Garland Court Review

Harold Washington College

2017

Since 1962

Garland Court Review is published in the spring of each year by Harold Washington College, 30 E. Lake Street, Chicago, Illinois 60601. Our website is: ccc.edu/gcr

The Garland Court Review reads submissions from September to April. Anyone may submit poems, fiction, plays, personal essays, and cover art. Students, faculty, staff, alumni and friends are welcome to contribute content. All rights remain with the content creator. The publication is student edited supervised by the faculty advisor. Any student interested in joining the staff of the magazine is invited to contact a present staff member or the advisor. The works chosen for publication reflect purely a majority decision of the student editorial board.

A maximum of five (5) original submissions may be emailed as DOC or TXT files (art as JPG). Submission deadline is March 1 every year. [email protected]

Student Editors: Jeremy Kniola Marvin Lopez Victoria Parra Faculty Advisor: Jeffrey Daniels

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the City Colleges of Chicago, Harold Washington College faculty, students, alumni and staff, the Harold Washington English, Speech & Theatre Department, the Art Department, the Reprographics Department, and the students and alumni of the Creative Writing Club.

Cover art: "remember" By Kelly D. Pelka Used with the permission of the artist. Cover design by Jeffrey Daniels

-for Mayor Harold Washington, Edward Homewood, and Carolyn Rodgers

Contents

Anthony Acosta Song Name 7

Amelia Amantea Cirque de Maternité 9

Chelsea Bonner I Was an Orchid 10

Brenda Cervantes Dream So Real 11

Gabriel Cruz 12 Years Later 12

Patrick Dorsey 13

Eric Entsminger Pounds 14

Eric Entsminger An Ode to the Net 15

Sabrina Jones Nothing 16

Jeremy Kniola Elephant in the Room 18

Charlie Lang 20

Aurora Lefebvre Existence 22

Aurora Lefebvre Kingdom 23

Chris LeSage First Drink 25

Chris LeSage God’s Work 26

Marvin Lopez New Negative 27

LaMont Mims Genealogy 30

Walter Monterroso The Sun 32

Giovanni Mwesigwa Patriots 33

Aynsley Parker 34

Tamila Pashaee Dear Chicago 35

Andrea Perez Daddy Issues 39

Andrea Perez Wake up! 40

Joseph Prettyman I Only Regret That I Have but One Liver

to Lose for My Country 41

Joseph Prettyman A Sip to Heaven 44

Isaias Rogel Preventative Latex 47

Janet Roman-Lagunas Red Rose 49

Victoria Rose Shame 58

Victoria Rose Untitled 61

Demarra Rutherford Communication 63

Victor Salgado If I Was God 64

Lily Schmall Cortadito 66

Barbara Jean Smith Letter of Relapse 67

Tondlaya Smith For the Men I Loved 68

Anthony Acosta

Song Name

Given to us at birth Our name is our badge Exhaled repeatedly Rusting and eroding – never feigning a second thought

Yet something happens when you say it The way the letters roll of your tongue The way the foundation that is your voice cracks at the forming syllables The way you send chills up, and one heart down in a drop

Everything comes to a standstill Time ceases to move Eyes adjusting My vision becomes magnetic to your metallic self

Something in the way you call my name If as though a song I had never heard A symphony orchestrated by the greatest conductor Oh how I wish to hear that song again

Something in the way you call my name You anchored me, like the one tattooed on my right wrist My one tangible In an otherwise unknown world

Something in the way you call my name The anchor grew heavier The song became overplayed I wanted to change tune, but that's all you knew how to play

Something in the way you say my name It's now a fleeting memory We've gone our separate ways Hoping to play our songs to others who'd listen

Something in the way you said my name I remember why I forgot this song

Amelia Amantea

Cirque de Maternité

All I ever wanted was a baby, a powder-scented bundle, boy or girl, it didn’t matter. I never thought about the contortions that would be required: pinched nerves, squished ribs, kidneys, and bladder, stretched skin. Like an acrobat, he summersaulted inside of my trampoline – stretching my bungee cord uterus to its limits, tumbling and poking. The show ran for just over nine months. In the first act, I walked with grace, like Maria Spelterini on the tightrope, a petite buxom beauty. Weeks later, I morphed into the bearded woman: black wires protruded from my chin and neck. As I grew larger – ample breasts, swollen feet, round belly – my once-graceful steps became heavy elephant treads. By the time I made it to the hospital, I felt like Dolly Dimples, but I was ready for the final performance. As I took deep breaths, I wondered if the flyer was as nervous as I was – until he let go of my trapeze and soared into a larger circus.

Chelsea Bonner

I Was an Orchid

If I happened to have been someone else, weaning off of a silent spell may have taken years, drowning in the same skin you chose to burrow under, seep into soil, root. A friend of mine explained her own process of extracting a similar root. Her hands have learned the mold of mace; a common precaution that becomes vital while wearing woman in a public space. If I happened to have been someone else, reconciling the space I had wrongfully claimed could have cost more than that bottle for a bandage or those pills for a forced prayer. Bodies equipped to combat disease may garden wounds in time, but too often trauma yields to the face of health. If I happened to have been someone else, I may not have mistaken unwelcome hands with the gentle brush of a petal-- but orchids grow to heal on their own.

Brenda Cervantes

Dream So Real

Perhaps it was a dream, she thought. Perhaps if she pinched herself, she would wake up. But she didn’t want to wake up. She wanted to stay in this dream world where she had finally met with her soulmate after 3 months. Her boyfriend had flew off to Germany for school. Although the couple was not okay with the decision, both decided breaking up was the best for them. This was very hard for her to adapt since they were together for over 4 years. The dream felt real. She was hugging him, and felt that warmth under his arms. She felt butterflies in her stomach just like it felt on their first date. In dream the couple was doing what they do best, listening to music. The music made the setting more calming and romantic that both could not get their eyes off each other. As soon as the boy leaned over for a kiss, she woke up with the sound of her phone. She thought it was her alarm, but it was a text. “In town. Can we met?”

Gabriel Cruz

12 Years Later

Staring at a picture of you ashes kept safe i go back to that day playing about, carefree as you would. thinking it was a game as i chased after you. that smile on your face. and it happened so fast…....your body in the air. i chased after you. you layed so still but your eyes moved about, unable to speak but your eyes said it all scared. figure out what just happened

They poured out of their homes. mother now at your side. they carried me away back to the house. i made my escape. to you i went. but they had loaded you up taken you away. mother still at your side. back to the house. locked myself away. a knock on the door after what felt like forever. she told me you were gone. then held me close and as we wept. i could only think... still true to this day... unlike her. i haven't got to say Goodbye

Patrick Dorsey

she wakes first and leaves dancing out like a flower— cheap, yellow Daisy

Eric Entsminger

Pounds

One more time will make a happy little me. Just three pounds to go, over there, hold it there. Hold it there. Photoshopped crop tops, they're staring at me. Three turns to eight and I wait to consume, hours. Eight turns to five and I still don't want to be alive, tell me Why am I trapped in this shell. my own suburban hell where energy is the enemy. My teeth rot, and my heart stops.

Eric Entsminger

An Ode to the Net

Beyond community. Beyond our comprehension. Did I mention we’re never going back? Settle in. Now it's, screens. Little screens, touch screens and virtual screams for attention. Did I mention we're never going back? Oh no lack of content in this, consumerism click club culture our community induced online detention. Did I mention we're never going back? Might as well opt in to sin, emote ego, and let likes, pokes, and prods undermine our ascension. Did I mention we're never going back?

Sabrina Jones

Nothing

Cold fingers encased my neck like a lover coming close for a kiss.

Air instantly ceased. Icy pricks traveled through the entirety of my chest down to my toes. My eyes closed tight.

Oddly, these things resembled a kiss of passion, and this was passion, but of an entirely different kind.

I swung my arms out at my attacker. Unfazed he leveled his weight on my lower abdomen and locked my hips in place.

My scream caught and backfired within me finding an outlet through my fist. Gaining as much momentum as I could manage lying down I swung landing a blow to his left jaw.

