Red Mesa Review 2023

RED MESA REVIEW 2023

RED MESA REVIEW Founded in 1992 REPRESENTING THE VARIED VOICES OF THE WEST CENTRAL PLATEAU AND THE FOUR CORNERS REGION Red Mesa Review 2023 Edition RED MESA COLLECTIVE: YI-WEN HUANG CARMELA LANZA THOMAS MCLAREN KERI STEVENSON Proofreader: Marcella Garcia

COVER ART: YI-WEN HUANG Mentmore Trail Roadrunners Photograph

Red Mesa Review 2

Jennifer Grisenti

Memories of Dad and Mom When I was 4 years old my Mom and Dad were divorced, but my Dad sometimes was in my life. I can look back at the good memories of Dad being there for me. For example, providing for our needs, spending time with us, teaching us about the Hopi way of life, understanding the culture of being different, educating us on life skills, and loving us unconditionally. He did have one downfall, and that was he was an alcoholic. When I saw that side of him, he would get depressed and cry. At a young age, I did not understand why, I thought it was normal and a phase. It affected him so much that the alcohol destroyed his liver and he died in October 1982. I love my Dad and I appreciate everything he tried to teach us with the time he had with us.

The happy memory I have of him is when he came to visit us while we lived in an old house. Lisa and I would wake up in the morning and to our surprise Dad would be home. We would be wearing our sleeping clothes with bushy hair, we would entertain ourselves by sitting on a broom. We were happy and hopping around playing with the broom like a horse. Dad would be sitting on a chair in the kitchen laughing at us and watching us while Mom would be cooking breakfast for everyone.

Another example would be, after he sold his kachina dolls, he would use the money to help everyone in our family with school clothes, go grocery shopping, and help mom pay some of her bills. Then there were times in the evenings he would give us a ride to Dairy Queen to get ice cream and he would buy one quart of beer and he would slowly drive us back home. There were plenty of weekends when Dad would say to load up the pots, frying pan, and some food. We would make a trip to the gas station and grocery store. Mom would pick out some meat and something to drink. We would be on our way out of town in the mountains to find a creek and a nice place to spend a day away from home. Dad would tell us to get off and play in the water nearby, he would gather some firewood for Mom so she could get started on getting the coals ready for her tortillas, and then she would warm up some canned beans and fry the meat. That would be our meal after playing in the water. In the meantime, Dad would be exploring the riverbed for cottonwood to bring home for his next project of kachina dolls. Mom would yell for time to eat, we would sit on the blanket that was laid out for us.

After we ate Dad would get some water and put out the coals and we would head back home.

There was another time that was funny, one day Dad and I walked down to the river. Dad was on a search for cottonwood for his dolls, we had spent the whole day going downstream covering the riverbed for the cottonwood. Along the way, Dad made piles so we could find it easily and come back to get them. That day I say we walked about 6 miles. When we came home it was late afternoon.

Enough time to get water and something to eat quickly. Dad had his old Chevy, he called it his White Lightning, we asked to go with him to pick up the cottonwood. Lisa, Ernie, and I jumped in the back of the truck. As Dad was making his rounds on the dirt roads and parked nearby and gathered the cottonwood to his truck, we would help. Dad let us leave the tailgate down and we would drag a stick on the dirt road for fun. There were a few spots on the road where Dad had to slow down. Ernie jumped off and said he could keep up as a dare by my sister and me. He was doing good until Dad pressed the gas and Ernie tried to hang on to the tailgate and he winded up being dragged and let go and winded up faced down in the dust. I quickly tapped on the back window to tell Dad to stop.

Dad quickly stopped and Ernie had to run to catch up to us. When Ernie got in we laughed about the incident and that was a day to remember.

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There were many days I would sit and watch Dad carve his kachina dolls, he would be singing his Hopi chants or listening to the local radio station and he made you want to help and learn his art.

He told me girls in the Hopi custom were not allowed to make kachina dolls. So I would watch and admire his work. When Dad couldn’t decorate his dolls with store-bought feathers. My brothers Sarge and Cooper would hunt for quail or dove. Dad would keep the wings and the tail and cut them down to size for his kachina dolls. Dad would say don’t waste the meat and tell Mom to fry it up for dinner.

Sometimes my brothers would hunt cottontails and dad would use the pelt for the kachina dolls too and mom would fry up the leftover meat. It was tasty, just like chicken.

There was a time when we had plenty of cats and sometimes not enough food to feed them. Dad was on a mission to save the animals. One afternoon Dad went to town to get his quart of beer. Dad had an idea. As he was heading home he started to pick up all the roadkill on the road. By the time he got home, it was late, and he forgot about it and did not mention it to Mom. The next morning, Mom was outside and she saw flies buzzing around in the bed of the truck. She went to see what it was. There were all the dead animals lying in the back. Mom was upset, about the awful smell, the flies, and the mess. She ran into the house and got mad at Dad, especially the dead owl lying in the truck. Mom was superstitious about the owl because it was a bad omen in the Apache culture. She told Dad to get rid of all the dead carcasses far away from the house and not to do that again.

Something to know about Dad is that he loved to go to the river and bathe. He would follow the trail with his shoes, short pants, and his towel and soap. He would find a rock, take off his short pants, and put it near his towel. He would take the soap, walk into the water with his boxer shorts, sit in the water, lather the soap, and wash up. He would stand up in his boxer shorts, walk out to get his towel, put on his short pants and shoes, take his soap, and then head back home. The funny thing was there was a dirt bridge nearby and he wasn’t ashamed to bathe in public and he didn’t mind if cars passed by to see him. That was Dad. Before marrying Mom, Dad had served in the Navy and was a World War II veteran. He was a very smart man and wanted to pass his knowledge to all of us. If it were not for my dad, teaching us about the stars, the rocks, the basic survival skills. I would not have seen life as I see it today. As a little kid, Dad used to make us walk with a stick to be aware of the snakes on the trail. We would all go out about a mile in the evening and come back. We never questioned why we did it, but we realized that made us stronger and to enjoy the outdoors. As kids, we played every chance we had. Running or hiking the mesa nearby or at the river swimming.

I regret my mother not teaching me to cook or become independent as we were growing up. Mom did not instill chores or ask us to help with the cooking as teenagers. I had to learn these skills later in life when I was in high school and college. My life with mom was sheltered and she did everything for us.

With her, I was raised with more tough love and not feeling sorry for myself. You were taught to get up if you got hurt even when I wanted to cry. I was told to go to my room and out of her way so she would not see it. But now mom is 86, times are changing for her as she gets older. But like Dad there are many fun times I remember with her and I still cherish them.

Growing up we lived in an old house that didn’t have a heater. Mom had her own way of taking care of us. She would tell us to pick up the big, flat lava rocks and bring them home. On cold days she would turn on the oven, put the rocks on the oven rack, and heat them up. When they were hot enough she would grab a towel, pick up the rock from the oven with her pot holders, lay it on the towel, and tell us to roll it up. We would lay with it in our beds at night to keep warm from the cold air outside. The towel was nice and warm and that was how we survived the winters.

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The house we lived in also didn’t have hot water. So on certain days of the week, we would gather wood for mom so she could make a fire in the afternoons. Mom had a metal trash can that was very useful, it was used for rinsing water for the old washing machine, or it was a swimming pool for Lisa and me. But most importantly, it was used to heat water over the campfire. After the water was heated mom would use a large pot and carry the hot water to the bathtub in the bathroom. She would make several trips to fill it up. Then depending on the temperature add cold water. From my oldest sibling to the youngest, we would take turns using the warm water to bathe. When the water got cold Mom would take the large pot and fill it up again with hot water. She would be the last one to bathe and that is how she would get us clean.

When it came to cooking mom did all the work, she would chase the little kids out to play, and the older kids would help mom or were busy with school homework. When the food was ready she would call us in to eat. She always fed everyone before herself. There were 8 kids and one adult, she always worried and made sure there was food for all of us. Dad taught Mom to always have a different variety of vegetables, fruits, and meats. Our staple was tortillas and frybread which she made on a daily basis.

When we got sick, mom had homemade remedies like her flour soup, or boiling the greasewood plant for healing sores, if we had an upset stomach mom would boil the greasewood for us to drink and dilute it with water or we would use the greasewood to bathe in if we had a rash on our skin. When we had a sore throat mom would wrap our throats with lard on a cloth and have it pinned around our necks with a safety pin while we wore it while we slept at night. When we got chicken pox Mom put oatmeal in a cloth sack and made us take a bath and dabbed the wet oatmeal over our bumps with the warm water. There are many more things she tried, she kept us healthy the best way she knew how.

When money was tight, Mom would use her skills and bead glass jars and sell them to the local trading post for extra money. We would help her pick prickly pear for the pastor’s wife so she could make jam from the wild fruit. Sometimes she would get the whole family on weekends or in the summer to pick jojoba bean seeds with other family members. All the seeds needed to be dried in the sun and have no shells and cleaned. We took the seeds to a place that would buy them by the pound for money. With everyone helping mom we would buy what we needed. As mom got older she had a knack for sewing, she bought a sewing machine and started making quilts using the basic block print.

She made so many over the years and sold them to friends and family members for extra income.

She would make tortillas or fry bread for people who didn’t have time to cook and sell them for $10 a dozen. When summer would come we would help her pick acorn which was a delicacy for Apaches to make acorn dumplings for stew. It was a tedious process of picking, drying, and taking the shells off to get to the seed. She would grind it to make a powder, sift it till it was fine, and store it in a coffee can. She would sell $30 a can for extra money and we would save a can for ourselves for special occasions.

Mom is a good, stern woman and she is very strong in her beliefs, she tries hard to make us go to church while we are growing up and to teach us to learn God’s word. We were raised in the Lutheran religion and it has remained a part of our lives today. Mom also believed in the Apache culture and would tell us what to be aware of in the culture. She wanted the best for us individually. Mom has her humorous side too. I remember when I went to college and I was home for winter break. I had taken a life drawing class and I had brought a large pad of all my drawings. I was very proud of my artwork.

Mom tells me what I draw, I show her my drawings. It started with drawing still life-like shapes, objects and finally, people posing. The people who posed for us in school were models and posed naked. Mom saw that part of my drawing. She looks at me mad and says what are they teaching you Red Mesa Review 5

at school. She took my drawing pad, tore it up into pieces, and burned the pieces in the fireplace.

Apparently, my mom was ashamed and upset about my artwork but I thought it was funny. A time I can look back and laugh about.

One time Mom had an ache on her back. Laurie had bought her a heating pad, but I guess it wasn’t doing the trick of remedying the pain. So mom had plugged in the iron and when it was warm enough, she had a towel on her shoulder and used the hot iron to rub back and forth on her shoulder. I guess she didn’t tell anyone about it until one day she had an appointment at the hospital for a checkup. The Doctor tells her to lift up her shirt to show him her pain area. She had an imprint of the iron outlined on her skin. It wasn’t burned but it surprised us. We laughed about it, the Doctor said to not do it again Mom has a problem with bunions. Growing up she never wore comfortable shoes or maybe it was too tight. Over the years it has given her pain and looking for shoes has been very difficult. She is particular about her shoes when it comes to the color, the fit, and the style. I remember her using a knife to cut slits on the sides where her bunions would be in her shoe. She figured if her shoe would stretch in those areas, it would not rub the bunions. Or sometimes she would soak her shoes in water and wear them to stretch and wear them in. When summer comes it gets really hot and wearing socks gets uncomfortable. Mom had a habit of cutting the toe areas of the socks off. She must love the freedom of wiggling her toes or it probably was a bit cooler as to bunching her toes together in her shoes. That was Mom’s style.

Mom was her own stylist, she has always had short hair to her collar. When her hair was too long.

She would stand in front of the mirror and cut a few strands on both sides. Then she would use curlers to roll up her hair. In the front part of her hair, she would use bobby pins and roll her hair with her fingers and pin. She would say how my hair looked, just a hint that she cut her hair herself and to see if we noticed. She did a good job because no one criticized her. When she got tired of her look she would ask someone in the family to perm her hair. It was less work to curl and more manageable when she had to go somewhere important.

There was one time when mom was starting to age. Her white hair seemed to be growing more. I remember seeing her in her room looking in the mirror and cutting the little hairs near her hairline by her forehead. I think she thought it would hide all the gray hairs. When the hair that she cut grew back in, it came in pure white, I guess it didn’t do the trick. Mom had to accept the fact she was aging and eventually let her hair slowly blend the white hair with her black hair. She still looks beautiful.

When I compare Mom to many people her age, she has a glow that other people don’t have. Ever since mom was a kid she couldn’t afford expensive lotions or perfumes. She said she used butter, lard, and to this day a strong believer in Vaseline. Over the years, it has hid her age and the wrinkles.

All you see are her laugh lines on her eyes and around her mouth, mom has aged gracefully and if you ask her about her age people are surprised to know how old she is.

Today Mom is alert, active, and very happy. She loves being around family and has many friends. Out of mom and dad, they had 9 children, 6 girls and 3 boys, 15 grandchildren, 21 great-grandchildren, and 1 great-great-grandchild. Mom is a full-blooded Apache and Dad is a full-blooded Hopi. The nationalities of the grandchildren consist of Hopi, Apache, Pima, Navajo, Choctaw, Kiowa, Caucasian, African American, Tohono O’odham, and Filipino.

Red Mesa Review 6

Mary Ann Dimand

But Then Face to Face To Lisa, with thanks “I’m sorry,” said the central white-robed one. Their voice was kind and sweet.

Caleb shaded his eyes to try and look the judge in the face, the way his daddy brought him up. It hurt a lot. So bright. “I don’t understand. I followed the instructions. I obeyed my pastor and read the Bible just the way he said. I followed the book of Jude and warned of the intruders, the godless and perverted, the false teachers who counseled licentiousness. I fought against abortion, the gays, the practices of bestiality and pronoun choice, and the feminists. I fought for godly bondings in which women embrace their subordinate role, for the fetuses and embryos who are the only perfect humans. Though they need to find a personal relationship with Jesus. But who is to say that they haven’t, from the very first cell division? I have rebuked the scoffers and—” “Enough,” said the white-robed one on the left in a deep and velvety voice.

“But I don’t understand!” said Mabel. She fell to her hands and knees to creep forward imploringly.

“I studied the secret ways to read the book of Revelation divinely. We all did! We welcomed the tribulations, and promoted them, to bring about the Day of the Lord, when we’d all be righteous kings and queens! We waited and prayed and fought against worldly equality and—” “And then we just died,” said Horace. Even naked he seemed to be wearing a slightly seedy gray suit.

