who we are Vagabond is a UC Berkeley student-run multilingual literary journal that promotes multiculturalism by showcasing creative works written in various languages and accompanied by English translations. Our mission in publishing these works is to foster interest in multilingualism, promote diversity, and support multiculturalism in the UC Berkeley community. Vagabond publishes original poetry and prose as well as visual works such as photography, as you’ll find in this issue. All works are written by UC Berkeley students, professors, and staff members, or students from other colleges who have an interest in sharing their work. In this issue, you’ll find pieces in Spanish, Finnish, Chinese, and other languages, and past issues have published works written in Hindi, Catalan, Russian, and much more.
For more information about Vagabond, as well as submission guidelines and deadlines, please visit our website at vagabond.berkeley.edu, or find us on Facebook at facebook. com/theberkeleyvagabond
table of contents Letter from the editors ---------------------------- 4-5 Kyyneleistä ja hyvästeistä (Finnish) -------------- 6-7 The Drummer (Mandarin) ----------------------- 8-9 Non posso Verderlo (Italian) ---------------------- 10 Tribute to Barthes (French) ------------------------ 11 Photographer spotlight ------------------------- 12-13 El Cerro (Spanish) --------------------------------- 14 Quebrado (Spanish) -------------------------------- 15 Dos Mentes (Spanish) -------------------------- 16-17 Nuestros archivos (Spanish) ------------------- 18-19 Lúdico (Spanish) --------------------------------- 20-21 Meet the staff ----------------------------------- 22-23
Letter From the Editors What started out last fall semester as a diverse group of bright faces eager to jump into something new has ended the year as an experienced staff incredibly dedicated to this wonderful publication, and through that dedicated to promoting the diversity and brilliance that makes UC Berkeley the wonderful school that it is. Vagabond, to us, is the quintessential representation of what makes our public education here great; in the pages of this magazine, you will find the diverse voices and styles of both undergraduates and graduates from a variety of universities, coming together from different experiences to create this Spring 2013 issue of Vagabond centered around feelings of passion - such as love, loss, yearning, and loneliness. These pieces are written in languages from all corners of the world, and we invite you to read and enjoy each of them, and encourage you to read those that you can in their original languages. Grazie mille per tutto e buon viaggio! Merci pour tout et bon voyage! From your editors, Gigi Gilbert-Igelsrud Uriel Mendoza
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Kyyneleistä ja hyvästeistä niin taas yksi kuolevaisten piiristä toiseen katoaa kaikuu itku surevaisten, kantaa halki tyventen vesien kaikkialla vaietaan – ei meressä yhtä aaltoa kauniin yön kirkkaimmista tähdistä sinua etsien joku polvillensa lakoaa, märät silmät säkenöivät tahtoo unohdukseen vajoaa rakkaan seuraan palataksi hän käy taas läpi sen hetken kun sydämenne viimeksi yhdessä löivät ja pohtii, miksi jätettiin se yksin kadotettavaksi kun jää vain yksi tyhjyydessä kanssa hänen ikävöimään ruusu, joka kylmyydessä helmikuun ei lakastunutkaan hän kuvittelee sinun käsiesi hetkeksi hänet ympäröivän ja pyytää, eikö saa kaikesta yhtään mitä hän on rukoillut vaan myrskyinen äänesi tuudittaa hänet tahtomaansa uneen vihdoinkin kuiskaten, “ällös pelkää, rakkaimpani, nouse ja kulje eteenpäin. et eksy kunhan sinua tähtenä johdatan. odotan sen päivän tulevan jolloinkin, kun taas me tanssimme pilvien päällä ikuisesti käsikkäin.” oliot ja keijut herää sinun lukemista tarinoista katsomaan kulkevasi kautta taivaan porttien auenneiden suruistamme tulee laulu, lunta kyynelpisaroista nähden harhailevasi meidän yllä kanssa enkeleiden sinua rakastavin vihdoin hyvästejään toivottaa uskaltaa tuhkiesi hyväillessä ryppyjä hänen kämmenen nostaa sinut huulillensa, merituuleen suutelun puhaltaa ja kuivuu kyynelensä tajutessaan sinun jo kauas menneen kuu hämärtyy antaaksensa tähtien ainoastaan helottaa antaakseen sun yksinäsi hymyillä kaipaajiasi vastaan ei suojassa sinun katseen häntä pimeys enää ollenkaan pelota vaan tietää joka askelen vievän yhä lähemmäs sen armastaan kun varisparvi maisemasta päättää viimein erota eihän harvinaisemmasta, yöstä rauhallisemmasta eihän mistään kauniimmasta hetkestä koskaan kerrota.
