Crossroads - From the Brush Issue 2

UNLV FROM THE BRUSH ARTS & LITERARY JOURNAL

C R O S S R O A D S

ISSUE II

SPRING 2023

C R O S S R O A D S

FOREWORD

Vlada Stark Editor in Chief

Many of the creative pieces submitted this year invoke a spirit of wandering. From memorializing the uniqueness of a locality, or drifting through sentimental memories, there is a profound sense of soul-searching throughout this edition. Hence the name of the issue, "Crossroads," to not only represent the metaphysical locations of these student works, but also the emotional intersections at the cores of these pieces.

So I, along with the From the Brush team, invite you, the reader, along the winding path of our sophomore issue. Through melancholic flower fields, nostalgic snow flurries, and fierce ocean tides, we hope you arrive at the destination of artistic fulfillment and introspectiveness.

We wish you safe travels as you begin your journey...

T A B L E

THE FLOWER FIELD

CARISSA O'DONNELL OREGON STATE UNIVERSITY

I often compare life to a flower field: we go through seasons of growth and recovery, and when given the correct conditions, we are allowed to grow and prosper. But just like a flower field, we tend to turn our attention to the prettiest flowers the ones that catch our eye and stop our thoughts. After much consideration, we tend to pick these flowers despite stunning their growth and natural prosperity. These pretty flowers are instead put in front of the public eye, in a vase on a kitchen table, or wrapped up with other pretty flowers.

I would like to think I was a pretty flower that grew on this field. I would like to think I was the prettiest flower you had ever seen and you knew you couldn't walk past me. I would like to think that because of this, you picked me. And, because you had never picked something before, you borrowed a pot, and under your care in this little borrowed pot, you would help me keep growing. You let me become your prettiest flower and greatest, most rewarding obligation.

Because you were the prettiest flower I had ever seen. And when I saw you, I knew I needed you. I knew you deserved to be seen by everyone passing by the kitchen counter. I ever so delicately took you—careful of your stems and roots, careful of your wilts and green. And then, I placed you in a pot of my own placing the pot in the sunlight to give you your ever-deserving spotlight.

This system works! This system works until, as picked flowers, we begin to lose the natural glow Earth instilled in our core. We begin to show more of our wilts, and sooner or later, there comes a point where we may not be the prettiest flower. This system works, because although we are not the prettiest flower, we are still the greatest and most rewarding obligation to the beholder. And yet, I remember the exact moment when I was no longer your most rewarding obligation. As you basked in the spotlight my love gave you, your brightness made you unaware of how out of breath I was. How I was dimming. When I had nothing left to give—my drained energy wilting my pedals and hardening my roots you returned to the flower field. Yet, I had nothing left to give because I had given it all to you.

THE BLISTER

MOHNISH JUDGE OREGON STATE UNIVERSITY

The Blister, the Music, the Leaves, and the Water: A Retelling of the Four Sight

It had been a prolonged and taxing day for the man who stepped out of his poorly lit, but comparably warm apartment. His breath immediately produced a fog as he fumbled with the jingling keys and turned to lock the door, hearing the anticipated click. He turned again, and the ground, slick and laden with crushed leaves that bled the slush from the week’s rain, caused the man to hesitate before he took his first steps gingerly. After finding his footing, he proceeded with more assurance, looking back at his apartment once more and cautiously working up to a comfortable pace.

His mind reflected and drifted and wandered. The sky was bright and gray, and he looked back at the building, then to the road, and finally down at the sidewalk. His day had been exhausting and he yearned for the familiarity of his apartment, but he found solace in the repetition and mechanical movement of each step, an action to which he had previously devoted no attention.

“One, two,” he thought, his steps following.

“One, two, three.”

He stumbled and recovered. Despite the misstep, the fixation produced a sense of tranquility.

“One, two. One, two, three.”

“One, two, One, two, three.”

He found the rhythm. He looks at his shoe, which moved with a pulsing cadence. His sock rubbed against the side of his toe. He felt a pressure in that spot, a sharp, irritating discomfort.

“What’s that?” he thought.

“A blister.”

“So that’s what it feels like when it’s there. Can’t even walk in peace.”

“It had to happen sometime.”

The man continued to walk, this time with a slight limp. Though the ashy clouds cast a haze over the nearby buildings, the narrow road, and the curved sidewalk, the blinding headlights of each passing car shone upon the man’s surroundings. First, he heard the rushing noise and the splattering of droplets onto the sidewalk. He listened closer: a whooshing breeze, the clattering of the speed bumps, and the splashing of puddles. Then, he noticed a distant booming, hardly audible, which grew rapidly, along with his capacity to differentiate the singing voices and piercing horns.