He sounded fed up. “We just died, not in any end of the world. What gives? We believed in you. We worked for you. Most of all, we invested our money in you, through your sound and godly ministers on TV And in person. You owe us.”

“Enough!” thundered the third one, the one on the right. “God owes you nothing! Did you never read Matthew 25?”

“It’s long,” someone muttered. “It wasn’t on any of the coffee mugs.”

“We did!” someone else complained. “We were Jesus’ bridesmaids, always ready, our fires always lit to destroy the impure and wicked!”

The central figure made a silencing gesture. Not just a gesture: the crowd kept trying to talk, but their throats made no sound. Even those speaking sign language found their gestures randomized to gibberish.

Deliberately the white-robed one quoted, as if repeating a lesson to stupid children: “Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels: “For I hungered, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink.”

“I was a stranger, and ye took me not in naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.”

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“I’m sorry,” said the central white-robed one. Their voice was kind and sweet.

Caleb shaded his eyes to try and look the judge in the face, the way his daddy brought him up. It hurt a lot. So bright. “I don’t understand. I followed the instructions. I obeyed my pastor and read the Bible just the way he said. I followed the book of Jude and warned of the intruders, the godless and perverted, the false teachers who counseled licentiousness. I fought against abortion, the gays, the practices of bestiality and pronoun choice, and the feminists. I fought for godly bondings in which women embrace their subordinate role, for the fetuses and embryos who are the only perfect humans. Though they need to find a personal relationship with Jesus. But who is to say that they haven’t, from the very first cell division? I have rebuked the scoffers and—” “Enough,” said the white-robed one on the left in a deep and velvety voice.

“But I don’t understand!” said Mabel. She fell to her hands and knees to creep forward imploringly.

“I studied the secret ways to read the book of Revelation divinely. We all did! We welcomed the tribulations, and promoted them, to bring about the Day of the Lord, when we’d all be righteous kings and queens! We waited and prayed and fought against worldly equality and—” “And then we just died,” said Horace. Even naked he seemed to be wearing a slightly seedy gray suit.

He sounded fed up. “We just died, not in any end of the world. What gives? We believed in you. We worked for you. Most of all, we invested our money in you, through your sound and godly ministers on TV And in person. You owe us.”

“Enough!” thundered the third one, the one on the right. “God owes you nothing! Did you never read Matthew 25?”

“It’s long,” someone muttered. “It wasn’t on any of the coffee mugs.”

“We did!” someone else complained. “We were Jesus’ bridesmaids, always ready, our fires always lit to destroy the impure and wicked!”

The central figure made a silencing gesture. Not just a gesture: the crowd kept trying to talk, but their throats made no sound. Even those speaking sign language found their gestures randomized to gibberish.

Deliberately the white-robed one quoted, as if repeating a lesson to stupid children: “Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels: “For I hungered, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink.”

“I was a stranger, and ye took me not in naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.”

“Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?

“Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.”

“And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal.’”

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He cleared his throat a little. “I think that’s a translation you like.”

He gestured again. “So, welcome to Hell.” He completed the gesture and all in the crowd took a breath. Their eyes widened and their shoulders slumped. There was some whimpering.

Then one of the crowd revived. “But wait! You’re angels! You can’t welcome us to hell! Anyway, angels wouldn’t condemn anyone!”

The one on the right smirked. “So another part of the book you don’t read is the part where God set cherubim and a flaming sword to keep you rabble out of Eden.”

The crowd looked skeptical. The robed one on the left shrugged. “Okay,” they said. “It’s a fair cop.”

Slowly the white robes reddened and the bright whiteness dimmed—but then, as the robes achieved a three-part symphony of flame colors, they brightened anew to glow like fire, like molten metal, like the sun. Now the crowd could see their features and wished they couldn’t. Some fainted and some shrieked. The three-robed ones grinned variously and whispered harshly in unison, “Welcome home, children.”

“No, no!” cried Shiloh, one of the last ones erect in the crowd. “I don’t believe it! Devils can’t judge humans created by God! We deserve that angels should judge us!”

“And you thought,” said the central one with satisfied irony, “that God or angels were occupied with judgment and punishment.”

“Heh,” said the one on the left.

Shiloh was heated, though. “I didn’t spend forty-five years in drag, agreeing to be a woman and to submit, and then get sent to Hell. The Bible said that genitals are destiny, and I believed and suffered, I scourged myself and disowned my son—whatever he said, he was my son—and I am not going to Hell.”

Several of Shiloh’s companions nodded—some firmly, others ruefully, many sadly.

A little shiver ran over the three judges. Their flames faded into a white suit, a gray suit, and a dark blue suit. Now the crowd—those of them who were conscious—saw the well-known faces of three famed evangelists. Jerry. Billy. Oral. Without white glare or red-hot flickering, the crowd could discern behind those three figures a host of others. Writhing.

One of the three smirked and said unpleasantly, “I know you don’t read Jesus on divorce, so I guess you never paid attention: ‘There are some eunuchs, which were so born from their mother’s womb: and there are some eunuchs, which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake.’ There are all kinds of genitals and genders and sexualities in heaven, honey.”

“Plenty of disinherited children there too,” muttered a second.

“But as usual,” the third of the three whispered, but whispered piercingly, “it’s a gender-queer person who had the insight, the vision. You’re right, honey. A little, anyway. This is Hell. But we’re the ones who built it. And you helped to make it. You helped so, so much.”

Red Mesa Review 9

Maggi Van Drunen

The Truth and the Trouble With It When I was in 4th grade, I composed a lie. In the dim light of a lamp, smushed against the wall of my bunk bed, I scribbled eloquent phrases and words into a notebook that I was given for Christmas. In a week’s time, I would be attending a summer camp, and I had my heart set on delivering the best campfire speech in recorded history. At camp, campfire night was infamous, a highly anticipated event, and a sure highlight of the whole week. Beginning at around 8 o’clock, campfire night was a time when the entirety of students and staff crowded into a pavilion centered around a massive fire pit and a microphone. One by one, campers and counselors would approach the mic and share their experiences and stories.

While never stated outright, there was a sort of atmosphere of competition that buzzed through the air leading up to the microphone behind the campfire. Campers and counselors would speak emotionally about what camp had meant to them, what kind of relationships they had created, and what sort of impact the week had left. I had dutifully observed the speakers in the years before the summer of 4th grade. I had analyzed the difference in applause, the variety in praise, the contrast between those who bared their hearts with eloquence and those whose words lacked luster. Vulnerability was praised, but only if it was not too open and not too messy. A slight congestion of emotion was okay, but only at the emotional peak of your speech. Bible verses were always extra points, and if you made a reference to a parable, you were absolutely golden.

I understood what was complimented, what was received well, and what was commended. I desired the validation of what those with moving and brilliant speeches received, the praise for their character and words. However, I didn’t see myself procuring the kind of oratory skills needed to achieve any recognition without some effort, so I set out on my task at hand secretly and privately. In 4th grade, I decided that I must learn how to fake authenticity, and fake authenticity well.

When I finally recited the masterpiece I created in the late hours of the night, it hit home. Standing in front of the microphone at the campfire, holding up the perfect facade of nervousness and bravery, meaningful phrases and carefully placed swallows did their job perfectly. For days after, I had people complimenting my message, telling me I was bound to be a motivational speaker. I was the pictureperfect little actor, the eventual choice for camper of the week. The praise I received after my speech, or as I saw it, my performance, was everything that I had desired and anticipated.

“You should look into motivational speaking,” a counselor I didn’t know told me during lunch. “You have a way with words.”

I smiled, still constructing that facade of earnestness and humbleness. Deep down, I knew that the praise that I was receiving was unwarranted. What people thought was authentic and from the heart was instead entirely cerebral and calculated with a precision that is rather unnerving considering my tender age. I alone was aware of my deceit, and somewhere deep down in my childhood psyche, the guilt set it.

I had always been drawn to words and what I could do with them, and I have always been keen to understand the art of communication. I once was told that I was predestined to be a writer by my fourth-grade teacher, right after I had told her all about my dreams to become a marine biologist.

As put off as my 4th grade self was, my teacher had a point. I was a discerning reader, skilled at understanding and mimicking patterns of words. I had a natural understanding of composition and could identify what was grammatically correct based on sound alone, not by understanding the hard Red Mesa Review 10

rules of grammar.

Beyond having a simple understanding of the rules of language, I was also highly influenced by what I read and heard. I was very sensitive to criticism and could pick apart people’s arguments by analyzing a single word. I was always aware of contradictions, double meanings, and implications in what was said to me. Constantly analyzing and observing, I learned there were certain markers in writing and speaking that elicited different reactions from people.

When I was in front of that microphone at camp, I was aware of not only my dictation but also my unconscious communication that people pick up on without knowledge of it. There was an unseen aspect of language that I understood and employed in addition to my dictation. Tone, rhythm, body language, and expression were all tools in my arsenal, and ones that I was intentionally using in order to unconsciously achieve the effect that I desired.

As human beings, we are all very sensitive to language. Words are a tool that we can use to transmit and exchange information, evoke emotion, and of most importance, influence and control the behavior of others. Language is essential in personal relationships, and in our relation with the world as a whole. The words that we choose to use are reflections of our morals, beliefs, and prejudices.

They are instrumental in concocting our understanding of life and can be instrumental in altering the perception of others.

There is no greater power than the one of influence. What I did that night was weaponize my words to create an image of myself that I thought would make others like me more, to influence and guide the perceptions others had of me. My ruse worked, but the effects were far greater than I expected. I lied in my words and I lied in my actions, desperately trying to portray someone that I simply was not, and when I was awarded the camper of the week award, I felt the unbearable guilt of deception.

There was a strange sort of irony in my accomplishment. I was rewarded for an authenticity that was nonexistent, I had achieved what I had set out to do but was left sorely unfulfilled in its completion. I had succeeded, yes, but I set myself miles back in my journey to understand and accept myself for who I was. My campfire story was not an isolated incident. Over the course of my childhood, I filled so many assignments with meaningless fluff that sounded pretty that it would be impossible to decipher when my deceptions began. Words were my deflection, my disguise. I learned to write what was looked for instead of what was true. It became second nature to identify what was looked for in an essay or assignment and deliver it without an inkling of true thought. I used words and my affinity with them as a tool to deliver and produce for my teachers and superiors, never once understanding what it could mean if I utilized those words to enable, instead of hide, who I was.

It took years to begin to unravel the depth of my people-pleasing antics and to begin to develop a sense of self-worth that wasn’t fully contingent upon the opinions of others. That freedom, although slowly developed, became overwhelming once I gained the confidence to express myself in language.

My ability and comfortability with words began to show itself as I felt more and more comfortable engaging in conversation and debate. More than once, having the skill of clear, concise, yet powerful communication was invaluable as I navigated altercations with my peers and my superiors.

My relationship with expressing myself through words and my acceptance of myself always came hand in hand. As I began to write creatively more throughout the years, words became a way for me to understand myself and my experiences. I often found myself unpacking my experiences through writing, my own narration adding clarity to things that I thought I never fully understood. Often, my main point was completely unexpected and unanticipated; I never knew what I needed to say until I Red Mesa Review 11

had said it.

I wish that I could say that I have fully repaired my relationship with performing for others and that I’ve learned to speak my truth all the time with no regard for what is expected of me. Patterns are difficult to break and even now, seven years later, I find myself fighting the urge to create a more digestible version of myself. The truth is often scary, and vulnerable, and leaves you feeling absolutely raw and exposed. But there is something unbearably powerful about things that are unfiltered. This is demonstrated in all sorts of mediums - art, movies, music, and stories. In any form, it is often easy to distinguish what comes from the heart; authenticity has a certain fingerprint that is unreplicable, but so easily identifiable.

It takes strength of character to portray authenticity. It is not an easy task to advocate for yourself and what you truly think; being true to yourself despite opposition takes confidence, tenacity, and bravery.

When I was in 12th grade, I composed a lie. Writing on my bed in my room, with the windows pushed open letting in the fall breeze, I considered the small paragraph illuminated on the computer screen.

The prompt for the paragraph was pulled up in another tab, and I clicked on it to take another look, trying to figure out what to add to my response about how the book of Psalms has influenced my life.

I looked back over at what I had written. Not really a lie, more of a gross exaggeration. Was it really worth the effort to go back and rewrite? A small part of me, one that sounds suspiciously like my 4thgrade self, whispers “Yes”.

Red Mesa Review 12

Carissa Wood The Missing

The sun begins to set just like it does every night just before story time begins. The kids gather around as if they are taking in an imaginary campfire. The excitement begins to build while their mother Penny finds the perfect book to read. The story of Ferdinand seems to fit the current mood.

The big-eyed kids sit in silence while they listen to every detail of how brave Ferdinand is. As the story ends, the kids begin to yawn and settle into their comfy beds not knowing what awaits them in the darkened night. The dead silence is disrupted with the kids waking up to get ready to go to Bible School. Realizing that their sister is not in her bed, they inform their mother and begin to look for her.

The sounds of them calling her name, “Anthonette”, echo throughout the house but she is nowhere to be found. Penny runs up and down the house trying to find her. She ran outside to look and to the neighbors to see if anyone had seen her. At this point, she begins to get frantic.

“Have any of you seen Anthonette?” she screams “She is missing?”

Penny along with the neighbors searched the foothills near her home before calling the police for help.

Det.Cpl. Marty Esquibel grabs his keys from the kitchen counter and balances them in his hand along with the cup of coffee and his phone. He sees the sun gleaming as he opens the door and hears the bird chirping. What a beautiful day he thinks as he gets into his unit to head to work. Days like this make him feel like he can accomplish anything. As he drives he thinks about his weekend plans, spending the day shopping and maybe eating some delicious food. Before he could make it to the office the ringing of his cell phone disrupts him from his thoughts.

He sees the number from dispatch and immediately answers the call. On the other end of the line, he hears the voice of the dispatcher informing him of a new case coming in. A child has been reported missing. He pulls over not wanting to hear the news on this case but reluctantly begins to listen.

A case that seems very concerning since it is happening in his community. A tragic tale of a little girl named Anthonette Cayedito who went missing on April 6, 1986, and is the oldest missing indigenous person case for the FBI in New Mexico. She was 9 years old and was taken from her home in Gallup, New Mexico. This case at the time had hit all Native American communities on such a personal level, that a little Navajo girl has gone missing. It was not the norm to hear of a child being abducted and the fact that this child was from our own Navajo tribe brought fear into the minds of all parents and children on the reservation. We had heard of this story while at school the following day, the school had brought in individuals to speak to all of us about being safe, the dangers of being abducted, and how not to go with people we did not know. It was quite frightening to hear the details of what had happened to this young girl, especially since I myself was around the age she was. The rest of the day went on with no word of finding this child which made a great deal of my peers sad, scared, and somewhat confused about what was going on.

