and isolated like a boat in a bottle One can see the world but never reach it, Never touch it.

Piégé derrière une barrière infranchissable, Et un bouchon qui n’est que resserré À travers les années.

Trapped behind an impassable barrier, And a cork who’s only tightened Throughout the years.

Marcher dans les mêmes eaux, Les mêmes pensées et sentiments, Fatigué.

Treading the same waters, The same thoughts and feelings, Tiredness.

Déviations dans les vagues, Les forces invisibles, Changement.

Deviations in the waves, Unseen forces, Change.

Quand le temps viendra, Tendre la main, Pour serrer le bras d’un autre.

When the time comes, Reach out, To clasp the arm of another.

L’espoir d’embrasser un jour à nouveau le rivage, Laissez le soleil vous redonner vie, Renaissance.

Hope to someday kiss the shore again, Let the sun breathe life back into you, Rebirth.

Pas le même rivage mais quelque part de nouveau, Un lieu de liberté, D’expression.

Not the same shore but somewhere new, A place of freedom, Of expression.

Vulnérabilité, La notion de sécurité dans les bras d’autres, Paix en soi.

Vulnerability, Notion of safety in the arms of others, Peace within one’s self.

Sinon, Quel était le but du voyage ?

Else, What was the purpose of the journey?

Illustration by Kelly Justin

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Une lettre d‘amour pour la mer / A Love Letter to the Sea | Gwyneth Lor L’air rempli de brise guide l’âme Pour le cadeau de Gaia pris pour acquis.

Né par le temps et le f lux de la nature C’est le bord de la terre toute entière.

Scène d’au-delà, elle pose, Une scène constante pour l’émerveillement humain Qu’y a-t-il au-delà de cette mer d’autrefois ?

De par ses alentours, nous fait penser.

Les vagues s’écrasent racontant le sillage éternel de la mer.

Un être ancien, la mer attend depuis longtemps.

Les sites qu’elle voit, l’histoire de l’humanité, La mer pousse en sagesse immense.

Pourtant, longtemps seul, jamais avec un compagnon La mer aspire à la compagnie humaine.

Elle se pare du reflet du ciel Avec des vagues de merveille De vue paisible D‘espoir, elle attire l’attention de l’homme. À l’aide d’un air rafraîchissant Elle gagne du succès, et s’épanouit autour des sons de joies et de rires de la visite à nouveau, et du respect C’est l’histoire de la mer Et sa beauté, pour nous, à découvrir.

Breeze filled air guides the soul— To the gift from Gaia for granted take.

Birthed by time and nature’s flow ‘Tis the edge of earth’s entire.

Stage of earth beyond it pose A constant scene for human wonder What lies beyond this sea of old?

Makes for thought in its encircle.

The sounds of crash tell of sea’s eternal wake.

An ancient being-it long awaits.

The sites it sees-history of humankind it be— The sea with it grows immense prudence.

Yet long alone-never with companion It longs for human company.

It adorns itself with sky’s reflection— With waves of marvel— with peaceful site— with hope it draws man’s attention.

By aid of air refreshing It gains success, and thrives in sounds of joy and laughter of revisit, and of its respect ‘Tis the story of the sea and its beauty for us we see.

Illustration by Gwyneth Lor

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Mon étoile / My Star | Max Prichard Même si elle est resplendissante pendant la nuit, il est plutôt difficile de la voir pendant la journée, sans même parler de la météo. C’est compliqué quand un nuage peut nous empêcher de nous voir pendant une soirée ensemble.

Alors, quand j’oublie parfois son anniv, suis-je complètement à blâmer ? Avoir une relation à distance n’est pas facile en fait. Et, de kilomètres entre nous, il y en a 632 mille milliards. Mais on fait de notre mieux, et même si les vacances sont difficiles à gérer (c’est une longue navette quand-même), d’une certaine façon je ne me sens jamais trop loin. Et quand j’ai le temps, Taureau c’est un beau coin, et le crabe chez Messier 1, c’est à mourir.

Mon étoile déteste son nom, ce qui m’est totalement bizarre puisque je le trouve si joli. C’est bien comme nom, HD 24496. Il y en a certains qui disent que cela ne glisse pas sur la langue, mais avec le temps j’ai appris à m’y faire.

Elle me dit qu’elle veut le changer après s’être mariée, mais si cela ne tenait qu’à moi, elle le garderait. On verra, mais une chose est sûre, on ne veut pas précipiter les choses. On a du temps.

Mon étoile pense parfois qu’elle n’a pas fait grand chose dans sa vie, qu’elle a eu des rêves de grandeur, mais tout a fini en la production d’hélium et d’oxygène à partir d’hydrogène (qui sont déjà les éléments les plus abondants de toute façon). Je ne peux pas en croire mes oreilles, et c’est ici que je fixe une borne à ne pas dépasser. Elle est si puissante qu’elle oublie sa stature, son énergie, sa majesté, et quelquefois il arrive que je doive lui rappeler. Mais comment lui expliquer qu’elle produit l’équivalent de 5.4 trillion de bombes thermonucléaires d’énergie chaque seconde ? Comment lui montrer ses rayons qui se diffusent vers les extrémités de l’univers ? Comment lui faire comprendre que lorsque je la vois à la tombée de la nuit, qui signale le commencement de nos rencontres nocturnes, à chaque fois je me retrouve encore le souffle coupé ? A trop penser, je rate mon coup, et la conversation tourne vers

autre chose. Être une étoile, c’est une tâche ingrate.

Mon étoile se trouve parfois vieille, mais je ne suis pas trop doué pour ce genre de situations. Je ne sais jamais quoi dire, et ça semble toujours sortir de travers. Alors je tente ma chance avec de l’humour cette fois: ‘Quand-même, tu as déjà 3.316 millons d’années, on dirait le soleil !’ je plaisante. Elle rit, mais je vois quelque chose scintiller sur sa joue, le balbutiement d’une larme, et tout d’un coup je me rends compte de mon erreur sérieuse. ‘Mais mon étoile s’il te plaît, ne le prends pas comme ça ! Je, je… je ne savais pas ce que je disais, je vais me racheter !’ Elle me dit que ce n’est pas grave, que je ne dois pas m’inquiéter. Mais le fil luisant reste là, un fleuve glacial sur son visage de 1,3 trillions kilomètres carrés. Le lendemain, quand elle n’est pas là, c’est moi qui pleure, parce que mon étoile a encore 7.000 millions d’années à vivre, et je n’en ai que 70 au mieux. Bien après que je sois parti, grâce à sa pression de dégénérescence elle deviendra une naine blanche qui brille doucement jusqu’aux confins de l’univers. D’une certaine façon, elle n’a que commencé sa vie; mon étoile a tout le temps du monde. Il semble qu’on ait fini par se sentir vieux tous les deux.