“That sound, what is it?” he thought.

“The car’s windows are open.”

“The car’s windows are open.”

“That’s a good song.”

He bobbed his head and his steps unintentionally matched the quickened beat. His expression lightened.

"But there it goes.”

As rapidly as it came, the voices and horns muffled and quieted until they were absorbed by the booming bass, which ceased soon after. The man’s head returned to its sunken position and his steps resumed at their depressed pace.

The sky began to dim and he noticed the last indications of vibrancy in the vines draped over the brick of the buildings, the steam rising from the sides of the road, and the pockets of glistening water reflecting the streetlights in the cracks of the sidewalk. Next to him on the sidewalk, intermittently spaced, grew small maple trees, surrounded by short, intricately designed fences. A few leaves desperately grasped onto the bare branches, their color ranging from yellow to red, while the rest, a pile of brown messily lying against the fences, covered the partitioned dirt below.

“The brown is so ugly,” he thought.

“It is.”

“And the red, orange, and yellow are so pretty.”

“They are.”

“Why can’t they all be red, orange, and yellow, like the ones over there?”

“The leaves couldn’t last forever.”

The man looked at the ground, then the branches, then the ground. A few bright and colorful leaves remained, suspended in the air, the droplets of rain beginning to weigh heavily on their loose grip. An intense weight overcame him as he looked down and begrudgingly moved forward.

With his surroundings becoming more difficult to discern in the darkness, all he could make out were the unusually straight edges of the buildings, the artificially blackened outline of the road, and the unevenly layered concrete of the sidewalk. The light drizzle that he had felt on the back of his exposed hands intensified, with large droplets splashing more frequently. His body shivered and the man raised his hood, looking towards the ground. The persisting droplets collected into puddles, which trickled into narrow, flowing streams. At the end of the sidewalk, the streams cascaded, rushing into the gutters.

“I wonder where it goes?” he thought.

"Away.”

“And then?”

“Then–”

His movement halted. He stood still, dejected and hunched, and thought, the rain still pouring onto him. The water disappeared from one place, and yet, it continued to fall from another.

"What happens to it?”

“It comes and goes.”

Filled with a new sense of anticipation, the man turned around and walked in the direction he had come from. Soon, he reached the familiar street on which his apartment sat, now illuminated and radiant, emanating the warmth he had previously longed for. He halted his step once again. The shivering stopped. The rain, though enduring, lost its harsh quality. For the first time, the man found comfort.

“Should I go back in?” he wondered.

“Do you need the warmth?”

“It won’t last, will it?”

“It won’t.”

The man understood. He walked past the beaming light and into the utter darkness, unaware of what was ahead, but confident of what he left behind.

MASS ASCENSION

ANDREW L. SOWERS UNIVERSITY OF NEW MEXICO

THE TIDES

NAYA HUDSON UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA LAS VEGAS

The ropes inside my chest hang tight Knotted and strung about in Dispersions of eight, The number of the very first month we’d met and had a clean slate.

It’s frightening as I feel my chest exhale, The air leaving me in the same way you’d left. Silent and without a word. As life passes me by I recognize “love”.

Indescribable, yet suddenly much more tangible.

I think that after every version of the four letter word Personified into each individual

I’ve ever crossed paths with, You, in particular, were The water that washed off the grains of sand from the beach, The pitter patter of rain that lulled me to sleep

On the stormiest of nights

The inhaler that comforted my asthmatic lungs.

Could I ever have spoken to you heart-to-heart?

With us sitting across from each other, Face to face,

The tides stilling as I draw away from the world

Simply talking about all the fun things I’d like to do with you Rather than every disagreement we could never see Eye to eye on.

It's silly really, finally writing a poem about you, Remembering all the times I’d opened up my shell, Giving you only small waves of condensed and digitized emotion

Not knowing how else to close the space

Between what I was feeling and what I wanted to say.

I remember your tears, Cascading from your eyes

as you read all the vulnerabilities I could never truly express out in the open.

I wonder,

Would you be moved by this one too?

You were the mentor, The blueprint that led me to understand What it means to dive deep down to the sea floor. I regain awareness of my current reality, And with the loss you’ve gifted me, I am no longer small and meek.

I sit here alone and feel the tides stirring once again.