I remember getting home and instantly hugging my grandma for comfort since I was frightened on the inside but keeping a brave face.

Knowing something was wrong she asked, “Are you okay, Shi’ yazhi?”

I instantly began to cry and told her about what had happened.

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I instantly began to cry and told her about what had happened.

“Are they going to find her grandma?” I asked, “I hope she is okay and is not hurt. She is probably so scared and just wants to go home.”

She did her best to comfort me with positive words. When my mom got home from work, the flood of tears began all over again while I repeated my concerns.

“How can someone take someone’s baby like that?” I asked while wiping the tears from my face.

My mom tries her best to explain the bad elements of the world and the bad people in it to bring comfort to me. Even with all the encouraging discussion, this really had a lasting effect on me. I remember being so concerned for the little girl that I followed the case as it unfolded. Within a few months, the story was talked about less and less in the newspapers and on TV. I would always try to find any new information about this missing girl but was not able to find any new updates. This was very frustrating.

As I grew older, this incident was always in the back of my mind. It was not until a year had passed that there was new information that Gallup Police Department had received. A phone call from a young child who claimed to be Anthonette called in and said she was in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Before she could give any information on her whereabouts, a male voice was heard angrily shouting, “Who said you could use the phone?” The girl screamed and the phone call was cut off. Anthonette’s mother, Penny, believed the voice was that of her daughter but was not able to identify the male adult’s voice.

Then in 1991, a waitress had claimed she encountered a teenage girl matching Anthonette’s description with an unkept couple in a restaurant in Carson City, Nevada. The girl had repeatedly knocked her utensils to the floor and when the waitress attempted to hand the utensils back she squeezed her hand multiple times. Once they had left, she found a napkin under the plate she had used with the message, “Help me! Call the police” written on it. The waitress was unable to locate the girl or the couple she was with. Even with the alleged sightings, there have been no other leads.

The news of these sightings with no positive outcome had brought more anger to the communities and added to the uneasiness. It had brought more concern about the lack of progress in finding this child. Why has there been no media or newspaper coverage to notify the general public? As time passed the awareness amongst the Native American community had begun to grow. The Bureau of Indian Affairs had gathered information on Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Relatives in New Mexico and at the National Level. In 2017, there were more than 5,700 reports of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls in America. In 2018, Homicide was listed as one of the leading causes of death among American Indian and Alaska Native women. In some areas, women and girls are murdered at 10x the national average among all other ethnicities. In New Mexico, Albuquerque and Gallup, New Mexico are among the Top Ten Cities in the United States for the highest number of MMIWG cases. In addition, Native American women have the highest rate of homicide among ALL racial and ethnic groups in New Mexico.

With all those statistics on Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Relatives, only 18% of cases were covered by local and state media between 2000 and 2019. In comparison to a case covered in 2021, a white female who had been reported missing had massive news coverage and social media, her case had 956 million views on TikTok alone. Six law-enforcement agencies, including the FBI, devoted resources to finding her. Her case was mentioned “398 times on Fox Red Mesa Review 14

News, 346 times on CNN, and 100 times on MSNBC” in a seven-day period according to the Washington Post.

“It is really sad just how little has changed in terms of the kinds of stories that are getting attention,” says Connie Walker, an award-winning journalist who has spent years reporting on the crisis of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women (MMIW). I admire Ms. Walker for using her resources in her field of work to bring awareness to this issue. She recently has done a podcast to bring light to other cases that were treated unfairly. Why do the cases of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls seem to be less important to report on than other ethnic groups? Some people believe that media stations and newspapers are owned by non-native conglomerates who determine what gets covered and tend to be biased. Others believe that race plays a major factor in these decisions. It is sad to see that racism still has a huge effect on the lives of people in America. This issue has been debated openly among all races for generations and the understanding of equality is more difficult to understand.

Despite the lack of media coverage on Missing Indigenous individuals, the effects these cases have on families are the same regardless of race. The heartbreak, sadness, anger, and guilt are felt equally. In some cases, it tears the family apart and creates lasting consequences for parents, siblings, grandparents and extended family members. Such as Anthonette’s family, her siblings have become estranged, one sister turned to alcoholism, drugs, and gangs and was in and out of the criminal justice system. Her mother Penny has turned to alcoholism and drugs which eventually took her life. There are many other emotions that families feel when a family member is abducted, goes missing, or is murdered such as blame, guilt, and self-destruction. This type of action does not help the situation but is a way for the affected to cope with the pain, numb it, or mentally deal with the situation.

Currently, there have been many suggestions and recommendations to bring awareness to these issues. Supporting increased data-gathering capacity across law enforcement agencies to increase accountability and ability to understand the frequency, type, and location of crimes. Also, to develop law enforcement agreements (cross commissions and one-way commissions). Another recommendation is to support the tribal justice system with resources, training, and technical support.

One recommendation that was recently acted upon was to create the AMBER ALERT on the Navajo Nation with other Native American tribes following suit. Unfortunately, this initiative was set in motion after the death of another Navajo girl by the name of Ashlynne Mike who was abducted and killed in New Mexico.

Recently, advocates have been pushing forward with establishing special units for finding missing Native persons which is a positive for all Native people long term. Creating a database with all the reports filed is also a very effective method in helping these special units solve these cases. Sadly, demographics have a direct impact on these types of cases since some individuals who live 200 miles away from the nearest police station are not able to file reports in a timely manner. On some reservations, the shortage of staff and lack of representation add additional setbacks in effectively investigating these crimes.

In a perfect world, we all strive for equality for all people and dedicate resources to assist with finding all missing Indigenous persons.

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Nyah Lewis

The Hidden Door It was a cold winter night, in the middle of January. The wind was bitter and harsh, and the only source of light came from the last house at the end of Kents Road in which the Harringtons lived. The house used to be tall and filled with the warmest light and love but now it resembled nothing, but an empty void filled with sadness. The heart of the house was a woman named Emma who loved to sing and play music. And her only family was a son named Vincent and a husband named James. They both loved her deeply and when she died, Vincent’s father locked himself away to keep himself from the only thing that resembled his wife; Vincent. Now that she was gone there was only silence.

It had been a year since she had passed, and Vincent was learning to be alone. At school, he did not talk to his old friends, and he would lock himself in the attic of the school. His only company was his thoughts. He thought of many things, but he mostly thought of his mother. The way she used to smile, the way she smelled of flowers, and how she would tell him that she would always be with him. These thoughts brought him happiness, but as soon as he arrived home, he felt alone.

But one day a basket arrived on the doorstep of the once great house. The basket was light and the single object in the basket was a small wooden box. Vincent heard the doorbell ring and went downstairs to see who was at the door. He noticed the small basket and carried it to the kitchen.

He placed it on the table and opened the box. In the box was a single piece of paper inscribed with the words, “Sadness is the only thing that resembles death. So, take this key and find the room.”

Vincent thought this was peculiar and he reached inside the envelope that held the note and found the Black Key.

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Nyah Lewis The Painting

It was a Friday afternoon, the sun was blazing, and the air was dry and hot. My grandmother noticed that I was feeling uncomfortable, so she offered to walk around and find something to drink. It had been twenty minutes and she came back with a painting and two cups of Arnold Palmer. I asked her where she got the painting, and she said it came free with the two Arnold Palmers. She guessed that the people who sold the drinks wanted to promote their painting business. She set it on the bed of the truck between the two crates. I lifted the painting up and set it in front of me. The painting was of a girl running from something out of frame. Normally in other paintings, you could tell that the children are happy just from the smiles and laughter on their faces, but with this painting, it was obvious that her face was filled with panic and terror. Seeing the painting made my stomach queasy and my heart started pounding. I could not explain why I felt this way, but I knew something was wrong. I put the painting away and my grandmother told me she was going to hang the painting in my room. I felt nervous and told her I did not want the painting in my room, but her mind could not be swayed.

We got home and she told me to clear a space on the wall to make room for the painting. My wall was clear except for a picture of my father and mother. I could hear her coming up the stairs and when she came into my room, she told me to take the picture of my parents down. I tried to reason with her, but she tore the picture down and nailed the painting to the wall. From my bed, you could see the painting easily and that night I had trouble falling asleep. I woke up and I saw the painting, but something was different. In the upper right corner, you could see a hand, and as I came closer the hand appeared to be solid black with sharp fingers.

I came downstairs and I saw my grandmother sitting at the table with a coffee cup in her hand. She looked happy and then she saw me, and her expression changed into a frown. She asked why I had not woken up earlier and without responding she took her cup and walked out onto the porch. I knew something was wrong because of what happened last night. Admittedly things had been hard since mom and dad died but this change in behavior for her was different. I realized that it must have started right after she came back from getting the drinks because she listened to what I had to say. I ate breakfast and went back upstairs. I started getting ready, but something told me to turn around. I saw nothing but I looked at the painting and something had moved. It was the girl, instead of running to the right side of the painting she had somehow shifted and had started running to me.

Throughout the week, she had begun coming closer and the dark figure emerged more and more until the right side of its body was visible. I was becoming increasingly frightened because I felt the thing was going to come out of the painting soon. I told my grandmother, but she said that there was no difference. I realized that I had to do something, so I took the painting down and I saw an inscription on the frame. I did not know what language it was, but I traced my fingers over them and wrote the words on a piece of paper.

I snuck out the door and ran into town and visited one of my father’s friends who worked at the museum. He worked as a translator for the inscriptions on artifacts. I came into his office, and he greeted me. After greeting one another I proceeded to ask if he could translate the inscription. He informed me he could and began writing down the translation. He then asked me where I got the words, and I told him that it was a school project. The words were, “He who reads this will be consumed and rushed into eternal darkness with the beast that plagues the sight.” I told him thank you and rushed out without a goodbye.

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When I came home the house was dark and there was no hint of light. I called for my grandmother but there was no response. I checked for her throughout the house except for my room. I crept up the stairs and slowly opened the door. The room was pitch black and I went to light a candle. I went to the painting and the girl, and the thing was gone. Something grabbed me from behind and I heard a voice in the darkness. It was the voice of a girl, and she told me, “You will take my place and serve the beast in the painting. It has been many years, but we finally got you. After he finds you, I will take your place.” After she spoke the candle went out.

Red Mesa Review 18

Elysabeth Foreman

EMS: The field I was meant to be in Growing up my dad was always the very dry, clean-cut, macho man who never showed very much emotion. He was cold to my sister, mom, and me yet we all knew he loved us and would do anything to see us succeed.

When I was a little girl, I knew that I would never like being a teacher, a veterinarian, or even a stayat-home mother. All of the women around me fell into the caregiver role and were never given the opportunity to explore what they could have been or what they wanted to be. I truly appreciate and respect all of them for the sacrifices they have made for me, but I do not want the same path they have.

In grade school, middle school, and even high school I knew that I wanted to help as many people as possible and the best way to do that was with medicine. I made it a point to get good grades and be the best student I could be. Growing up my family, especially my dad, was always criticized for pushing their daughters to be something more than a housewife. Every girl around me was brought up to be the perfect wife, my dad pushed us to be the best we could be at whatever career we wanted.

Of course, I had to pick a field that is underpaid, understaffed, underappreciated, and a majority male field. Across the United States on average 31.6% of all paramedics are female, according to Zippia. com. Though this number seems extremely low for the ratio of men to women this is the highest percentage of women in Emergency Medicine that er have ever seen. One of my goals is to make the Emergency Medical field more populated with women providers and to try and abolish the gender stereotypes of Emergency Medicine.

Throughout my life, I have experienced a lot of discrimination in every aspect of my life simply because I am a girl.

There was a moment in my life when I realized that I would never be more than a girl to those who do not know me and what I am capable of. My Dad and I were in Lowes, and I had asked an associate for help finding something while my dad stood twenty feet away looking at our interaction. The associate completely ignored me, walked past me like I did not exist, and started to engage with my Dad instead. This made me so mad that my face got red and hot. I was so flustered by his actions that I shut down and never confronted him about it. Looking back, I know that I should have said something and stood up for myself.

When I graduated from high school I held onto that moment and I am still holding on to remind myself that because of my gender, something I cannot help, I will always be looked at as less capable. I decided that I never wanted to feel as insignificant as that day in Lowes again, so I did everything in my power to be the best I could be.

Coming to the University of New Mexico (UNM) I took a second to look around and see what everyone else was doing and how they acted. I began to talk to people around the university, my family, and family friends about different career paths in medicine. There was only one person who talked about Emergency medicine and that was my sister’s boyfriend. He is an advanced emergency technician (AEMT) at American Medical Response Inc. (AMR). He talked about all of the wonderful things that he must do every day and how much work he had to put into his studies to be at the level he is today.

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I ran into a family friend and started talking to her about what I wanted to do with my future, she recommended I do a ride-along to see how it is and what it is like. I contacted Albuquerque Ambulance Services (AAS) and asked if I could do a ride-along and they scheduled one. From the moment I stepped foot in the building I knew that Emergency Medicine was where I was supposed to be. With every passing hour in the truck, I knew that I had found my place.

After talking with my counselor to switch my major from undecided to Emergency Medical Services (EMS), and taking multiple EMS courses, I began to take a deeper dive into the field as a whole. I found a lot of new stories talking about all of the wrongs committed by prehospital providers and very few discussing the good things providers do.

As emergency care providers in the prehospital setting, we have to be prepared for any situation that is given to us with little resources to help the patients. We are expected to provide quality lifesaving care to everyone who is placed under our supervision. It is hard to do so when you are overworked and underpaid. Emergency Medicine has one of the highest turnover rates in New Mexico. Nearly half of Deming’s fire department gave their two weeks’ notice because they weren’t being paid fair or getting the raises that they were promised. According to an interview done by KRQE news, “In many cases, they can walk into a fast-food restaurant right now with no experience and earn the same or more as they would in an entry-level EMS position”. The entry-level positions that are talked about in this quote are EMT-basic positions and in that position, you have a very large scope of practice. The scope may vary depending on where in the country you practice but all of which include lifesaving skills that are practiced daily. To obtain the EMT-Basic license you must complete 180 hours of instruction and 80 hours of lab, along with a passing grade in all of the eleven exams throughout the class and on the National Registry exam according to the University of New Mexico’s course requirements page. All of which is a lot more education than what is needed to be a restaurant worker, yet we are underpaid. Unfortunately, because of the high turnover rate Albuquerque along with many other cities and towns in New Mexico are in a “level zero” response phase. This means all of the ambulances in that city or town are in use making for inadequate or longer response times to emergencies, states Gallagher.