Mon étoile a peur de s’éteindre parfois, d’être emportée dans la centaine de millions de milliards d’autres étoiles qui parsèment la nuit étoilée. Cela m’étonne, puisque je sais bien qu’elle se tient seule, avec sa métallicité de 0,011, sa température de 5.572 K et sa magnitude apparente de 6,81. Non, je la rassure, je pourrais te reconnaître à un million de milliards de kilomètres à la ronde. Au fond, je sais qu’elle deviendra une géante rouge en se débarrassant de son enveloppe extérieure, perdant son combustible nucléaire, et devenant une nébuleuse planétaire avec son dernier souffle. Et il est vrai que les astrophysiciens ont souvent raison. Mais ce soir, elle n’a jamais été aussi brillante.

Illustration by Chris Ewasiuk

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Even though she is dazzling during the night, it’s rather difficult to see her during the day, without even mentioning the weather. Things are complicated when a cloud stops us from seeing each other during an evening together.

So, when I forget her birthday sometimes, am I entirely to blame? Having a long-distance relationship isn’t easy, let me tell you. Especially with 632 trillion kilometers between us. But we do our best, and even if vacations are a bit hard to manage (it’s a bit of a long commute...), somehow I don’t feel too far away. And, when I’ve got time, Taureau is a nice neighborhood, and the crab from Messier 1 is to die for.

know what to say, and it always seems to come out wrong.

So this time, I try my luck with humor: ‘Well I mean, you’re already 3.316 million years old, that’s almost as old as the sun!’ I joke. She laughs, but I see something glisten on her cheek, the start of a tear, and all of a sudden I realize the grave error that I have committed. ‘Wait, please, don’t take it like that! I, I... I didn’t know what I was saying, I’ll make it up to you!’ She says it’s no big deal, that I shouldn’t worry about it. But the glistening thread stays there, a torrential river on her face of 1.3 trillion square kilometers. The next morning, while she’s away, I’m the one crying, since my star still has 7 billion years to live, and I’ve got 70 at best. Long after I’m gone, thanks to her degeneracy pressure, she’ll become a white dwarf that shines softly until the end of the universe. In a way, she’s just started her life; my star has all the time in the world.

It seems that in the end both of us ended up feeling old.

My star hates her name, which I find so bizarre since I think it’s so lovely. Isn’t HD 24496a nice name? There are some who think that it doesn’t roll off the tongue, but after a while I got the hang of it. She tells me that she wants to change it after getting married, but if it were up to me, she would keep it. We’ll see, but one thing’s for certain, we don’t want to rush things. We’ve got plenty of time. My star is sometimes afraid of going out, of being lost in the hundreds of billions of other stars that dot the night Sometimes my star thinks that she hasn’t done much in her sky. I’m surprised, because I know she stands alone, life; that she had dreamed of doing great things but ended with her metallicity of 0.11, her temperature of 5,562K up producing helium and oxygen from hydrogen (which and her apparent magnitude of 6.81. No, I reassure her, are already the most abundant elements anyways). I can I could recognize you from a billion kilometers away. hardly believe my ears, and that’s where I draw the line. Deep down, I know that she’ll become a red giant by She’s so powerful that she forgets her stature, her energy, shedding her outer envelope, losing her remaining nuher majesty and sometimes I have to remind her. But how clear fuel and becoming a planetary nebula with her dycan I explain to her that she produces the equivalent of 5.4 ing breath. And it’s true that the astrophysicists are usutrillion thermonuclear bombs of energy each second? How ally right. But this evening, she’s never been brighter. can I show her her rays that diverge to the ends of the universe? How do I make her understand that as I see her while the night falls and signals the start of our nocturnal encounters, each and every time I find my breath taken away?

I miss my chance while thinking, and the conversation turns to something else. It’s a thankless job being a star.

My star sometimes thinks that she’s old, but I’m not great when it comes to these kinds of situations. I never really

Illustration by Sophie Naylor

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Chaque trimestre / Each Trimester | Katie Wert

Le premier jour du trimestre était hier et le dernier jour du trimestre est demain, aujourd’hui, j’ai encore 10 semaines de devoirs à faire, alors, pas de dodo pour moi.

The first day of the trimester was yesterday the last day of the trimester is tomorrow, today, I still have 10 weeks of homework to do, so, no sleep for me.

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Illustration by Kelly Justin (L), Sara Kashani-Sabet (R)

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Συνεχίζω / I Continue | Κωνσταντίνα Καραλή Constantina Karalis Παντού σιωπή. Τα δέντρα έξω στέκονται άφοβα. Σηκώνομαι και αναπνέω. Ο ήλιος μου ζεσταίνει το δέρμα σαν μια μητρική αγκαλιά. Συνεχίζω. Ακούγοντας τα πουλιά να κελαηδάνε, μεγαλώνει ένα χαμόγελο στο πρόσωπό μου. Περπατώντας, αρχίζω να ακούω τα λουλούδια να μου τραγουδάνε. Ο αέρας δυναμώνει. Τα μαλλιά μου μπλέκονται με τον αέρα, γίνονται ένα. Μια απλή ημέρα ήτανε. Ένα Δευτεριάτικο μεσημέρι...

H ομορφιά ποτέ δεν παύει.

Silence everywhere.

The trees outside stand without fear.

I get up and breathe.

The sun warms my skin like a motherly hug.

I continue.

Hearing the birds chirping, a smile grows on my face.

Walking, I begin to hear the flowers singing to me.

The air builds.

My hair gets entangled with the air and becomes one with it.

It was a simple day. A Monday afternoon...

Beauty never ceases.

Illustration by Kelly Justin

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Quasi qui / Almost Here | Stacy Canchola Finché continuo a muovermi saprò cosa è chiaro E lo sguardo nei tuoi occhi Mi sento al sicuro dalla fiducia Perché la fiducia nei tuoi occhi mi fa sapere che sono quasi qui

Sono quasi qui, ma non sono qui perché la mia mente è lì È all’orizzonte dove c’è la nebbia, quindi non sono ancora sicura di essere qui Forse ho paura perché non so dove andare, ma sono andata così lontano attraverso le montagne aspre Continuo a cercare di trovare la mia mente?

Pensavo che le cose fossero così chiare ma la chiarezza ha cominciato a svanire penso che troverò la luce per aprire la strada .. è quella la luce che sto cercando? o solo un riflesso nello specchio?