BITTERBLUE

CASSIDY OCHOA OREGON STATE UNIVERSITY

Winter, 2008. Your bus swerved on the ice tickled pavement, sending yourself and other students veering towards one side of the bus to the other in stubborn rebellion. It skidded uneasily, coming to an eerie stop amidst the freezing storm that fueled the bitterblue winter cold. You giggle, able to make out a flurry of wild snow running along the wind from the outside of your poorly heated bus, through the window that swarmed with frost and flurries of your own excitement. The cold is unwavering, brutal, and even invasive. But it doesn’t matter, the bus travels back to your preschool, the driver-teacher ushering you back indoors despite your protests, where you find yourself again at another window, staring. You belong out there, you tell yourself. You’re meant to do something adventurous, and amazing at that. But the teachers are watching, there are no good doors to make an escape out of and into the wondrous world anyways, so you sit and take in all that you can in your throne of windows.

You’re whisked forward minutes, hours, days, and years faster than you imagined. Within a few meager blinks, you’re all grown up, a mess of uncooperative hair and a large pair of eyes that constantly need rubbing. Eyebrows that constantly need threading, a consequence to your own biological shortcomings. Lips that taste the snow from outside. It’s bitter, cold, and cleaner

than the skies themselves. Solitary crystals spread to the corners of your body while the frost numbs your fingertips. You’re a lonely traveler in your backyard, but you’ve never felt more alive despite the bitterblue cold. The crisp crystalline air soothes you as you dash around, a rush of wonder and worth flowing out of you like a winter gust from a leaky window. Enthusiasm spreads across the snow, covering the air in a layer of fascination. This is you on your own, tasting your first drops of freedom, becoming one with independence, numb with excitement, reinvigorated to keep living by the cold's alluring power, breathing, singing, writing, talking, trying– your mother calls you in. The taste of excitement still lingers on your tongue as you wander inside, smiling in a way that no one else understands except for you and the bitterblue.

Time spins around you once more. Children pass you by, and in the blink of an eye you realize just how much time has become like the millions of snowflakes that fell from the sky, bitterblue shooting stars to be experienced once and never again.

Time’s seconds took a similar stance, each falling and melting upon your skin to become part of your innermost memories and being. You’re much taller than the children now, not too tall but tall enough to recognize that you’ll never become the icicle that you always wanted to be. You’re friends with the snow: Each exciting glimpse is a conversation had, memories made, and secrets kept. Winter by winter it’s seen your skin shuffle, heard your voice deepen, and felt your heart race with the rhythm of life as you find yourself wandering back into the cold once again, shivering. Time is constant, but so are the seasons that come and go. Winter will always return, just like your childlike excitement that bubbles from your heart outwards towards the snow. Shimmering crystals continue to fall, as does the wind that howls in the wake of the rising moon. You remain out in the frost, sharing your secrets as time and the bitterblue hue of the season pass.

Another year, but now you can only sit back and watch. Dozens of others wander and run among the familiar winter wonderland, yet the window feels more suffocating than ever before.

Instead, the buzzing of your computer screen pulls you back into focus, yet once again you reject the need to get work done. It’s right there, right there within your reach! The arms of a familiar friend, the curious cold, the wild and unpredictable winds it was all there, right beyond the frosted glass. It called to you, an echo of the past and wonder for the future, right outside of the silver frame. But you could only feel the weight from just the thought of frolicking in the snow settle on your shoulders. Was it this heavy before when you wandered out and played in the backyard until your mom had to yell for you to return inside? From the window, frost’s teeth tear into your clothing and nibble at the edges of your skin. Was it ever this cold back when you watched the falling snow from the safety of your preschool? The cold sends a shiver down your spine, but not one born from wonder and excitement. You slowly stare back at the computer screen behind you, and the weight upon your shoulders increases. The cold that radiates around you isn’t from the snow, it’s different. Slowly, you try to move away from the keyboard but find your

fingers frozen to them. In a time like this one, assignments come in wave after wave of paper and pixels, a manic storm enough to challenge winter itself. You take another look at the people outside the window to your glass tower, tossing snowballs and reveling in winter’s wonder, and slowly close the blinds.

Time swells around you again, and you’ve filled the space in your dorm room with dog-eared books sitting across bookshelves, cardboard moths hanging from silver thread from the ceiling, baskets full of snacks galore, blankets oozing with fluff, crystals shining, dragons to guard all sentimental treasures, stories from long ago held in leather notebooks and still it’s not enough to lift the weight on your shoulders and the computer’s buzz that lingers in your head. The snow will be different from this year, just like it has been every year since. You’ll be different this year even. The bitter wind blows down the first crystalline jewels of the season as you sit there, watching behind your tower of glass, rippling cascades of ice skating for the first time along the wind. Every single time it’s nuanced, a plethora of surprises with the seasons. It

never grows old, even though you do. Slowly, you move to gather your mittens, scarf, boots, fuzzy socks, peacoat, rain jacket, and cotton stuffed hat when the snow pours. You belong out there just as much as you do in here. So you watch the raging snow with patience, knowing your place out in the wild bitterblue world.