I have had many discussions with my dad about continuing in the EMS field and whether or not I am going to be able to do it. The only thing he says is that I am meant to be here and that I should continue. I truly appreciate his support and his opinion on whether I would be good enough for a career in the field. It inspired me to continue my research and look for positive articles written about EMS. Thankfully not everything in Emergency Medicine is bad there is a lot of good that comes from those in Emergency Medicine. In an article written by EMS World, they talk about a former EMT who was eating at a local Denny’s when a gunman opened fire and fatally shot an employee. He reacted and tried to help her unfortunately there was nothing he could do to save her. In Eddy County, the Fire and Rescue teams received one million dollars in funds to put towards new equipment most of which were cardiac-related machines. Getting the proper cardiac equipment is important because cardiac complications are the leading cause of death in adults. There are a lot more good things that happen throughout the day in Emergency Medicine that do not get reported or written about.

I want to do Emergency Medicine because I want to help as many people as possible. I want to be able to provide lifesaving care to those in need and to those who may not be able to access it as easily as others. I know that Emergency Medicine is not an easy or stress-free path but I am willing to sacrifice to make my dream of being an Emergency Room Doctor happen. With the help of those around me especially my dad I know I can accomplish anything I put my mind to.

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My dad has always been my number one supporter in everything I do especially in the field of study I have chosen. I think he is proud of me even if he never says it he shows it in his own ways. He brags about me to his coworkers, friends, and even our family. Those that used to look at us with judgmental eyes still do but now they look at us with more understanding and hopefully more respect.

Red Mesa Review 21

Karyn Johnson The Silent Cry

I sat in my room contemplating a life-changing decision, not a decision a young person should be thinking about. The frustration and hurt were overbearing, and my thoughts were rambling in my head as I talked out loud as if someone was in the room with me. I remember saying, or was I praying?

“Help me make the right decision, I feel so alone, and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Sitting alone in my room felt so cold and isolated; the nighttime felt so lonely, and despair fell upon me. I was going over and over about what would happen after I made this decision. Who will miss me? What will everyone be thinking about or even blame themselves? So many questions rushed through my mind, which felt like an eternity but only minutes. As the thoughts rushed through my mind, I made the decision I would make, and there was no turning back now. Tonight was the night I decided to commit my suicide attempt. This cold fall night in 1992 was My Silent Cry. The year 1992 was not my best year; I struggled with school and family life. My grades have always been good, but I was not focused on school this year because my home life seemed to be falling apart. I felt so alone and showed no signs of this with my family or friends. They only saw the isolation and distance I created to figure out what or how I would deal with all this weight I felt. My hate for alcohol infidelity boiled my emotions, and I was in the middle of this ugly situation. What a huge issue to deal with at such a young age; I was drowning in emotions. Looking back, I wish I had more support from my family and friends, but I felt I would be judged and bellowed because I was weak.

If I had to deal with this issue during a pandemic, I would have a problem that pushed me over the edge. The article in the Navajo Times, “Youth struggling in isolation as COVID-19 drags on”, was a good insight into how youth struggle with depression and how it may lead to suicide. The article brought back emotions and memories of having dealt with in the past with depression, isolation, and the feeling of hopelessness. The statement from Dr. Michelle Stam-Mclaren, “I’ve seen a lot of these kids being more shy when they come into the clinic,” she said, “not wanting to talk, having more separation anxiety when they have to leave their families because they haven’t had to in the last year.” I felt this when I reached out to the school’s counselor, who helped teens with social or substance dependency. The anxiety to reach out for help was such a massive step for me, but I needed guidance since at the time was lacking at home due to a substance dependency. The article hit the nail on the head with what youth are dealing with; it may not seem like a big deal, but it is a big deal to us.

Reaching out to Mr. Davis was one of the best decisions; it helped me get some tools to deal with my emotions and depression. I wish we had more discussions to help steer me away from my attempts. I had not told my friends or family about my attempts, only my family who were there when I was at the hospital. The details were blurred; I only remember when I decided and completed my attempt. My sister found me and called for help; I went in and out and saw and heard my father and mother crying.

I thought they didn’t love or care for me, and I know why they are showing care now. I woke up in a cold and dark room; it seemed that way even when the lights were on. A stranger watched over me during the night and kept me comfortable; my family was not allowed to see me until I was seen by mental health and the social worker. I was so scared and alone, I wondered why I did this, and if they would see how messed up, I was with all the issues with our family. Dr. Stam-Mclaren, stated, “Kids are pretty resilient in terms of what they go through,” Stam-McLaren said. “We go through different life traumas, death, divorce, illnesses, things like that, so this is definitely going to put more kids at risk for having problems later on with mental health issues.”

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This statement feels true to me, and I feel thankful that there is more help to reach out to let youth know you are not alone and you can overcome anything they set their mind to.

Seeing how teen suicide has shed some light, even a podcast was created about the Suicide problem on the Navajo Reservation with the youth. The C4 Recovery Solutions Podcast on Teen Suicide in the Navajo Nation (w/Mclellan Hall & Celeste Rabago). The podcast statement on how parents went to boarding schools and had families at a young age. They had no resources or skills to cope with family issues and run a household. Love and support, along with food, are needed to raise a healthy family through K’e, the family dynamic in the Navajo culture. Limited resources and research on youth suicide were limited in the Navajo Nation, so this was unimportant on the Navajo Reservation. My connection to this podcast was interesting; how I felt then is the same as how youth currently live on the reservation. It is easy to hide all signs and for the school, family, or community to help a troubled youth contemplating suicide. The trauma we see and go through is dealt with by a substance, and we become addicted and cope with this as an outlet. We find this comforting and an easy solution to our problems because being young with no guidance and eliminating the shaming factor with the youth suicide issues. Being able to relate to the podcast made me feel less alone and embarrassed of the night I decided to take my life. The raw feeling was so real, and it felt like I was back at that moment on that dark and sad night. Recollecting the past, I felt all the emotions and anxiety rush through me; it was overwhelming, and I needed to meditate and pray to cleanse my mind. I know that having a down day is okay now, and I don’t have to validate my thoughts and feelings.

After my attempts, I found myself and my culture playing a huge part in my recovery. I felt my ancestors guided me when I prayed each morning with pollen; the cool breeze assured me they were with me and were listening to me. My attempt did not change the traumas or issues I was dealing with, but my prayers and ceremonies helped me cope with my mental and physical health. The use of traditional teachings to address this issue with youth dealing with addiction, suicide, bullying, and school brings me a warm feeling, knowing that it is good medicine. Burning cedar to clear my mind was one practice I used and continue to use today. My conversations with my great-grandmother and grandfather are what kept me going when I was a teenager. Their teachings were instilled in my mind, along with other families who taught me our traditions and culture. That night, I felt their presence, and doubt flooded my mind, but I was so frustrated it clouded my judgment. My anger overtook my mental state, and I did not hesitate to carry on my suicide attempt. The next day, when my family came to visit me, I still wasn’t ready to open up and be judged or scolded. They didn’t understand my feelings, nor did I, so what would be the point of the discussion? So, as usual, we swept it under the table, but this wasn’t healthy and led to another attempt. The article in the Navajo Times, Experts: tradition Dine Teachings Will Help Troubled Youth, by Terry Bowman, June 20, 2013, insights into a good view of Navajo Culture to combat suicide prevention through traditional and cultural healing at a youth festival. A speaker at the festival, traditional consultant Rex Harvey, “I believe the Navajo youth is where we have to get the traditional teachings embedded in,” he said, “so down the road, they can learn how to be better parents and people.” How ironic this was taught to me by my family, which helped me cope with my depression and suicide.

The feeling invigorated and clarified my mind when I engaged with Navajo traditions and cultures.

The spiritual cleansing with a sweat ceremony brought my visions to restart my hozho. The hot stones created steam that felt like I was about to pass out, but the traditional songs sung kept me awake, and I knew my people were there to bless me and guide me. I opened up my mind and spirit to eliminate this feeling of hopelessness and anxiety. Coming out of the sweat ceremony, I felt reborn; this is what I needed. It only got better from here, and I was seen and heard. I had hope again.

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After the suicide attempts, my life has changed in so many ways. I use this not-so-fond experience as a life lesson. I hope to use my experience to help troubled youth, to let them know they are not alone.

Looking back and viewing the current generation, not much has changed with youth issues; it has just been brought to light. There are many resources out there for youth to access. The new 988 crisis hotline has brought hope to youth on the reservation. As KOB Television station broadcasted back on September 12, 2022, a report by Diana Castillo, the story was on how “New Mexico sees lower youth suicide rate, looks to new 988 crisis hotline.” The 988 Suicide & Crisis Hotline was rolled out in July.

The hotline was shortened from ten digits to 988, hoping more people would remember the number and call when needed. Hope is a strong word, and it calms me after reading the story and how the number has worked significantly by dropping the state suicide rate.

I would have called if this had been offered as a youth, and I think I would not have made my attempts. Seeing the light, as I call it, made me realize how important life is and how I need to embrace and cherish the good with the bad. Continue my coping life skills learned from this horrific and traumatizing experience with my depression and anxiety. Cooking, exercising, and meditation are how I deal with my moments. I am not fully healed, but I now have the love and support I craved as a teenager. I will overcome this feeling of embarrassment I still feel with my suicide attempts; once I concur with this, I want to help others and let them know they are important and have resources. This was my Silent Cry, and I am now a survivor and will forever be grateful I am here to enjoy this thing we call life.

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Karyn Johnson

The Broken and Shattered Pottery Pieces “Bang” came from the living room; I came running out in despair, unbecoming of what I was about to encounter. As I stood there in shock and mixed emotions, I cried, “What did you do? How could you?” I saw the broken pottery pieces on the floor from the fallen bookshelf. My heart sank, and I felt so upset I said my piece and ran back to my room. I lay on my bed and cried, and my sister came in to console me. When I was done, I returned to the living room and yelled at my mother and father’s company. I must have scared them because they left in a hurry. I told them what they had done and that I had lost irreplaceable pottery. This night was one of the saddest nights in my life, and this memory haunted me for years. My Navajo pottery drum bowl I received from the two squaw dances I helped my grandfather with, gone, a broken and shattered night in pieces.

The meaning behind this pottery was how I had earned this priceless possession cannot be replaced.

The two Navajo pottery drum I had received from helping my grandfather with his two Navajo ceremonies during the summer was gone forever. I had participated in two healing ceremonies for my grandfather; this was an honor when he selected me to carry the traditional stick. I was chosen among his many granddaughters he had to choose from. The traditional ceremony I partook in two summers was a Navajo Squaw-Dance.

The Squaw-dance is the only affair at which couples dance. Navajos say that “Squaw-dance” is a white man’s name for it; it is really a war dance. It is also a curing ceremony, the disease figuring as the enemy is to be defeated. The traditional affair lasts three days, starting at the patient’s home and moving each day by the journey of a horse to the last night at the destination of additional patients participating in the ceremony. The ceremony happens only from spring to the end of summer. The medicine man puts together the traditional medicine stick the chosen young lady will carry each day to the end destination and the Navajo pottery drum that will follow along and be used during the ceremony. Firewood is gathered each night and stacked to build a bonfire late into the early dawn.

The dancing begins when the bonfire begins; the young lady who carries the traditional stick dances until dawn while healing songs are sung. This ceremony can be challenging, but in the end, the accomplishment of helping a family or a loved one with this ceremony is rewarding. The traditional stick is taken apart on the last night, and the drum is given to the traditional stick carrier. I helped my grandfather twice and earned this priceless and memorable Navajo pottery drum.

Remembering the ceremony like yesterday, the memorable part was when we put the trophy together and prepared the clay pottery drum for the ceremony. As we gathered all the early items needed to build the trophy, listening to the songs being sung was fascinating. The last day of the ceremony was also a sight to see and experience as we took the trophy apart and separated the drum from the buckskin. At present, the trophy is inserted with the bundle of weeds. On the final day of the ceremony, when the blackening of the patient has taken place, they have carried out some distance from the place of the last gathering and deposited upon the ground by the singer; the throng surrounds the trophy at a respectful distance, while the singer takes a pinch of ashes and sprinkles the trophy with it, exhorting the visitors not to gaze upon it while this is being done. Once this part of the ceremony is done, the pottery drum is handed off to the patient, who then chooses the benefactor, who was me for both ceremonies.

As I was presented with the drum, I remembered the ceremony events, from the first night up to the last night. I was feeling butterflies in my stomach as many emotions ran through me: excitement, fear, and worry. The most important feeling was an honor, as I was chosen to help my grandfather with his healing ceremony.

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I talked to my grandfather about my feelings, and as usual, he calmed me down. “Granddaughter, just do your best and remember, family is here to help you along the way, so don’t worry.” My grandfather always had the right words; I loved him and was proud I would be helping him. As my family prepared for the first night, I was preparing, putting on my traditional dress, moccasins, and jewelry. I loved dressing up and wearing my family’s precious jewelry during ceremonies. I rested during the day, knowing I would have to stay up until dawn preparing the trophy and drum, other ceremonial activities, and dancing all night. Participating in the healing ceremony for my grandfather was challenging at times, but the songs were soothing when I felt overwhelmed. I soon discovered the Navajo “fact” that all music is religious and that the most nearly secular songs in melody, textual content, and the attitudes of the performers were derived from the Enemy Way chant mentioned above, a religious ceremony designed to protect the Navajos from the influence of the ghosts of slain outsiders. The dancing which accompanies certain parts of this rite is widely known as the Navajo Squaw Dance, and it is singing which accompanies this dance, together with certain other kinds of public songs of the Enemy Way. All the events were worth the effort, and to be presented with a priceless gift after the ceremony was invigorating.

When I heard the bookshelf fall and the breaking of items in the living room woke me from my sleep. I wished it was a dream, but as I ran into the living room, I saw all the broken items on the fallen shelf.

I was so upset and angry; the people in the living room did not know how precious some items they had broken were. I cried as I swept up what was left of my broken Navajo Pottery Drum jar. I told my mother I would never forgive her; she could do anything to fix this. The next day my grandfather visited as he always did every Saturday to pick me up and go up to the mountains to help him and my grandmother for the weekend. He saw I was upset and asked my mother what was going on.

