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Milestone:2012 Ⅲ EAST LOS ANGELES COLLEGE Carol Lem Carol Illustrations: Cover Milestone Cover 2012.indd 1 milestone: 2012

EAST LOS ANGELES COLLEGE Monterey Park, California

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milestone: 2012

Editor Emeritus Carol Lem Editors Dolores Carlos, Joan Gurfield, Alexis Solis, and assistance from Susan Suntree Selection Staff College Literary Magazine Editing Class of Spring 2010 (English 32) and a panel of editors Book Design Patricia Heckman Cover Artwork Carol Lem Student Artwork Anonymous, Chrissy Bautista, Cloria Chiao, Hyang Kim, Francine McKinney, Erika Mazariegos, Valerie Ortega, Alejandro Plata, Jairo Ramirez, Cathy C. Rincon, Lorna Sylvester, Yi Yang

East Los Angeles College 1301 Avenida Cesar Chavez Monterey Park, California 91754

Milestone is published by the East Los Angeles College English Department. Material is solicited from students of the college.

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Table of Contentsi Editors’ Note ...... 5 Joan Gurfield Remembering Carol Lem ...... 6 Stanley Oropesa Tribute to Carol Lem ...... 7 Susan Suntree Carol Lem: A Rememberance . . . . 8 Dario Serrano Home...... 10 Kiss me ...... 13 Berta A. Luviano Untitled ...... 15 Ariana Renteria Chagrin ...... 16 Luis Madrigal Bury Me in my Rings ...... 18 These are the Streets ...... 19 Eileen Sarah Campos The World Behind Closed Eyes . . . 20 Michael Alexander Becerra The French Press...... 23 Jose Hernandez Untitled ...... 26 Aaron C. Higareda The Blue Backpack ...... 27 Blue Beta Fish ...... 28 A Walk to Remember...... 29 Lisa Higuera Male-Centered Femininity: Patriarchy and the False Transgression of Gender...... 30 Ehecatl Negrete Covered in Mold...... 37 Antonio Rafael Padillo Nu Energy ...... 39 Arthur Liu Aging...... 41 Diea May Some poem I wrote a long time ago ...... 42 Derelict ...... 43 Poser ...... 45 Guillermo Mendoza Who Killed Kurt Cobain ...... 46 Raul Meza Danse Pathétique ...... 47 Gone ...... 52 Yvette Correll Your Senses ...... 53 Engraved ...... 54 Ani Nahapetyan On the River ...... 56 I Saw You Again After Years...... 57 Joshua Castro Julio Buys a Skirt ...... 58 Joshua Castr0 & My Afternoon with Dominic. . . . . 79 Dominic A. Contributors’ Notes ...... 86

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Chrissy Bautista

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Editors’ Noten

E ARE DELIGHTED TO PRESENT the Fall 2012 issue of WMilestone, ELAC’s literary journal. We’d like to dedicate this issue to Carol Lem, professor of English, who died recently. Carol edited this journal for many years, spending hours teaching creative writing and working with students on their pieces. A few of her colleagues have written remembrances of her included here, but there are many more colleagues and many students, whose lives were touched by her. Some of the artworks included in this issue are by Carol, who, in addition to being a wonderful poet, was a talented painter. We are very proud of the students whose work is included here. It ranges from polished stories, poetry, and one essay, to ESL works. In most cases, it is the first published work by the student. Some very famous writers, including Luis Rodriguez, got their start in Milestone. We hope that the talented students whose work is showcased here will continue to write and read literary works, fostering the tradition of wonderful, cutting-edge American literature. We are beginning to collect works for the next issue of Milestone. Get us three copies of your work, with your name, email, and phone number on each copy, and maybe your work will be published, next year.

— Joan Gurfield, Dolores Carlos, and Alexis Solis

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Remembering Carol Lemn by Joan Gurfield

AROL LEM WAS A FRIEND and mentor to me, as well Cas a colleague. She came from a background similar to some of our students’. Her parents owned a small Chinese restaurant, called “Lem’s Café”. She spent many hours in her childhood in the back of the restaurant, where she learned to cook certain favorite dishes, like steamed chicken with bok choy. Later, in the 60’s, as a student at USC, she became politically active, and worked on Eugene McCarthy’s campaign. She carried those liberal political convictions throughout her life, and they informed her writing and her work with students. She was tireless in her quest for the best methods of teaching and spent many hours at her desk at ELAC, patiently working with students, and many hours talking to other teachers about methodology and about writing. Carol wrote poetry almost every day. Her house in Sierra Madre was dedicated to the things she cared about: her paintings were all over the house; she had a room where she practised sakahachi flute; her cats, Minnie and Moe, had the run of the place; and she had a huge collection of films and books. In the evenings, after dinner, before she’d watch a film, she’d sit on her balcony, sipping a glass of red wine, watching the beautiful view of sunset over the San Gabriel Valley, and coming up with images for her poems.

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Tribute to Carol Lemn by Stanley Oropesa

AROL AND I WERE HIRED to teach English at ELAC thirty- Cfive years ago. Soon after, recognizing that we would both need a nudge to leave the life of teaching, which had become a second home for us both, we promised to retire at the same time, as well. She beat me by two years; she had too much in her life to tend to: her poetry, her music (the Japanese flute), her meditation, her continued involvement with her Puente students, and most of all her hunger to make her world larger while making room in it for her friends, students, and fellow poets. This fierce promise to withdraw and be content in her own world lasted a brief summer. Having retired in June, she was back at work in September, teaching a maximum load for retirees – two classes, one of which was brand new and required a mountain of preparation. This story sets us at the threshold of Carol’s mystery. She was truly a hermit, but one who loved the company of others as much as she loved her solitude. Carol’s life seemed to reflect the wisdom of the ancient Chinese sage who, when asked the meaning of wisdom, replied, “It is doing what you love and loving what you do.” Carol’s work as a teacher and poet is best summed up by the poet Suzanne Lummis, who, in reviewing her latest book of poetry, realized that her work embodied this advice and wrote, “In an age that’s produced relatively few love poems, each of Carol Lem’s seems to rise from love—of friends, teachers, the art of teaching, the art of learning, and music, the bamboo flute, the notes, the silence between them, the hush at the end.”

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Cathy C. Rincon

Carol Lem: A Remembrancen by Susan Suntree

AROL WAS ALREADY KNOWN as a master teacher when I Cfirst arrived at ELAC in 1989. Many have noted how generously she shared her approach to teaching writing, developed working with the Puente Program and the Berkeley Writing Project. I was among the many teachers and students who benefited from her guidance. But my most vivid memories of Carol have to do with her devotion to poetry, to which she gave her heart, time, and attention. I remember her standing on a street corner reading her work through a bullhorn, surrounded by giant frog puppets and a throng of demonstrators. I had organized a protest of a literary event featuring writers from outside Los Angeles created by a Wall Street-backed company, Playa Vista, as part of their efforts to “green

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wash” their destruction of the Ballona Wetlands. Carol was well appreciated by the crowd for her poetry and for her bold reading. I remember when Carol was attending writing conferences, which included critiques by such notable poets as Billy Collins and Stephen Levine. I thought this took real writerly courage and was impressed by how she made use of the feedback she received. She told me that, in the process, she felt her writing deepen and open. I was moved to strengthen my own commitment to writing by watching her progress and her devotion to practice. I remember when Carol invited me to her house to show me how she organized sending poems to poetry magazines. Submitting one’s work, accepting rejections (along with acceptances—but that’s not the problem), and sending the work right back out to another publication has daunted many writers, myself included. Carol had a thoughtful and efficient method that reduced time lost to self-pity between envelopes in and envelopes out. I still refer to the notes I took recording her system. And though I’ve never been able to duplicate it, it inspires me because it represents a spirit of courage, perseverance, and devotion to practice. I remember our visits when, always over a glass of wine, Carol would cast the tarot or the rune stones. Though she was one of the most well organized people I’ve ever known, she also knew how to loosen the bonds and welcome the mysteries. Carol honored their indelible guidance both in her poetry and in her shakuhachi playing. In her essay, “Suizen: Blowing Meditation,” which appeared in a collection I edited, Wisdom of the East, she wrote about the challenging combination of discipline and abandon required to play in the spirit of the flute. Nothing characterizes Carol’s nature more clearly than her observations in this essay: “ When these moments come and my entire being resonates through the bamboo, the shakuhachi is a projection of self. And the you who walked into the practice room an hour before is not the you blowing Sagariha. In fact, there is no you. There is only the practice room (dojo), the shakuhachi, and the playing. In these rare moments my spirit has left the body and someone or something is playing me. That something else that called to me in my twenties, this sound that Masa is teaching me to keep inside my life, is chikudo, the bamboo way.” 26 March 2012

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Homen by Dario Serrano

Home is where you can act like yourself and not worry about anyone else and if I could describe my ideal space it’s gotta have a good computer With the quickest internet because I’m a geek... You can say it to my face I ain’t afraid to admit I was other stereotypes: a joker, a drug broker, a known toker, a first day of school loner A drug abuser, a street cruiser but I guess you can say... I’m a geek incognito

Home I wonder where that place is because I’ve been thinking... Lately I can’t find one I’m not dissing mine but I wouldn’t call it a home That’s why I never turn down a sleepover trying to gain a new Perspective of things how other people live when they’re alone in their home

Home is Where everyone on the street has steel bars in front of their windows So... I guess you can call that a gated community

Home is In LA the hills of Lincoln Heights where there’s temper mental Streetlights and the neighborhood is in total darkness And money’s real tight Just hood rats payasos vatos eses and gangsters with Tattoos on their arms and it’s easy to be sidetracked by Apartments with no alarms to warn of harm.