I falsi indizi della vita non finiscono mai di sorprendermi Forse non ho bisogno di false piste Forse non ho bisogno di conoscere la strada

I’m almost here but I’m not here because my mind is over there it’s in the horizon where there’s a fog so I’m not sure if I’m here yet.

Maybe I’m scared because I don’t know where to go but I went so far passing through the rough mountains do I keep trying to find my mind?

I thought things were so clear but the clarity began to fade

Lo Straniero / The Stranger | William Nguyen

Sono uno straniero. Cresciuto in America con padre vietnamita e madre italiana, ho spesso avuto problemi con la mia identità. Per i miei amici bianchi, sono un asiatico qualunque. Per gli asiatici, non sono diverso da mia madre. A Firenze, la città in cui affondano parte delle mie radici, sono solo un altro straniero. Il sangue che scorre nelle mie vene non vuol dire niente per un ragazzo asiatico che viene dall’America.

Ricordo che al mio diciottesimo compleanno i miei cugini mi portarono a festeggiare. Finalmente potevo usare quel poco di italiano che avevo faticato tanto ad imparare. Ma i loro amici non potevano credere che i miei cugini potessero essere imparentati con un (come dissero) cinese,

e ridevano sotto i baffi facendo delle battute con commenti razzisti. Mi sono sempre sentito fuori posto davanti ad altri italiani, ma quella volta mi sentii offeso. Le loro parole mi avevano colpito e non riuscivo a dimenticarle. Anche negli Stati Uniti, quelli che hanno un’origine italiana e che in realtà hanno pochi legami diretti con l’Italia non mi considererebbero un “vero” italiano. Maremma , tutto ciò non ha senso! In quel momento, mi sono chiesto cosa significasse essere veramente italiano. Mi sentivo come se non fossi degno di avere questa parte della mia identità. Devo essere bianco? Forse sono davvero uno straniero, un impostore. La mia idea di Firenze, la città che amavo e pensavo di conoscere, ora mi sembrava un mistero da risolvere.

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I think I will find the light to clear the path .. is that the light I’m looking for? or just a reflection in the mirror? the false hints of life never stop surprising me.

Maybe I don’t need the false hints Maybe I don’t need to know the road

As long as I keep moving I will know what’s clear And the look in your eyes I feel safe from the confidence Because the confidence in your eyes lets me know that I’m almost here

Continuai a fare una passeggiata in centro per schiarirmi le idee. Lì, incontrai mio cugino Daniele, un ragazzo con innumerevoli tatuaggi che rappresentano il suo orgoglio per Firenze. Gli chiesi, “cosa significa essere fiorentino?” Daniele rise e rispose solo, “boia, facciamo una passeggiata.” Mi portò prima al Duomo; si fermò bruscamente davanti all’impellente disco di marmo bianco, mi guardò dall’alto in basso e disse, “William, ti ricordi quando ti raccontai il significato di questo disco?”

Risposi, “Certo, come potrei dimenticarlo? Qui, all’inizio del 1600, la palla d’oro cadde ed atterrò proprio in questo punto.” Rispose a malapena, solo scuotendo la testa in accordo quasi soddisfatto. Mi sentivo scoraggiato. Non

capivo perché mi avesse detto questo. Dopo un po’ mio cugino mi disse “Ho bisogno di pensare, conosci un posto che potrebbe darmi qualche ispirazione?” Senza pensarci, lo portai alla roccia di Dante, situata in un piccolo vicolo che non molte persone conoscono, dove presumibilmente scrisse la Divina Commedia mentre guardava il Duomo in costruzione. Lì, mi fece una serie di domande oscure che sembravano inutili al momento- domande sul perché non ci sono finestre sulla casa della via De Pucci, e sulla storia della testa di Berta che spicca dalla Chiesa di Santa Maria Maggiore. Tutti miti di Firenze che ho sentito sin da bambino, ma di cui non ho ma il capito il significato. Daniele continuava a farmi domande, una dopo l’altra, sembrava

Illustration by Keegan Pedersen

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/ cont’d

un interrogatorio. Non ce la facevo più! “Ho sempre apprezzato una chiacchierata con la mia famiglia, ma ho una domanda a cui non riesco a trovare risposta. Cosa vuol dire essere fiorentino?” Sorrise di nuovo. “Boh.” E se ne andò.

Le mie domande, però, erano ancora là. Decisi di parlare con Ricardo, il compagno di mia cugina Marida, che è brasiliano ma sembra un italiano. “Ricardo, Come hai fatto ad ambientarti a Firenze con una cultura così diversa? Io non posso fare a meno di sentirmi un pesce fuor d’acqua. Mi disse solo, “bada, sono qui da quando frequentavo l’università. Ho la mia famiglia qui, questa città è più accogliente di quanto pensi.” Capii che ha una famiglia italiana, e potrebbe facilmente passare per un italiano bianco. Ma per me non è così. Vuol dire che non mi sentirò mai a casa? Iniziai a perdere la speranza, ma prima di accettare che non appartenevo a quel mondo avevo un’ultima fermata da fare.

“Nonna, ho bisogno della tua saggezza, sei a Firenze da tantissimi anni. Cosa significa essere fiorentino?” Mi rispose, “Bellino, a cosa pensi quando senti la parola rinascimento?” “Firenze, un cambiamento, Da Vinci” Risposi. “Bene” disse, “continua”. Le raccontai quello che sapevo sul Rinascimento: un periodo in cui l’arte e la cultura esplosero in un modo mai visto prima, e che forse non si vedrà più. Le parlai anche di Da Vinci, il “Renaissance man,” l’uomo che fece tutto, dalla pittura all’architettura alla scienza. L’uomo che non lasciò che i confini del mondo diventassero i confini della realtà. Mia nonna disse, “Leonardo aveva un sacco di talenti e di esperienza mondana, contribuì a modellare ciò che la cultura di Firenze è oggi. Ma hai dimenticato qualcosa.” Con gli occhi brillanti e pieni di speranza, mi diede un libro che non avevo mai visto prima. “Mi ricordi di Leonardo. Forse qui troverai quello che stai cercando.”

Andai in un posto solitario in campagna e inizia a leggere. Porca miseria , non ci credo! Leonardo era figlio di una schiava turca. Questo genio che riusciva a scrivere

una storia con una mano e dipingere un quadro con l’altra ebbe difficoltà ad imparare il latino. Il figlio di un’ immigrata che ha difficoltà ad imparare un’altra lingua, mi ricorda qualcuno!