She did not tell him; she just said it was one of my teenage meltdowns. I left it until we left, and he asked me what had happened. I told him, and he told me not to be upset, he knew it was important to me, but it was just an object. I was thinking to myself, how does he not see the importance of this priceless pottery I earned while helping him with his ceremony, the time and effort put into the whole ceremony? He said, “I know it meant so much to you and how much you valued the pottery, but you helped me get better at carrying the stick, singing the songs, and dancing.” My grandfather always had the right words to make everything seem better. “Now let it go, and we will go back and pick up The Broken and Shattered Pottery Pieces and dispose of it properly, and don’t cry or be angry. It will not change anything”. As we took the broken pottery drum up to the mountain to where it needed to be, I felt the emotions disappear.

I may have thought I lost something precious that night and would not get past my emotions with this traumatic event, but I was wrong. My participation in the healing ceremony was essential to helping my grandfather. The Navajo Pottery drum was just a tiny token to hold on to. It may not make me feel better or not miss my pottery drum, but knowing I can move to pass this and not have any negative emotions or thoughts about that night is comforting. Knowing my broken and shattered pottery is now in a safe place in the mountains, I can rest easy.

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Austin Smith

The Tools We Lack The day is Thursday, March 12th, 2020. It’s a date of seemingly little significance, aside from going over a study guide for Algebra and a catch-up day for History. Thursdays are about as average of a day you can conjure, it’s simply “the day before Friday.” I was looking for an easy way out of going to class. Considering the “sick” approach. My mother wasn’t buying it. I was dropped off at my High School, not a suspicion in mind of the events to come crashing down on my world. The first inkling I had that something was off was within the school hallways. My school was a large 370,000 squarefoot facility containing hallways hardly the width of three arm spans touching each other. It was crowded, to say the least, and near impossible to not bump somebody’s shoulder on the way to your next class.

On that day the halls were empty. Maybe that isn’t completely true, it was empty enough to where you can safely navigate without worry of being bumped into or bumping someone else. Yet there was an eerie feeling, nonetheless. It seemed as if half of the students enrolled in my school decided to not show up. I tried to figure it out as I walked to Algebra, “Is it Senior Ditch Day? No, that’s still 2 weeks from now.” Nothing struck my mind as to where half the students could have gone. As I sat in Algebra waiting for the bell to ring, I found myself looking towards the doorway. Alen, a boy I had known since Elementary school, was my desk mate and always helped me understand the assignments. Without him being there to tutor me, I surely would have failed the class long ago. He was your stereotypical Straight-A top of his class student. I’m willing to bet he was never late or absent to a single class in his entire life, it’s the reason why today was all the stranger when the late bell rang, and Alen was nowhere to be seen. I knew I was doomed.

Mrs. Evans, my algebra teacher, was also my best friend Ryan’s mother. There was a certain pressure that came with that. She held up her clipboard, and roll call began. “Alright let’s see…

Alen?” Silence filled the room. Heads peered in my direction to confirm the missing person. She kept going: “Noah?” A student from the back of the class answered “Here.” Mrs. Evans marked her clipboard. “Avery? No Avery… okay. Adrian?” More silence followed. This process repeated for 5 more minutes. By the time she finished her roll call, almost half of the students were unaccounted for. Most of us had no idea what was going on, but for some reason, our teacher exhibited an air of confidence. She knew something we didn’t. That’s when our concerns were addressed. She set down her clipboard and studied our expressions. “I’m sure some of you have heard rumors of the school closing down for a few weeks.” I was shocked, evidently the rumors never made it my way. I looked around at my peers, the look on their faces told me some of them were uninformed too. “Well, it turns out that the rumors are true. The administration just sent out an email, and because they don’t want the Coronavirus to spread more in New Mexico, schools are going to be closed from this Monday until April 6th.” Students looked at each other in surprise, some had a look of fear, and others had more questions. A flurry of hands shot up for the teacher to choose from. “What about prom?” one of the girls asked. Out of the entire room, I was the only one who seemed to be excited. “This means the Algebra test isn’t until next month.” I excitedly thought to myself.

School resumed in April, just not in the way anyone expected. It had been 3 weeks since I had stepped foot in my high school. The announcement that school would continue online for the rest of the semester was nothing but excitement for me. I had all the time in the world to watch as many movies, play as many video games as possible, and sleep in until noon every day. I was not particularly bothered that I would not be returning to my Algebra class that year. However, Mrs. Evans would still catch me unprepared when I was playing video games with her son.

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Normal conversations with Ryan would abruptly turn to silence when I could his hear his mom enter the room. “Who are you talking to?” I prayed he would lie. “I’m talking to Austin.” I could feel my stomach churn as I realized my study guide was 2 weeks late. “Has he done his week 7 homework?”

That would be the first I even knew of the assigned homework. This was the beginning of a new transitional phase that was uncharted territory for most of us. Many teachers did not know how to operate their computers to the degree necessary for an online class to function. For a Junior in high school with a mediocre work ethic, this was an amazing experience. Teachers often created assignments without unlocking the submissions, they would send out one-word messages, and lose internet connection amidst Zoom classes. One could only assume how nightmarish this could have been for them, but for me, it was a breeze through the rest of my junior year. Summer came around and the fatigue started to settle within me. August was approaching fast and still, there was no word on whether we would be returning to class in person.

Then, August was here, and I found myself reading the new guidelines for how schools were to approach the pandemic. There were talks of a new Hybrid model that was supposedly going to get kids back in school in August. This was not the case, the New Mexico Department of Health came out with a statement, “Reflecting the change in the state’s overall COVID-19 trajectory and continued steady rise in the spread of the virus around the state, the state has delayed the eligibility date for the return to in-person learning until September 8.” Until then, teachers would rely on Zoom to be their savior. There was a regularly scheduled Zoom class for all my classes, trying to imitate a normal schedule. At first, cameras were not required. My government class was the first class of the day, beginning right at 9 a.m. sharp. Yet after numerous kids repeatedly never responded to questions, Mr. Deblassie began to realize that many students simply joined the meeting and then went back to sleep. Naturally, cameras are a requirement was more and more frequent as the month went on.

Even then students still found a way to be uninvolved with their studies. Flashing screens on some of the boys’ faces revealed they would be playing video games during class. Girls’ heads would point straight down for a few seconds at a time indicating a tactical smartphone under the table. All of this would result in the same reply when specifically called to answer a question, “I’m sorry. Can you repeat what you just said?” This online structure seemed to have failed the teachers, yet I also continued to reap the benefits.

The hybrid model began, yet nothing seemed to change. The model allowed students to return to campuses with the new proper COVID-19 prevention guidelines. A lot of students were excited, it had been so long since they had seen their peers. I was partially disappointed that my parents would not let me go back to school. But I swiftly realized I was not missing out on much. Alen, the straight-A student, had shared a pre-calculus class with me this semester. We reconnected and tried to work through the rigorous problems together. I could tell Alen was struggling more than he cared to let on. The online model did not serve his style of learning, he even let out that his grade had dropped to a disastrous B+. He quickly jumped on the train to return to class, yet sorely discovered that he was still using his laptop to solve complex conjugates. The hybrid model did achieve its goal of bringing students back into classrooms, yet that was all it was able to accomplish. Teachers also had to accommodate students like me who were still online, which meant the limitations of instruction were still there. The work was still online, which meant that the only reason you would choose to go to school was to have a place to study. This and the simple truth that many students were already comfortable with the online system meant that classrooms were practically empty.

The day is January 7th, 2021. A new semester and a new method of grading were instated. It was called an equitable grading system. Las Cruces Sun-News explains, “The equitable grading scale in place at LCPS middle and high school means the minimum “F” grade a student can receive is 50% as opposed to a 0%.” This was great news; classes were easier than ever.

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Later, Ryan called just to tell me that he only needs to do 6 assignments in his classes now to graduate, something his mother swiftly shut him down on. The last run of my senior year was easier than ever. I had struggled heavily in pre-calculus during the first half of the semester. Now all I had to do was inch past 70% and I was golden. This was exciting news for the whole class apparently, a month went by, and I found myself talking to Alen again through call. “Nah I haven’t gone to class in person since December. What’s the point? We just do the same stuff.” I asked if he knew what was going on in the week’s current assignment. “No, I’m 3 weeks behind, my grade is still at a B though so I’m not really worried. I’ll just do enough assignments so I can graduate.” It’s as if I was speaking to an entirely new person. What happened to the kid with perfect attendance? The kid who stayed after class to make sure he knew the material in preparation for the next test. It was something that somewhat saddened me, but I was not sure why.

College happened to be a rude awakening for me. No longer were late grades as lenient as they had been in my final years of high school. As someone who would barely scrape by with a 3.4 GPA college had me fending for my 2.6 GPA. I was on the verge of academic probation. All the while I was on my college journey, middle and high-school students had been mostly moved back to inperson learning. Las Cruces Sun-News states, “This year, schools are only doing in-person learning, though students can enroll in a district-wide Virtual Learning Academy if they prefer to learn remotely.”

Schools seemed to operate as normally as possible in New Mexico.

The day is December 24th, 2022. I find myself staring at a wreath hung up on the wall. That is until my aunt walks passed me with an Elf hat sitting above her head. Tired Christmas music is sounding off over the speakers. Lots of drunk and joyous people are laughing around the living room. The Christmas Eve party was at our house this time. I walk myself to the backyard, where I hope it might be quieter. There I see my younger cousin, Felix. If I had to guess, he would be 15 years old now.

A crazy thought considering the last time I had seen him was prior to the pandemic. This three-year gap made it hard to find conversation. I resorted to one of the classics: “How is school going?” I never knew Felix to be an academic person, he leaned far more towards the athletic side- yet his facial expression told me everything I needed to know. “That bad huh?” I said to him. “It’s just so boring now.” This was the sentiment I had when I was in high school. “Boring? It’s supposed to be boring. That’s why you get lunch breaks so you can hang out with friends.” Felix had an annoyed look, “My friends don’t even go to class anymore; I see them maybe twice a month.” Now my brain was circulating. I tried to consider the practicality of this, how could a student attend high school twice a month? I asked him this same thing. That’s when a horrific truth was unveiled. “A lot of kids don’t go to school; they don’t need to.” Felix said. “Why?” I asked. “Because of the grading system, if you don’t do any assignments, you still are at 50 percent. So, a lot of kids just retake a couple of quizzes and they’ll still get a 70.” I was blown away. “How long has that been in place?” “It’s been around for a couple of years I guess.” That’s when I remembered, he was right. The policy that I relied so heavily on was still in full effect.

I made up the excuse that I had to use the bathroom and went back inside straight towards my aunt with the elf hat, who is a math teacher for middle schoolers. “Hey, do students still get a 50% on grades if they don’t do anything?” I suddenly asked her. She was still reeling from the sip of her mixed drink. “Yeah, that’s been in place for a while now.” I thought about this for a moment, something about it bugged me. “Isn’t that problematic? I mean Felix said his friends hardly even go to school anymore.” My aunt looked happy that she could finally talk to someone about it. “Yeah, a lot of my kids have terrible attendance. Even worse for teachers is the grading. Everybody turns in their assignments within the last two weeks of school.” I immediately recalled the last conversation had with Alen. That’s when I realized why I was so bothered by this new information.

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It’s midnight, Christmas day, the party is over and I’m lying in bed. Eventually, my curiosity got the better of me and I searched for the Equitable Grading Act. Hardly anything pops up besides another Las Cruces Sun-News article. I click on it. It references the deputy superintendent of LCPS, Wendi Miller-Tomlinson. “She added that this method is a way to encourage and support students to engage in class rather than being “punitive with grading” when they are not participating.” I rolled this statement in my mind over and over. How does this encourage students to engage in class?

Everything that I had seen demonstrated the opposite. I remember my friend Alen, who was once the most driven student you could meet, falling victim to the new grading system. I looked back on my own experience where I practically breezed through the last chapters of high school, and how that prepared me for very little in college. I looked back at my friend Ryan, who only did his assignments because he was forced to be held to a higher standard by his mother, Mrs. Evans. Then, it hit me “Mrs. Evans.” I thought to myself. The only teacher I can remember who never lowered her expectations despite the circumstances. Three days later, I called Ryan and asked if his mother was available to talk.

It’s January 12th, 2023. I drive through my old high-school parking lot, kids rush out through the gates. I looked for my cousin Felix, who I agreed to pick up from school. I leave him with the car on and tell him I’ll be gone for just a second. I walk through the cramped hallways that are completely empty now, reminiscing how fast the time went by. I step inside my old Algebra classroom; Mrs. Evans is still sitting at her desk. After a small greeting, I ask her the pressing questions. As you may expect, her attitude towards the equitable grading system was as sour as my aunt’s. Her final remark is the one that stuck with me the most, “If you give students an easy way out, they’re always going to take it. See the term “equitable” in the new grading policy is supposed to mean fair. But the problem is that the people who made the policy thought fair and equitable meant making it easier for students when that’s not the reality of our world. It’s really our job to teach discipline. If we can’t teach discipline to students, then how can they know to discipline themselves? That’s true fairness, is giving students the tools to learn without us.” After hearing that, I simply said, “Thank you.” And then my goodbyes. I walked down the hallway, beyond grateful, as I was able to have one last high school lesson.

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Quentin Guyonnet “In Phase”

“Beat the stuff, kid, ‘Poum, Tchack, Poum Poum Tchack,’” yelled my drum teacher in my direction. His inner ear was damaged by 35 years of age from playing the drums a bit too loud.“ “Ok!” I quickly answered before hitting the drumheads as accurately as I could, right in the center, right on tempo.

Every Wednesday, I went to the drum school in my small town. The lessons were free, but in exchange, I had to play the marching drums at the WWII memorial square on national holidays.

Before going further, I must specify that me, my sister, and my mother, recently moved from the north of the country to the south. I loved it. The north was so flat and boring, but in the south, there were trees and rivers and sunny days all year.

You might wonder why I started this story speaking about these drum lessons. In fact, I was always obsessed and animated by any kind of rhythm, pulsation, or beat. Basically, I was drawn to anything that you can hear and is regular in its pattern. Imagine the regular hitting sound of the hammer on the nail head: “Ping, Ping, Ping, Ping.” As soon as I noticed the regularity, I began to move my head in rhythm and added my own rhythm on top of it. Helped by a thin stick of wood and a spoon, I beat the countertop and the glass on it. The rhythm then became “Ping Ding Tchack, Ping Ding Tchack.”