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Tears and Goodbye and thus another from our world is swept to the next in a calmly passing tide the world quakes beneath the tears we’ve wept, our solemn cries echo over the snow draped land all falls silent in this peaceful night - waves of the moonlit seas subside blinded by tears we try to find our sight, to search amongst the stars for where you now stand having lost his love, one helplessly falls to his knees yearning to forever stay and suffer alone until oblivion calls for him to pass on to where his heart belongs reliving the very last moment you shared, he knows there is no price he would not pay to again cross paths with the one for whom he cared, the love of the one for whom he longs for there in the seeming desolation is but one left to share his grief a withering rose’s consolation, unwithered by the harsh winds of February he pictures the warmth of your arms’ embrace, bringing his sorrows a moment of relief and wipes the stream of tears from his face, praying for just one less pain to carry to fall into a dream and through the winds hear calling for him your songbird voice whispering, “Fear not, my beloved, for I am still near. Arise and be free from your uncertainty, and I will be there to guide your way. Some day shall come for us to rejoice, when our vows of love we shall once again say, and you’ll take my hand for all of eternity.” those once forgotten from long gone ages awaken to behold the greatest sight they’ll know to see you written into eternity’s pages as you ascend the steps of the heavens’ gates into a lullaby echo our cries, our tears descend as flakes of snow as we see our beloved arise above the clouds in angels’ grace and as the one who loved you most must finally say his last goodbyes soothes his grief a wind from the coast, your ashes gently caressing his palm he raises you slowly unto his lips, blowing a kiss into the still night skies and you vanish into the haze like a wisp, at last his soul feels a moment of calm into the mist the moon softly wanes, letting the stars turn the sky’s bleak grey to gold letting your presence take away our pains as you smile upon those whose hearts for you ache this day forth, there is naught for him to fear as he steps once more forward to watch his fate unfold for he knows that bringing him to the one he held dear is every step henceforth he dares to make into the horizon we blankly stare as the last of the crows bid this land farewell as we know that never will there be a more strangely peaceful night, not a single more beautiful moment of which shall any of us ever tell.
by Karlong Chan 7
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The Drummer Odes singing in a distant realm, Drums beating on the battlefield. Time turns his ruthful head, Casts a deep gaze on the land. You ground your lean figure In the midst of confronting armies Stately, raising your arm, striking hard, The bleeding drumbeats resonated through the dark. The powerful, heroic drum, Is the deepest mourning of the deaths upon. Your rueful face and solemn eyes, Beholding a thousand fights and a thousand deaths. You stand still, mallets firmly held, Until the Earth of Time buried in blood, The Mountain of Years reshaped by corpses You look up, while Time looks down, In your eyes, you see the same profoundness. Only two things on this earth are merciful: The eternal time, and the inescapable death. by Yunru Du
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non posso vederlo
I can’t see
cerco di credere e cerco di essere ingenuo.
i am trying to believe and trying to be naïve.
ma so che mi fai e so che non sarà bene. so che non stai cercando di farmi felice.
but i know what is happening and i know that it isn’t going to be good. i know that you aren’t looking to make me happy.
non posso vederlo. non posso vedere che mi ami.
i can’t see it. i can’t see that you love me.
non posso vederlo perché capisco. capisco tutto.
i can’t see it because i understand. i understand it all.
desidero che potrei dipingere con le mie lacrime la pittura di un migliore tempo. ma lettere bagnati di lacrime innumerevoli non possono cambiare niente.
i wish i could paint with my tears a picture of a better time but countless letters filled with tears cannot change anything.
non posso vederlo. e allora piango. piango perché ti amo.
i can’t see it. And so i cry. i cry because i love you. by Tatiana August-Schmidt
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Tribute à Barthes: mots volés d’un discours amoreux s’abîmer par l’angoisse l’absence les démons font la déréalité en attente de la catastrophe je dois cacher mon Coeur obscène; la tendresse étrange d’être seule.