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And all you can hear at night are dogs howling gunshots ricocheting Herb inhaling kids... screaming

You should see them These homes when revealed in daylight show battle wounds By drive bys with bullet holes directed towards people who try and be saints they Got faded and deteriorating paint. They look depressed never at rest and always stressed it’s like a bad meal you can’t digest Oppressed by its surrounding occupants they got kids looking for someone to look up to Hood rats trying to make a buck or two fancy losers drug abusers gangbangers Drug slangers Undocumented citizens living check to check steering clear of INS.

I mean what is it? What is a home? Is it the ones on TV owned by Riley and Buffy? The ones that are inhabited by habitants that don’t need Loans to pay off their glossy painted homes? With grass approximately 2-3 inches high Where they don’t have to sell herb to stay alive Their front yards littered with signs “neighborhood watch” What is it? Police car rounded the block for a 2nd time Mischievous kid doesn’t belong here probably wrong place wrong time Because those homes make pretend homes but when you knock at those doors No one answers and if no one answers then this isn’t a home just an empty House empty feeling shallowness...

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To me... Home is some place where it’s chill No heat no anger less danger no bus transfers just my own seventh day to rest I would open the front door to find her she’s got brown eyes and strawberry lip Gloss kisses waiting for me I would find her tending our hot chile garden while we dream of a better life but That’s all a dream with no way of making it reality So I pray ’cause... Clicking my heels would make me look stupid... Plus I don’t got red shoes... Where is my home?

Valerie Ortega

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Kiss men by Dario Serrano

Kiss me….Unfold in front of me what it would be like to trespass onto heaven.

If I retired on a cloud would it be able to employ serenity like your eyes set on me?

Can rays of light transpire just as well to my iris like your voice produces harmony to my ears?

Are words enough to be compacted into individual sheets of white paper printed with black ink?

Slip a mix CD, a USB filled with mp3’s, organize an orchestra to play that tune you love to sing.

Roll up in a Crimson Buick, mesh our weary faces and unleash a torrent of passion.

A plan of attack would not suffice for you, nor a congregation of brilliant minds to conclude that this

Is appropriate to say to you

In the morning afternoon and night.

So when sun sets in the west at 4 p.m. make the most of Golden hour and remind me why I’ve decided to vacation my available days to be with you.

And she wanted this to resonate…

Reiterate till my tongue takes a plunge and lies in your lap.

Show me how to convey words gingerly, pitch my voice like soft- spoken librarians on a top secret mission.

There is a wrinkle on her forehead, her face scrunched like she bit a sour lemon.

Trying to obtain land legs again after witnessing that was like standing after sitting Indian style in kindergarten for a long lecture.

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Her skin texture was among the smoothest sanded oak wood, applying lotion that smelled like a tasteful aphrodisiac.

It’s taboo to chase you in my uninhibited mind because even placing incalculable values, counting as many features as a chiliagon has sides and attempting to “tie it off” by multiplying by infinity wouldn’t serve you justice.

I’ll leave it to Nature to knight you with tangerine leaves that subtly fall on your shoulders.

When was the last time you committed yourself truly to love?

Spun dizzily on a tire swing and sway to words I mouthed like alcohol being sipped through a spiral straw.

Getting inebriated off your perfume, brush your hair, snatch a Jasmine at night and place it in front of your ear.

Arrest a Dandelion, wish for your welfare, world peace, and Lakers to win this year’s championship.

I’ll break the rule of announcing wishes, hopes, and take this long in the poem

To tell you…

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Untitledn by Berta A. Luviano

I thought That I was right But I was wrong To conquer this country I lost my tradition Now I feel alone Wherever I go My sons Don’t understand me They sing Another song I thought That I was right but I was wrong I sold everything Before I came Neither my mom Waits for me Of sadness Just she’s gone

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Chagrinn by Ariana Renteria

As he was fucking her, he told her he loved her.

As he was telling her he loved her, he was fucking her?

Maybe, he was fucking her and loving her at the same time.

No. No, he certainly wasn’t.

He left her apartment wondering what had happened again and what exactly he was in for after that night.

And when he left, she had a look on her face. A look that although he didn’t much care for, left him confused and a bit agitated.

He kissed her goodbye at five in the morning. He told her he would talk to her later. Yes, I love you, he would say.

But her face. That face. What did it mean? He didn’t dare ask her and part of him didn’t even care to know.

The next eight hours at work would be grueling. His mind. Caught up in ideas. Ideas of her delightfully big, round butt. His penis in that very comfortable spot inside her. And then. Her face. Soft, nonetheless, gorgeous without a doubt; her pale rosy skin, her pomegranate tinged lips. Her marcona shaped hazel eyes called out to him. She loved him too much. Did she know that he didn’t fully love her? That being in-between her thighs every night was more motivation than her peaceful kind heart?

The day would go slowly. He greeted the people in the office building. Making small talk when someone would invite him in to a usually boring conversation. Women would smile at him; he wouldn’t hesitate to smile back. Women would joke with him; he would charmingly joke back. Then, her face. Her painfully honest face.

His work day would end. Another hard day of moving boxes and running from one floor to the next. From one end to the other. He would open his car door, get in and drive home. He would shower, occasionally singing parts of songs that he would remember from the radio. Though only sing in the shower, always shying away if asked to sing in front of someone.

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He would dress in fine clothing and go for a walk. Women would greet him. Some would call him handsome, others would bashfully wave from afar. He would walk to the local deli, get a sandwich on rye bread with extra Swiss and extra kraut and consider if he should buy one for later. He never did.

After his walk and dinner he would wait for her to call him.

Are you coming? She would ask.

I’m not sure. He would say unexcitedly.

Well, I’d really love it if you came. She would reply with a smile you could hear over the phone.

I’ll be there in about an hour. Then a goodbye and the closing of his cell phone.

He had nothing else to do, but he knew he wasn’t going to see her now. He would wait in his apartment. Flipping through channels on his 72Љ television. Laughing occasionally. Saying obscene words to the television whenever something he thought was absurd was said.

After an hour, she would call again.

It’s been an hour. She would say.

Has it? He would respond.

Are you going to come or not? She would reply.

Yes, I am. I’ll be there soon. He would then hang up, put his feet back on the small brown coffee table and continue watching television for another half hour and then finally, as he yawned, he would put on his black sneakers, jump in his car and drive to her brownstone apartment.

I missed you. She would say.

I’ve been thinking about you all day. He would tell her.

Really? She would ask. Then, that face.

Yes, really. He would say.