STRAY

MOONIS GHANI

UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA LAS VEGAS

PAPER LOVE

JERICHO ANDAYA UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA LAS VEGAS

I sat at the kitchen table staring blankly at my laptop, a few feet away from the comfortable couch located in the apartment living room. I look around the room and chuckle to myself because I realize I never noticed how big this apartment is. It could fit more than I thought, but definitely wasn’t big enough to say the living room and kitchen are two separate rooms, I always thought that was weird. There’s no line or wall to distinguish where the two rooms end, so how can they be separate? Yet, I still call them two different rooms, either for convenience or to make myself feel better about not being able to afford a house. I hone in on the silence that fills the area. No keyboard clicks. No tea kettle boiling. No laughter. No tears. Just silence.

I look towards the couch, then hear a page turn in the other room. My wife was reading a manuscript someone sent in, deciding if it had what it took to be published. I can’t help but think about how the room wasn't always this silent. This empty. This alone. The living room used to actually have life, but for the past year, the name living room is just an ironic reminder of things reminiscent of hate. Like yelling, slamming the table out of frustration, or storming out of the room in anger.

Then the silence would come, while I sat alone in the kitchen, my wife in the bedroom or out of the apartment. At first, I would sob, unsure on how to fix things.

As more time passed, my patience ran out. I stopped wondering how my wife felt. I just wanted to get over whatever the argument was so that I could get a sense of normalcy again. I would soullessly lay my head on the table, mentally exhausted, not even remembering what we were fighting about. Everything felt like a battle. Why were we fighting? Why was I still here? Questions flooded my head as I felt anxiety take over. Why did I even marry her? I snap back to the present and seeing the couch calms me down. Right, it’s because she made me so happy. Because I loved her.

I reminisce about the time I was sitting on the couch across from her, me making software on my laptop, while she was reading a manuscript. I’d rip a page out of my notebook containing program information and crumple it into a ball to throw at her. The paper ball would bounce off her beautiful black hair as she flinched. She’d look at me with her mouth agape like I just committed a sin.

“So it’s war you want, good sir?” She said in a deep voice, struggling not to

laugh. I responded by throwing another paper ball that hit her in the middle of the nose. “Oh it’s on,” she said while I ran to the kitchen to take cover behind the counter. I hear footsteps charge towards me, and I see a blur of white flash in front of my face, prompting me to look at the direction it came from. As if on cue, my forehead gets hit with a paper projectile. The love of my life had thrown two weapons back to back, ruthless to say the least. I retaliated by grabbing the same ball that had just damaged me and throwing it.

The paper ball flies over her head, “Ha, you missed, my dear husband!” she laughs.

“Did I?” I ask before she falls to the ground, holding her leg in pain. The paper ball had bounced off the wall and hit her leg, taking her down. I saunter over towards her stating, “It looks like I’ve come out victorious.”

“N- not. This. Time...” she says with her last breaths, before grabbing the notebook I threw on the floor in my dash to escape earlier and smacking me with it. I grunt in pain and fall next to her.

“Damn...you...” I say before closing my

eyes and dying.

A few seconds pass before we both burst out laughing and embrace on the kitchen floor. I give her a kiss, and we continue to smile at each other.

“That war was not kind for trees, good sir,” she teases.

“Environmentally conscious even in war, I respect you, madam,” I say in a pompous voice.

“Good because I command respect,” she laughs. “You’re still going to use that paper, Right?”

“Of course, my queen commands it,” I say, getting up and bowing. I reach a hand out to help her up and give her another kiss. We continue to work, the days passing, the room filling up. The months pass, then the years, and everything is cluttered, but it was all still full of love. That was a long time ago, before everything devolved. Before everything became empty. I look around the room again, wishing I could sit on the couch with my wife once more. I remember why I love her.

I push myself up from the table and begin walking to the bedroom. I knock on the door, a pounding in my chest appearing, and say, “Hey, I know it’s been

a rough patch. A really really long rough patch. But you’ve still given me some of the happiest memories of my life. Can...can we just talk for a bit. I don’t want to lose you. I know it might be too late for that, but I’ll hate myself if I don’t try.” I stand there waiting for a reply to my ramblings. I can feel the silence dig a hole from my heart to my stomach. “Hhey. I’m gonna come in, and you can be mad at me-” I start to say before pausing, trying to not break into tears, trying to not let the fear that I remembered why I loved her too late take over, “I just really want to hold you again.”