He grunted.

That was it.

I scratched at his arms, hands and anything else I could reach but it did nothing.

The hold he had on my neck tightened as I struggled. He squeezed my throat with a grunt digging his thumbs into my skin.

I was useless. I couldn't defend myself no matter how many times I had envisioned moments like this on bored nights and endless days (or after a very overdone action film or book).

I always saw myself defeating every man, woman, and vicious creature imaginable using any object at my disposal as a weapon. Sure, I'd get thrown around a bit for good measure. But I'd always come back hard with my last bit of strength and I'd win. I'd be a hero to others and to myself.

I thought in real life I could do the same; that I could defend myself no matter the circumstance. Daydreaming aside how different could it be.

I realize now, sadly and regrettably, that I was wrong.

I pleaded for the oxygen that never came, the breath that left me dying for never appreciating it when I could have.

Panic grew louder inside of me, amplifying with every second as my cries and chokes became quieter until I was silent.

Tears ripped apart from the corners of my eyes. From the frustration or anger at what I've become under this man, I will never know. They left me behind and hit the concrete of this dark place; the shadows being the only witnesses to my end.

At least those warm tears that kept me company for mere seconds could escape him.

I looked into his eyes, silently begging, pleading, bargaining as my soul drained from his fingers; my spirit refusing to give up. But his eyes weren't of any human I'd ever seen. They were large, dark, bottomless holes of nothing. His features held no hatred, no joy, he felt nothing in taking my life. I was nothing to him and was better off becoming less.

In the several seconds he had me down, I could feel myself slipping away. Everything in my life I had done, or hadn't done, now all for nothing. All I had planned. All I was.

Nothing.

The panic and fear washed away as the darkness in his eyes became my world; my new home, beckoning me to run to it and jump in its arms for it would keep me safe and hold me dear forever. I was blissfully jogging to it.

My eyes closed signaling my show to a close. There would be no bows from my side and no cheers from whoever chose to watch my last performance. Just the dark.

And then, unexpectedly and already seemingly too late, I woke up.

Jeremy Kniola

Elephant in the Room

The Andersons had no idea where the elephant came from, but there it was, an elephant in the middle of the living room, his enormous body occupying the entire space, balanced on tree trunk legs; the top of his cranium cracking the ceiling, dropping large pieces of plaster on the plush carpet; ears flapping like gigantic butterfly wings, blowing hot wind from numerous ridged capillaries; tusks marking the wall and peeling huge chunks of gypsum board, covering the furniture in a fine layer of dust and woodchips; the elongated trunk curling out the window, yanking petunias from the garden; powerful, diamond shaped teeth gnawing the plant life into herbs. Mr. Anderson thought the elephant simply walked through the door. His wife was known for forgetting to lock it when they were in a hurry to go somewhere. Mrs. Anderson laughed at her husband’s foolishness. It was impossible that an animal that large could fit through the door, not without knocking down the entire front façade. And there was no sign of break-in, not on that scale anyway. Mr. Anderson hated it when his wife was condescending. Sometimes he got the feeling she didn’t take him seriously. Grabbing a measuring tape from the kitchen and with the help of their daughter, Brenn, he first measured the doorway from frame to frame then measured the elephant from tail to trunk. The elephant continued to devour his vegetarian diet, ignoring what was transpiring. When Mr. Anderson discovered his wife was correct, he challenged her to propose a more reasonable explanation. Without blinking an eye, Mrs. Anderson replied, “Perhaps Houdini’s vanishing elephant has finally reappeared.” Brenn rubbed her palm along the elephant’s gray, wrinkled flank. Entwined her fingers in the wisps of curly, red hair. Talked to the mammoth mammal as if he were her best friend. The elephant’s tail lightly slapped her calves, which, Brenn explained to her parents, was a sign of affection. Brenn loved animals. She had posters of several different species hanging in her room. She advocated for animal rights and was an avid PETA supporter, posting photos of tortured animals on Facebook with statements decrying any person or organization participating in such horrific acts. When the elephant trumpeted, she begged her father to keep him. She’d already picked out a name: Beiber. After her favorite pop star. Unable to resist his daughter’s innocent charm, Mr. Anderson agreed to let her keep the elephant, if she promised to be responsible for the duties of feeding, toileting, and exercising. This didn’t fly so well with Mrs. Anderson. It irritated her when her husband excluded her in decisions, especially, one as important as this. She waved her finger and said—“oh, no, no, no.” Already she could envision all the problems involved with owning a pet elephant--wasn’t it bad enough that at the present moment he was

eradicating her garden and destroying the house?--and ordered her husband to get rid of the creature immediately. When he asked “How?” she said she didn’t care how, as long as it was gone before dinner. Thinking out loud, as he was often prone to do, Mr. Anderson said he would call the local zookeeper to retrieve the pachyderm. This sent Brenn into a rage. She harped about how elephants in zoos were subjected to living in cages deprived of natural habitat, sometimes chained for hours and abused with bullhooks. She’d read about the atrocities on PETA’s website. Brenn swore if her parents sent the elephant to the zoo she’d run away and never speak to them again. Mrs. Anderson proposed that if a zoo wasn’t fitting they could find a nice field for the elephant to live in. But there’s no way he was living in their house. Eyes welling with tears, Brenn inveighed against poachers and asked her mother how she could be so insensitive, before collapsing on the couch in a hissy fit. Mr. Anderson scolded his wife for upsetting their daughter. He sat next to Brenn and assured her not to worry, he’d work things out with her mother. She deserved a pet after earning honor roll, didn’t she? True, he would’ve preferred a dog or a cat or even a pony to an elephant—actually he wasn’t certain owning an elephant was legal--but was he really in a position to argue subtleties at such a delicate moment as this? Mrs. Anderson reminded her husband about the time he’d bought Brenn goldfish, and a week later they were found floating on top the water in the fishbowl. If she couldn’t take care of fish, how did he expect her to take care of an elephant? Getting rid of an elephant’s carcass wouldn’t be as easy as flushing it down a toilet. Mrs. Anderson suggested taking Brenn out to the stables where she could ride all the horses she wanted, and perhaps, eventually, if she proved she was responsible, they’d buy her one of her own. But an elephant? That was out of the question. Brenn listened to her parent’s arguing. She couldn’t understand why they talked about her in her presence as if she wasn’t there. Maybe she was only twelve but she wasn’t deaf. She shouted that she hated them and wished they weren’t her parents, and if they really cared about her they’d let her keep the elephant instead of sending it off to be beaten by zookeepers or shot by poachers. Her parents recoiled, shocked by Brenn’s hurtful words. She’d never shown any disrespect before. The Andersons blamed each other: Mrs. Anderson accused her husband of spoiling their daughter while Mr. Anderson accused his wife of neglecting their daughter’s needs. The Andersons argued, raising their voices to talk over one another, until the shouting culminated into white noise. Again the elephant trumpeted, but his call was buried beneath the cacophony. Using his trunk, he turned on the garden spigot, allowing water to stream from the hose and form a puddle. The elephant sucked in a trunkful of water and sprayed the oblivious Andersons. Sopping wet from head to foot, the Andersons finally took notice of the elephant.

Charlie Lang

Dear Sarah, You have become an uncomfortable moment of deja vu during which you no longer feel tangible. Years ago I stood in front of your bathroom mirror, caressing your soft, naked body That shook that sobs your lungs worked diligently not to choke on And you said you wished my palms could erase the parts that hurt. Being with you became standing on a living room couch debating the best way to get across the hot lava disguised as carpet. Every time you hurt yourself, I felt it.

Dear Sarah, I learned to numb the pain that coursed through my veins each time you whispered sweet nothings to me under the cover of darkness. We were sixteen, So young, so vulnerable. Your tongue was razor sharp, leaving a taste of copper in my mouth that would take months to rinse out. I wondered how the body I had spent so long exploring could be so cold And yet radiate so much heat. You used your remaining energy to cling tighter to my aching bones.