Tribute to Barthes: Stolen Words from a Lover’s Discourse to be engulfed by anxiety the absence the demons create disreality in waiting for catastrophe i must hide my obscene Heart; the strange tenderness of being solitary.
by Valerie Wong
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Standing atop a mountain as the sun rises is among the most serene things one can experience. The tranquility of nature in unparalleled. I’ve always felt at home in the outdoors, which meant backpacking was something I instantly came to love. I went on my first trip as a senior in high school and ever since, I’ve been unable to shake the itch. The image above is from my first backpacking trip to Snow Mountain, taken as we watched the sun set from the peak. The next page has a mix of shots from the Ventana Wilderness, Death Valley, and Big Sur.
If you’re interested in seeing more of my work, you can visit kylecameronphotography.com.
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- Kyle Cameron
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El Cerro, La Milla
El Cerro, La Milla
De noche parece bacín de chispas y de mañana papa podrida desde mi cuarto cuando nadie quedaba despierto, solía yo salir como un loco a solas solo para ver el cerro con sus luminosas pupilas cartón y migas de pan se me hacía linterna y la luna caserita siguiendo fría dormida, los perros salen y es el cerro mi audiencia de luces
At night it’s like a bucket of sparks and at dawn a rotten potato the view from my room when no one was awake I longed to leave like a lunatic alone solely to see the hill with its bright pupils cardboard and breadcrumbs for me a lantern and the neighborhood moon watching coldly, asleep the dogs emerge and the hill is my audience in lights
Medio año miré desde la azotea de mi tío en lejanos cielos grises y feos cuando tuvimos la suerte de vivir a cruzar la calle de un santo, y encima una virgen, posicionada justamente en línea con la bandera nacional y la torre de radio al cima del cerro, que en el espectáculo silencioso de cada noche formaba una sinfonía de proporción umbrosa contra luminosa que hasta a veces me olvidaba de casa
half a year I watched from my uncles roof in far-off skies grey and ugly when we had the chance to live across the street from a saint and on top a virgin positioned perfectly in line with the national flag the radio tower on the summit the silent spectacle a nightly symphony of umber on luminous proportions and sometimes I forgot about home.
¿Que amistades, amores, llantos y comidas y baños y sueños? pero nunca el aire mojado las ramas ahumadas, el perro nervioso de al lado ladrando a saludar la luna que me sigue hasta ahora y rezarle al cerro que tantas noches me abrazó en su inmenso silencio bello lucido amor inhumano.
What friends, loves, tears and food and baths and dreams? but never the wet breezes, the smoked branches the neighbor’s nervous dog barking at the moon following me still a praying to the hill that nightly embraced me in its immense silence beautiful lucid inhuman love. by Amatua Marston-Firmio
Quebrado
Broken
yo, lío, todo siempre y abundante me sacudo al mal paso sin ritmo y aplastado en la calzada caliente descalzo al mediodía
I, problem, everything always and plenty shake dust off after planting a dumb step off beat and too flat into the hottest spot on the pavement barefoot at noon
a veces ni digo mucho disimulo hasta quebrarme el diente a veces tomo tanto que quiebro tu copa preferida una vez mi cabeza colapsó y mis labios sangrando toda la noche porque yo, lío, todo siempre y abundante donde se quiebran huesos donde te encontré el tiro pero no pude con los sesenticuatro años que vi caer dientes torcidos cabellera seguro que tu hígado se quebró esa vez
sometimes I don’t even say much suck it up till my teeth hurt sometimes I drink so hard I chip your favorite glass once my head collapsed and my lips bled all night because I, problem, everything always and plenty where bones break where I caught your blow but I couldn’t catch the sixty four years I saw tumbling teeth crooked the hair and I was sure your liver had broken that moment by Amatua Marston-Firmio
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Dos Mentes Para Paz
Dos mentes sin la razón son a veces la oscuridad en un cielo vacío. Dos mentes sin el pensamiento son a veces en blanco y hay falta de rima. Dos mentes sin el conocimiento son a veces la violencia transmitida por señales perfectos. Dos mentes sin la pasión son a veces perdidas en la calle animada. Y sea por lo que sea, es obvio, ¿no? Dos mentes sin la soledad son siempre tú y yo.