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Bury Me with my Ringsn by Luis Madrigal

Bill, When the time comes You will bury me in my rings The silver one I begged you to buy for my birthday The gold wedding ring All of them You’ll remember our first kiss In that park With the two strangers walking by You’ll remember our first dance On our wedding night How you almost tripped I’ll be lying there Cold in that casket The pictures from the photobooth Adorning the room All the notes and love letters Some you’ll share Some you’ll never let anyone see You’ll cry, but I hope time treats you well Because I might be gone But, you’ll never sleep alone

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These are the Streetsn by Luis Madrigal

These are the streets you don’t go down The ones by the freeway The ones darkened by the underpass The ones that get too cold during winter But those are the ones where he is The one you’d drive across state lines for The one you’d give cigarettes up for The one you’d stop your heart for It’s that wrong left turn you’d have to make Into broken sidewalks Into burning buildings Into homes that are just houses So do it before somebody brave enough finds him Run down the street and knock on his door Run down the street and tell him you’ve been waiting Run down the street and let him put his hand on yours Because there are other reasons these are the streets you don’t go down

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Erika Mazariegos

The World Behind Closed Eyesn by Eileen Sarah Campos

Blinking while closed I see Blue and Green and Spider web screens Falling before my eyes in snowflake patterns They expand and condense Becoming one entity of white light in front of black It goes up And Down Pressure it to the left

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It’s gone Now the pressure is back moving it back to the right The light now forms a diamond That transforms into a circle then a diamond again There is then color That seeps into the diamond with a white outline Then there is a figure Always beyond sight Gray Ghost in a black backdrop The feeling of unease is eternal never leaving me and when it does it changes and it’s not the same anymore Breathing is not the same it’s never even for a time it is but then it’s not

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Alejandro Plata

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The French Pressn by Michael Alexander Becerra

HAVE A PROBLEM WITH with my French Press. If you don’t Iknow what a French Press is, let me explain. A French Press is a small glass pot that is used to brew delicious coffee. That’s it. That’s all a French Press is, really. The problem is that my particular French press is very, very racist. How do I know it’s racist? Well it only makes black coffee. That was a joke. The rest of this is not. One time I brought a girl home and it called her among other things, a dirty Jew. She wasn’t even Jewish, but that’s sort of how the French Press works. This other time I had breakfast with a friend of mine, and during the meal my French Press told her that she looked like Aladdin. She was from Pakistan, and in all fairness she did kind of look like Aladdin, but a sexy Aladdin. I didn’t see all that big a deal with what the French Press said, but she did and she poured boiling hot French-Pressed coffee all over my lap. I think maybe she thought that I had instructed the coffee maker to say these racist things in the same way one might instruct a parrot to say racist things. I had not. In fact, I had never even given anything concerning race two thoughts before I bought the French Press. I do now. Before the French Press, I drank instant coffee, like a peasant. Instant coffee isn’t all that bad; it’s just kind of boring. The French Press is not boring. It makes the most amazing coffee. It steeps and compresses the ground beans and forces out all of the natural oils, and the Pyrex glass keeps the coffee nice and hot. My god, the thing is talented. It really knows how to make the most amazing cup of coffee. I had the thing for months before I even found out it was racist. I think it’s because I don’t look like any specific race, so the French Press couldn’t figure out what to call me. You see that’s sort of where I have been in terms of race for my whole life. I look like a “generic ethnic,” and I sound like a high school guidance counselor. So for the majority of my existence, people have let me be. No one has ever really bothered me about anything, let alone race. Sure, that sounds nice, but it instilled a very false perception of the world and my place in it. For example, I didn’t know that I couldn’t say the “N” word whenever I wanted. Not that I even say it really, or ever say it with any malicious intent. There has been no equivalent for me, so I can’t imagine what it’s like to be called that (let alone anything, really). I can imagine what it’s like to have the study group from your African American history class decide that you aren’t fit for

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their group anymore even though you were the one who started the group in the first place. They say it was because I wasn’t on task. I think it was because whenever we studied at my place, my French Press would call them all kinds of things, most of which I had never even heard or understood. Still, I put the Press into storage, and promptly purchased another one. It took me a few days to convince myself that I wasn’t just imagining the coffee from this new French press tasting less delicious than the old press’ coffee. Seriously, it’s just a piece of glass with some wire and mesh inside. What could be the difference? I have no idea, but nothing makes coffee like my racist French Press. I mean the coffee is literally amazing. It keeps the ground beans segregated at the bottom, so the flavor just grows more and more robust as you drink it. The taste is so amazing that I am continually tempted to make a cup for guests, usually at the expense of the evening, morning, or whenever I have to use that fucking French Press. Yes, have to. I have to use it. Using it has become a need. The shitty part is, everyone agrees with me. My friends, my family, the Korean guy who delivers pizza to my doorstep; they all love the racist coffee, especially the Korean guy. He actually laughs every time the Press says something obnoxious because he knows it’s just a stupid coffee press. I wish more people were like that old Korean dude. The hardest part is when I am trying to start a relationship with someone. I usually just pretend that I am allergic to caffeine until the dating period is over, and then casually mention that my parents are practicing anti-Semites. Once the girl is okay with that, it’s only a few steps back to, “Actually what I meant to say is that my French Press is a racist.” Most girls think I’m making a joke, but then I make some coffee and they usually leave shortly after. I hate to say it, but most of the time, the coffee is better than the company. Especially after you add a little whole milk and some honey. Then you stir it gently with a small wooden spoon until all of the ingredients have settled perfectly throughout the cup. Holy shit, I could drink that and listen to racism all day. There is another problem though. You see, it wouldn’t be that bad if my French Press was just racist, but it is also pretty damn sexist and a little homophobic. It’s actually kind of weird because these two areas of bigotry seem random at times. In college I briefly dated this Columbian guy, and the insults got so bad that he got in a screaming argument with the thing. I kind of laughed honestly even though there was nothing funny going on at all. The police got involved, and after I explained what had happened they took both of us in for disturbing the peace. They

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claimed we were on acid or something. Safe to say that night didn’t turn out as well as I had hoped, as I never heard from him again. It’s those kinds of situations that bring me to this kind of juggling act, because now I have to make a case for this racist, sexist piece of kitchenware which I love. One time in December it started to call my mother, grandmother and all of my aunts “bitches” non-stop, but they didn’t seem to care. My dad kind of laughed, actually. I imagine it’s because they are probably used to hearing a lot of the same crap from their own parents. Did I mention that it also hates children? Of course I haven’t. It does, which should come as no surprise to you. Whenever there are children within earshot, which is not very often, the French Press immediately starts shouting its usual obscenities, except it adds the word “little” to each one. The thing is, I kind of really enjoy listening to the stupid thing yell at children. I guess it feels like there is less consequence from children being offended, and often they laugh themselves. Last Halloween I didn’t feel like giving out candy, so I just placed the French Press near the door and listened to it go, all the while sipping the most delicious coffee. This time I had mixed in the perfect amount of Irish cream and added some ice cubes. That was probably the purest form of iced coffee I had ever tasted: crisp, refreshing and very alcoholic. Also, I make a mean holiday coffee. I froth a little milk onto each a cup and dust it with little pieces of peppermint candy. Then I top the whole thing off with a single mint leaf. The real magic is in the coffee press, though. By this point, most people have stopped listening to me bitch and moan about how much I simultaneously hate and love this French Press. If you do decide to continue focusing on the words I am saying, I thank you. I don’t get company all that often anymore. It is usually just me sitting here, addicted to this racist, sexist, homophobic, incredibly offensive, incredibly delicious coffee. When I do have company, I use the newer French press. The coffee isn’t as good, but the company is always nice. Almost as nice as the racist coffee.

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Untitledn by Jose Hernandez

No idea of what I want. Just know that I haven’t found it. I’m lost in time. Don’t try to read this dusty clock. Just listen to the noise… Tick tock tick tock. No escape, I’ve been locked in Only worth as much As you think I am Don’t buy this clock. I think it’s broken. No need to waste your time, Just keep on walking The day you walk Around the shop, And don’t notice that dusty clock, That’s the day The ticking stops It’s finally gone…

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The Blue Backpackn (Inspired by William Carlos Williams’ “The Red Wheelbarrow”) by Aaron C. Higareda

the future lies with

a blue back pack

filled with poetry books

strapped to young students

Yi Yang

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Blue Beta Fishn by Aaron C. Higareda

The elegant fighter Swishes and slashes Splishes and splashes Gracefully In the water.

Her radiant blue tail Shines so brightly When the sunlight Glistens Across her blue scales.

Unfortunately, She is trapped In a clear glass bowl, Swimming in circles Doing laps of confusion Never knowing Her freedom . . . Is just an illusion.

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A walk to remembern by Aaron C. Higareda

Walking down in the streets of East LA, The cars and trucks zoom by above my head After I pass under the loud freeway I witness how the movement now is dead.

Upset to see nothing improving. So My love for thee of our city can bring, The people, students, workers all will show The sound of freedom, together we’ll sing.

Nonsense, however, does corrupt the ears Of thee, and leaves them pierced and plugged and blind Unable to speak out because of fear, So idle by they stand and wait to find—

A leader marching by today to fight A leader like the ones for civil rights.