Dear Sarah, I can still feel the sensation of bare feet against your grandmother’s magenta bathroom carpet As I took in your teal, strapless bridesmaid dress It had pockets.

You said, “Charlie, they cannot see you today.” I heard: “They don’t want to see you at all.”

Your grandmother crooned, “What a pretty girl you are!” You closed your eyes and whispered, “Charlie, I have to do this.”

Your sister asked, “Can you shave your armpits?” You rummaged in the medicine cabinet.

Your mother quipped, “This is your sister’s wedding, stop being so selfish!” You held a straight edge razor up to me, a triumphant smile void of true emotion playing around your lips. “Don’t do this,” I begged Please do this.

The pale, pink walls are closing in. “It’s the only way I can feel anything anymore.” It’s the only way you can feel nothing. The pale pink walls are closing in and I brace myself for the anxiety attack that will tear me apart as our eyes find one another’s and you bring the razor slowly to your leg.

Dear Sarah, Do you remember the full ten seconds we spent crying and staring into one another’s eyes? Do you remember the silent, body shaking sobs as we finally realized the truth, as we fruitlessly gasped for the refreshing air that would not come? You held the razor tightly, drew position at your thigh I closed my eyes on instinct, Feeling, relishing in, the sharp pain as the razor met my upper left leg

A soft knock sounded at the door. “Sarah, are you almost finished?” I opened my eyes, found the bright blue irises reflected in the bathroom mirror, shining from tears. Quite alone. Alone. Pulling down the hem of my teal, strapless dress over the now bloodstained leg of my boxers I tucked any and all emotion into the pockets, like a love letter to myself Reminding me not to be selfish.

-I never thought I’d make it to twenty two

Aurora Lefebvre

Existence

There are no words on this plane that can describe what I see when I fall asleep.

Aurora Lefebvre

Kingdom

silver rising above all looming, watching daunting, cold chrome trees knowing I would return inviting, whispers of belonging

tunnel tall skyscrapers devoured by fog glass reflection locks eyes, waves every vibration gives to the methodic hum of car horns and distant shouting stale coffee and cologne wafting over, settling over my shoulders

moss clinging to ledges, screaming for sunlight gold flickering from behind dull green, flashing like lightning dirty windows smudged fifty feet high

twisted naked branches, stretching in the sun whispering, where did you put our babies?

deeper into the forest of brick and stone, trees reaching into clouds, stealing the stars

reflections pass by, quieter than their physical attachments

kingdom, I am here looking down a horizon of red and green lights flickering to an unheard rhythm polluted water licking the concrete walls, tempting to drown wash into us

the roar of wheels on steel, wind pushing against momentum, Halt.

the bells of our doors sing along with their sisters sitting opposite, gathering weary passengers to take home for a moment we align, lock eyes your body has sunken into the hard plastic, dreaming of your front door waiting to be opened envious, I hear the bells and glide away A reminder

I am only beginning my journey into the forest of buildings growing taller as I come closer to the entrance of the kingdom walled in, close together no space in between to hide or to sleep or to breathe.

kingdom, I am here

Chris LeSage

First Drink

I had my first drink when I was 11. It was a gin and juice. It was an accident. It was the middle of the night and thirst had consumed me. I go into the kitchen and see what appeared to be a harmless beverage in one of the water glasses I drank from daily. I was wrong. I mean, I only had one sip. Or three. Or five. Step dad found out as he comes home. Smells like he's had a few of his own. My punishment was a hand around the throat. A fist to the chest. "What is wrong with you?! Who do you think you are? !" You see, I tried to process his request. Alas, he was expecting a vocalized response while the air was being syphoned from my lungs. I learned very quickly that drinking was no fun. His anger began to melt into sadness and I soon realized he was starting to see his madness in me. It took some time to face my reflection and recognize that I am not Drankenstein's monster. And although our forefathers had paved a path for men like my faux father, I know I am still a man who understands that I use this substance to deal with my reluctance to speak up, to speak out. To let this beast out. To scream. To cry. I recall when he scolded me. "Don't pout." "Be a man." "Wipe those tears away." Okay. Okay. So today I've grown to handle my issues, whether with a pen in hand or my body on stage, fighting to cure myself of toxic masculinity and depressive self- destruction, ironically, with a whiskey neat close by, thinking back on that night I was sipping on gin and juice, wondering if Snoop Dogg ruined my childhood.

Chris LeSage

God’s Work

Preacher man tells me He's doing God's work Looks down on me and my pierced nose and gauged lobes Tells me I could follow his path Tells me it's not about money, but morals I interrupt, respectfully I explain how a homeless man is honest with his need for a little bit of change And that I can see how he, the preacher man, indeed is doing God's work With his Rolex flashing rose gold to match his Rolls Royce interior Yeah, your God is the cartel You, the dealer Selling poison It's Lucrative I get it I'm good though

Marvin Lopez

New Negative

We stand around to watch the dying of the river. A butchered celebration of belligerent proportion Giving Irish cheer to what we believe their heritage represents- Orgasmic drunken nothingness.

We stand and cheer for a green river. While the founders and natives of these mended lands Stand their ground and pray. Pray for a river that will soon be green as well. Their dying river.

Soon the green tar will ooze from the deadly veins Of Corporate greed Like a cancer that destroys.

Soon it will be another Flint. But even they are forgotten. The words “low income community” Sends disgust up the ladder of unjust politicians Who are as old and broken as the rusty pipes feeding Lead into the bodies of children, women and men.

I ask now, who will stand for Us? Who will liberate us from such evil? Not those that we are told in our baby-suckling nursery rhymes. But, the evils of the world Who take without giving Who rewrite history in order to seem grand And victorious.

Those who call upon help when the country is in economic crisis, Then ship them back once they break them. They called us Braceros. The hard workers who helped with labor out in The fields. Now we are immigrants who are taking jobs. Breaking our backs day and night to survive Yet, if you go down the line in our blood We can see see our ancestors tracks, before, have aligned. Except yours were the ones who raped mine.

We see this time and time again For history is a galaxy of recurring events. Who will save Us?

The leaders who speak out have all been Assassinated in cold blood By the very people whose job entitles them to “Serve and Protect” No one ever mentions the small print at the bottom of That oath- Neglect.

Lives are being cut short by the lead in the water As well as the lead in their guns.

Religions being ostracized and targeted by those who claim To be loyal to One.

Genocide is being conducted once more beneath The blanket of the Bakken fields in the Dakotas.

Poverty riddles our streets.

We must not give in to defeat.

Who will save U.S.?

LaMont Mims

Genealogy

Sarah, my great-great grandmother, Bondage sealed her fate, Her ancestors captured and transported, Stormily removed from Motherland to a new unknown land. A gust of ideas transformed practices: Self -interest eclipsed morality, Changed worldview, knowledge, and justification. Human value rejected among ebon bodies, Sarah, my great-great grandmother, a chattel slave. She was the first known link Within my family’s chain of survival. Sarah’s life began beside a Virginia tobacco field, Within a psychological institution of oppression and suppression “Notes of Virginia” breezed across the countryside, while Nat Turner’s Rebellion stormed fear throughout many a plantation. Sarah’s life measured as an enslaved certified cook and more. Centered around whiffs of emotional and physical torture, Challenges from her mistress, Threats of “chopped” hair and the lash, She endured. Sarah, my great-great grandmother, a chattel slave, She was the first known link Within my family’s chain of survival. The Massa had travelled for business. Enslavement arranged in law and profit. In fear, Sarah hid in the woods, Upon his return, she emerged. The mistress demanded gale force migration to the Walker’s Plantation, Dallas County, Alabama. Fixed by power and brutal corruption, Sarah

Subjected to the effects of the challenge. She gave birth to a mulatto, then more mulattos, and then blacks, Some kept, some sold. Sarah, my great-great grandmother, was a chattel slave. She was the first known link, Within my family’s chain of survival.

Walter Monterroso

The Sun To my younger self

If you live in the darkness, I will tell you about the Sun. That Lion of the East, the possessor of all strength. He bows to no one, but gives sustenance to all. He created you when you were not and provided provisions for you when you could not.