Tornai in centro. Questa volta le strade mi parlavano e potevo sentire i sussurri dei miei antenati passati. Potevo vedere Leonardo nel suo studio. Mi accorsi che senza le forti influenze di questi cosiddetti stranieri, l’Italia e Firenze non avrebbero mai potuto avere un così grande risveglio e progresso nella loro società. Milioni di storie di mondi lontani da Firenze sono state integrate nell’essenza stessa della città. A questo punto sono cambiato, ho avuto il mio rinascimento. Mi sono sempre preoccupato di come inserirmi a Firenze, perché il giudizio delle altre persone mi ha sempre ferito. Sì, è vero. Ero accecato da chi sono veramente. Sono italiano, ma sono anche americano e vietnamita, un vero mix di identità. Oltre all’aspetto, però, sono molto di più. Non devo essere solo una parte di qualcosa, sono quello che sono. Amo questa città, e ho finalmente capito che non c’è un fiorentino “perfetto”. Firenze è semplicemente una cultura, una storia che evolve.

Adesso tocca a me.

I’m a stranger. Growing up in America with a Vietnamese father and an Italian mother, I often felt uncertain about my identity. For my Caucasian friends, I’m a typical Asian. To Asians, I’m no different than my mother. In Florence, a city in which part of my roots run deep, I’m just another foreigner. The blood that runs through veins doesn’t mean a thing for an Asian guy who comes from America.

I remember when I was in Florence my cousins took me out to celebrate my 18th birthday. I was excited to finally use the little Italian I worked so hard to learn.

But my cousins’ friends couldn’t believe that they could be related to a (in their words) “Chinese”. The friends were laughing under their breath whilst making racist

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comments. I always felt out of place with other Italians, but at that time I was exasperated. Even in the States, those of Italian origin who in reality have very few ties with Italy wouldn’t even consider me a “true” Italian. Maremma, this doesn’t make any sense. At that moment, I asked myself what it really meant to be Italian. I felt as if I was not worthy to have this part of my identity. Is my skin not white enough? Maybe I am really a stranger, or even an impostor.

My idea of Florence, the city I loved so much and thought I knew well, now seemed a mystery to solve.

I went for a walk downtown to clear my mind.

There I met my cousin Daniele, a guy with countless tattoos that represent his pride for Florence. I asked, “what does it mean to be a Florentine?” Daniele laughed and only said, “boia, let’s go for a walk.” First he took me to the Duomo. He suddenly stopped in front of the compelling white marble disc, he looked at me from top to bottom and said, “William, do you remember when I told you the meaning of this disc?” I answered, “of course, how could I forget? At the beginning of the 1600s, the golden sphere fell right in this spot.” He barely answered, he just shook his head in agreement, almost satisfied with my response. I felt discouraged. I didn’t understand why he told me this.

After a while my cousin exclaimed, “I need to think, do you know a quiet place?” Without even thinking about it, I took him to Dante’s rock, situated in a small alley that many people don’t know about. It is rumored that he wrote the Divine Comedy here while he admired the construction of the Duomo. There, Daniele asked me a series of obscure questions that seemed irrelevant at that moment -- questions about why there aren’t any windows on the house on via De Pucci, and about the history of the head of Berta that protrudes from the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore. These were all myths about Florence that I had heard since I was a child, but of which I never fully understood the meaning. Daniele kept asking me questions, one after the other, it seemed like an inquisition. I was exhausted! “I always appreciated a nice conversation with my

family, but I still have a question to which I can’t find an answer. What does it mean to be a Florentine?” He smiled again. “Boh.” And he left.

I still had many questions, so I decided to speak with Ricardo, my cousin Marida’s partner who is Brazilian but looks Italian. “Ricardo, how did you get settled in Florence with a culture so different from yours? I feel like a fish out of water”. He just said, “bada, I have been here since my university years. I have my own family here, this city is more welcoming than you think.” I knew he had an Italian family and could easily pass for a white Italian. But for me it’s not the same. Does it mean I will never belong?

I started to lose hope, but before I accepted that I didn’t belong in that world, I had one last stop to make.

“Grandma, I need your wisdom, you have lived in Florence longer than I can remember. What does it mean to be a Florentine?” She answered, “Bellino, what do you think when you hear the word Renaissance?” “Florence, a rebirth, Da Vinci” I answered. “Very well” she said, “go on.” I told her everything I know about the Renaissance: a period where art and culture exploded like never before, and that perhaps will never be witnessed again. I also told her about Da Vinci, the “Renaissance man,” the man who did everything from art to architecture and science.

The man who didn’t let the expectations of the world become the restrictions of his reality. My grandmother said, “Leonardo was very talented and had lots of experiences.

He contributed to modelling what is today the culture of Florence. But you forgot something.” With shiny eyes full of hope, she gave me a book that I had never seen before.

“You remind me of Leonardo. Perhaps in this book you will find what you are looking for.”

I went to a remote place in the countryside and I started to read. Porca miseria, I can’t believe it! Leonardo was the son of a Turkish slave. This genius who could write a story with one hand and paint a picture with the other had difficulty learning Latin. The son of an immigrant who had difficulty learning another language, this reminds me

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Excerpt from Bread and Wine |Keegan Pedersen / cont’d

of someone!

I went back downtown. This time the streets were speaking to me. I could hear the whispers of my ancestors.

I could see Leonardo in his study. I realized that without the strong influences of these so-called foreigners, Italy and Florence would not have been able to have such a great awakening and progress in their society. Myriad stories from faraway lands were integrated in the essence of the city. Suddenly I changed, I had my own Renaissance.

I always worried about ways to fit in in Florence because the judgements of other people always took a toll on me.

Yes, it’s true. I was always blinded from what I truly am. I am Italian, but I’m also American and Vietnamese, a true blend of identity. Aside from what I look like, I am much more than that. I don’t have to only be part of one thing, I am who I am. I love this city and I have finally understood that a perfect Florentine doesn’t exist. Florence is simply a culture, an everchanging story.

Now it’s my turn.

Illustration by Keegan Pedersen

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ESTERNO. MONTAGNE ABRUZZESI - GIORNO Un asino tira un traino di legno pieno di sale e tabacco su una tortuosa strada sterrata. Si muove a passo lento, salendo sulla strada rocciosa di montagna.

Alle redini è MAGASCIÀ (70s), un uomo enorme a cui manca un braccio. Pietro Spina, travestito, si siede accanto a lui.

Una nuvola di mosche ronza intorno al viso del povero asino.

Scuote la testa e le mosche si disperdono.