I open the door and see a manuscript alone on the bed. This time it wasn’t someone else’s, it was her own. She had finally gotten the courage to start writing a book. While we were busy fighting, I didn’t notice the progress she had been making towards her dreams. I didn’t give her the support she deserved. I look at the nightstand and notice the leftover funeral invitations. Right. I am too late. Realizing I haven’t been in the bedroom in so long, I grab the invitation and sit on the ground next to the bed. Tears hitting the card with her gorgeous face on it. She left the world right as she

was about to soar, and all I did was slow her down.

Hours pass and my wells have run out of tears. I let out a deep breath and get up, glancing over at the manuscript title.

Paper Love

I grab it and walk into the living room kitchen. I look at the kitchen table and then the couch. I feel my feet start to move towards the couch. Nothing feels real anymore. I look around the room. Right, the apartment felt so big because her...the love of my life’s stuff is gone. I open up the novel, and the further I get, the more my heart shatters into a million pieces. I fall asleep on the couch, clutching the manuscript in my arms.

THE RECHARGE

NAYA HUDSON

UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA LAS VEGAS

WHERE SHE ONCE STOOD

CASSIDY OCHOA OREGON STATE UNIVERSITY

There she stood on the top of a rolling hill a rolling hill that overlooked a vast sea of grass scents of fresh-born rain clinging mingling in the air anticipation of storms live and well

There she stood listening to the foliage singing their songs protesting against the wind that never ceased

She stood the moment washing over her in waves waves similar to the rainstorms that trampled the lands the grass the very hill she stood on

She sang a song of her own grass swaying beside her tiny dancers her heart sang lament after lament mourning the little time that she had left in her house watching the storms among the grass where she stood on the hill

She stood song strong body stiff

stiffer than the sheets of rain that hit the land as evening stripped each of its seconds to give way to the night

She stood her body not ready to leave another home in the wind that snaked around her where she stood on the hill she could sense it time time changing as it always has and will the grass no longer grass but intricate sets of roots blooming far beneath the ground where she stood far beyond the eyes of anyone except her who was but a wandering pair of eyes that have seen too much and felt too little

She stood

absorbing the wind grass rolling and curling caressing her skin each blade swiveling to the song the sorrowful song that bled out from her heart a song of the millions billions trillions of seconds that have passed and countless more that will after she becomes nothing more than bone and grass

Where she once stood.

I AM

NAYA HUDSON UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA LAS VEGAS

I am from the worn-out water basins of paint, From the slightly, yet not-so-cramped apartment complexes.

I’m from the hallways that infinitely smelled of mom’s perfume and fresh linen, and I’m from soft couches that seemed perpetually sunken in, time never changing its shape.

A faint smell of cigarettes had been soaked into the fabrics, and no amount of Febreze could ever cure it.

I am from the starless skies and bustling cities that only woke up after 9, The sky with one small, single star that took forever to find.

I’m from the late nights on the chilly rooftop of my father’s house; The rooftop that never really felt cold compared to what it was like inside. It held a view like none other, And there rested the days I watched sun-kissed flowers and trees rustle in the wind, the Sunday afternoons, and the light drizzles from up above. The rooftop laid with me when water would cascade from my eyes and when a few dials of the phone would welcome a refreshing, faint laugh towards the clouds,

Clearing up any storms I’d been feeling within.I am from the love of ocean tides and creosote bushes,

And from every stinging paper cut, scrape, and bruise received without a care in the world.

I’m from feasting on seaweed soup every birthday as if religion, and From goofy ol’ dad, the man who never failed to make me laugh through salty tears, and warm mother, the woman who lit every room with her infinite supply of fireflies.

I am from the exhilarating orchestra concerts; Verbalizing my emotions through tantalizing notes rather than stumbling over my words, Strumming a cello that had taken time and patience to scrape up the money for.

I’m from keeping my constant optimism, “Keep your chin up”, and “Make a difference”.

I am from the constant switches in Korean churches, Every church swarming with people wearing masks of faithfulness to cover a lust for money.

I’m from the Land of the Morning Calm and Uncle Sam, From the day I broke my arm frolicking in the playgrounds, and from the stepfather who only ever cried The day my brother died.

I am from the dusty old cabinets tracked with scratched-off stickers and dirty old marker stains, with the ashes of the pictures we burned long ago.

I’m from the photo albums that have long since been touched, coated with a layer of dust, but never forgotten.

I am from a life that has given me bumps and hills, But nothing can overtrump the bountiful road I’ve been given thus far.

LOOKING FOR THE EYES OF EVOLUTION IN SEASHELLS

CASSIDY OCHOA OREGON STATE UNIVERSITY

Beside the sea she detects another shell

A seaside scrap

Fragments of carbonate reverberate within her She discards another shattered shell,

Returning it back to the sea.

We had materialized from its watery depths long ago a wayward mermaid in the eyes of evolution.