Can't you see? That you are made from Him? That you inherited His realm? That you are entitled to His wealth? So how are you astray, O' foolish one? Your kingship is granted. Go and take your seat! The throne awaited you, but you decided to quit. You found it hard to believe, so you ended up back asleep.

But now it’s your time to shine, no time to remorse, So, wake up! The harvest is ripe! Until the light takes us, until we come back to Him, Remember this night! When you leave the darkness, you’ll tell me about the Sun.

Giovanni Mwesigwa

Patriots

The world is black and white We see masters of disguise Who paint propaganda on every screen Yet call those who color walls of neighborhoods juvenile Here we are Amusing our masters Chasing our tails Fighting with ourselves Funny thing is, we think one day we’ll succeed We’re told when to roll, sit and speak We think just because we’re loyal, we’re free

Aynsley Parker

Through the longest nights And the coldest hours When your soul weeps And your heart is devoured I will not wander I will not waiver Because a weed Does not exceed A wilting flower.

Tamila Pashaee

Dear Chicago

Dear Chicago,

It’s raining so hard today. I’m soaking wet on Michigan Avenue. Water is dripping from my Black Hawks t-shirt. Despite this weather, I am determined to watch Game Six of the Stanley Cup. Now, I am at the restaurant and screaming, “Go, Hawks, Go!” Two years ago I had no idea a sport named “Ice Hockey,” even existed and now I am a big Black Hawks fan. I love the Black Hawks, because it’s your team.

Dear Chicago, I will never forget the first day I immigrated to the United States. It was a depressing, cold evening on the north side in apartment 5730, a dark, small box of a place with a dank smell of humidity in the air. Professionally and personally, I had been stonewalled in my homeland of Iran. Until the day, I watched an episode of the Oprah Winfrey show. Her guest was Tererai Trent. Trent made her dream of studying a reality when she moved to the U.S. They both said, “Everything is achievable.” This show inspired me to think of what I could achieve in America. If I was going to soar over my walls of limitations, I needed to finally pursue my childhood dream of getting an education in the U.S. My curiosity about my own possibilities drove me to move to the city where Oprah’s dream had come true. My first day with you, Chicago, I went to the lakeshore. The seagulls reminded me of my favorite book “Jonathan Livingston Seagull.” I recalled the line “There’s got to be more to life than fighting for fish heads” and in that moment I was convinced I belonged here. Of course, I knew I’d face obstacles. I was restarting my education after a 14-year hiatus, in an unknown country, in a new language. I would have financial hardships. But mostly I knew Iranian laws would not allow me, a divorced mom, to bring my son with me so, I knew that I wouldn’t see his beautiful face for a long time. I was aware that seeing mothers on your streets holding their sons’ hands would make me cry. But I had to go, even though I was told that leaving Iran was a path to failure; people called me irresponsible and heartless. I was constantly reminded of my limitations and the risks of my choice. But I knew I had to take such a risk and to part from everything that was mine to make a total

change. I had to challenge myself for the sake of my son and his generation’s future. I knew there was no way to pass the walls or go around them. Like Jonathan the seagull, I would have to fly over them. I started searching for schools to attend. I visited campuses. They were beautiful, but I was not able to afford them. A friend of mine suggested Harold Washington Community College (HWC). The next day, when I stepped into HWC, I met the international student coordinator, and we spoke about my dream. She looked at me with a kind, warm smile and said, “Yes. You can study here.” She started to explain the process, but all I could hear was her words “Yes. You can study here” ringing in my mind. When school started, I can recall standing on the escalator crying. I was terribly afraid of my decision. I had no family around and no financial support. Moreover, I was carrying tons of guilt over my choice to leave my son. I was a mom, and I was expected to stay home and nurture him. Changing my son’s destiny was definitely not considered part of my job. I missed my son badly at that moment. I was afraid of failing and disappointing him. On my first semester I took a class on Existentialism. For me, a person who was struggling to build a new existence far away from whatever was mine and in a place where I was stranger to everything, this class was like therapy. I was drawn into an ocean of freedom and I experienced a tremendous cultural shock. This class helped me to find my existence in the world. There was now a huge tornado brewing deep inside of me here in Chicago. Since childhood, writing had been my only way of emotional release, so I started writing and writing, this time in English to temper the winds. In truth, I was not writing: I was bleeding on the paper-‐ letting out my fears and anxiety from this came a short story about my son. That was later published in HWC’s literature magazine. During my second semester I got an email from the assistant of the president of my college: the president wanted to meet me. I was in shock. I reviewed my last days in college and tried to find a reason for this invitation, but I couldn’t find one. I met Dr. Martyn. She said that she had read my story, and she found me to be a strong woman. She said it was brave of me to make the incredibly hard decision to leave my son and to move to an unknown country. She said she would help me reach my goals. The memory of that meeting brings tears to my eyes. I was looking for someone to believe in me and understand me; this support could have been from anyone, but I got it from my college’s president. I was blessed. After that I became a Roger Bardwell Scholar (RBS). Being an RBS fulfilled all of my emotional and financial needs. With the help of HWC, you became my second home, Chicago. It was like every single person in your streets knew my story and was there to help make my dream come true. I was finally adjusting.

During this time, I was trying to be the best long distance mom I could be; despite the 10-‐hour difference between us, my son and I did his homework together almost every night. Two years later I got another email from the president’s assistant. She wanted to meet me again. She said I had been chosen as Harold Washington College’s 2015 Valedictorian. Dear Chicago, You have been so good to me. Dear Chicago, You gave me wings to fly. Dear Chicago, You have the nicest people in the world. On my graduation day, I was living something more than my earlier dream. Two years prior, I was just trying to find a way to survive in America; at that moment I was graduating at the very top of my class. Two months later, I was chosen as one of 20 people in the New Leaders Illinois program. Another honor: that week, I had a chance to meet with treasurer, comptroller, attorney General, secretary, representatives, senators, and other prominent Illinois government officials. In that program they took us to Willis Tower, so I had a chance to see you from up high. Dear Chicago, I talked to you and thanked your buildings, sidewalks, streets, and the people for working magic in my life. As we were leaving the building, you, Chicago, had another surprise for me. I looked up and saw banners promoting the City Colleges of Chicago and there I was on one of the banners, smiling in my cap and gown. I read he caption, “Tamila Pashaee Class of 2015 Valedictorian.” My picture was in front of your highest building. I just whispered, “Education that Works.” In tears, I said to a friend, “I was expecting to be lost in this country like a tiny fly in an endless galaxy; now my poster is on the street.”

Dear Chicago, You proved that whatever happens in our lives, two years of hard work is enough to open a new chapter. Dear Chicago, I am leaving you for a while. I am going to New York. Thanks to your help, I got into Columbia University. Two years ago a woman from Iran landed at O’Hare airport with nothing but two suitcases and a big dream of flying without wings. Two years later, the same woman will depart from O’Hare and with her; she will carry the same suitcases and even bigger dreams, which are coming true. Dear Chicago,

You gave me the wings to fly. I am an Iranian woman with two Chicagoan wings. Of course, there are big Black Hawks logos on each one.

Andrea Perez

Daddy Issues (after “Daddy Issues” by Kiya West)

Father of three Father of none. Husband and Wife “Till death do us part.” Not dead, not dead Then why did you part? Childhood memories like a tape forgot to be erased. Alcohol, pain, and suffering, this is all I know. Who is he? Why is he in my mind? Never have I known love from a father Never will I Does it matter? Here I am, Alone and successful. On my side Mom and siblings, proud and unwavering. This is all I need. A man was never part of me, I am complete by myself.

Andrea Perez

Wake up!

She fell asleep in yesterday’s clothes. Dark circles understand Ripped jeans under bedcovers. Mess of short dark hair, Covering almond-shaped eyes. She lies sideways in a sea of pillows and blankets, Pink bra thrown haphazardly on the floor, Exhaustion killed routine, Another lazy, over-worked kid.