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Two Minds For Paz
Two minds without reason are sometimes darkness in an empty sky. Two minds without thought are sometimes blank and lacking rhyme. Two minds without knowledge are sometimes the violence passed on through perfect signals. Two minds without passion are sometimes lost in the bustling street. And for whatever reason, it’s obvious, no? Two minds without loneliness are always you and me. by Corrie Jacobs
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Nuestros Archivos Nuestros archivos guardados en la memoria eran en verdad intensos caminos de las estaciones y los días. Todo semejante a la serenidad del sol y a las luces que descifran sombras en la oscuridad. Nuestros pies, como los venados, ágiles entre los montes, corrían desde caminos calcinados por los relámpagos. Fue así que emprendimos la marcha de los astros y los astros nos conducían en estrellas venideras hacia mejores destinos que los puertos lejanos. Y en cielos de fuego, fuimos soplo de distancias aventadas por las orillas. Entonces abrimos trochas sin cansarnos, sin cansar nuestros pies de arcilla y espuma, de arenas limpias y puertos prometidos. El Marañón corría con nosotros y sus altos prodigios eran vastas corrientes que asombrados recorríamos. Y surcando o bajando las aguas en los requiebros de la madrugada nuestra memoria era designio de profundidades y de playas enterradas en las crecientes. A eso le llamamos sabiduría guardada en los archivos de la luna.
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Our Archives Our archives guarded by memory were in reality vivid paths of the season and the days. Everything was like the serenity of the sun and the lights that decipher shadows in the darkness. Our feet, like the deer, agile in the forests, ran along roads burnt by lightning. In this way we embarked on the march of the celestial bodies and they guided us among imminent stars towards better destinations than the far away ports. And in skies of fire, we were a gust blown across distances to the riverbanks. Tirelessly we forged shortcuts not wearying our feet of clay and foam, of clean sand and promised ports. The Mara単on ran with us and its great marvels were vast currents that we traveled in wonder. And ploughing through or flowing down the waters in the shards of daybreak our memory was designed in the depths and on the beaches buried in the floods. This is what we callwisdom guarded in the archives of the moon.
by Ana Valera Tafur translated by Jo Podvin
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Lúdico Hacía cuatro meses que no la veía, pero no había sido fácil verla. Se abrieron las puertas que nos separaban y me la comí a besos. Le agarré la cara, por las orejas, me acerqué su perfil y le mordí los labios delicadamente con sed. Poco a poco, sollozando, nos devolvíamos mucho tiempo sin afecto. Un hombre con uniforme nos apresuró, mientras que el resto de la gente veía el cariño con que nos mirábamos. Nuestras frentes permanecían juntas y nuestras manos no se separaban de nuestras caras. ¡Qué adoración que nos teníamos! Agarramos las pocas pertenencias que tenía y nos fuimos de la mano a la salida. Allá afuera la vida era otra cosa, el sol de mediodía resplandecía con justicia, con divinidad hechicera. Noté que Ariel sintió un tirón en su mano derecha cuando el guardia tiró del cuello de mi camisa hacia atrás con rudeza. Mis cosas se desparramaron en el piso y ella arañaba al hombre con odio e ímpetu. —¡Déjelo, déjelo!— gritaba. Nada entendía el hombre y nada le importaba. Yo, ¿qué podía hacer…? ¿Correr? ¿A dónde? ¿Golpear al hombre? El pobre infeliz hacía su trabajo, qué culpa tenía de las reglas. Finalmente tocó la sirena, se acabó el juego y nos fuimos a casa. Le dije a Ariel que teníamos que salir más rápido, que no podíamos jugar así, que siempre nos iban a atrapar. Teníamos que ser más audaces y besarnos menos y seguir las reglas del juego de una manera más práctica. Ella fingió una mueca y se adelantó haciendo un tiquitaca gracioso con los zapatos. No le había gustado lo que le había dicho, eso era seguro. Lo que sí era seguro era que al otro día tendríamos que volver a jugar el juego de los adultos. Lo bueno era que la sirena sie pre nos salvaba cuando nos equivocábamos, lo malo… que las sirenas no existen.