We snorkeled until we could slink until we could saunter until we could stand

She notices herself back at the murky soup that begat us all.

The primordial soup whisks up shells

fragments of seaweed flutter something in her chest:

An aquatic arousal?

Something ancient settling in wake

Finding the waves enough to wake it from its slumber

She recalls the waves that stroked her feet, back when she had yet to stand.

To state that she could stand now would be an overstatement, She’s advanced a long way but has a much bigger trek to conquer What would it be like to snorkel in a place other than the sea?

What if we never quit the waters and the depths of the familiar never halting to become unfamiliar? Would we be freer than primordial soup and shells?

The waves surge back to her and She plucks another seashell from the ground It’s fractured like the others but this time she keeps it.

ANGLES

ANDREW L. SOWERS

UNIVERSITY OF NEW MEXICO

HOW TO BUILD A BETTER LAS VEGAS

AVA TROMPETER UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA LAS VEGAS

The city of Las Vegas constantly changes as its population continues to proliferate. Indeed, this population growth requires the prioritization of constructing new housing and businesses, the latter including restaurants, nightclubs, golf courses, shops, and new tourist attractions that make Las Vegas Boulevard, more familiarly known as “The Strip,” come more alive than ever. Thousands of newcomers arrive with the hopes of having comfortable, stable lives due to well-paying jobs and affordable housing. They enroll their children in public and private schools. Though the change may be exciting, for many long term residents of Las Vegas, it is a source of frustration as more people and cars on the roads and freeways translates to traffic congestion.

To be truthful, population growth has created as many opportunities as it has complications. Mass migration to the Las Vegas Valley has forced citizens to take a closer look at the current transportation system. As roads swell with congestion, and buses see more delays and staffing shortages than ever, the clear conclusion is that reform is necessary. In order for the Valley to properly serve its citizens, it must prioritize creating more walkable neighborhoods and improve public transportation in order to boost the economy and social capital and transition away from automobile dependency for a more environmentally conscious and efficient society.

Since 2021, the Las Vegas population has increased from 2,772,000 to 2,839,000, a staggering amount of people. These are not simple numbers on a piece of paper. They create real life implications for the many longtime residents of the Las Vegas Valley. In other words, citizens are undoubtedly feeling the effects of the spiking population. For example, automobile traffic has gone from tolerable to painfully slow over the past few years. During peak hours, it is almost certain there will be arduous delays due to accidents, severe congestion, and lane closures. Traffic and insufficient infrastructure to accommodate the growing population are not only inconvenient but possibly fatal. In fact, according to the Las Vegas Review Journal, 2021 was the deadliest year for traffic incidents and accidents in over a decade with 382 total traffic fatalities. In the professional opinion of the Director of UNLV’s Road Equity Alliance Project, Erin Breen, this is a matter of inadequate infrastructure, and it must be addressed in order to save lives. The Las Vegas population will not be diminishing any time soon. According to the Center for Business and Economic Research’s Population Forecasts, Las Vegas is projected to grow steadily over time (by about 1,000,000 people by the year 2060). As the city continues to expand, there must be action taken in order to address the issue of safe and reliable transportation in the face of a population boom...

THE BAG

CASSIDY OCHOA OREGON STATE UNIVERSITY

Half a bag of broccoli

Leftovers from the Mexican food place off Monroe

Bits and pieces

Juices and cheeses

Carried alongside me as I carry the bag in tow

Like a wayward crow

I round the corner

To find piles and miles of food fragments

Contained complicatedly

While I hear bellies howl relatedly

The bag suddenly grows heavier

From pairs of empty eyes and emptier stomachs

The weight becomes too much to bear

So I toss it up into the air

It hovers there

Waiting for a weightless moment

Before clattering into its metal coffin

Left alone to decay and soften

The bag is gone

But its weight is still there

From my shoulders and hands to where it hovered in the air

I stare

I wonder I dare

How many mouths could the remaining food in the bag feed?

How many lives from hunger could be freed?

THROUGH THE WINDOW

ANDREW L. SOWERS UNIVERSITY OF NEW MEXICO

FLEETING MEMORIES OF A PAST HOME

ISABELLA ROMERO YUSTI UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA LAS VEGAS

I don’t have a home, but I do have a house to inhabit. This does not mean I am not familiar with the warmth of one, because years ago I had the privilege of having a place that felt like home, I just didn't realize how lucky I was until I lost it. Having a house or a room or an apartment or any four walls does not mean you have a home. The feeling of home is not restricted to only a physical building. Simple things like your senses can make you feel at home - from the smell of your favorite dish to a song your mom used to play in your childhood. Home will make you feel safe and warm, home is the place in which you feel connected to your loved ones, or yourself, and are free to let go of your worries and open your imagination.