PIETRO È stanca?

MAGASCIÀ Bersagliera? No. Lei non è lenta per stanchezza ma per età. Fa questo viaggio con me ogni settimana, l’abbiamo fatto per quasi una decina di anni. Ma lei è fortunata, sapete perché?

PIETRO Perché?

MAGASCIÀ Un asino lavora per più o meno venticinque anni, un mulo ventidue, la maggior parte di cavalli quindici.

Ma un uomo, un uomo continua a lavorare fino a quando ha settant’anni o più. Mi dica, come prete, perché Dio ha pietà degli animali ma non degli uomini?

PIETRO Io non sono sicuro di avere una risposta… Allora, Dio fa quello che vuole, chiaramente.

Bersagliera scuote di nuovo la testa.

Un contadino sul suo asino, sta scendendo la montagna, passa davanti a Pietro e Magascià.

MAGASCIÀ Come si annunzia il raccolto quest’anno?

Contadino (Scuote la testa) Male.

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Magascià aspetta mentre l’uomo si allontana.

MAGASCIÀ Si aspetta un buon raccolto.

PIETRO Eh? Perché ha detto il contrario?

MAGASCIÀ Non vuole attirare l’invidia.

PIETRO Com’è il vostro raccolto quest’anno?

Magascià si fa il segno della croce.

MAGASCIÀ Un disastro.

PIETRO Temi che anch’io sarò invidioso?

MAGASCIÀ Qui l’invidia è nell’aria.

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EXT. MOUNTAINS OF ABRUZZO - DAY A donkey pulls a wooden cart full of salt and tobacco up a winding dirt road. It moves at a slow pace, ascending the rocky mountain road.

The driver of the cart is MAGASCIÀ (70s), a mountain of a man with one arm missing. Pietro Spina, in disguise, sits next to him.

A group of flies buzz around the donkey’s face. It shakes its head and scatters them.

PIETRO Is it tired?

MAGASCIÀ Bersagliera? No. She’s just old and slow. She’s made this trip with me once a week for almost ten years.

But you know something?

PIETRO What?

MAGASCIÀ She’s a lucky beast. A donkey works for around twenty five years, a mule twenty two, most horses about fifteen. But man, he goes on working until he’s seventy or more. Tell me, you’re a priest, why does God take pity on animals and not on men?

PIETRO I’m not sure how to answer that… Well, no matter. He can do what he likes of course.

Bersagliera momentarily rids herself of the flies again.

A man riding his own donkey passes Pietro and Magascià going the opposite direction.

MAGASCIÀ How’s the crop this year?

PEASANT (Shakes his head) Bad.

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Magascià waits for the man to be out of earshot.

MAGASCIÀ He’s expecting a good harvest.

PIETRO Why would he say the opposite?

MAGASCIÀ He doesn’t want to attract envy.

PIETRO How is your crop this year?

Magascià makes the sign of the cross.

MAGASCIÀ Disastrous.

PIETRO Are you afraid I’ll envy you?

MAGASCIÀ It’s in the air here.

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『 ほんの子供の考え 』 / Just a Child’s Thoughts | 子供達の声 ささやいている 耳に届くまで

誰が好き? と聞かれた 男の子の中で 興味のない もちろん女の子はダメ まぁ、そっちも興味はないんだけど 6歳の時 早く誰か選べで! グルグル回る考え 必死に思い出す 誰が誰を好き? あいつはだめじゃん ハナあいつが好きだから

もう! 私は誰も好きじゃない! ありのままじゃダメなの? 誰かを好きになることに価値はあるの? なんで女の子は男の子を好きじゃないとけないの? こう言えたらよかったのに 6歳の時 このまずさに 耐えた

クリスタル Crystal Gong

Children’s voices Whisper Until reaching my ears I’m asked Who do you like?

Of the boys I’m not interested Of course girls aren’t allowed Well, I also wasn’t interested there At the age of 6 Hurry up and choose!

Thoughts spinning in circles I try to remember Who likes who?

That boy, he’s off limits Hannah likes him Enough!

I don’t like anyone!

Isn’t it fine to be the way I am?

Is there any value in liking someone?

Why do girls have to like boys?

It would have been great if I had said this but At the age of 6 I endured This awkwardness

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Illustration by Kelly Justin

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To Know One’s Place | Henry Berg He darts between the enormous, bloodthirsty limbs at long last devouring the cherished prize: For man ought not to challenge his place in nature.

apis subito ad litus famelica rubrum aevitatibus Italiae pugnaeque cruoris venit terram tectam. miseri specie nam nautae rara saepe corrumpuntur humique hoc rectores navesque ferunt cibosque petentes terrae et falsae edi bibi choro flumina cuncto illi neque facinora en neque didicerant bestias classis apud adventum superam quae latent. Cyclopes in hocque locum atrum enim habitant captari mel aureumque fluens ab apibus custodiunt. inveniunt dulcem cibum avidi viri caelestemque volunt gustare liquorem mox inventum esse sed intra viscera acida. apis idem fatum astrictorum pedibus vult alis cautis consilium fugereque facit. artos cursim vastos custodis volat inter cruenti optatum devorat denique nectar: non naturam invitare ostenditque animales.

A famished bee swiftly comes to Italy’s red shorea land stained by generations of battle and blood.

For this scarce glimpse of land too often tempts wretched helmsmen and sailors, seeking grains and rivers to quench hunger and thirst, to steer their tillers towards the deceitful coast.

Alas, those men had learned about neither the curses nor the monsters that gingerly greet the final docking of the fleet.

Indeed, the Cyclopes dwell in this deadly place and stand sentry over dripping gold so treasured by bees.

The greed of men seeks out this sweet elixir yearning to taste the heavenly nectar but is soon entrapped deep within the guard’s bitter guts.

The learned bee, wishing to avoid the same fate as those heavy of foot, devises a path on cautious wings.

Illustration by Kelly Justin

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Любимые камни / Beloved Stones | Andrew Zanazanian Я хочу только во Львове. Где стоят древние здания, и машины тоже; Хватит, сидел я на тихом острове; С такой болью, даже Бог помочь не может.

I want only to be in Lviv.

Where stand ancient structures, and cars as well; Enough I have sat, on a quiet island; With such pain, even God cannot help.

Вот моё лечение на скамейках в парках Франка Где я усну, под песню соловьёв, Затем проснусь от голосов пьющих стариков, Ища ответ, и нашёл не больше, чем тишину недостающего звонка.

Here is my healing, on the benches of the Franko parks Where I’ll fall asleep, beneath the songs of nightingales, Then awaken to the voices of the drunken old men, Searching for an answer, I’ve found nothing more than the silence of an absent call.