Joseph Prettyman

I Only Regret That I Have but One Liver to Lose for My Country

What the hell kind of question was that? Have you had second thoughts? Yeah of course I did! Third, fourth and fifths! I won’t even give a homeless guy a buck And I got thousands of those! My brother wants to take one of my kidneys, how am I not gonna give it some thought? How are you going to ask a question like this, while you're driving me to the surgeon mom? No deed goes unpunished and this is a selfless act and there's a reason we're selfish creatures. Yeah I got two but that's how evolution made me. Man-- 500 years down the line the most evolved organism probably have 50 kidneys probably have multiples of everything: the three steel lungs of ‘2 pack a day Uncle Mike,’ 4 stomachs of a cow, Hemingway's 5 iron livers, 6 appendix just to give the surgeons something to do, The 9 lives of a cat. Have a heart attack, oh no problem I still got the spare one a-tickin. Lose that and I'll just mosey on down to the break room vending machine: 5j for a Crunch bar, 3d for an ear, 1i for an eye. Nice joke, but I've got ears to hear and eyes to see I'm here for a heart There it is! $9.50 6G!

And it starts to vend and the heart starts to drop and all of a sudden the damn thing stops the machine's cold coil caught on the pulmonary valve Heart hanging, bouncing Up and down up and down. Ba-bum ba-bum. Give it a punch and a couple of shakes Oh well! Buy another knock it outta place. Bouncing Up and down up and down. Ba-bum ba-bum, My 10-fingered hand slides in a crumpled sawbuck the machine growls and hands it right back and the heart still bounces while my own starts to Ba-bum

Ba-bum Ba-bum Stop. Well back to our reality with only one heart and two kidneys or in our case two hearts and two kidneys and two brothers. Are we better off with two weaker, two lacking, two missing brothers or one strong, one full, one complete brother? Finding a match was hard enough for him and we've got the same DNA, the same blood. Both of his went out, what if mine do too? He’s a couple years older maybe I’m due.

He says he'd do the same for me if the tables were turned The cold steel operating table, But who's to say? What if I don't even wake up? Nick an artery, too much anesthesia, allergic reaction. Not only for me but how would he live after, knowing I died to save him? Saying no, would be doing them a favor! Breathe deep and count back from twenty 20. 19. This won't hurt a bit.

Joseph Prettyman

A Sip to Heaven

Fingers wrung around the neck, he finishes off the wine bottle. Looking out the window at the sun streaks a couple shades lighter than the wine staining his teeth.

“Damn, bottle didn’t make it ‘til dark.”

He makes his way for the door swinging on the worn duck jacket hung on the radiator. Not a big man, the jacket droops off his shoulders. He used to fill it out; broad shoulders and a strong back, at least he remembers it that way. He slides his work boots on, although neither he nor the boots have seen much lately. The boots look too big for a man of his height, but his feet fills them out. They used to joke his feet kept growing proportionately with his ego, long after his height had topped out. Although, his feet didn’t shrink up when the plant shut down.

He locked the door, although there wasn’t much worth stealing. The efficiency was filled with empty bottles, worn out clothes and wasted memories. If somebody broke in the drunk would be more ashamed than anything else at somebody seeing where and how he lived. Feel bad the thief had wasting their time on him. But habits die hard and he pulled the key from the lock of his third story slum, soon destined to be rehabbed and sold off to college kids for three times the rent.

He usually made this journey to ‘Buy-Rite Liquors’ in the dark, being able to make his first bottle stretch until sunset. He finished his bottle earlier than normal today, he’d tell himself it was the spring days getting longer, but he knew he was drinking faster. The lights in the stairway were burned out and the descent down the worn out, garbage strewn steps was treacherous when blacked out, either from lack of light or liquor. Today, the drunk got a little help from the waning light coming through the second story gangway window and with a white-knuckled grip on the rotting rail, he descended with ease.

“It’s a sip to heaven, but a bottle to hell! The path to hell is lubricated with alcohol! Lay down the bottle and pick up the word of the Lord!”

He heard the street preacher’s sermon before he saw him. Sprouting the brand of ‘hell fire and brimstone’ preaching that drives more into sin than from it. An insurance policy that if this preacher’s right and these were the people occupying heaven, one would end up somewhere else.

No need for additional sin for the wino, though. No amount of time spent confessing in any wooden box could possibly change which direction he was heading when he was spent and placed in that final box. Neither the possibility of change nor the desire. For if it was always Sunday morning in heaven then what part of it would a man who’d only ever felt alive between his first drink and last call want with it?

Walking about the preacher was a young woman, a disciple, maybe a daughter thought the drunk, passing out pamphlets about rejoining the fold for those fitted sheets that just seemed impossible to be folded. The wino kept his eyes down, but she had him in her sights, like a lion on a sheep.

As she approached he saw the crucified son of God dangling around her neck, swaying back and forth in the valley between her breasts with every step. Swinging so each outstretched, nail driven hand could cop a feel from the twin peaks of Golgotha and Calvary. She mumbled on, but his focus could not be moved. Eye to eye with the king of kings, the wino stood locked.

As she reached him, her movement ceased and her breasts came to rest, concealing the legs and torso of the crucified in her bosom. Christ’s outstretched arms keeping his head afloat in the sea of cleavage. With his body submerged and his arms stretched out above water, the wino saw Jesus in a hot tub, a scantily clad babe in each nail driven arm. Bethlehem’s most eligible bachelor. The son of a powerful man who’s to say he didn’t embrace it, hanging around the Jacuzzi during his lost years. Christ the Playboy. At least until the Oedipus complex kicked in and he set out to compete with pops for power.

Christ, did it kick and so did the preacher.

“The acts of the flesh are obvious my son: sexual immorality, impurity, and debauchery! Repent the sins of your flesh!” The preacher bellowed.

Booted from his trance, a long gone, jagged smile cut across the wino’s face. Staring into that woman’s bosom he’d known the light. Was this how Paul felt on the road to Damascus? Like suddenly everything changed? Like he’d been living the wrong way?

The wino waltzed into the Clark St. liquor store and exalted, “forget the wine, today I’m switching to spirits!”

Isaias Rogel

Preventative Latex

“Do you know how much this visit is going to cost you?” The receptionist asks before handing me a clipboard.

“No.”

“It’s 128 dollars.” She doesn’t blink, in anticipation of my response, as if not wanting to miss any sign of hesitation on my end.

Shit, I think. I should’ve just googled male birth control. That doesn’t cost a thing. Well, AT&T charges me 50 a month. T-Mobile charges 20 for data. That’s only 70, less than 128. Barely.

At this point the bags under my eyes are really taking shape. And the receptionist, her eyes have lost the glossiness of a lake, untouched by human pollution—the type of shine that’s spread across a dozen donuts.

I can’t see my reflection in her eyes. I think of vampires. Blade. The Lost Boys. Nosferatu.

Interview with the Vampire. Let the Right One In. I think of poking her eyes and seeing whether they’d turn to dust.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” I reach into my pocket and grip my debit card.

Inside the doctor’s room, I think of my feet. “Take your clothes off from the waist down,” says the nurse.

“Can I leave my socks on?”

The specialist walks in. She looks through my information on the clipboard. “It says here that you’re currently using condoms. What percent of the time do you think you use them?”

“Well, I want to say 100 percent. But, well, the last time I put one on and then I thought, fuck this and took it off, and then I thought, I don’t want to fuck this up and put a new one on. So, I guess, about

98.9 percent of the time?”

“Look, I want you to know that a vasectomy is permanent. Did you know that?”

“Well, Web MD says it’s reversible.”

“It is. But, it’s EXPENSIVE.”

I think back to the receptionist, wondering whether she has stopped blinking again or whether she’s folding her eye lids back with her fingers, waiting for my reaction. “Is it more than 128? OR less than 70?”

As I walk out, I notice how grey and worn out the place looks. This is strange. In the middle of

Gold Coast, this is the only place that looks like people walk in and out of—the only building that smells like a wet mop, decorated with yellow wet floor signs. I take a picture of the blue Planned Parenthood sign. I open Instagram. Then snapchat. As I move across to Facebook, I think…maybe not.