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Male-Centered Femininity: Patriarchy i i and the False Transgression of Gendern Normativity in Gustave Falubert’s Madame Bovary by Lisa Higuera

USTAVE FLAUBERT’S NOVEL Madame Bovary is celebrated Gas the first modern book written, and it is arguably a piece of fiction that promotes the questioning of patriarchy via the heroine Emma Bovary and her re-identification of womanhood via adultery. Examining gender norms, the novel’s illustration of the heroine Emma’s transgression of gender normativity via her shift from good wife to mistress is misleading (Palmer). The images of the good wife and the mistress, in actuality, are both male constructs that exist within the gender norm binaries upholding patriarchy. Emma’s revolt from the spouse-identified gender norm results in her adaptation of the whore image, merely another male-centered femininity. In the scholarly article “Text and Performance Quarterly: the wisdom of folly: disrupting masculinity in King of the Hill,” Palmer argues that there are “male-centered social processes and practices that constrain and control women’s lives.” This notion of patriarchal constraint is explored further by William Demastes in his article “Jessie and Thelma Revisited: Marsha Norman’s Conceptual Challenge in ‘night, Mother’,” where he exposes the concept of “female entrapment in a male-centered ideology.” These theories help contextualize how Flaubert’s Madame Bovary displays woman as falsely revolting against patriarchy. The novel’s heroine, Emma, is entrapped by male constructs of femininity, only replacing one type of male-identified femininity with another while maintaining the patriarchal order and reinforcing the oppression of woman. In the novel, the male-centered femininity of the sexually free woman that plagues Emma’s hopes is made evident by the theme of romantic novels that are written by male authors; they compose the fictional heroine that Emma aspires to embody. As the novel commences, the reader is introduced to Emma as an avid reader of romance fiction. The narrator mentions that she had read Paul and Virginia and had “dreamed” of the images it drew (Flaubert 1108). Written by Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, this fictional piece is famous for its plot of tragic love. Its romantic story becomes a backdrop to Emma’s ambition to become a passionate heroine. Her obsession with fictional love and its falsehoods is unveiled at the beginning of

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the novel, almost immediately after her marriage to Charles. These dreams signal the birth of her need to aspire to a femininity that is not grounded in reality. They speak to her wish to alter her gender norm and re-position herself within a new femininity. Later in the novel, the influence of romance novels created by male authors is revisited. As Emma travels on horseback with her soon-to-be-lover Rodolphe, “she [remembers] the heroines of novels she had read, and the lyrical legion of those adulterous women [begins] to sing in her memory with sisterly voices that [enchant] her” (Flaubert 1186). The enchantment spoken of here is a euphemism, a curtain for the yearning to become the sexual being that men desire. Wanting to be freed of the role of wife, she seeks rebellion; however, Emma’s escape from a spouse-centered femininity is limited by the ideals of gender temerity from novels created by men. The very femininity she seeks to escape to is a confined gender norm, a form of femininity fed to her via romantic novels. Emma, disillusioned by her marriage from the start, desires an escape from her gender normative existence as a wife and uses the female figures in romance novels to compose an ideal of womanhood she covets. Emma’s aspiration towards this romance heroine who exists in fiction becomes a lifestyle to acquire, one defined by adultery, passion and allurement that sheds light on the confines of this male- centered femininity. In one of many meetings with her lover León at a discreet hotel room, she is described as finally becoming “the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague ‘she’ of all the poetry books” (Flaubert 1248). Emma, wholly lost in an affair with León, successfully embodies the mistress that she aspired to be at the beginning of the novel. She becomes the sexual star she idealized and accomplishes the role of passionate woman outside of the institution of marriage, thus realizing the feminine role created in spaces of masculine imagination. This appropriation of the fictional image of sexual woman points to an underlying objective of serving the gender norms under a patriarchal order. As Eileen Burchell explains in her book Women in Literature: Reading through the Lens of Gender, “As a young female reader of works written primarily by men, Emma unconsciously identifies with male romantic views of women that legitimize male agency and female passivity” (Burchell 182). It is important to note that Emma may not be aware that her supposed defiance of her role as wife still falls into the model of patriarchy, for it points to her submission to male expectations and her passivity as a woman. Although she turns away from the good-wife image, her retreat from this image

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merely leads her to an archetype anticipated by male counterparts. It is this very limitation to the system of patriarchy that bespeaks her maintenance of masculine-chosen feminine roles. The move away from the accepted gender norm of the beautiful, faithful spouse is seemingly a revolt against gender normativity, but close inspection reveals that it is a function of patriarchy and works to restrain Emma within the male construct of the whore image. There is nothing extraordinary or laudable about Emma’s retreat into adultery as it is not necessarily a move away from masculine-centered gender norms. The narrator reveals this via the point of view of Emma’s first lover, Rodolphe, stating, “Emma was like all his other mistresses; and as the charm of novelty gradually slipped away from her like a piece of clothing, he saw revealed in all its nakedness the eternal monotony of passion” (Flaubert 1203). Emma’s adultery is befitting the role of the pretty, ordinary mistress. It does not appear impressive to Rodolphe, nor is there acclaim from the author. Emma longs to be possessed by a man (Sabiston 62). She comes off as naïve and easily becomes a travesty to be ridiculed. The mockery lies in this grim contrast: Emma remains easily accepted by patriarchy even as she transgresses a gender norm. She undresses her being to take off the veil of wife. She simply displays her cloak as mistress, revealing a passion all too familiar to the philanderer. Emma’s other lover positioned her in this light as well, made evident in the following lines: “[León] marveled at the sublimity of her soul and at the lace on her petticoat. Besides—wasn’t she a ‘lady,’ and married besides? Everything, in short, that a mistress should be” (Flaubert 1248). The other womanizer in Emma’s life, León, also constrains her to the place of mistress. This positions her as a visually-pleasing, sexual being dispatched for serving male lust. Emma’s desire to escape the gender normative role as faithful wife falls short with both lovers and, inevitably, she strays from wholesomeness only to take on another male-centric role. Her revolt against gender normativity is ultimately false. The heroine’s rebellion against the femininity assigned to her at marriage, though fundamentally invalid, is still worthy of analysis, for it calls into question the dichotomy of good/bad woman subsisting in the patriarchal order. The strict dichotomies of femininity are explored by Burchell in her analysis of Emma Bovary. She lays out the complexity of Emma’s character as symptomatic of the Madonna/whore complex: “Emma Rouault Bovary is a polarizing figure. She embodies yet challenges the archetypal images of women (virgin/mother, madonna/whore, angel/siren) arising from

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male experience. She calls into question education, marriage, and motherhood, institutions that inculcate these dichotomous views of women” (Burchell 181). The images of woman Emma models are directly linked to the male imagination and maintain the perceived dominance of masculinity. Although her adultery does bring forth inquiry about the construction of gender norms in society, Emma is oblivious of patriarchy’s dichotomies for women and falls prey to these. As Burchell suggests in this excerpt, Emma’s gender role lies within the paradigm of the good/bad woman. Rodolphe makes this evident in the following passage when he states, “I have you in my heart like a Madonna on a pedestal—in an exalted place, secure, immaculate. But I need you if I am to go on living! I need your eyes, your voice, your thoughts. I beseech you: be my friend, my sister, my angel” (Flaubert 1184). In this scene, Rodolphe propounds Emma’s immaculate nature undoubtedly to keep her in the gender role of mistress. The juxtaposition of his desire to possess her with the reality of their adultery is made clear with an understanding of the Madonna/whore complex and reveals the hypocrisy of his performance. Furthermore, by malignly glorifying Emma as “immaculate” and angelic, Rodolphe perversely plays on the presumed purity of her gender to have authority on her inverse role as mistress. This examination of the womanizer provides clarity on the extent of the male-centricity of Emma’s new role as mistress. As Emma’s new femininity blurs the gender norms it calls into question the understanding of femininity itself. In the article “Becoming Members of Society: Learning the Social Meaning of Gender,” Holly Devor elucidates the relationship between masculinity and femininity, stating, “In patriarchally organized societies, masculine values become the ideological structure of the society as a whole. Masculinity thus becomes ‘innately’ valuable and femininity serves a contrapuntal function to delineate and magnify the hierarchical dominance of masculinity” (Devor 427). In other words, femininity is defined by the dominance and value of masculinity within the patriarchal order. Femininity can thus be understood as existing in passive relation to the perceived supremacy of masculinity. Sensitivity to the nature of Emma’s transgression is supplied by symbolist poet Charles Baudelaire in Flaubert: A Collection of Critical Essays, where he states, “[Emma] gives herself magnificently, generously, in a complete masculine way, to wretches who are not her equals, exactly as poets give themselves to despicable women” (Giraud 93). The fact that Baudelaire compares the looseness of Emma’s promiscuity to that of a male, creative writer is further