I had a home in South America before the idea of moving to Las Vegas ever crossed my mind. Caracas, Venezuela was the corner of the world that heard my first cries, applauded my first steps, and witnessed my very first kiss at the age of 14. This tiny corner of the world seems like a universe in my mind, so huge and vast that I regret never having enough time to see all of its magic. It feels this way because I won’t have the opportunity to keep exploring Venezuela, which now seems so mysterious from when I belonged there. My skin still remembers the feeling of the humidity, and the

sweat accumulating on everybody’s foreheads as we danced our way through life - because we Venezuelans love to add Merengue, Salsa, or Requetón to every single social situation. My ears can still hear the loud noise of the motorizados (bikers) that sped their way through traffic every hour of the day, occasionally pulling a gun to rob an unlucky driver. My eyes can still see the hotness of the sun, gifting everybody with a café con leche skin tone that people would pay for here in the U.S. If I put my mind to it, I still can remember all of the sensations that I felt during my time in the capital. As I continue writing this essay I can’t help but feel melancholic, wondering all of the whatifs of me never taking that one-way plane that left me in Las Vegas.

Venezuela was full of magic, but I often have to remind myself of the reason that I and my brother left, the reason why my family got separated in pieces and tossed around the globe. I can never return to the place of memories that I have from back home, because my mom and dad won’t be there to hug me anymore. We are currently two continents apart,

connected by the distant Whatsapp calls. It feels weird to have to say “bendición” and “I love you too” to a screen for five years in a row now. That is how long we have been gone from home and from each other. I can see their faces through the screen, but sometimes I feel like I don’t remember who I am talking to. We left as fast as birds do when they hear a gunshot, so fast I still don’t understand how we ever came to that decision.

The remainder of my time in Venezuela was marked by the government shutting down the hospital my parents worked in. There was no electricity or water in it so my parents couldn’t see any patients. On top of that, my school was being threatened to get expropriated as well. All of the stability we were used to having was destroyed by the dictatorship; my parents didn’t have a source of income anymore and I didn’t have an education. In the blink of an eye, my brother and I were sent to live with our grandparents in Las Vegas. Even after this, my mom used to always be so positive and caring about everything, but she is so hurt and empty of motivation now that we are not close

anymore. It is weird to be the one encouraging her when she used to be the one helping me. She used to say “estamos llegando al llegadero,” meaning that our terrible government situation was about to finish, but we are still waiting for that happy ending to happen. Our home is no longer what it used to be. Now it is just an empty carcass where my memories live.

The same phrase would constantly escape my elder’s lips: I never got to experience the real Venezuela before the twenty-two-year ongoing dictatorship. They used to call it the golden age. This was the time before we got robbed of our freedom, before people could not even afford a kilo of meat with a month’s salary. I also remember my elders talking about how my generation lived in a reality bubble, sheltered by our parent's effort and money from all of the guarimbas (violent protests) that happened regularly. My little reality bubble consisted of my house, my school, and the occasional get-together at a friend’s house. Going to a park to walk, or going out to eat with friends on a late night was unheard of; it was a death wish.

I do not wish to go back to Venezuela; it would be like taking one step forward and three back. Nevertheless, I miss the warmness and the love I had for my home. I wish I could see my painted bathroom’s toilet one more time. There was a time when my mom asked me to paint some keys to tell them apart, and a little spilled paint over my toilet gave me the idea to cover all of its white canvas. I wish I could feed the guacamayas (macaws) from my balcony, I wish I could see a pereza (sloth) crossing the street again, at least one last time. The feelings that I have for my home place will never go away, but I wish to someday have a new home to love as much as I loved my past Venezuela. We currently live in a condo owned by my grandparents, Carlos and Sunny, and my brother Luis. And even though I live in a loving household with them, I still feel homeless. I can’t help but feel like I am an ungrateful person for not feeling at home, but at the end of the day, you can’t force your feelings. Every day I wake up to a box-shaped living room and kitchen with two bedrooms and a bathroom. The walls are thin as paper, so every once in a while we go to bed while

we hear the screams of the neighbors. I feel trapped when I am there, as if nothing belongs to me; which is reasonable given the fact that I am sharing a room with my older brother. There is no painted toilet seat or pictures of my friends on my walls. The decoration comes from shelves full of clothes lining up all walls and my red vintage jewelry box where I hide an occasional secret. I do not spend a lot of time in the room.