Janet Roman-Lagunas

Red Rose

The sun was rising, I knew I wasn’t going to get much sleep. Today was July 1st, every year I remember as if it happened yesterday. The day forever burned in my mind, it’s hard not to feel sad. Over the years, it has gotten better but there will always be a part of me that can’t help but feel pain. She was a big part of my life, she changed it completely. Her blue eyes, her dark brown hair and her tan skin are forever engraved in my memory. I look out the window, and the sun is shining just as bright as the day I met her.

● ● ● ●

It was in the spring of 1969. My family was driving to New York. My father received an amazing job offer that he couldn’t refuse. With that said, we all packed our bags and dropped our old life to start a new one in New York. I for one, wasn’t excited however, my younger sister was. She couldn’t wait to start a new school, with new friends. I envied her. She was 8 years old and was already a million times more outgoing than me.

When we arrived, I was disgusted with the city. It looked sad, dirty and miserable. The houses looked as if they were suffocating one another. There was garbage everywhere and right in front of my feet a rat ran by. The city was nauseating.

I was called down for dinner just as I finished unpacking my last box. I didn’t bring much except clothes and my books. After dinner, I made my way upstairs and called it an early night. I knew I wouldn’t be getting much sleep. I was nervous about starting school and I didn’t want to go.

The next morning my eyes were heavy, I didn’t get much sleep. I lazily got ready for school. I took longer than expected and ended up running late. I rushed out the door and made my way to school. As, I walked to school, the disgust for the city grew stronger with every step I took.

Nausea kicked in when I saw an old, huge building. It was swarming with people wearing brightly colored, printed clothes. I felt sick to my stomach, I wanted to leave! I turned around rather aggressively trying to escape as fast as possible. When I heard, someone shouting.

“Hey you! Girl with the red dress!” Me? I looked around there is no one else that I could see with a red dress, I turned around.

“Yes you! Come over here!” She was a tall, slim, dark brown haired girl. She was wearing a pleated blue sweater dress, had pink coral lipstick which matched perfectly with her blush, and was holding a large stack of books. I walked over to her, she had crystal blue eyes and they were breathtaking.

“Can you give me a hand?” I said nothing but reached out to help her with some books.

“You’re new, here, aren’t you? Yes, yes you are. I would’ve recognized you if you weren’t. Well my name is Lily and you honestly couldn’t have crossed my path at a better time. I’m late and as you can see I am drowning with books. I need to return all of these books if not I’m sure I’ll get told off. Well what are you still doing standing here! Come on follow me!”

Lily started running, which caught me off guard. I almost lost her four times on the journey to the library. If it wasn’t for her constantly shouting “come on red!” I would’ve lost her ages ago.

The books were returned on time. Afterwards, we walked back to the main patio where Lily first called me.

“So, what’s your name red?” Lily looked at me with a smirk on her face.

“Rose.” I looked at her, right back with a smirk. We both started laughing.

“Well red Rose, tell me are you looking forward to your first day? And where are your classes?”

I showed her my class schedule and we soon come to realize we had one class together. I sighed with relieve. I want to get to know Lily.

“Well, I can show you to your first class. Follow me but keep up this time red Rose.”

The day moved on slowly from then on. I couldn’t wait to see her again. I counted the minutes, seconds till we had class together. When I finally arrived to class, I heard her from the back of the room calling my name. I walked over to her and saw she was in the middle of a conversation with two other students. I soon found out they were Lily’s best friends, Ruth and George. They were both very lovely, it felt as if I knew them a lifetime. After class, Lily told me we would all get together after school. As she ran off to her next class I heard her shout to meet her in the patio.

As instructed, I went to the patio right after my last class. I started to worry they wouldn’t show. Maybe they had forgotten about me. I decide to wait a couple more minutes before I started walking home. When

suddenly I heard a long, loud horn honk. I turn and there was Lily, George, and Ruth. George was behind the steering wheel of a mustang with Come Together blasting on the radio, Ruth in the passenger seat, and Lily is in the back waving me down.

“Well come on red Rose! Let’s go!” Lily shouted.

In the car, we headed for the heart of the city. Lily was talking non-stop about the beauty of New York, the greatest city on earth she said rapidly. I didn’t buy it and she knew it. Suddenly, Lily reached over to hold my hand. I felt a foreign feeling, I felt nervous, scared, happy, all at once. I jerked my hand back, smiled at her and buried that feeling deep away.

When I returned home, I tried to busy myself with homework and daily chores. However, my mind wouldn’t let me. What was that I felt in the car? It had to be nothing. It was nothing, I was making it into something it’s wasn’t. I knew it! With that thought, I went to bed.

Three weeks passed since meeting Lily. I was growing use to my new school and everything was running smoothly. Until we were all heading to another adventure Lily organized. Something changed. Ruth and George were walking ahead and Lily and I right behind. We were all going to Stonewall Inn, Lily had discovered this bar and knew they would let us drink there despite being under age. I knew nothing about the bar except it was in Manhattan.

“Aren’t they such a lovely couple?” Lily said romantically.

“They’re dating?” I responded puzzled.

Lily gave a slight chuckle. “You wouldn’t know what love looked like if it hit you in the face red Rose.”

She was right of course. It felt everyone was in love or knew what it was to be in love. I however was ignorant to the idea of it.

We were a block away from the bar, it was a fairly small building. It had white brick at the top and red brick at the bottom. There was a huge sign that read “Stonewall Inn” and there were a few people at a time walking in, making sure to give a couple of glares back before entering. The more we walked into this foreign block the more I saw men and women being openly gay. I couldn’t believe it. It was as if I left New York and entered a world with a new-found freedom to love anyone. Yet, I couldn’t help but feel paranoid. I turned to Lily.

“This is a gay bar?”

“Well of course red Rose. Have you never been to Stonewall Inn? You will love it.” She smiled at me and pulled my arm to walk faster.

When we finally managed to squeeze ourselves in, the entire bar was alive. Get Back was playing in the back room where the jukebox was. Everyone was fetching brew, holding hands, kissing, it was intoxicating. Lily dragged me to the back room where the dance floor was and she started dancing. She looked beautiful. Soon she grabbed my hand and forced me to mirror her dance moves. Two beautiful drag queens, took a hold of my hand and soon I was dancing with them. We spend hours on the dance floor. The experience was like nothing I had experienced before. Everyone was free to be who they wanted to be. No one was hiding. The air in the bar smelled of freedom.

Many drinks and songs later, we were all blown. Ruth and George had gone off somewhere to make out. Lily and I had found a small corner of the bar which wasn’t crowded. The music was still roaring out of the jukebox, this time it was playing Sweet Caroline. When suddenly Lily started talking close to my ear.

“Are you having fun red Rose?”

“A blast.” I said giving her a sincere smile.

“Look.” she said pointing to George and Lily from across the bar. Both George and Lily were consumed in a messy kiss.

“They’re disgusting, aren’t they?” Lily chuckled. “You know I loved someone. This person loved me but, I don’t know…I guess, I was scared. Can you keep a secret red Rose?”

“Yes of, of course” I said containing a hiccup.

“I-I’m a lesbian and this..” she said pointing to the bar and the crowd. “This is my safe place.”

Lily then reached for my hand and I let her. The feeling was back again. The scared, the good, the bad, the butterflies. It was all back and I didn’t know what to do with it. I reached over to her, moving in closer as she joined to meet me in the middle. Then, our two lips touched and we kissed. That feeling, it was something I never felt before with anyone. Never. Butterflies consumed my entire body. I didn’t want it to stop, I wanted the kiss to last a lifetime.

We slowly pulled away from each other. Suddenly, I ran outside making it out just in time. All the brew I had just consumed pouring out of me. I thought it would never stop. I’ve must’ve been outside for ages because Ruth came to look for me.

“Where is Lily?” I said wiping the remainder of the vomit from the corner of my mouth.