Гром слушает не меня, а тебя Летом на нас шёл град и жестоко; Ты дала свои глаза Армянскому двору, А я же слышу твой шёпот и смех на ветру.

The thunder listens not to me, but to you In the summer hail fell upon us, and cruelly; You gave your eyes to the Armenian Courtyard, And I still hear your whisper and your laugh in the wind.

Госпожа / Madame | Andrew Zanazanian Госпожа скажите нам, почему муж ваш не умеет любить ничего; Он не живёт, кроме как через слова, которыми он размахивает как хрупкая булава

Tell us, Madame, why your husband is not able to love anything; He does not live, except through words, which he wields like a fragile mace

Он скорее кожу описывать будет, чем её заботливо трогать, и сохранив в азоте ваше бесподобное обаяние, он его не выманит из вашего недооцёненного сердца даже когда он бы лучше тебя держал крепко и крепче

He would sooner describe your skin, than tenderly caress it; and having preserved in nitrogen your peerless affection, he does not coax it from your undervalued heart even when he’d do better to hold you close, and closer

Не позволяй ему забыть твою красоту а говори с ним истинно на одном языке, так как ты единственная сила притяжения, которая может его оттащить от края разрушения

Do not allow him to forget your beauty but speak with him veritably, in a common tongue, as you are the one force of gravity, which can pull him back from the brink of collapse -- 26 --

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Reinas rojas de la milpa / Red Queens of the Cornfield | Edward Colmenares ...perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden.

No nos dejes caer en tentación y líbranos del mal…

México. Estaban organizando un plan para encontrar y aniquilar a esas brujas y se requería consejo. También, se requería unos chiles de un árbol especial, tenían que estar bañados en agua bendita y bendecidos por un obispo. La importancia de estos chiles era que servían para detectar brujas. Las bestias solo salían en la noche y se escondían Pegados de lado a lado, la gente rezaba ante los pies del en la milpa. Para encontrarlas, se cocinaban estos chiles y altar donde la Virgen de Guadalupe se sentaba. Pedían por el humo fuerte emitido hacía las brujas toser en un ruidoso la misericordia del pueblo. llanto.

Durante el doce de diciembre, el pueblo de Mitla en Oaxaca se reunía para celebrar el día de la Virgen de Guadalupe. Después de rezar para la Virgen, habían cantos, bailes, comidas y una gran hoguera que alumbraba la alegría del festival. Pero este año, solo hubo más rezos y ruegos, seguidos por una cena donde calladamente se discutía las ocurrencias extrañas plagando el pueblo.

Se dice que esto suena como un lloro de gallos.

Finalizaron las preparaciones y a medianoche, el sacerdote bendijo a doce hombres encargados de la caza. Estos hombres buscaban sangre y estaban armados para conocer al demonio. Don Antonio cargaba una escopeta. Francisco llevaba su rifle Lee Enfield. Rafael tenía una pistola Beretta en su cinto, y los otros traían una mezcla de revólveres, hachas y machetes. El marido de Josefina, que se llamaba César, cargaba los chiles benditos en una olla grande, y su hijo de quince años, Santiago, tenía un bote de petróleo a la mano. Así, con una última oración, los hombres se embarcaron a la milpa para matar.

Empezó en marzo cuando se encontró doce cabras pudriéndose al centro de una *milpa. Luego, gallinas, puercos y hasta perros empezaron a desaparecer del pueblo. Esto continuó por meses hasta que la dueña de una tienda chiquita, Josefina, perdió a su bebe. La familia estaba durmiendo en la sala y se escuchó la ventana azotar en el otro cuarto. Cuando comprobaron lo que era, la cuna del No se sabe lo que ocurrió. Toda la noche, el pueblo esbebe estaba vacía. El pueblo buscó al bebe por seis sema- cuchó truenos y gritos lejanos, tanto de hombres como de nas pero solo se encontró su zapatito rosa. bestias. Solo hasta las seis de la mañana, cuando las gallinas comenzaron su lloro matutino, se escuchó el disparo Por si fuera poco, la hija adolescente de Doña Fernanda final. fue encontrada con una libreta llena de símbolos y palabras en latín. Cuando la cuestionaron, ella lloró y dijo que es- De los doce hombres que entraron al jardín del diablo, taba caminando por el río cuando una viejita vestida de siete regresaron. Cubiertos en tierra y sangre, ellos no negro se le acerco y le dio la libreta, diciendo que traería podían pronunciar palabras completas, ni las del padre sabiduría existencial. Esto confirmó lo que el pueblo nuestro. Los siete presenciaron el conocimiento de la sersospechaba; habían brujas maldiciendo a la gente de Mitla. piente y ahora sólo podían murmurar acerca de unos ojos elípticos que medían la misericordia de los humanos. Ellos Los días después de la reunión con la Virgen, unos hom- murmuraban sobre una voz que escucharon en la milpa, bres del pueblo contrataron un sacerdote en la Ciudad de una que había estado presente desde sus nacimientos pero -- 27 --

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que nunca fue considerada hasta entonces. En medio de propiedades curativas. Quizás comérselos mejoraría su estas palabras incoherentes, ellos revelaron que una bruja condición. A través de un pariente, Santiago ordenó una escapó. canasta de estos chiles.

Sin embargo, en los días siguientes, los hombres empezaron a hablar, y ayudaron a encontrar los cuerpos de los que fallecieron. Las condiciones distorsionadas de estos cadáveres no es algo que se describirá.

Eran las ocho de la mañana de un domingo, la canasta de chiles había llegado el día anterior. Solo en su cocina, Santiago preparó huevos fritos y chorizo; luego, levantó la llama y echó los chiles para cocinar.

Con los funerales honorables de los fallecidos, el pueblo comenzó a volver a la normalidad. Los meses pasaron y los animales del pueblo dieron a luz en primavera. Se restauraron las festividades de la iglesia, y en los años siguientes, el pueblo tuvo grandes celebraciones para el día de la Virgen de Guadalupe. El hijo Santiago se casó con la sobrina de Doña Fernanda, y César y Josefina tuvieron otra criatura durante un otoño. Así, el pueblo de Mitla olvidó el mal.

Al otro lado de la cocina y la sala, en el cuarto donde dormía el bebé, escuchó a su esposa toser y luego el llanto de un gallo.

...forgive our trespasses, as we also forgive those who trespass against us.