It is not something I can control. The mental processes and reflexes are immediate. I recently learned in an anatomy class that a reflex arc is an unconscious muscle twitching, stimulated by sensory nerves sending direct impulses to the motor nerves. The point is that in a reflex arc, the brain is not stimulated.

Like a reflex arc, I have no control over the effect of rhythm on my body and mind. I tried to control it. For example, when I am in class and supposed to be focusing, I unconsciously start tapping my fingers on the classroom desk in rhythm with something I hear. If I try to control the impulse and hold back, it can be painful. I start sweating, grinding my teeth, and feeling anxious. When my inner rhythm is on, all my cells are stimulated and start playing as a grand orchestra. Imagine that you want to focus, you’re taking a test and have thirty minutes to complete your final exam. You are good and confident until your classmate starts hitting his pencil on the table, and then you notice the “tick, tack, tick, tack” of the clock on the wall. At this point, it’s already too late for me. If I could hear my heart rhythm constantly without a stethoscope, I would become crazy.

Should this be considered a psychopathological condition? I would say yes, but the impairments that it provokes are minimal compared to the benefits of it.

A few months after my first drum class, I felt that all I needed to feel complete at 14 years old was a drum set in my bedroom. However, my mother thought differently. After I inflicted constant psychological pressure on my poor mother, she finally abandoned her comfort and silence and bought me a drum set that spread a continuous thunderstorm of noise all over the house. But, this was nothing compared to the noise coming from my rehearsal sessions with other musicians.

Over two years, I played with dozens of other teenagers, jumping from one band to another. I realized communication is the main challenge in playing with others:

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“Hey, what does the chorus sound like? I don’t remember?” the guitarist said while the bass player loudly tuned his bass through an amplifier cranked up at “10”.

“I don’t know man, I thought we did not write the chorus yet,” the singer explained while smoking a cigarette and lying on the couch.

“Hey! There is a big party tonight at Central Plaza, let’s get drunk!” screamed the trumpet player, not aware that he still had his ear protection deeply inserted inside both his ears.

“Guys, let’s focus. FOCUS!” I said, upset, and suspicious about our chances of success in writing a song together.

At this point, I knew that this band was not a good fit. I also started doubting myself and about my obsessive rhythm that isolated me from others. Playing alone was not enough anymore. I needed notes and a melody on top of my drums. The problem was that playing with others progressively damaged my inner rhythm until I met Arthur.

It then occurred to me that rhythm is only valuable if it’s intertwined with a melody in a symbiotic relationship. This guy, Arthur, is my other musical half. He is plugged into the exact same voltage as me. We were always “in phase”.

I remember the first time he took the bass while I was behind my drums. Without speaking to each other, without announcing the tempo we wanted to play, we looked at each other’s eyes and facial expressions, eyebrows up and mouths semi-opened. I hit the crash softly with a deep bass drum kick while he caressed the D string with his pick. Just this suspended moment, a second long, was already better than anything I could play before. The intensity and volume of the note were exactly where it needed to be: not too loud, not rushed, not late, just perfectly sitting on the deep drum kick. Then, I saw Arthur moving his head back and forth in a coordinated manner. We were both moving our heads in a synchronized pattern and absorbed into the rhythm and melody. At this point, we had no other thoughts; we just felt embedded in the song we were playing.

Obviously, we started playing together after this. I quickly understood that playing in a band was about finding the perfect match. His inner rhythm was like mine. It is like a love relationship without the physical aspect to it.

We played for ten years together. Surprisingly, our music was pleasant to a lot of people, and several labels proposed to promote our music. Our style was described as “a solid rhythmic section impeccably intertwined into a heavy bass alternating aerials and fat melodies.” During these years, I was obsessed with our music. Our rehearsals were sacred, and nothing could get in the way. I literally abandoned my school studies for our music. I was obsessed about the next song we would work on. I was eating with our music in the background and running with our music in the earphones. I was even falling asleep with our music playing softly.

I remember that my mother asked me about my future career as an electrician (that is what I was supposed to do after studying electrical engineering for 5 years).

“Son, do you plan to make some money anytime soon?” She asked me one Sunday afternoon during my regular visits to her house.

“Sure, that’s what I’m already doing with music, it just takes more time,” I explained briefly and without too many details.

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During my journey with Arthur, we had the chance to tour all over France. I remember that we were obsessed with timing, and were always sharp and fresh and ready on the stage on time. We were also working on the best sound possible to get and spending hours talking about our amplifiers and drum settings for the next stage. We were far from the rock star “cliché” and more like music nerds, worried about any tempo that was not exactly 120 beats/minutes, or when the applause level after playing a song was not as intense as we expected. Concerning the “applause level,” I understood later that it is not related to a live performance but more to the amount of alcohol that the audience consumed during the evening. This is one of the reasons that the most famous bands of a show play last.

I was recently thinking about my life achievements at 32 years old. I started with the things that have impassioned me since I was a kid. If you think about it, my childhood obsession brought me from a small drum class with an almost deaf teacher to stages all around France.

My obsession is about rhythm, but what is rhythm without the music, the melody, the harmony? It is an inner pulsation that needs to be accompanied by musical notes, and the total makes this song that you like to listen to over and over. Listening to a song without the drums is like a human body without bones or a spinal cord; it is just not stable, it is hesitant and uncertain of what is happening around it.

In my personal experience, music supplied consistency in my life: I had a goal and a purpose. I had to beat in rhythm and stay regular and steady. I was in rhythm with another person but also with myself.

Our story ended about five years ago when I started working for an international nongovernmental organization. I was working all over the world, coming back home for a few weeks, and then leaving again for another mission. We obviously had to split. My inner rhythm was breaking up, but something happened: I discovered silence.

Some of my missions were in remote areas, without internet, without water coming from the tap, or without electricity to charge your phone. Even birds singing were wiped out because of the smoke coming from the battlefield. If you want to listen to your favorite artist on Spotify or YouTube, it is just impossible. I then discovered silence, its meaning, its beauty, and its power.

Today, I had a rehearsal with my new band. I’m now playing electric guitar and another drummer is doing the rhythm.

“Hey guys, let’s play the chorus once more, but can we stay on the rhythm?” I asked, trying to sound casual and not judgmental.

“Ok, but are you sure that we were too fast?” My drummer answered without looking at me.

“Oh yes man, that was a weird rhythm, I mean, a weird dynamic in general.” I tried to avoid offending him.

“Come on, you know what I mean!” I added. That comment was maybe too insensitive, but I can’t help it.

“You know what, do it yourself, I’m out.” Those were my drummer’s last words before he left the room.

“So, what are we going to do?” asked the bass player, hesitant but not overly concerned about our drummer’s departure.

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“I will play the drums,” I said, knowing that was the only way.

“Oh, cool man, I knew it!” he said happily.

“Me too man, me too.”

I took the drumsticks and we looked at each other.

The rhythm started: “Poum, Tchack, Poum Poum Tchack.”

My bass player seemed absorbed by a new melody and began wrapping my rhythm with some beautiful arpeggios. Then, we broke the melody with several beats of silence, spaced equally, and beating and playing more intensely after every one of them.

We were “in phase.”

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Marissa Santana

Breaking the Stigma of Teen Pregnancy Growing up can be very challenging for most youth. Some of these challenges stem from our bodies changing, going through puberty, navigating relationships with others, and trying to find our selfidentity. When a teen also adds pregnancy to the mix, it can seem unbearable. You now must also plan and prepare for bringing a new life into this world. Some of the challenges associated with teenage pregnancy include being called terrible names. Teens who choose to abort their pregnancies may also be labeled as “Murderers”. Many teenage mothers who keep their babies are faced with raising the baby alone. Lastly, many teenage mothers face the uphill climb of trying to create a life for themselves and their children on a limited income.

Let’s face it, we live in a society that is quick to judge each other and people can be very mean. Teen moms can hide their pregnancy for a few months but in a short time, their bellies will be on full display for all to see. At this point, teen moms will have to face the criticism from their school-age peers, and other adults that may cross paths in public. Some of these people will be labeled with derogatory words directed at women. The teen mom may also have to deal with people who whisper insults to others in their group of friends as they walk by. Lastly, teen mothers will have to deal with staring by others or being given dirty looks by those who have judged them for being pregnant as a teen. The truth is kids are having sexual encounters at early ages. According to the CDC, in 2017 about 40% of 15- to 19-year-olds were sexually active. Among all females who participated in a study by the National Survey of Family Growth, almost 79% of females said they had had sexual intercourse by the age of 20. Among all males who also participated in the same study, 77% said they had had sex by the age of 20. Although a majority of sexually active teens used some form of contraceptive such as condoms or the pill, it doesn’t make sense that this same group of people would be so quick to judge when they have engaged or are engaging in the same activity. This became a reality for me, in my senior year of high school. I was a good student and the captain of my cheer team. I didn’t plan on getting pregnant my senior year, but it happened and was a blessing in disguise. Because of this judgment, I personally had to start taking classes online when my belly started showing. I also had to step back from cheer, however, this was a choice to ensure the baby and I were kept safe.

A pregnant teen now must face a choice, keep the baby, or have an abortion. Society as of recent years has been extremely polarized on the topic of abortion. Recently, the Supreme Court reversed its stance on Constitutionally protected abortion. Instead, the Supreme Court said that abortion was a decision that is best made at the state level, giving power back to each state to decide whether abortion would be allowed. Those who are against abortions are considered “Pro-Life” and believe that all life is precious and should be protected. Those in favor of allowing women the ability to have abortions are considered “Pro-Choice” and believe that it should be a woman’s right to choose. Both sides use subversive arguments to garner support for their view. One of those subversive arguments used by some is to call women who had abortions “Murderers”. These comments are disgusting and lack compassion for the person who just had to make a very difficult decision that ended the life of their baby. These comments also lack an understanding of the circumstances that led that person to make that decision. According to the Guttmacher Institute, almost 1 million women chose to have their pregnancies aborted in 2020. Also in 2020, the CDC data reported about 616,000 pregnancies were aborted that year. The CDC data excludes data from California, Maryland, and New Hampshire.

According to CDC data, 8% of women ages 13 to 19 years old had an abortion in 2020. In the states whose data to the CDC included demographic information on race and ethnicity about 60% of women who had their pregnancies aborted were minorities. . It’s my belief that less finger-pointing should be occurring, and both “Pro-Life” and “Pro-Choice” groups should come together to help give these women options.

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I choose Pro-Life. I knew the path was going to be more difficult however, I have the drive to be successful and ensure my son has a good foundation. Also, thankfully, I am blessed to have very supportive parents to help me prepare for my son. Thankfully, I did not have to make such a drastic decision like others who had to.

Statistically, teen mothers who carry their babies to term will be raising their children without the father present in the home. About 8 out of 10 teen fathers do not marry the mother of their child. This most likely leaves the full parenting load to a single parent. If the teen mother does not have a good support system, it will make it more difficult to get an education, pursue a career, or have a social life. Childcare is very expensive nowadays and is cost-prohibitive for many families, especially for a teen mom who may not have a job. According to Care.com the national average for childcare centers is $226 a week for one child. Since teen mothers may not have the funds to pay for childcare, their opportunities to have a life outside of a child are greatly diminished. My aunt fell into these statistics when she got pregnant with my cousin. She got pregnant at an early age, and the guy did not stick around for the birth of his child. My aunt has had to raise my cousin without his help or financial support. Thankfully, my aunt had the help of my grandmother to help provide childcare while she worked. My aunt has had to work two jobs since my cousin was born to make ends meet. Although the road to success has been a bit more difficult, her daughter is incredible: smart, loving, and humble.

Teen mothers can experience a lack of opportunity especially if they do not have a good support group to help them with childcare. “Children who don’t live with their fathers are five times more likely to be poverty-stricken than children with both parents at home.” I have watched my aunt struggle, it was hard for her to go to college. She had to work multiple jobs. Immediately out of high school, she went to school to be a cosmetician. Then my aunt got pregnant. After my cousin was born, my aunt had to stop going to school. My aunt struggled to make ends meet making $15 an hour as an assistant manager. When my cousin reached school age, my aunt started working as a bank teller and then at the movie theater in the evening. Now she is very successful in her career. I think about her journey and accomplishment and it is an inspiration to continue with my goals.

Being a teen mom has not been an easy journey thus far. There have been many things I have had to give up because of a choice I made. I had to miss out on some of the most memorable moments of a person’s life, their senior year of high school. I choose to finish my senior year remotely, so I can avoid the cruelty of my peers or strangers. I had to give up competing in my final state cheer competition because stunting was too dangerous. I had to give up sleeping without any interruptions at night. I give up my teenage body and any free time I may have had to hang out with my friends.

Despite the stigma of teenage pregnancy and all the sacrifices I have made so far, once I held my son in my arms, I knew that I could never go back to a life without him. My son is a blessing.

The stigma of adolescent pregnancy is real and it’s unfortunate. People tend to judge you without knowing you or your circumstances. They observe and label you because it is not the norm. “The stigma that teens who became pregnant are “unmotivated, irresponsible and incompetent parents.”

They are often viewed as a moral failing.” This is just a perception because the teen and the baby can have a bright future. However, people don’t realize the effect judgment has on a pregnant teen. It can cause health disparities, such as depression, anxiety, and shame. The teen may feel that society’s attitude is a punishment which may cause the teen to isolate themself and label their decision or situation as wrong. This can cause the teen to be too scared to get the help and support they need. We need to work together to break the stigma, that way the teenager feels comfortable and confident to seek the help they need.

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Kayliegh Begay Microprose

Alcohol My father was an alcoholic. It started when he would drink one beer every other day. Then went to having one every day. Soon he was drinking a pint of vodka a day. Every day I got older I started noticing this addiction. My father denied that he had a drinking problem. My mother was fed up with her situation. She offered to retire and go with him to get help. The day my brother graduated he moved out of the house. All his responsibilities fall onto me. I remember taking my father to the gas station or liquor store. Sometimes I would drive him to the bar. He would tell my little sisters, “Let’s go get some snacks.” My little sisters were young. They thought that our father was getting them snacks.

I knew what that meant. Deep down I was scared to go with him anywhere. I did not know if we would make it home. I wonder if my father ever knew how much he affected his family’s lives.