“She’s inside with George. She sent me to look for you.” Ruth said while reapplying her lipstick.

I didn’t talk to Lily for a month after the kiss. It was especially hard, in a short time she had turned into a big part of my life. It was a mistake, to have kissed her and I knew it. But that bar woke something up in me. For the first time in my life, I felt safe and free. It was Lily’s safe place because she could be herself. I was myself that night in that bar. I was Rose the lesbian. The words felt liberating to finally admit to myself.

I was walking to class, when Lily stopped in me the middle of the hallway.

“You’re avoiding me. I don’t like it. So, we’re leaving.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me. We left school and a sort of panic took hold of me. I had never missed a day of school before.

We walked for several blocks, until we reached an apartment building in Manhattan. It was beautiful.

“You live here?” I asked.

“Yes, my parents aren’t home. Come on.”

She led be into a great big room.

“Take a seat. I’ll get us a drink.” I sat down and was feeling nervous. She came back with whiskey on the rocks.

“Well, I’ll do the talking I suppose. Look, what happen that night at the bar, it wasn’t a mistake for me. I-I have feelings for you and the kiss, that kiss meant something to me. I want to be with you and I know you want to be with me. So even if you say no… just please don’t say no.” She looked small, I’ve never seen her like this. She was always brave and strong but never small. She looked up at me as her blue eyes pierced into my heart. She’s right of course she’s right. I want to be with her. I moved in closer, cupped her head into my hands and kissed her. Kissed her with all the passion and desire I had to offer her. Lily returned it. I felt tears streaming down my cheeks, I’ve never been happier, never.

“Oh red Rose!” Lily pulled away from me out of breath, blushing and smiling. I couldn’t help but return the foolish smirk.

From that day on we dated. Everything became instantly different. I woke up one morning loving the city I once found disgusting. I walked to school eager to see my Lily. The summer air smelled sweet

and the streets were busy. Men in suits rushing to their jobs, women wearing brightly colored dresses, and children running around with little toys in their hands. For the first time in my life I was happy. No one knew we were dating, no one but, Ruth and George.

We spend every waking minute with each other. It was May, Lily and I where on our way to Stonewall. It was a late spring night, the kind of late night where you can almost smell the summer in the air. As we walked Lily was talking nonstop about the summer months ahead, I couldn’t help but be distracted by her beauty. She was unmistakably beautiful and the thought of not being with her felt like a million stabs on an open wound. I wanted to remember this walk and her mouth moving none stop, just stopping enough for her to catch her breath. I wanted to remember the night sky and the crisp feeling in the air. But most of all I wanted to remember Lily. I wanted her to remember her looking at me with joyous, loving eyes.

“Lily?” I interrupted her midsentence.

“Yes, red Rose?”

“I love you.” I wanted to remember her taken back expression and her loving blue eyes.

“I love you.” Lastly, I wanted to remember her lips brushing up against mine promising there is nothing in the world that would stop our love. We loved each other and I knew at the moment there wouldn’t be anything I wouldn't do for her. I was hers and she was mine.

Months passed, Stonewall Inn was becoming the only refugee for Lily and I. New York was becoming unbelievably strict with raids on gay bars. This still didn’t stop us from going to Stonewall Inn, we wanted to be free and happy, even if it meant risking being arrested. One night, Lily and I were walking to Stonewall Inn. It had been a few days since we last went to the bar. The last time we were their Stonewall Inn was being raided. Lily and I managed to get away that night. Lily had told me in the past about the many raids Stonewall Inn went through. They always settled down quickly.

As we were walking, there was a huge crowd. The closer we walked the more aggressive the crowd was. Then it stuck me, Stonewall Inn was being raided. This time it was different, the people were fighting back. The crowd grew with every minute. I walked closer, shoving people out of the way to see what was being happening. Then I saw a woman who was being busted but she was fighting back. The more she fought back the more the police beat on her. With every strike they laid on her, anger grew within the crowd.

“Fucken faggots!” yelled a police officer.

I was consumed with anger all building up.

“Hey!” I yelled at the officer. “You know, we also fuck!” The look on his face was priceless. I grabbed Lily’s hand and we looked at each other and fought. We shoved officers, broke windows, smashed cars, anything and everything we destroyed. Lily struck a pig, the crowd consuming us in. That night the police ran from us. Our voices were going to be heard and they would not be silenced by threats of throwing us in jail.

The riot lasted for two more days. Each day Lily and I took part in it with the same rage and anger as the first time. On the last day of the riot I was walking Lily back to her house but there was a distance between us. She was deep in her thoughts, when Lily would get like that it was impossible to predict what she was thinking. Even when asking what was wrong she would only say what she thought I could handle. It made me feel uneasy, I hated feeling like that. I wanted to stay with her even if she said nothing.

The next day I was walking to Lily’s house. She had called me to meet her, she needed to talk she said on the phone. My heart was raising but I didn’t know why. I just felt something was going to happen, something that would break me.

I was standing outside her front door, nerves consuming me. I took a deep breath and knocked. Lily opened the door, I gave her a smile but she didn’t return it. I couldn’t help but think this was it she was going to leave me. I felt a knot in my throat. She was breaking up with me, the abuse we received during the Stonewall Inn riot made her realize we were a mistake.

“Rose!” Lily was telling me to come in.

When I did, I started to ramble. “You can’t leave me! I love you. I bloody love you. Don’t end it. You’ve made me million times stronger. You make me happy. Please don’t leave me, we can make it work. I know we can. We love each other and with love anything is possible. You know how I know that? Because you- you taught me that. Lily- “

“Hey! I’m not breaking up with you.” She reached to hug me and wiped off tears I didn’t know were streaming down my cheek.

“You aren’t.” I can barely recognize the high-pitched voice coming out.

“No. I just wanted to tell you. I want us to tell our parents. I want us to tell them together about our love.”

Without thinking twice, I spilled out “okay.”

We planned and planned. But the truth is we were both nervous. The day had finally arrived. Lily and I each told our parents separately we were in a relationship with someone and we wanted them to meet. My parents thought it was a boy, as I suspected. My mother kept fantasizing what he looked like. Lily and I then picked a restaurant and told them a time to arrive. We were there early, this was it, my parents would finally know who I am. I was excited and nervous. Of course, they would be shocked but I know they would be happy for us. The Stonewall Inn riots had awaken a revolution, making it easier to be free. They would understand this wasn’t a sickness. I knew they would.

It was 6:00 o’clock. When the restaurant door opened and we saw, our parents enter and ask the waiter for our table. Lily and I stood up and held tight to one another. We looked at each other promising everything would be okay. Then, they saw us. The look on their faces filled with nothing but confusion. They walked to our table giving each other worrisome glances.

“Rose what is this?” my mother said with a stern tone.

“Please sit.” They ignored the request. I turned to look at Lily, she wasn’t saying anything.

“Okay. Well mom, dad. Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson.. Lily and I are, well were dating.” My mother’s mouth dropped, my father looked at me with disgust. Lily’s father turning around and walking out the door and not once turning back. Just then Lily dropped my hand. I turned to look at her to see a sign that she wasn’t giving up. The she wasn’t getting scared again. She wasn’t letting this stop us, stop our love but she gave me nothing. There was shouting in the back but coming from who? I didn’t know or cared. I needed Lily to give me a signal. Any signal. Just then, Lily’s mother grabbed her by the arm and was pulling her away from me. I could see Lily crying. She wasn’t fighting she was letting it end. She was getting scared again. She was letting our love die. I started to go after her. Trying to call her, I knew once she saw me she would fight. Once she saw me she would once again have courage. She’ll have the courage she had at the Stonewall Inn riot. She’ll have courage because I loved her. She would be the tough Lily I loved. But my words where failing me. Just then my mother jerked my arm back and hit me with a force that knocked me to the ground. I looked up for Lily, I saw her through the restaurant window. She turned to look at me. I stood up and went after her.

“Lily!” I shouted with need in my voice. She stopped and turned to face me. Tears streaming from our faces.

“I am sorry red Rose.” It was over.