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evidence that Emma was captive to the fantastical imagination of males. More importantly, though, Baudelaire situates adultery outside of the gender norm for femininity: promiscuity is not a feminine feature under patriarchy. Femininity itself, even as it is confined to male-centricity, is complicated in the novel and begs the question of what femininity is and what it can potentially be. The novel explores this transgression of femininity using the relationship between Emma and her lover León, stating, “[León] never disputed any of [Emma’s] ideas; he fell in with all her tastes: he was becoming her mistress, far more than she was his. Her sweet words and her kisses swept away his soul” (Flaubert 1256). The role reversal of male and female is noted with the application of the word “mistress” to the male character. It is with these lines that the author truly breaks away from gender norms. This type of application illustrates an attempt to damage patriarchy and its hierarchal gender normativity, alluding to the possibility of a femininity that exists without and despite the patriarchal order. The author’s attempt to disrupt patriarchy and its gender norms is rather pioneering; however, the suggestion of a transformative construction of femininity is left undeveloped as the novel merely reinforces the captivity of woman. Even as the heroine undermines the good-wife image, the author sets Emma within a frame of inescapable oppression. Her pregnancy sheds light on the prevalent gender hierarchy: “This idea of having a male child was like a promise of compensation for all her past frustrations. A man is free, at least—free to range the passions and the world, to surmount obstacles, to taste the rarest pleasures. Whereas a woman is continually thwarted” (Flaubert 1140). Emma, although initially surprised by her pregnancy, is contented by the hope that the child may be male and will not live the oppression she has experienced as female. Her hope points to the discrimination women are subject to and to the expectation of motherhood in the good-wife role. Emma’s shift from this role to that of mistress does not erase the expectation of maternity assigned to the female gender. She carries this requirement of motherhood along with her, even as she takes on the new male-centered femininity as mistress. Devor explains this expectation of womanhood within patriarchy, stating, “It is popularly believed that the social position of females is biologically mandated to be intertwined with the care of children…. Thus the goals of femininity and, by implication, of all biological females, are presumed to revolve around heterosexuality and maternity” (Devor 425-6). Even as Flaubert creates a character that swaps one type of

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femininity for another, his assault on masculine dominance is phony. His maintenance of the expectation of motherhood sheds light on the gender normative confinement of women. His exploration of gender norms via the character of Emma both foregrounds the possibility of development of gender equity and deceives the reader with its reminder that patriarchy exists even as women may attempt to revolt against gender normativity. The reminder of the oppression of women despite Emma’s immature rebellion against gender norms centers the reader on the reality of the perpetuity of the patriarchal order in the novel. Ultimately, Emma does not belong to herself, as the author enforces when he states, “But now [Emma’s husband] possessed, and for always, this pretty wife whom he so loved” (Flaubert 1108). Emma is owned, like a commodity. Her husband maintains possession of her, even as she commits adultery. Her desertion of domesticity in moments of adultery does not erase her commodification as an object of social value. Emma’s subjugation is expressed throughout the book, and is commented on by Paul De Man in Gustave Flaubert: Backgrounds and Sources Essays in Criticism: Emma is essentially a person who feels herself enclosed and stifled within the bounds of the place where she lived and of the moment in which she thinks. Her whole existence… seems to her a shutting up within walls, a groping around inside narrow limits; limits so narrow that sometimes they seem to join each other, to condense into a point, the point of time and space where she is constrained to live. She is here, here only, in the dimensions here; she is forbidden forever to escape outside, into the infinite elsewhere. (De Man 398) Emma exhibits a deep hunger for space and expression as a result of her limitation as a woman living in patriarchy. Her entire lifestyle, despite her transgression of the good-wife image, leaves her thirsty for freedom. She is frozen in the femininities available to her, immobile and needing an exit. Even as the heroine redefines her femininity, patriarchy reigns in the novel. Emma’s depression and disappointment with the options of femininity available to her are inescapable. This immobilization provides insight into the infamous suicidal scene that ends her life. The reasons why she commits suicide are impressive when one recognizes that her transgression of the good-wife image is sadly a revolt confined to the patriarchy it is supposed to topple. The failure

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of Emma’s revolt against gender normativity reinforces the power of male-centered femininity. Trapped between the reality available in her environment and the fictitious scenes of passion she indulges in through romantic novels, Emma falls to the power of patriarchy. With this fall, Flaubert effectively presents a jaded illustration of the plight of women, showing that adultery is a deceitful means of exercising power. Despite the heroine’s ambitions to redefine her womanhood and empower herself, she remains a woman trapped in patriarchy. Without a gender analysis of the novel, it would seem as though Emma permits romanticism to destroy her (Sova 151). Ultimately, it is not Emma who commits suicide, as popularly accepted; her death results from a complex cage coined by patriarchy. Read this way, one can understood that it is patriarchy and its rampant oppression of women that assassinates the hopeful heroine for her active desire to empower herself.

Works Cited Burchell, Eileen. “Emma Roualt Bovary: Gendered Reflections in Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert (1857). Women in Literature: Reading through the Lens of Gender. Ed. Fisher, Jerilyn and Ellen S. Silber. Westport, CT: Jerilyn Fisher and Ellen S. Silber. 2003. 181-183. Print. De Man, Paul. Gustave Flaubert: Backgrounds and Sources Essays in Criticism. New York: W.W. Norton & Company. 1965. Print. Demastes, William W. “Jessie and Thelma Revisited: Marsha Norman’s Conceptual Challenge in ‘night, Mother’.” Contemporary Literary Criticism. Ed. Tom Burns and Jeffrey W. Hunter. Vol. 186. Detroit: Gale. 2004. From Literary Resource Center. Website. 24 April 2011. Devor, Holly. “Becoming Members of Society: Learning the Social Meaning of Gender.” Rereading America: Cultural Contexts for Critical Thinking and Writing. 7th ed. Ed. Gary Colombo, Robert Cullen, and Bonnie Lisle. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s. 2007. Print. Flaubert, Gustave. Madame Bovary. 2nd ed. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. The Norton Anthology of Literature 1800 to 1900 (Vol. E.). New York: W. W. Norton & Company. 1088-1301. Print. Giraud, Raymond (Ed.) (1964). Flaubert: A Collection of Critical Essays. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, Inc. Print. Palmer, Mehta. “Text and Performance Quarterly: the wisdom of folly: disrupting masculinity in King of the Hill.” Women and Language. 29.2 (Fall 2006):p67. From Literature Resource Center. Website. 24 April 2011. Sabiston, Elizabeth Jean. The Prison of Womanhood. New York: St. Martin’s Press. 1987. Print. Sova, Dawn B. “Madame Bovary.” Banned Books: Literature Suppressed on Sexual Grounds. New York: Dawn B. Sova, 2006. 150-153. Print.

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Covered in Moldn by Ehecatl Negrete

I sit cross-legged in a dimly lit room Arch my neck as I pace my breathing I extend my arms to smear the purple jelly on my inner thighs My fingers are dancing in a rotten ballroom

Sheepish hair, concealing mysterious bruises I stand up and face a wall I’m naked, gazing into a mirror I lift my testicles to reveal my condition.

Two swollen sores nest on my inner thighs The gangrenous orbs radiate mortification Itchy bumps have been replaced by feelingless smoothness, I violently pinch my discolored flesh and get no response.

So I pat my crusty crotch with a tattered towel Slip on my pants, sewn from a theater curtain Walk, with my chubby thighs scrapping, to the bus stop As the sun is shoving its rays on me.

I smile as my crotch begins to moisten I’m amazed that I’ve lived this long Concealing a flesh-eating disease Laughing loving while infected.

Never learned to be shy in the nude For my crib was composed of a cyclone of clothing Thrashing and molding my dimpled face Unable to wipe the shit, from the area between my balls and asshole.

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Now I’m sittin’ on a bench Waitin’ for the bus to show With an inflamed Armageddon on my thighs Lookin’ at trees and people, with a smile on my face because—

My eyes take note of a high-flying angel Leaving a stream of white chalky gauze up in the sky Now this sparkling residue Connects me to you

Jairo Ramirez

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Nu Energyn by Antonio Rafael Padillo

The Technostorm caused dimly strange darkness Emitting a radiant energy

I closed my eyes when it felt like thunder Such Energy released caused the clock to stop

At the same time my body rocked Breaking the silence was totally breathtaking

(Out of sight someone mentions)

Lost in that world Triggering wicked hardcore beats

With my eyes and mind open and purely rhythmatic Waves of desire, plunder

Releasing the fear, mindlessly Can give one headaches

Crescendos of ecstasy likewise Acid nova keeps rockin’

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Danxia Zhen

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Agingn by Arthur Liu (Ang Liu)