A Lingering Past I look to the skies hoping that my past would not affect my day-to-day life, but it has. I remember the days and nights that I wish I could have disappeared. I blamed myself for what happened. Maybe I should have dressed differently. Maybe I should have told someone. Maybe I should have fought back. The thing is, how is a little first-grader supposed to know what was happening? As a kid, people never talk about horrible situations. Parents think that it will never happen to their child or hope to God it never does. Now that I am older how am I supposed to tell my mother? She knows that I personally do not like hugs, but she does not know why. Someone can accidentally bump into me. Then I will have a small panic attack.

Unsaid Words Saying the phrase “I love you” sounds foreign. In my household saying “I love you” was not common.

The only time my father ever said “I love you” was when he was drinking. When I was little, I just simply said it back. As I got older, I realized how meaningful the phrase “I love you” is. Now I find it hard to say, “I love you.” I am afraid that someone might take it for granted. I have a significant person in my life that I very much love. When we are together, I want to tell him that I love him. I never do and always say to myself maybe another time. I am scared that I will never get the chance to.

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Elysabeth Foreman Sunset

The sun is setting how beautiful it looks over the horizon.

There are so many colors.

I have lived here my whole life, And yet it surprises me every time I look at it.

It is so beautiful how warm and whole it makes me feel.

The sun is setting and so am I. The sun is gone.

But tomorrow brings another beautiful sunset.

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Elysabeth Foreman L.O.V.E

What is love? How do you know when you are in it? How do you know what it feels like? How do you know how to love?

These are all questions we have asked ourselves at one point or another.

The answers are more difficult to come up with than the answers.

The answers are specific to you.

Is it when someone tells you what you want to hear because you are vain?

Is it when someone gives you something you like because you are materialistic?

Is it when someone spends time with you because you are hungry for their attention?

Is it when someone touches you and makes you feel safe because you are lonely?

Is it when someone does something for you because you can’t rescue yourself?

We all love differently, and we all show love differently, but yet we all need love.

So the questions still remain how do we love someone unconditionally?

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Elysabeth Foreman Somnolence

Slumber, is the only thing that heals my brain.

Siesta I long for.

How many hours did I get? Not enough.

Half awake as I try to drag along until I can be reunited with my bed.

Having to lie down in the middle of the day because you didn’t sleep like you needed to the night before seems like the only good thing that comes from my days.

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Ky George

‘Portrait’ by Kehinde Wiley I do not know the names of the flowers that cradle your body, a nest for sweetness and fragrance wafting from the depths of your wildest dreams. Tell me, for whom do your eyes search when you’re most at peace? Gentle boy, resting your hands over your sacred heart, calling an ancient song to mind, one where we always know the names of flowers, always recognize the melodies of birds and which berries are safe to eat, juice dripping delicate from the vine.

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Ky George

Oil and Water When I was young, I didn’t have the language to encompass my identity But when I was ten and I asked if I could help mow the lawn on a Saturday, My mom scoffed and said it was “a boy’s chore” And when I was fourteen and dressed in jeans and black band tees, My dad said I dressed so rarely “like a girl,” he didn’t recognize me In my dress for winter formal.

For what it’s worth, I never identified with the girls in the movies, The pretty princesses, damsels in distress.

I longed to be the protagonist with a sword or a lightsaber Though never a gun––unless it was a shotgun and I was in some kind of paranormal western fighting zombies, but that’s for another story.

I longed for the grace of a battle worth fighting for Rather than the chivalry of a man worth waiting for.

Recently, as I perused an old newspaper from 1950-something I came across a column that declared “Masculinity and femininity are like oil and water, they do not mix” And though I still struggle with the idea of butch and femme, damsel and warrior At least now I know that gender is not oil and water, But a finely pressed olive oil and rich balsamic, topped with fresh, bright herbs–– A mixture to be savored and enjoyed, adjusted to one’s own preferences Before diving into a delicious, robust, complex meal.

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Ky George

Before the Storm In the hours before the promised storm, the air takes on that familiar scent even as the cold cuts The smell of water and wind and asphalt and honey.

The smell of school bus rides in thundering afternoons, electricity sizzling between each atom of air.

The smell of spring clean and early summer mornings calling into the birth of

February— a reminder.

More than the smell of rain, of salt, of warm welcome earth—

a smell of belonging, of home, of allegiance to a land that was never meant for me.

In the hours before the promised storm, the predicted blizzard, the cold air cuts through the cloth

of my t-shirt on my evening walk and reminds me that I will always always always belong to that land which I was never meant to call home.

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Josie Ippel

Living Knowing I Am Alive 1.

We pull our children through the graveyard in a wagon If you look closely you can see their hair standing up Static electricity The baby takes a bath outside in the dishtub Giggling His whole body fits inside Sometimes my whole heart fits inside Our whole future in one spot He still remembers what he is He is still connected to the electricity Sometimes I want to stick my finger in an outlet just to see He is still part of a whole Now he keeps his tongue in his mouth After I tucked it back in so many times But when he kisses my cheek Saliva remains Now he sneaks a lick into a hug Like he is trying to teach me Remind me who I am That I’m the future too The future makes us brave And we brave for them Going through the graveyard Collecting electricity Collecting future To scatter 2.

I have learned many times the mysteries of the future So I will not come to a concussion yet I am from the invisible The pain not taught or seen or recognized But I grieve for us The children The too empty too full adult All that is our shadow I have closure now Closure found its roots and grew from me It’s mine Red Mesa Review 44

To be clear I just mean I taught myself how to live So I will do so I can see a future I am learning myself so I can trust I smile at knowing This is the most honest whole love I have I feel its strings And I trust the pulls they bring I believed myself to be the prey When the eyes look away and the ears forget that they heard Even angry, I was scared small stupid innocent slut lashing out Misguided I’m a monster to be feared You made me into a monster Now if you come to me again in your invisible way You will find a monster And for us, everything will change You stand in a pool of blood Your house is built on the drips of generations You say I’m an angel Look at my ethereal light I recognize my innocence burning in your fire Maybe cremation fires are the brightest When it rains and you hear the pitter-patter on your window I see drops of our blood sliding down the glass 3.

My religion is mystery Trying Seeing the good bad and the ugly drinking tea together Continuing to notice the leaves turning into soil Looking for leaves in me too My cellulite looks like the ocean on a calm day If I’m by myself I can almost hear the gentle ripples My body is my softest pillow I keep my hood off so I can feel the rain drying in my hair later I wish the ocean would stay on my skin for days Sometimes I smell my skin to remind myself I’m clean

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I’m living so I can die unexpectedly I’m living so death can be the biggest alive of all I’m living so I can die with wrinkles in the corners of my eyes I’m living so I can feel my toes wiggle and my heart slow I’m living so I can feel my teeth fall back out I’m living so I don’t want to die I’m living so I can die every day, leaping into unknowns I’m living so I can come back alive

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Pauline Vilensky

Lost in Budapest’s Heart Budapest, a city of history and light, A place of culture and culinary might.

I traveled there with my love, heart aflame, Eager to uncover its secrets and fame.

“Americans,” they thought, and, “Oh! How rude,” As we explored their streets in a blissed mood.

Despite the looks and disapproving stares, We found beauty in the city’s ancient squares.

We held hands and laughed, despite their scorn Our love too stout to be worn.

Down frigid streets with bustling crowds, We saw a city, old but proud.

Though judgmental looks and disapproving stares, Met us in the public places we shared, In that magical place, we went our own way, And left with joy, to return someday.

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Shana Arviso Diary of You

Just when you think everything is going okay, without any fights then the worst happens. It’s the total opposite of what you’d have hoped for. Everything and happiness get poured down the drain, everything is doomed and ruined, and flames ignite. Then your heart hurts and your stomach feels sick. Always feeling like you cannot do anything right. you wish you could always do OR know to do the right thing. you don’t know where you have gone wrong. Crying, you just want to crawl up with someone and cry, but you can’t, no one likes to see or deal with it, you can’t help the fact that you are a Cryer, it’s just all these feelings coming through and needs to go somewhere when you have these feelings and emotions it’s hard to bottle them up. you try to do your best to bottle up everything and be happy and stay positive and strong, but you are weak. you care about them a lot, and you love them, it could be so easy to leave, but you don’t want to be seen as a coward. Leave take a break, get out, in the end, you want them, you want to come back.

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Shana Arviso

Dreaming of Grandma Rose I was thinking about the dream that I had several weeks ago. It was so vivid. We were at my grandma’s hogan in Coyote Canyon, NM and she was holding my youngest, baby Ariella. She asked me “So how are you guys doing?” I told her, “We are good, grandma.” Then she asked, “How is it with four girls?” I told her, “It is very busy, grandma.” Our conversation was a bit bizarre because we were communicating in English and when my grandma was alive, she was only fluent in Navajo.

My grandma looked very young in my dream. Very happy and strong. I felt that she came back in my dream, to see my daughters, to check on us, and to make sure we were doing ok. I never really dreamt like this before, but it was significant to see and talk to my beloved Grandma Rose again.

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Shana Arviso

Poem for Jewell When I look at you, your face Your hands and feet Your beautiful brown hair And brown skin I love you, baby, I love you When I am with you, Your beautiful brown eyes Looking at me Your adorable smile Precious touch Brings so much joy Fulfills my heart I love you, baby, I love you

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John Lewis Taylor Grackle at Dawn

I hear you Mr. Grackle.

I hear your happy song.

I hear you Mr. Grackle.

I’ll hear you all day long.

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Yi-Wen Huang End of Summer

Cottonwood Camp Verde Az Highway 87 Strawberry Strawberry cabins Strawberry inn Three miles to Pine On the way to Tonto Natural Bridge In between both sides of roads tree bath in Tonto National Forest Groups of mule deer head down busy eating strawberries immersed in flute music all the way to Tucson to see Steve Roach

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Benjamin Space

A Path from Darkness In silence and the still Truth awaits us there The madness of the mind Of this become aware Desire keeps us trapped The breath can bring one rest Focus the attention there In the present to persist The future and the past Mean little to us here It’s only in the wisdom gained That all things become clear The mind will do its thing The void will draw us in The path to inner peace Inside has always been In practice meditate In silence and the still It’s only there that we shall find That truth shall be revealed

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Benjamin Space

The Wildest of All Animals Dance now My little one Twirling on wisps of AEther Bewitched I watch as Innocence plays Explores Becoming his own author See now My baby boy With eyes wide And become The man I see For the world is yours Understand Be your own Until your time is done

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John Freeh Esposo

You have ravished my heart, my sister, my bride, You have ravished my heart, with one look of your eyes Song of Songs 4:9 I saw her first at a village feast Dark and soft, eyes bright and filled with hidden joy Respectful of elders, yet strangely confident Wearing a wisdom beyond her young years Clothed in light, swathed in mystery.

I had seen the daughters of Israel And given praise for their beauty But here was one set apart By something words could not describe Thoughts could not begin to understand.

I knew only that I could not avert my gaze This despite the counsel of our father Job Her presence gently vanquished Whatever pact I had made with my eyes Not to look long upon the loveliness of women.

The mystery revealed, what could I do but surrender All that I was, all that I had been, would ever be Surrender in full without terms or conditions Without keeping so much as a morsel of myself.

And all was surrendered, gladly, to her service Sinew and strength, manhood, and skill Even in the face of what could hardly be imagined Or foreseen, let alone accepted.

Into my soul’s turmoil the voice first sounded: Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife.

And I obeyed.

I enfolded her life in mine Made mine her hopes and fears Wedded my destiny to one who had been given to another Yet somehow remained my own.

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When the Judean nights grew cold I shielded her frailty with my warmth Held her close with a calloused hand Kissing gently the nape of her neck As the child slept soundly beside us.

And often the words of David, my ancestor, came to mind: How lovely is your dwelling place, Lord God of hosts Did Adonai ever sojourn so close to his people?

Close enough for a simple man to hold and kiss?

For her and the child, my affection was without bounds Though I denied myself a husband’s privilege Our union grew closer, our intimacy deeper What could explain this sweetness found In the smallest of gestures: the brushing of shoulders The stroke of palm on cheek The touch of lips left soft upon the hand?

And so I lived in a symphony of silence Unable to speak the fullness in my heart For words concerning mother and child Caught in my throat and would not be spoken Besides: To whom could I speak such things?

Many years have run their course Yet I recall the day of our wedding The blue dawn that broke upon that day Light and laughter, the joining of right hands Her dark hair, adorned with mountain flowers The holy words spoken, heard, and savored The Wisdom of Solomon gave new life: Clothed with strength and dignity She laughs at the days to come.

Note: The beautiful retablo above the altar in the south side chapel of Santa Fe’s Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis speaks volubly of the life of Joseph, that hidden life of a Jewish tradesman who was given the special vocation to care for Emmanuel. Each of the richly painted panels, the work of accomplished New Mexico artist Arlene Cisneros-Sena, corresponds to an aspect of Joseph’s life, but also, by extension, to the life of every person. The visual narrative is held together by the repeated motif of a hollyhock which is alternatively given to Joseph by an angel, held throughout his life, then finally dropped to the ground by his lifeless hand as he in turn is held in the arms of Jesus.

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Katie Schultz

Saved Without Consent Palm Sunday 03-24-13 A sneaking surrender Arousing discontent Compromised intuition Commandeered by the caravan of a man I would have Politely avoided sharing an elevator with Never planned to answer to Him My plan interrupted By the call of a headstrong carpenter Fearful grappling For the familiar bewildering More mysterious sources of magic And I clinging To the missed musty bliss Mist of fading beliefs The sad strengthening irrelevance Of my animist pagan friends Sorrowful separation Schism by the chasm of a catechism Was kindness the catalyst for this cataclysm?

How can I deny the dream Magnificently bestowed upon me That so many others would covet Bathed in such a grace I could honor it or complain That culprit from behind the pulpit Captured my heart and gives it wings Content omission of belief Corrupted by a stubborn mustard seed

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Katie Schultz

Quiet Marathon Tranquility That still feeling City on a Sunday City at Dawn A city solemn That space lacking Busi(y)-ness

Hurry at a standstill Calamity // Suddenly

Calming as kitten’s milk

Spooked alley cats Hair on end Dartin’ with arched backs Runnin for their lives Countin our nine lives I’m countin’ mine

Runnin for their lives Stretch our palms

And kiss the sky

City on a Sunday

A stir buzzing the air.

Smoke.

By the strength of Pegasus’ angel wings, On Icharus’ heel, We Glide

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Katie Schultz

Meditation on the State of the Ground

03-04-15

There are designs and patterns within the chaos. Plastic 4-rack cartilage & skeletal spiders remains line the trails of alleys, over dirt, and thru sagebrush. Congregate to the communal pressure points, vortexes, Axis of excess, Pulse of prowling party juice.