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Ludic It was four months since I saw her, and it wasn’t easy to see her. The doors opened between us and I start kissing her all over. I grabbed her face, her ears; I pulled her close to me and gently, yet thirstily, I bit her lips. Gradually, sobbing, we were loosing ourselves in the long awaited affection. A man in uniform rushed us, while others admired the warmth with which we contemplated each other. Our foreheads were close to one another; our hands were caressing our faces. What a devotion for each other! We picked up the few belongings I had and went towards the exit. Life out there was something else; the midday sun was shining with justice, with enchantress divinity. I noticed that Ariel felt a tug on her right hand when the guard roughly pulled back the collar of my shirt. My things were scattered on the floor and she clawed the man with hatred and passion. “Leave him, leave him!” she shouted. The man neither understood nor cared. I, what could I do...? Run? Where? Hit the man? The poor guy was doing his job, what blame did he have for the rules. Finally, the siren rang, the game was over and we went home. I told Ariel we had to leave quick, we could not play this way, because if we did we would always be caught. We need to be bolder and follow the rules of the game in a more practical way. She feigned a grin and went ahead making a funny tictoc with her shoes. She did not like what I had told her; that was certain. What I was sure of was that the next day we would have to play the same adult game once again. The good thing was that the siren always saved us when we were wrong; the bad… mermaids do not exist. by Juan E. Miranda
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meet the staff Uriel Mendoza is a 4th year Philosophy major. As co-editor-in-chief, he makes sure the team publishes a magnificent journal with great stories in different languages. He is also the overseer of fun within the group.
Our co-editor-in-chief, Gigi Gilbert-Igelsrud, is a sophomore at Cal pursuing a degree in Linguistics and doing a Music minor for fun as well. She speaks English fluently, Italian decently, and Japanese barely at all. You can usually find her reading, writing, or wishing she were abroad.
Christine Nakatsuji is a 2nd year Molecular Environmental Biology major, leading the team’s design efforts as Creative Director. She loves to play tennis and run on campus when the weather’s nice. When she has some spare time, she’ll pick up a good mystery novel and relax. She speaks Japanese, but also wants to perfect her Spanish.
Shelby Nacino is 2nd year Political Science major in charge of Vagabond’s publicity efforts. She makes flyers, scribbles with chalk, and occasionally organizes tabling. Sometimes she edits French pieces.
Connor Purviance is a second-year Mechanical Engineering student and Design Editor for Vagabond. He speaks some Spanish and fluent Northern-Californian English. He also does some of the photography for this lovely journal!
Andrew Sung, a freshman Electrical Engineering and Computer Science major takes charge of Vagabond’s website. Southern Californian English is his mother tongue, but he is also proficient in Japanese and some Mandarin Chinese and Southern Min Taiwanese. He also loves to study new languages, whether for speaking or for programming.
Special thanks to our volunteer Andre Adricula! 22
Yoitsu Kamijo is a first year majoring Molecular and Cell Biology. He is one of the editors of the Vagabond magazine. His first languages are Mandarin Chinese and the Wu (Shanghainese) dialect. He is proficient in English and has an elementary understanding of Japanese. He likes to practice Judo and study different languages in his spare time.
Nicole Schager is a second year majoring in Conservation and Resource Studies. She is a part-time ninja helping out Vagabond in the design and editorial departments. She hopes you enjoy reading the journal.
Jose Ceja is a sophomore intending on majoring in Integrative Biology. He helps in making administrative decisions, advertising the journal, and occasionally dabbling around with finances. He can sometimes be found posing in store windows as a pasttime.
We hope you enjoyed your journey through this issue of Vagabond! We’re honored to have had the opportunity to share these artworks with the entire Berkeley community.
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“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.� - Douglas Adams