IME, PLEASE SLOW DOWN your step. Thousand of times, I beg Tin my heart. I am not afraid of death, but I fear aging very much. Aging is the most terrifying thing in this world. When I was 18 years old, I never thought about this. But when I was 25, I began to fear. I found time began to fly too fast after I graduated from a university in China. I came to America in 2009, but now it is 2011. I haven’t done anything, but two years have flown away from my life. I don’t know what I should do to protect my time. I live in fear every day. One day, I went to KFC for lunch. When I was eating, I saw an old couple; they had finished their lunch and prepared to leave. They stood up with great effort and moved very slowly, just as if many hands which came out from hell had caught them and devoured their life slowly. It was too terrible for me: I almost saw the hands clench me. They also caught everything: humans, animals, houses, and plants, and they were greedy, sucking the life. But nobody saw them except me. People were eating, talking, laughing; they might never notice something was being stolen from their life. A strong wind blew over. Houses became ruins; plants turned to dust and ashes; humans and animals left only bones. When I watched this scene, I felt a spasm of sadness coming from my heart. My body was becoming like dust, slowly, and rolling up to the sky. The wind came again, rolled yellow sand all over the sky, and brought me back. Everything disappeared; only sorrow was left. One teardrop fell across my right cheek. I knew I left another one in that world. Afterwards, I knew that was the demon named “time.” I couldn’t imagine what life would be when I was 70, or 80. I think Mitch, in Tuesdays with Morrie, was terrified too when he saw his old professor. But when I read the book, Morrie gave me a good answer. “Everyone knows they are going to die, but no one believes it,” says Morrie, who was 89. Yes, that’s it. Aging is the same as death. My fear roots from not believing I will become old. It is nature’s rule that everyone will become old. Perhaps it is because of this that we treasure our time even more; we use all our passion to create; we use all our power to run; we use our pens and camera lens to catch those fleeting beauties. When I realized that, I did not fear again. I felt happy. Although our life is short, the resplendence we create is dazzling as the light of God.

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Some poem I wrote a long time agon By Diea May

what the fuck are you looking at is what he said he almost looked like jesus the way he held that cigarette it wasn’t the first time i had seen him i see him every day at 4:15 pm in front of the café on 3rd street i always wanted to talk to him to know why he never smiled why he never walked too far away from that café or ever ate or left for a second to go around the corner to jizz by a bush and i found him perplexing the way he was oblivious about life and its complicated human structures and how the birds followed him faithfully although he never fed them pieces of bread like people in the movies who spend the day at the park with the ducks but this time he saw me i mean this time he actually saw me and he said something and there i was like a blubbering fool unable to utter a single word yet i was aware that my mouth was gaped slightly and i was ready to say something i was i was ready to say anything to strike up a conversation with this walking treasure ask him all the questions that had been building in my head but my mind was blank as i stared into those eyes from that eternity disguised as seconds and my throat felt dry and vertigo was coming from inside and pulling my forehead into my belly button the way that i change settings in my dreams my dreams my dreams…

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Derelictn by Diea May

ceratoid brute swinging on a tree purple sunset on his face belligerent bastard mindful solace

pondering redemption craving satisfaction faking abnormalities cradling forgiveness

purple becomes black tree becomes sky monster turns pallid

falling into himself he sits up and stares up blindly the north star gazes back intensely and he misses her again

thinking of her breast his eyesight slowly fades unconsciously with a voyeuristic reminiscence

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i see him in my mind’s eye my baby monster that nostalgic character that never fails me that knot in my soul

turning present into weightlessness striking candid memories ruthlessly

i will never stop will never kill my monster will always have my velvet sunsets will always see them change to midnight blue

that north star is you and you will never leave me ethereal delicate but never vaporous

i will always love my other self that thirst for a parched troupe that desires only me forever

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Posern by Diea May

Laundering conformity for the normalized, Performing impersonations for the half-blind, I stake out a centerfold in your heart, Remaining efflorescent – for your sake.

I wish I could fly out into your world, Pretend that I am your idol, Your heroine in pink tights But I know that I have failed you, dear.

Knowing not where you are, I feign regret, Chuckling slightly without remorse, Without apathy, without lethargy. I stifle, bicker and break your soul in two.

I wish I could fly out into your world, Pretend that I am your idol, Your heroine in pink tights But I know that I will fail you always, dear.

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Who Killed Kurt Cobainn by Guillermo Mendoza

I know it seems I killed myself However I am not to blame Partying hard without a care The one I blame is fame Falling in love With Love herself Enticed these after hours Now I lay in this urn Never to see my sprouting flower I know it seems I killed myself However I am not to blame Remember me and not to fall Into this trap of love and fame

Ty Say

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Danse Pathétiquen by Raul Meza

Oh Lover! Let me tell you... It was insane. Crazy. Completely Ludicrous. You won’t believe it, lover-mine. You won’t believe it at all!

We ate Sophia, lover. We cut her up, removed her heart, stomach spine and brain, And we sautéed, flambéed, and deep fried her! Sprinkled pepper and some sweet and sour sauce. I set the table oh-so-pretty, lover-mine! Roses tinted the room, And the audience aghast! You couldn’t even imagine. You can’t even believe it!

They gathered around the table, deary, our dinner guests! I saw Jesus and Coleridge, Nietzche, Shakespeare and Blake!

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Frida, Sylvia, and Gaga were there, too! We all ate Sophia! A feast of brains and hearts, lover-dear. A cannibalistic delirium sweetheart! A Bacchanalian shindig, of abandonment, insanity, and bliss! Oh it was so much fun!

But...

…. I could not keep her down, lover! She wriggled and moved, whispering sweet-nothing in my ears and — tell you what? She made sense! I agreed! But then! You said I was fat! So, my hands formed a cup, AND I THREW HER BACK UP!

I’d rather live in my glass house, lover-dear. Stack, stack, stack, stack the glass bricks, brother-mine, Stack them high on my glass house. I’ll dance ever so beautifully for you, lover-dear. Everyone will watch, Everyone will love me, dear! You’ll adore me, in all my finery! With my castanets and bright feathers, You’ll adore me; You’ll see! Finally!

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Pirouette, pirouette, Plié, plié, Passé, Glissade, Frappé, Grand Jeté, Pirouette, plié, Plié, pirouette, Jazz Hands!

Ughhhh....

But then! Ugh! Stupid Sophia! She became an apple-snake, And crawled in my sleeve, …....and...... The bitch bit me! Twin fangs in my hand, oh how they hurt!

Oh! My head hurts, lover! Oh! It’s too much, lover-dear! The seven fangs, they whisper horrid things! It is so horrid! Horrible-Horrible-Horrible The stars no longer sing your name, lover! You’re not number one to me, lover! Nobody wants you, lover-formerly-mine!

You pull my strings futilely, lover-dear! I’ll no longer dance for you, like a pretty marionette!

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You’re not my puppetmaster, you’re not my owner! No, no, no, no! Oh Rose! You no longer tint my world! You- You, cut my purple strings lover, and I fall to the ground, broken and beaten Face gashed open, blood drip-dripping, and Sophia happily flowing from my mouth.

But lover-mine, My beautiful wings grew in, Red and black, like a phoenix—or snake! But... you don’t care, do you lover? You built me a cage, made of gold, glass and bricks... Chain me up in chains of silver? I’d rather die! You won’t let me leave! I’d rather die than dance for you! No more! No more! No more! I’ll take your shiny pistol, and empty my head, Splatter my brain all over your stage! After all... that’s what you wanted, isn’t that right, Lover-Formerly-Mine?

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Artist Unknown

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Gonen by Raul Meza

I dreamt, dreamt of colors and life. I woke, abruptly. Woke, and dressed. It was an annoyingly bright, sunny day. I walked down to the store, and bought A Monarch butterfly, a beautiful butterfly. It flew around the small park, A happy blur of orange, white and black, Fluttering around, bouncing vivid color. I rolled my eyes. I snatched the bouncing color In my fist and crushed it in my palm, Feeling the delicacy shatter in my hand. I walked, watching the remains Flutter down, into a plastic-black trashcan.

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Your Sensesn by Yvette Correll

My silent screams you can hear My camouflaged tears you can see My hidden fears you can smell My invisible blood you can taste My mysterious wounds you can feel My colorful mask only you can sense

Gloria Chiao

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Hyang Kim

Engravedn by Yvette Correll

Engraved in my heart remains her name Engraved in my mind remain the memories Engraved in my journal remain the stories Engraved in my heart remains the pain

Reverse the engraving Fill in the grooves Patch up my heart Cover her name Hide the letters Erase her

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Reverse the engraving Fill in the grooves Clear out my mind Cover the memories Hide the images Erase her

Reverse the engraving Fill in the grooves Tear out my journal Cover the ink Hide the words Erase her

Reverse the engraving Fill in the grooves Smooth out my heart Cover her name Hide the memories Erase the stories

Engraved in me remains her Cover her name Hide the past Erase her Completely.

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On the Rivern (Her interpretation) by Ani Nahapetyan

On the river The bent old willow Watches waters Happily running. Everything in this dream-world Has a beginning and an ending, Everything evaporates without any trace leaving. And the head sagging, Cries the old willow, The waters merrily Come near and go.