Lead us not into temptation Años después, Santiago se encontró viviendo en los Esta- but deliver us from evil… dos Unidos con su esposa e hijos. Él era el último de los siete hombres que sobrevivieron de la milpa esa noche.

Side by side, people prayed at the feet of the altar where La Virgen De Guadalupe sat. They asked for the mercy of Antes de irse a los Estados Unidos, Santiago ayudó a en- the pueblo. terrar a los otros seis. Dos se suicidaron, ambos colgados.

Francisco se ahogó tratando de salvar a su nieto después On December 12, the town of Mitla in Oaxaca gathered de que el niño siguió a un perro en un río desbordado. Don to celebrate the day of La Virgen De Guadalupe. After Antonio y su familia fueron quemados mientras dormían prayers for the Virgen, there were songs, dances, meals porque una vela para la Virgen cayó sobre un mantel. Rafa- and a large bonfire that lit up the joy of the festivities. But el se rompió el cuello después de que un caballo asustado this year, there were only more prayers and pleadings, lo arrojó de su espalda. Y su padre César murió lentam- followed by a dinner where people quietly discussed the ente de cáncer en el colon, algo que Santiago ahora había strange occurrences plaguing the town. heredado.

It began in March when twelve goats were found rotting Ya era el sexto mes de su diagnóstico y los dolores de es- in the center of a cornfield. Later, chickens, pigs and even tómago solo empeoraban. Más allá de los gastos del trat- dogs began to disappear from the town. This continued for amiento, él tenía sus dos hijos y un bebe para mantener. months until the owner of a small store, Josephina, lost her Buscó los chiles bendecidos que le salvaron la vida esa baby daughter. The family was sleeping in the living room, noche tantos años atrás. Se decía que también tenían and a window slamming was heard in the other room.

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When they checked what it was, the baby’s crib was empty. people heard gunfire and distant screams, both from men The town searched for the baby for six weeks, but only one and beasts. Not until six in the morning, when the chickpink bootee was ever found. ens began their morning cry, was the final shot heard.

To make matters worse, Doña Fernanda’s teenage daughter was found with a notebook full of symbols and words in Latin. When questioned, she cried and said that she was walking by the river when an old woman dressed in black approached her and gave her the notebook, saying that it would bring existential wisdom. This confirmed what the people suspected; there were witches cursing the people of Mitla.

The days following the union for the Virgen, men from the town hired a priest from Mexico City. They were organizing a plan to find and kill these witches and advice was required. Also, special Chiles de Arbol were required, bathed in holy water and blessed by a bishop. The importance of these chilies was that they were used to detect witches. The beasts only came out at night and hid in the cornfields. To find them, these chilies were cooked and the strong smoke emitted made the witches cough into a loud cry.

Of the twelve men who entered the Devil’s Garden, seven returned. Caked in dirt and blood, they could not utter complete words, not even those of The Lord’s Prayer. All seven of them had witnessed the knowledge of the serpent, and they could now only murmur about elliptical eyes that measured mercy for humans. They whispered about a voice they heard in the cornfields, one that had been present since their births but was never considered until then.

Amid these incoherent words, they revealed that one witch had escaped.

Nonetheless, in the days that followed, the men began to speak and helped find the remains of those who had perished. The distorted conditions of these corpses is not something that will be described.

With the honorable funerals of the deceased, the town began to return to normalcy. Months passed and the village animals gave birth in the spring. Church festivities were This is said to sound like the guttural cries of roosters. restored, and in the following years, the town had great celebrations for La Virgen De Guadalupe. The son, SanThe preparations were completed, and at midnight the tiago, married Doña Fernanda’s niece, and César and Jopriest blessed the twelve men in charge of the hunt. These sephina had another child one autumn. Thus, the people men were seeking blood and were armed to meet the dev- of Mitla forgot the evil. il. Don Antonio was carrying a shotgun. Francisco carried his Lee Enfield rifle. Rafael had a Beretta pistol tucked in Many years later, Santiago found himself living in the his belt, and the others carried a mix of revolvers, axes, and United States with his wife and children. He was the last of machetes. Josephina’s husband, whose name was César, the seven men who emerged from the cornfields that night. carried the blessed chiles in a large pot, and their fifteenyear-old son, Santiago, had a bottle of petroleum on hand. Before going to the United States, he had helped bury Thus, with one last prayer, the men embarked into the the other six. Two of the men committed suicide, both by cornfields to kill. hanging. Francisco drowned trying to save his grandson after the boy followed a puppy into a flooded river. Don It is not known what happened. Throughout the night, the Antonio and his family were burned alive while they slept -- 29 --

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Busco / Searching | Nelly Fraide / cont’d

and a candle for the Virgin fell onto a tablecloth. Rafael broke his neck after a frightened horse threw him off its back. And his father Cesar slowly died of colon cancer, something that Santiago had now inherited.

It was already the sixth month after his diagnosis and the stomach pains were only getting worse. Beyond the cost of treatment, Santiago had his two sons and a baby daughter to support. In Desperation, he searched for the blessed Chiles de Arbol that had saved his life that one night so many years ago. They were said to have healing properties as well. Perhaps eating them would improve his condition.

Through a relative, Santiago ordered a basket of these chiles.

It was eight in the morning on a Sunday, the basket of chili peppers had arrived the day before. Alone in his kitchen, Santiago prepared fried eggs and chorizo; then, he raised the flame and added the chilies to cook.

Across the kitchen and living room, in the room where the baby slept, he heard his wife cough and then the guttural cry of a rooster.

Entré a un lugar nuevo Encuentro una silla y me muevo Busco la piel de mis compañeros Como el café, mancho el papel Busco ojos negros Como los de mi mamá de mis recuerdos Busco manos ásperas Como las de mi papá por su carrera/trabajo Pero sólo encuentro manos suaves y ojos color verde.

Me miran, -el verde- diciendo que siempre recuerde De la Guerra del Indio Muerto de mi pasado Bajo la cara y amarro mi pelo Muevo mi lengua para hablar su idioma Right, estoy lista y levanto la vista Pero el pelo güero enfrente de mí brilla como el sol Acaricio mi pelo que está más oscuro que el polvo Y me siento como *mancha de nuevo No me quedo para hablar con mi profesor Se que el pelo güero tendrá su atención Ahora estoy dentro de mi cuarto Esperando Para volver a casa- home Recuerda, Aquí se habla inglés, se come comida sin sabor, y se apaga la llama sin amor.