My parents couldn’t look at me. I packed my bags while they were sleeping. I walked over to my sister’s room, promising to write to her when I settled down. I gave her a hug and kiss not knowing when I would see her again. I peeked into my parent’s room and looked at them one last time.

I made my way to the train stop. When I saw a house with red roses and lily’s in the front garden, I walked over and picked up one of each. I needed to say goodbye. She hurt me but I still loved her. Once at Lily’s house I tried knocking on her bedroom window but couldn’t bring myself to do it. She wasn’t as strong as I thought she was but that was okay. One day she would be. I laid the red rose and lily outside her window. Turned away and started my journey to the train station.

● ● ● ●

That was a long time ago. Lily was not as strong as I thought she was but she made me strong. It hurt, it still hurts but she gave me a strength I couldn’t find in myself. July the 1st the day will live on in my mind until, I take my last breath.

“Honey are you ready?” I turned around to the woman I love now.

“Yes, let’s go.”

Victoria Rose

Shame

Today I am clothed in hand me downs that I never asked for Two sizes too small Restricting my circulation

I'm not really into brands anymore But right now I would be content Wearing any other name Instead of the one clearly written on my flesh Shame

I did not plan to wear this outfit But this morning when I checked my closet It was the only thing left hanging Confidence and security have been long worn out Sitting at the bottom of my hamper Waiting to be revived

But today Shame Was staring me in the eyes Telling me it was time to be worn again When I asked where he came from He laughed And I shrugged

Flashback to the days Waiting in the grocery line With my bipolar mother

The word Link stamped on her card and on our foreheads Which were all pointed at the floor in hopes no one would notice But even if they could ignore the source of our income The heaviness of our heads said it all Shame

Flashback to the line at McDonalds Which was supposed to be a treat My mom steps behind me as to tell me she doesn't want to do the speaking Five years old, four feet tall, Eyes barely reaching the counter I mimic the voice my mother doesn't have The cashier asks me to repeat And my head falls down again Shame

Flashback to the party I was invited to in 1st grade We thought it was a birthday party So we spent money that we didn’t have on a gift

When we got there, we realized that it wasn’t a birthday It was just a get together What kind of people had money to just get together? Not even celebrating anything

We went through all of the stress of finding a gift that we could barely afford So that we wouldn’t look poor Then showed up first to a party that wasn’t even a birthday Looking lost Looking like we didn’t belong Believing we didn’t belong

We sat there at an empty table trying to figure out what to do Retracing our steps

Thinking we were wrong Maybe it was a different date A different place Maybe the invitation didn’t say roller rink Maybe it said bowling Or maybe it said tomorrow Or maybe we missed it Maybe they ditched us Maybe they cancelled when they realized we’d actually show up

Why did we show up, anyway? So our shame could have an audience? So we could doubt in public? So the public that paid taxes for our aid could see how far their money didn’t take us? So we could have a memory to linger on to prove our worthlessness? So our wallet could hold less?

Did we show up because we wanted to Or because we thought we had to Did we even know the difference? Did we exist without the audience? When the curtain closed and they all left, did we still exist? And what did we believe then? What was our love worth when we didn’t have others to compare to? How rich were we when we didn’t have families to envy? How beautiful were we when the only ones looking were the reflections in the mirror? I think it’s time we finally found out

Today I am clothed in hand me downs That I never asked for Two sizes too small Twenty years old And time to be disposed

Victoria Rose

Untitled

Walking through the city that I no longer call my city This is Rahm's city Suburban city Michigan transplant city

City of broad shoulders Empty heart Greedy hands that draw red lines Divide black and white Gentrify brown

Forget who built this city Let's make it a luxury city 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom, displace a family city

Outlaw spray paint but commission the same handful of artists over and over city Tear down communities then build a Target city We only target people with melanin city Put a Whole Foods and Mariano's on the same block in the loop But only one store on all of the South side city

Intentionally hide camera footage city Police brutality city Patrol the sale of green in brown and black hoods but ignore the white on the noses of the rich city Close public schools to populate prisons city

Thousands crowd for the dying of the river But are nowhere to be found when our children are dying city

Fly the “W” to signal white privilege city "Build a new Chicago" by destroying lives city

Demarra Rutherford

Communication

Miscommunication due to your lack of trying to get the correct interpretation of my message, now we're sitting here misunderstanding the circumstances that you once again put us in

Hiding behind this so called tough mind, refusing to read between the lines, trying to keep me in the blind so that you stand in the light

I'm pretty, I'm smart. That’s all you say. But only you can see me in that way. If another being noticed the sparkle in my eyes I'm the one who's committed crimes after you lied time after time, messing with all these "dimes" but I'm the person who has to pay the fine? I had forgotten that I was in my prime

That I never misunderstood the circumstances, that my interpretation of the message was fully comprehensible That on you I had become dependable

I had to take responsibility for allowing you to dismantle the strong woman in me and move on to see. Who I could be The grown woman in me

Victor Salgado

If I Was God

If I was God, oh, what a horror to imagine! How dare I place myself on a pedestal as the supreme overlord of the universe?

If I was God, I don’t think I’d do a good job. I’d probably trip on the clouds, making the skies tremble and water swell to a burst followed by a clamor of thunder.

If I was God, I’d replace the trumpets and harps with drums and guitars: Rock ‘N’ Roll lives on in heaven! I would allow my holy servants to wear beanies instead of halos and sweatpants and a tee shirt in place of a robe.

If I was God, I would have my demons. Even benevolence has a limit, and my love would be grand and cruel. I could tell you of the promised land, but I think it needs a few renovations.

If I was God, I would ask Uriel how does one human mistake equal all of humanity’s fault?

I would ask the devil why he’s such a goddamn backstabber? I should be all knowing- able to read mind and hearts- but there’s nothing fun in being a know-it-all.

If I was God I would be far from divine. I would not be luminous. I would be shy, and even with power I would feel powerless.

If I was God, I wouldn’t be perfect. I would admit my sadistic nature. I wouldn’t want devotion or worship. I would burn the bible because I am God, and whatever God does is for the sake of goodness or at least I would like to believe it is…

If I was God, I would beg for your forgiveness. I would ask you to defy me, because even I, God, am never always right.

Lily Schmall

Cortadito

My eyes vibrate strong and stinging, In those fluorescent lights that vibrate and buzz like Palmetto bugs, In the blue painted bathroom of that Cuban dive on Washington. The one that sells the best, most sugary Cortaditos. The ones that make my eyes vibrate like Palmetto bugs. I go outside and the salt in the air makes my hair thick and wavy, And I feel like I melt into the hot South Florida pan like butter. Getting browned and ripe by the wet heat of Miami.

Barbara Jean Smith

Letter of Relapse

I love you, but I’m not entirely sure you love me. See, our love is a back and forth. On and off. When I think I’m through with you, you come back around with one of my friends. I hate you, but I crave you. I love your taste on my lips. Your scent in my nose, your essence surrounds my whole body and then I’m reminded yet again of why I love you so much. I’m not Taylor but I know you were trouble as soon as I saw you. But now I’m hooked. You won’t let me be, you drag me back in every single time and I fall for the same dirty tricks. If my friends wanted what’s best for both of us, he’d keep us apart. You cling to me, I abuse you, you still cling, I throw you away, you still hang onto memories of what we used to be. Get over yourself. Move on. There are other things I could be doing with my life that don’t, won’t, and never will be the same as what I get from you, but I’m over it. I’m over us. I’m going back to rehab.

Tondlaya Smith

For the Men I Loved

You all mirror each other. Constant reflections of my imperfections that I learn to love as you filter them. You present them to me in how you love me.

I learn your frustrations and I know them. We are predestined to meet. Symmetrical souls hungry for meat. Craving only the taste of ourselves.

My love is unclean. It is tainted in a way that you understand. We are the same person on the same path.

My love is unholy. My affection is drenched in vanity. We are painted the same. Colored in conceit.

I gladly seek to meet you again. I will know the next one the same way I always do. I will see myself in you.