On the Rivern (The word-by-word translation)

On the river The willow has bent, And watches silently The running waters. ...In the dream-world Everything forever Comes, goes And evaporates with out trace. And the head sagging, It cries, The waters happily Come, go.

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I Saw You Again After Yearsn (Her interpretation) by Ani Nahapetyan

I saw you again after years, With crying heart I smiled, You were the same girl, the prettiest one, So intimate, so dear to my heart. You looked at me with a mild smile; I passed near you proud and sublime. A gleaming dream spread around me. And I looked back with melancholy. It’s not true, my sweetheart, never has separated, Never has disjoined us the cruel life. My darling sister, please heal my heart, As I can’t live without you, being apart.

I Saw You Again After Yearsn (The word-by-word translation)

I saw you again after years, My heart cried, but I smiled, You were the same girl, the most wonderful of all, Intimate, so dear to my soul. Your eyes mildly reposed on me; I passed near you proud and majestic. A gleaming dream waved around me. And I looked back with unrestrained melancholy. It’s a lie, my sweetheart, never has separated, Never has separated us the cruel life. My sister, heal my grief-stricken heart, Look, I am always your, I am yours forever.

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Julio Buys A Skirtn By Joshua Castro

ULIO STARED AT THE PACKAGE he held in his hands with Jtrepidation. It was a postal box: medium sized, mostly white with red lining at the top and bottom and printed with blue lettering. A sticker with his name and address had been slapped onto the center of it. The return address indicated the parcel’s origin as European. He had been anticipating its arrival for almost two weeks. But now that it was finally here in his home, all he could do was stare at it with a sense of dread. He stood still for ten minutes before finally deciding to open it. He ripped the seal and poured out the contents. Out slid a piece of clothing nicely wrapped in plastic. A sticker on it indicated a waist size of thirty-eight. Julio laid out the item on his bed. “I can’t believe I actually bought this,” he groaned silently to himself. It was a decision he’d been struggling with for a couple of weeks. You see, Julio Flores had decided to buy himself a skirt.

—II—

Julio’s desire to incorporate a skirt into his wardrobe had occurred pretty much at random one May afternoon. It was his day off and his girlfriend, Taylor, had already left for work. Happy to have the TV all to himself, Julio poured a cup of cereal and plopped down on the living room sofa. He caught himself mindlessly flipping through channels before stopping for a second on “The View”. He wasn’t nec- essarily a fan of this show but had found himself drawn to the topic the gals were discussing: Men In Skirts. It seemed there had been some hoopla going on over in Europe about a new line of skirts that designer Marc Jacobs had added to his spring collection. Jacobs had introduced skirts for men and was planning to sell them through the local Euro H&M outlet stores. Julio gazed intently at the segment that featured some of the male employees of the show trying on the skirts to see what they would look like on men. Julio couldn’t help but snicker at the older men showcasing black, knee-length skirts, equipped with undershorts, that flowed around them as they walked about the studio. It was obvious that there had been no real effort by the staff to tastefully coordinate the outfits,

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which made the men seem silly. Julio looked at them with some in- terest. To his own disbelief, he started to think that they didn’t look too bad. He laughed in spite of himself. The idea was too silly. The segment had finished and Julio turned off the television. He sat back and pondered why he thought it was funny that men could wear skirts in the first place. His deep contemplation was evident in the careful chewing of his Coco Puffs cereal. He swallowed. “Well,” he thought aloud, “it looks gay.” That seemed simple enough. But Julio had never been the type to simply settle for the surface answer of anything he wished to know. He liked to dig up the roots. “What makes it gay? And why do I think that?” It seemed as if a spark had been struck in his very consciousness. He had grown up always wearing pants. It was all he knew. When he was a child, his mother dressed him in pants. At school, all the boys wore uniform pants and the girls wore skirts…and pants. He had never thought of that before. But, no! That’s just the way it was! Here he was now at twenty-four years old, proudly rocking his Urban Outfitters slim jeans. It was his choice. He placed his cup on the floor and rose from the sofa. He adjusted his crotch. He observed his reflection in the blank TV screen, noticed the way his jeans clung tightly, almost obsessively, to his hips and legs. He readjusted his crotch. Had his jeans always been this tight? True, he had been instructed to wear pants by his parents, by his school, by the advertisements that surrounded him everywhere he went almost all his life. But he was an adult now and chose for him- self what he could wear. Or did he? Julio headed to his bedroom to inspect his closet. He slid the mirror door open. His side of the closet always smelled faintly of a musky scent. He bypassed his shirts and sweaters, which hung neatly on the left side of his side of the closet. He inspected his lower-wear, which consisted of a lot of pants: some tight, some baggy; some casual, some formal. The colors were basic: black, blue, brown, tan. He also had shorts of various styles: gym shorts, summer shorts, sleep shorts. That was it. Julio was alone in the apartment he shared with his girlfriend. So it was without caution that he slid the mirror door closed and opened up her side of the closet. He began inspecting her wardrobe: luminous dresses, mini-skirts, ripped jeans, thigh-high shorts. Julio felt the strangest tinge of jealousy. “Hmm. Well, that doesn’t seem to be fair, does it?” It was more than apparent that Taylor had more options than he

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had. He was stuck with pants or shorts. She got that, too----and then some. But why was that? He closed the closet door and returned to the living room. This was a question that was burning in his mind now. He sought to know more. The ancient Greeks traveled great dis- tances to the Oracle of Delphi whenever there was a cosmic question to be answered. Julio, however, merely opened up his laptop and typed into the search engine: “Men Wearing Skirts”. The first thing that came up was a Facebook group page entitled: “Women wear pants. Let men wear skirts!” He clicked on it and found himself thrust into a world he had previously not imagined. It was a world of men in skirts. The information for the group page heading read as follows: “Women were once forbidden to wear pants. Now all women wear pants and whatever else they want to wear. It’s time for men to do the same! Clothing should be individual and not socially constrict- ed. Gender fashion equality. It’s only fair.” Julio remembered reading in one of his history classes about how women in the past had been discouraged, prevented even, from wearing pants. Pants represented power and freedom to many women because they were denied them. So why couldn’t men don the skirt? He clicked on the photo album titled “Modern Men In Skirts” in which various pictures of male runway models or daring male celebrities were giving the skirt a go. Some of them looked a bit too feminine for his taste, but most of them still exuded a semblance of masculinity. Julio was impressed. Another album, “Men’s Fashion Throughout Time,” featured men from ancient civilizations: Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, all of whom wore some type of skirt. He was intrigued. “But what does this mean for me?” Julio asked himself. He paused for a moment while he envisioned himself browsing through the women’s section at K-mart. He laughed in spite of himself. THAT was never going to happen. Nor would he be stupid enough to want to try on one of Taylor’s skirts. For one thing, she was about half his size. So he doubted that anything that would fit her would ever fit his five-foot-ten frame. Suddenly it hit him like a runaway train. He could order one online for himself. His girlfriend would never even have to know. He got a bit excited at the idea. But, wait. Why was he being so sneaky about it? It was as if he was planning on having an affair. What was it about the idea that had him sweating at the palms and plotting secret plans to purchase contraband on the black market?

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He couldn’t really answer. Yet, still, he wanted to do this. He had already committed the greatest crime of all, which was considering the idea to begin with. He might as well grab the bull by the horns. Where could he order a women’s skirt that would fit him? Why did he have to buy a WOMAN’S skirt in the first place? After all, he doesn’t wear women’s t-shirts. He doesn’t buy women’s perfume, or women’s shoes, or women’s PANTS for that matter. He buys MEN’s products: clothing and accessories that are designed for him. A man. “Where can a dude find a man’s skirt?” he queried. The first thing that came to mind was the man who started this all for him---Marc Jacobs. He scoured the web for almost twenty minutes, looking for the designer skirt he had seen on TV, but found nothing for sale in the U.S. He was stumped. He decided to check eBay. Immediately, listings for men’s skirts, under the pseudonym “men’s kilts”, appeared on his screen. Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of this before? He could just buy a kilt. Scotsmen had been wearing kilts for ages and had always gotten away with it. The only problem though was that Julio wasn’t Scottish, or even Scottish-American. He was Mexican-American. But, still, this seemed the best course of action. He would buy a kilt for himself. Somehow the very word “kilt” seemed to erase all fears of femi- ninity from his mind. Instead, it filled him with the reassurance he sought. What kind of kilt would he buy? He didn’t want anything that would be too hokey. He didn’t want to walk around in anything plaid. He searched for plain kilts. He found one seller who was offering normal looking kilts that sold for $60 apiece. That wasn’t unreasonable. Most pants he bought at Urban Outfitters sold for about as much. As if responding to a cue, Julio once again pulled at the crotch of his pants and readjusted his junk. It was starting to annoy him. He had never realized before how tight his jeans felt. It was as if his legs were suffocating. He was growing more and more excited now about his new kilt. He had been nervous about a skirt, but was sure that only real dudes could wear an awesome kilt. Julio giddily rocked his shoulders with enthusiasm. “What color should I get?” There were several available colors: basic black, navy blue, charcoal grey, khaki tan, olive green. After much deliberation, and a mental over-view of which color would best match his available t-shirts, Julio decided on the navy blue. If he liked the way it looked in person then he could always buy others later. “Measure yourself!” the seller urged, “If you’re a size thirty-two in