Here we speak English, we eat flavorless food, and you extinguish your flame

Illustration by Angellina Querol

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La muerte se tiñe de oro / Death is Tinged with Gold | Luis Ledezma I enter a new room I find a seat and move I search my classmate’s skin Like coffee, I’m a stain on paper I’m searching for black eyes Like my mom’s when she cooks at night I’m searching for rough and worn hands Like my dad’s from tending to the land But I find soft hands and blue hues They watch, saying, ‘Always remember me And De La Guerra and the Indio Muerto of your past’ I tie up my hair and avert my gaze I fix my tongue because they took my Spanish away Right, and so I look back But the blonde hair in front of me shines like the sun And I touch my hair which is darker than dust So I don’t stay to chat with my professor I know the blonde hair will have all his attention Now I’m inside my room Waiting To go back home - a mi casa And I remember Aqui se habla inglés, se come comida sin sabor, y se apaga la llama Here we speak English, we eat flavorless food, and you extinguish your flame

Había una vez, un hombre que tenía un gran temor a la muerte, por ello intentaba cuidarse todo lo que podía, llevaba una dieta saludable, descansaba bien, pero aún así enfermó muy gravemente. Los doctores le decían que no le quedaba mucho tiempo de vida. Desesperado al saber que se iba a morir gritó: “¡Muerte, ¿Por qué no puedo vivir para siempre!?” Lo gritó con tantas fuerzas que del cansancio se quedó dormido. Mientras dormía, la Muerte vino a visitarle y lo despertó con una risa burlesca:“¡Jajajajaja!

Ay, amigo! Desde que naces es lo único que tienes garantizado, la muerte es algo de lo que nunca podrás escapar.

Pero te ofrezco un trato.” El hombre respondió, “Claro, ¿Qué trato es?¿De qué se trata?” Y la Muerte respondió: “Te daré un mes más de vida por cada moneda de oro que me traigas.”

De repente, el joven despertó y los doctores al verlo gritaron: “¡Es un milagro! ¡Ha sobrevivido!” El hombre se sintió como nuevo y comenzó a trabajar. Uno, dos, hasta tres trabajos consiguió para poder pagar a la muerte. El hombre trabajaba día noche, no celebraba su cumpleaños, no dormía, hasta a veces ni comía, para poder juntar más dinero para la Muerte. La gente lo veía como la persona más trabajadora del mundo y así pasaron los años, pasaron tantos años que los niños ya eran ancianos y el hombre seguía trabajando hasta que un día no pudo más.

Habían pasado más de 150 años desde la última vez que vio la Muerte y esa misma tarde la volvió a ver y la Muerte le preguntó: “¿Y mi moneda de oro?” Entonces el hombre respondió “Ya no puedo más, pero quiero vivir más.”

La Muerte comenzó a reír “Ja, ja, ja tu vivirás,” el hombre confundido dijo, “¿Por qué te ríes?” La Muerte respondió y le dejó aún más enojado: “Tú no viviste, tú sólo trabajaste. ¿Cuándo fue la última vez que viste el cielo? ¿Cuál fue la última vez sentiste el frío o que comiste un dulce? ¿Cuál fue la última vez que viviste de verdad?” A lo que el hombre respondió, “El día que te vi.”

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Once upon a time, a man had a fear of death. He took care of himself, he ate nourishingly, he slept well and took care of himself as much as possible, but still he got very seriously ill, the doctors told him that he did not have long to live. Therefore, he knew that he was going to die so he screamed, “Death, why can I not live forever?” He screamed so much that he fell asleep. While he was sleeping, death came and roared with a mocking laugh, “Hahahahaha friend, you will never be able to escape death. From the moment you are born, it is the only thing that you have guaranteed. Death is something that you will never be able to escape, but I have a deal for you” to which the man replied, “What is it, what is it, yes yes yes” to which death answered, “I will give you one more month of life for each gold coin you bring me.

When the young man woke up the doctors shouted that it was a miracle that he had survived. The man felt like new, and so he began to work. One, two, three jobs he got to be able to pay death. The man worked night after night, he did not celebrate his birthday, he did not sleep, sometimes he did not eat in order to raise money for death. People saw him as the hardest working person in the world, the years passed, so many years passed that the children were already old and the man continued working until one day he could work no more, so death. More than 150 years had passed since the last time he saw her, and that same afternoon he saw her, and she asked him, “Where is my gold coin?” to which the man replied, “I couldn’t take it anymore, but I want to live more” whereupon death began to laugh. “Ha, ha you live,” she said, to which the confused man responded, “Why are you laughing?” Death’s answer left him angry: “You did not live, you worked. When was the last time you saw the sky? When was the last time you felt the cold or tasted your food? When was the last time you really lived?” The man replied, “The day I saw you.”

Illustration by Luis Ledezma

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Mi viejito / My Old Man | Carolina Ramirez Moreno Moreno, mi viejito bello, que llega de trabajar y se sabe sacrificar.

Dark skinned, my beautiful old man, who comes from work and knows how to sacrifice.

Sentado en el sillón lo veo descansar callado en los campos de uva lo veo trabajar.

Sitting on the couch I watch him rest quiet in the grape fields I watch him work.

Nos dices “Este no es trabajo para ustedes” Aprendan, Váyanse por el camino de oportunidades Aquí en el field/campo no hay pa’ más.

You tell us “This is not a job for you” Study, Learn, Go down the path of opportunity Here in the field, there is no more.

Fuerte, mi viejito, que llega de trabajar desde unos campos de por allá.

Strong, my old man, who comes from work from some fields over there.

Sentado con los ojos cerrados lo veo pensar, con un “estoy feliz” rompes el silencio que hay entre los dos. Sitting with his eyes closed I watch him think, with an “I’m happy” you break the silence between Si, lo estas. Estas feliz, satisfecho, orgulloso pero cansado. the two of us.

Cansado de trabajar y no poder demostrarlo Yes, you are. You are happy, satisfied, proud but tired.

Cansado de haber tenido un sueño en vano.

Tired of working De un sueño que solo existió allá en México, and not being able to show it en el otro lado.

Tired of having a vain dream.

A dream that only existed in Mexico, on the other side.

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Acknowledgements | Vagabond would not be possible without the help of many within the UCSB community. In particular, a sincere debt of gratitude is owed to Andrea Colón, Larry McLellan, Yoko Yamauchi, and Tianyi Chu, for their expertise in language and their generosity with their time. In addition, a special recognition is due to Vagabond’s faculty advisors: Sarah Roberts, Valentina Padula, and Marion Labatut. This magazine is simply one of many testaments to their passion for language and commitment to the act of love which is teaching.

Illustration by Kelly Justin

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We invite you to contribute!

Please contact us at: ucsb.vagabond@gmail.com

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