Most days though, I get home to the smell of Venezuela. My Abuelita’s cooking always comforts my uncomfortableness. Even when using American ingredients to make something as simple as scrambled eggs, my Abuelita always finds a way to bring the flavors of home to our little condo. A taste of her lentils and rice teleports me to the dining room of my old Venezuela, having dinner with my mom and brother while watching a poorly translated version of The Big Bang Theory. The food my Abuelita cooks makes our condo feel like a home to me, but these feelings are momentary, always ending with the meal. I love having my grandparents close to me,

because they are all that I got to keep from Venezuela, and also for all of the efforts they put into helping my brother and me. I want to be there for them as they age, nursing them when they are sick and accompanying them to every medical appointment as an honorary translator, but they can be really overwhelming sometimes with their oldfashioned ways.

There is a difference between what’s expected from me as a woman and what is expected from my older brother. I remember this time we got groceries, and I wasn’t asked to put them away so I just kept doing homework. Later that afternoon my grandma came fuming to me about not fulfilling my responsibilities as a woman in the house.

You see, I don’t mind doing chores at all, but I don’t want to be pushed into becoming a housewife like my grandma is, serving and washing my grandpa’s plate before she ever gets to finish her own meal.

It is conflicting for me to not feel at home with my family. I constantly feel anxiety and shame from not finding any comfort in their house, but I believe that rather than keep overstressing the

conflicts, it's time for me to spread my wings and make my own home. I have this vivid image in my head of my next home. I can see exactly how the sun will hit through the window, illuminating little dust particles floating in the air, I see all of my orchids in a little planter in a corner wall, I can see my boyfriend’s arms as I get home after a long day of work. I can see it so clearly that even though I haven’t looked at my home with my real eyes, I know the place like the palm of my hand. Home can be anything, and in my case, my home is the future.

The frustration of waiting for my future to come is always present. But in the meantime, I will continue to dream about what’s to come and learn to appreciate the present moments that feel like home. When I leave work today, I will close my eyes when I open my house’s door. I am going to breathe in the smell of home and have a meal with my family. I will kiss my Abuelita on her head, hug my Abuelito, watch a show with my brother, call my boyfriend to come over, and water my orchids. Because little things like these give me peace, and make me remember that even when I don’t have a home, I have

other significant connections to the people I love. These connections, even for a couple of moments a day, manage to make me feel at home.

TIME IN FLORIDA

WESLEY HARDEN

UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA LAS VEGAS

FIERY TEMPERS AND COOL DEMEANORS: MASCULINITY IN AVATAR THE LAST AIRBENDER

COURTNEY PARKINSON UNIVERSITY OF NEVADA LAS VEGAS

ABSTRACT

The media we consume, including films and television series, perpetuate harmful gender norms and hierarchies such as toxic masculinity and homophobia. Young boys and men repeatedly encounter stories and characters that celebrate traits of aggression, emotional stoicism, and hypermuscularity. The impact of such representation can be particularly acute for queer men and their emotional and physical well-being because of the strong emphasis on heteronormativity and cisnormativity. Arguably, films and television series for young audiences that subvert or reconfigure conceptions of masculinity such as Avatar: The Last Airbender (2005-2008), from which I have drawn inspiration for this project may be beneficial. My project is a 23-minute video on Avatar: The Last Airbender that explores how the show employs strategic character development and distinctive visual and aural symbolism to portray healthier models of masculinity.

INTRODUCTION

Our mediated world portrays and perpetuates damaging models of masculinity. There is a large body of social scientific research that acknowledges contemporary hegemonic masculinity the current, most dominant gender construction for men is inherently toxic due to its prioritization and hyperbolization of traits such as aggression, toughness, and heterosexuality. Film and television foreground hypermasculine characters and narratives, framing them as ideal models that males are pressured to emulate. This perpetuates these unhealthy ideologies of masculinity and damages human emotional, physical, and psychological well-being. Thus, it is valuable to produce a film that gives a positive portrayal of masculinity that will work to shift perceptions of hegemonic masculinity.

My project studies the iconic animated television show and highlights the key ways it rebels against social dogmas for gender and masculinity. In this 23-minute video, I look at major themes, symbols, and characters that work to subvert toxic masculinity. I follow the primary characters Aang and Zuko throughout their character arcs in the three-season series, noting the ways they uphold or defy gender expectations...

The Team

Vlada Stark Editor in Chief

Emma Coleman Managing Editor (Spring)

Tracy Fuentes Managing Editor (Fall)

Jacquelyn Rodriguez Literacy Genre Editor

Clarissa Pimentel Associate Editor

Summer Sekula Niko Navalta

Lila Salvacion Rubaab Wahid

Dr. Maria Jerinic Michael Chin

Arts Editor Associate Editor Associate Editor Assistant Designer and Editor Faculty Advisor Advisor