Empty + broke + busted + buried

are all the bottles + wreckage just like

all the lives

Empty + broke + busted + buried of all the people who stepped and sat and pissed and puked and slept and cried and bled here.

And here. and here…

And in my sideways, off-handed dim + distant concern for my bare hands as I scavenge, That draws my mind across the passing and persisting thoughts & wonderment of JUST WHAT FILTH this is, and wondering while knowing half as much of the True Nature of the Disease, Defecation, Urination, Fornication, Regurgitation, how many feuds, how many poisons, how many rancid cocktails of death—waiting, growing HERE: Among the Wretchedness & the Wickedness & the Savage Unforgiving WILDER-Mess that EveryBody and your pets, And your Children, Pass by, walk over, turn your nose up at, Avoid, kick with your toe, push Your Blinders up against the sharpened shards, Block Out, Shake your head at, IGNORE, ACCEPT, or Numbly Acknowledge as just part of the Scenery.

JUST WHAT FILTH is this, THIS that we ourselves, we our friends, we our Relatives, We, our fellow Human Beings ALLOW OURSELVES to not just graze + touch

with a fingertip while

collecting cans, but ACCEPT LIVING Within it, Surrounded by it, falling down and passing out and curling up to fight the Cold in it—IN ALL THIS FILTH,-- just another Day, The way of life, smothering your clothes + your skin + your Insides—WHAT Filth, I think?

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--What is All This Filth? When I for so long Accepted it as my Life, my home, my Lot without Caring or Questioning, & now thinking because I have to sift through the grime of SOMEONE ELSE’s –(SO MANY Some One’s) FATE— NOW I am concerned, for my bare FingerTip, When other people’s lives are Hanging in the Balance, Surfing through this Sewage, Wallowing in this Bleak Existence?

“This is a life, and this is a life, and this is a life”-- Remarks and reminders from Every Regrettable, lamentable object in every ally and lining every bum-trail.

This is a life, dirty, and

this is a life, covered in sand, and

this is a life, discarded and unwanted, and this is a life, stinking and reeking, and this is a life, sharp and jagged and can’t hold nothing in this is a life of rejection, trash—But as long as we allow the trash to pile up,

As long as we allow the trash to pile up,

As long as we accept these as Axxeptable Living Conditions—

These lives will keep piling up & breaking in the streets too.

The only way to Stop the Violent Deaths and Crimes Among our People is to STOP Accepting This insanity [slumming] as a Legitimate Lifestyle

Abandonment – abandonment of families, responsibilities, sanity, integrity, & VALUES—

We abandon everything dearest to our hearts, then we are abandoned, & living in abandoned shelters

Ruined and reduced to

Love that can at any time be conquered by a drug Staring down Bringing us back

to the state of the ground…

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Aidan Seandric Begay 3 Poems

World in Focus Remember the day when there slowly, slowly, we no longer thought of what was good or what was not?

There was simply the landscape’s smell and seclusion.

We only stood and watched that old sun gaze.

In bright, all unspeakable emotion.

We did what we could, and all was good.

Beware the Friendly Stranger A Phoenix and a Raven.

Offer us meteor-balling smogs of city-night sensibility.

Seen it all in fanaticism; the universe dissatisfies meaning.

Only taring resilient travel unravels the life of giant Russian doll cliffs.

Strains of crepuscular rays rain on bubble rock; minimalism is away.

Often the menial task is swept-beneath, inverted sunlight lunar we lean inwards.

A key to hidden sanctums is left, and underkept are dusty trails of evening horizons.

Awaiting divine timing.

For him, I’ve risen again.

Divine Timing This wind allows a person to take a flight till they crash.

This wind needed no safety nets. You only need to hear the sounds of the sea.

This blow of smoke is how we stoke the fire inside us again.

This explosion of rocks and metals propels sounds through the air.

This aim swims in frequencies, exceeding through the earth’s atmosphere.

This return to home burns me layer by layer.

This camera encompasses life in stone. Pebbles coated themselves in pixels of color. The cause was a kill shot followed by a visually captured moment. The effect would be in the hands of what is now the past.

This gun encompasses beads of sweat. Orbs rolling in systems of bleeding human hair. The cause was provoking movement paired with a single second and the push of a button. The effect is projectile memories of what is now the past.

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Acey Chee We Forgot Too Soon We will depart the fifth world hastily Five-fingered people distracted by the palms of their hands, carelessly Leaving behind cherished ancestral maps with our once coveted liberties.

And now a small comfort burning bright in dark memories With Love our only compass we sail to infinity

Mother Medicine for the Heart Important herbs and cacti gather In the Tribal Casino’s South conference room Bold declarations were made.

In the East bellowed forth a humble voice A door post podium Mother spoke, When all remedies have failed In that fleeting significance the anticipation of Hope waning, Last resort is summoned from the heart, That’s where I can be found waiting.

-Azee’

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Acey Chee

Atlas - A Love Affaire

When heartbeats collide We serenade in these moments Before a crimson sunrise We leave the World silently With our scarred bodies We bathe in sacred firelight Using crackling cinders We ignite a crystal void Smeared twilight visions We dance to cosmic odes Clearly forgotten bye mortal souls We sang these solstice hymns And when the heavens forbade us We create our own melodies Our dance continues as Chaos becomes us.

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Jennifer Grisenti My Clan

My Hopi grandma belongs to the Rabbit and Tobacco clan, My Hopi grandpa belongs to the Snake clan, Will I understand who I am?

Mom is Apache and belongs to the Red Willow clan from Camp Verde Will I be sturdy and proud?

And say my last name out loud.

I walk with dignity Never having self-pity.

Trying to learn my roots and contribute my time to my mom who is here, Who never shows fear.

A dad who has passed, but has a different contrast in culture, Taught us to never feel insecure, And never falter.

I now see who I am, I have to be strong, To carry on what I have been taught, Before it is gone.

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Tom Mclaren

Under the Electric Sky

i I went to see Astral Projection They never play in America I went because I knew I could spend a week in Vegas for a third of the price everyone else was paying for one night at Excalibur And I went just for Vegas: to amuse my bouche with Happy Hour Metro Crust my 1st Manchego being outeaten by a guy half my size in skinny jeans Lounging with thrift store Gold Eagle paperbacks I actually still got for a dime Sandwiches & Supermodels CHiPs blondes Blue haired Wu Pei Jus & Tao Sharons Baby Tae I wept like a baby once when i left I want my ashes scattered there ii All I remember of that set is roaming in dark electricity A Shaman at a Witching Hour Goa Psy Sabbat Losing the shirt and Donning an Eddie Guerrero Mask (from the Ancient Gallery) Charging back and forth like the bull that I was Jacob Chansley and I danced next to each other & went into orbit together Red Mesa Review 65

What can you do with a liberal arts degree?

Be brainwashed by a death cult & storm the capitol is by far your best bet Years later, I’d think back to this moment seeing Martin Solveig in 2017 You know how his shows go . . .

Way beyond daylight Martin Solveig, Cedric Gervais & The Chainsmokers gave me the best nights of my life in XS, EBC, Intrigue But I digress . . . riding merkaba chariots of the gods silver surfing What can you do with a liberal arts degree?

Be brainwashed by a death cult & storm the capitol is by far your best bet Years later, I’d think back to this moment seeing Martin Solveig in 2017 You know how his shows go . . .

Way beyond daylight Martin Solveig, Cedric Gervais & The Chainsmokers gave me the best nights of my life in XS, EBC, Intrigue But I digress . . . iii Under the Electric Sky In this sonic energy religion Bronze Dragon energy arts The Musick is the Magick Goa Shamans speak Light Language Dialectics God is written on the sky, in the textured ceiling, on the elegant bathroom tiles facedown The man in the moon is putting on a show for you: Hermits Taoist & Tarot rainbow insects machine elves anime faces the Xiaolin 3 stooges Neon birds (which kind?)

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Rainbow constellations Purple Lotuses with or without seated buddhas Within or outside of Mudras, kuji kiri, baguas Celestial Emperors smiling down hat & 3-piece collar A gorgeous anime face melts into a fluorescent bird (puffin) Mario mushroom Princess to warhawk with turban to a djinn in the Maharajah’s surrealist palace Candycane stripper troupes & giant rainbow-colored insects So psychedelic, the only sound is echoes in a deep canyon or the harsh coldness of android mothership downloads Chuck Van Zyl cackling in the background Sliding into the furry dimension of the banana splits texting Cecchine & Mate at 3 AM I found the #spacejaguar in a liminal space in the corner of Meow Wolf, a video on New Year’s Eve or on the rooftop of Effex burning ghost money for the ancestors A blonde 9, a fairy with a wand straight out of an episode of CHiPs, explains to me that this is a corset (no figure out) And she [points] is just wearing a bra and pantries And I’m FLABBERGASTED iv Let’s worship the Goddess.

We are but mere vessels of something much greater than ourselves Partake The Dionysia awaits Red Mesa Review 67

I’ll calligraph onto your body the pleasure you so verily crave & deserve Pillowbooks & Harems by Torchlight A Gil Gerard Sword & Planet Epic

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Contributors Shana Arviso, spouse, mother of 4 beautiful daughters, social worker, and Accommodations Specialist at the University of New Mexico-Gallup, Accessibility Resource Center. She journals to support self-care and helps to be in the present. She sees the beauty in people and truly believes in change.

Aidan Seandric Begay is currently obtaining their high school degree through NORTHSTAR online schooling. Begay always found writing to help escape from the realities of family dynamics, independence, and maturity. With their ability to seek a headspace of derealization and create hidden sanctums, they wanted to give themselves a shot at creative writing and they hope this may get them in the spotlight of UNM’s Red Mesa Review.

Kayliegh Begay writes diary entries every other day in order to help get her words out.

Acey Chee is a meticulous and self-motivated Healthcare Recruiter, community volunteer, and dedicated son to tradition and family. As a millennial soothsayer, he is both honored and excited to submit three poems he wrote to the Red Mesa Review. He thanks the editor and Red Mesa Review committee for the support and encouragement they provided to past and present submissions.

Amy E. Clark is a retired GMCS employee who lives in Gamerco, New Mexico. She has been a freelance writer since 2000, contributing to Quaker magazines, such as the Friends Journal; also, the Iowa Press Citizen newspaper. In 2009, she and her husband settled in Gallup where her articles have appeared quarterly, since then, on the Religion Page of the Gallup Independent newspaper, and regularly, as Letters to the Editor. Her poetry and short non-fiction work have been published in several Arts editions of the Gallup Journey magazine.

Mary Ann Dimand was born in Southern Illinois where the Union North met the Confederate South, and her work is shaped by kinships and conflicts: economics and theology, farming and feminism, and history. Dimand holds an MA in economics from Carleton University, an MPhil from Yale University, and an MDiv from Iliff School of Theology. Some of her previous publication credits include: The History of Game Theory Volume I: From the Beginnings to 1945; The Foundations of Game Theory; and Women of Value: Feminist Essays on the History of Women in Economics, among others. Her work is published or forthcoming in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Agave Magazine, Apricity Magazine, The Birds We Piled Loosely, Bitterzoet Magazine, The Borfski Press, The Broken Plate, Chapter House Journal, The Charles Carter, The Ear, El Portal, Euphony Journal, Faultline, FRiGG Magazine, From Sac, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Hollins Critic, The Hungry Chimera, Isacoustic, I-70 Review, The MacGuffin, Mantis, Medicine and Meaning, Misfit Magazine, Mount Hope Magazine, Nixes Mate Review, Oddville Press, OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters, Pennsylvania English, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Penumbra, Plainsongs, RAW Journal of the Arts, Redactions: Poetry & Poetics, Sage Cigarettes Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, Slab, Sortes, Steam Ticket, Sweet Tree Review, THINK: A Journal of Poetry, Fiction, and Essays, Tulane Review, Visitant Lit, and Wrath-Bearing Tree.

John Freeh has taught literature to undergraduates at Hillsdale College and Wyoming Catholic College. He lives in Gallup with his wife, Helen, and their three children. They are currently working to found Kateri College of the Liberal and Practical Arts (www.katericollege.org) here in Gallup.

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Inspired equally by her upbringing on the plains of Oklahoma and time spent exploring the high desert of New Mexico, Ky George uses essay, fiction, and poetry to explore the intimate relationships between the land and its people. George is a graduate of the Red Earth MFA at Oklahoma City University and has had work published in The Oklahoma Review, Insurrection, and Lesbians are Miracles.

Jennifer Macktima Grisenti is a student at the Tohono O’odham Community College.

She is currently working towards her AA degree in Life Science and majoring in Environmental Studies. She has one story published in the Red Mesa Review Journal 2022. In her free time, she focuses her time on writing true life stories about her life. She feels that it is important to pass on her stories, and when she wrote this poem she wanted to show the reader how proud she is of her heritage and her culture. She hopes you enjoy her writing. Thank you.

Quentin Guyonnet is a student enrolled in the second semester of the Associate of Nursing.

Guyonnet submitted an essay to Red Mesa Review for all to read, and they hope you enjoy their work.

Dr. Yi-Wen Huang is from Taiwan and is a Professor of English and Linguistics at UNM-Gallup. She lived and attended universities in New York and Pennsylvania. Her research focuses on language and affect. Her hobbies include Zumba, winter hiking, thrift shopping, EDM, and traveling as a foodie and tea aficionado.

Karyn Johnson enjoys writing, and one of her goals was to have her writing published for others to enjoy. She will continue to write short stories in hopes of having them published and appreciates this opportunity to share my writing.

Tom Mclaren is a surrealist poet and a world traveler. He enthusiastically follows the Swiss DJ Nora En Pure. Surréaliste Synesthésique - Anthony Bourdain meets Burning Man - High Modernist - Men’s Fashion & Beauty - Advocate - Former Pennsylvania Wrestler.

Austin Smith is a second-year Film major. His passion is for storytelling, and he aims to become a writer for the film industry. As of now, he has 3 credentials in independent feature films played in theaters around New Mexico. He became interested in Red Mesa Review and submitted a NonFiction Creative essay. This essay was a way for him to refine his craft and learn to tell engaging stories with topics he finds important.

Pauline Vilensky, a junior at UNM wrote about a recent trip she took to Hungary in order to capture the mixed emotions she experienced during her trip. While she was enamored with the city’s beauty and rich cultural heritage, she also encountered some negativity from people who judged her for being an American. Writing this poem helped her process those experiences and put them into words, and allowed her to reflect on the value of finding joy in the face of adversity.

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