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pants then you’re not gonna be a size 32 in kilt. The pants compa- nies lie to you!” Julio could not help but laugh at this dire warning. He had stumbled upon a vast pants conspiracy. Regardless, it seemed he now must measure himself if he wanted to gain his coveted kilt. But, in truth, he had never measured his waist before. He had always just tried on pants in the store and assumed that whatever size fit him was his real size. Did they even have any measuring tape? Julio thought of texting Taylor to ask if they did, but decided not to bother her. He knew that she would only ask him why he wanted it to begin with. Thinking on his feet, Julio grabbed the next best thing. He reached into his utility drawer and withdrew his STAN- LEY POWERLOCK 25 inch tool measuring tape. It was essentially the same thing. He summoned his inner Tim the Tool Man and grunted, “More tape. More power. Ho-ho-ho!” He measured himself as best as he could, without the tape slip- ping from his fingers and snapping back rapidly into its base, and found himself to be more or less a size thirty-eight. Content with this finding, Julio selected his kilt specifications and hit BUY NOW. It was done. Julio found it amazing at how easy it had been for him to pur- chase his new kilt, which was really a skirt, and how comfortable he seemed to be with the idea of his wearing it out in… public. Julio rubbed the back of his neck. “What the hell have I done?”

—III—

Over the next two weeks, Julio anxiously waited for the arrival of his custom made kilt. He could not remember the last time he had been simultaneously excited and fearful over buying clothes. The only other experience he could equate it with was whenever he went to Victoria’s Secret to buy Taylor a birthday, Christmas, or Julio’s-in- the-mood gift. The impending consequence of his actions weighed heavily on his mind. So it was on the following Friday that Julio decided to subtly ques- tion his closest male friends during their guy’s night out. The Chili’s waitress arrived with a basket of chicken strips appetiz- ers and placed them on the table where Julio, Darian, and Joseph shared a booth. “Nice and hot. You guys ready for your drinks now or do you still need more time?” “I’d like to order you, if I could. You look like a tall glass of water and I am thir-stay.” Darian puckered his lips for emphasis and then

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gave her a knowing wink in case his line went over her head. “I’m sorry. They don’t serve me in sippy cups.” The waitress averted her gaze from Darian and smiled at the other two. “You boys let me know when you’re ready.” And with that, she moved on to assist other customers. Julio shook his head disapprovingly at Darian. “Dude, you go about it all wrong. You come off too strong. You’ve gotta respect these chicks or they treat you like shit.” “They’ll treat you like shit anyway,” Joseph added somberly. He tilted his head back against the cushioned seat and allowed his mind to wander off to girlfriends past. Darian shrugged. “Ya’ll just jealous ’cause you don’t got my swag- ga.” He leapt from his seat and proceeded to perform an impromptu Crip Walk which was executed rather poorly. Julio rolled his eyes. “Okay, Snoop. We get it. You’re black. You don’t have to prove it to us every five minutes. Joseph and I are Mexi- cans but you don’t see us doing the Macarena every chance we get.” “Julio, you’re the whitest looking Mexican I know!” Darian scoffed. Julio gave a sigh. “Like I said, you try too hard.” “Julio, you were talking about Scotland and shit,” Darian responded. Joseph turned to face Julio. “You were talking about their kilts?” “Yeah,” Julio admitted. “I just thought it was different how all the guys there wear kilts and are completely fine with it. That’s all.” “I know, right?” Darian replied. “What’s up with that? That ain’t right.” “It’s part of their culture,” Joseph stated. “You know those Europe- ans.” “So you guys wouldn’t wear it? If you went there, I mean.” Julio dipped his chicken strip into the ketchup. They were silent for a moment while each boy considered the question. Joseph shrugged. “Maybe, if I was there. When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” Julio felt a bit of relief and decided to ask his next question. “What about here? Would you still wear it here?” “Hell, no!” said Joseph and Darian in sync. Julio was taken aback. His face fell. “Why not?” “Because we’re here and they’re there,” Joseph concluded. Darian nodded emphatically. “You think my black ass is gonna walk around in a skirt?” “Kilt,” Julio interjected. Darian waved off the correction. “Skirt! Kilt! Tutu! Whatever!

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All I know is if my ass shows up in the ‘hood looking like Kanye- mutha’fuckin’-West in a leather skirt, it’s gonna get beat!” “What hood?” Joseph demanded. “We live in Alhambra.” “Well, you go east of Atlantic Avenue and those homies get you for real,” Darian assured us. Joseph’s elbow rested on the table with his hand against his tanned forehead. “Darian, you’re an idiot. I love you, man, but you’re an idiot.” Julio had remained silent all this time. “So that’s a ‘no’ on kilts then?” “It’d look kinda gay,” Joseph admitted. Darian faced Julio to settle the discussion. “Julio, guys don’t wear skirts, man. Period. You wear a skirt, you go to hell. Read your Bible.” Julio’s mind checked out of the conversation. He knew that wear- ing a kilt might push conventional American norms, but he had never imagined that his immortal soul might be in peril…

—IV—

That Sunday Julio went to church. Julio never went to church. Though he considered himself a Catholic, it had always been more of a hereditary title that he had received from his parents rather than a conscious decision about reli- gion. It was in the same vein as his inherited Mexican-ness. Observed, acknowledged, but hardly ever practiced. He was greeted at the door by an elderly Hispanic woman who grabbed him by the hand and muttered something that sounded like a Spanish prayer. She then dipped her fingers into the small, silver holy bowl by the doorway and signed a cross onto his fore- head. Done with him, she shoved him past her into the church with a “pase, hijo” and threw herself at the next sinner entering the doorway. The church was just as ominous and mystifying as he had re- membered. The sconces on the walls illuminated the church with a glowing fervor. He never could stand those uncomfortable pews or listening to the droning of the Spanish sermon. He took a seat in the back and waited for Mass to finish. At the end of the service, he made his way to the confessional booth. He had never used one of these before. He never really felt compelled to ask forgiveness for anything---until now. He sat on the seat and closed his curtain. He had seen people go to confession in movies and on TV but had no real clue how to do it in real life. He won-

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dered where he was supposed to insert his dollar bill. “Speak to me, hijo.” Julio’s head surveyed his surroundings in confusion. He sat still with the dollar still in his hand and whispered, “God?” A small win- dow opened to his left, and he vaguely saw the distorted face of the aging priest through the screen. “No. Not God, hijo. But a close friend of his. What is troubling you?” the Padre asked. Julio wasn’t sure of the proper etiquette when it concerned salva- tion, so he threw caution to the wind and asked, “Padre, what does the Bible say about men wearing skirts?” The Padre considered the question and replied, “Men from what country?” Julio scrunched his forehead. “Does it matter?” “Yes. It does. Some cultures have men in skirts or dresses and oth- ers do not.” Julio considered the Padre’s response. He already knew all this. He needed to know if it was right or wrong. “So it’d be okay for me to wear a kilt then?” The Padre paused and breathed. “No, hijo. I’m sorry.” Julio protested. “But you just said---” “If you are Scottish, that is one thing,” the Padre elaborated. “But I know who your parents are. Yes, I remember you, hijo. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been away from the church for some time now. I know you are a Chicano, and Chicanos don’t wear women’s clothes.” Julio felt grossly offended. For one thing, he hated being called a “Chicano”. And for another, he felt the Padre was being completely ignorant. “What about Jesus, huh? He wore a robe. That’s kind of like a long skirt. You’re wearing a robe, too!” “That is different, hijo. These robes are heavenly ordained,” the Padre reasoned. “By who? Sears?” Julio exclaimed. The Padre lifted his hand to silence Julio and continued. “The Bible says, ‘Man shall not adorn himself in the clothing of women and woman shall not adorn herself in the clothing of men.’” Julio was now indignant. “Where does it say that? Show me!” The Padre dismissed Julio’s demand with a wave of his hand. Julio tried to settle down a bit. The Padre would pay him no attention if he was being hostile. “So then, Padre, what IS the proper dress for men and women?” The Padre closed his eyes as he considered and then opened them

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once more as he laid out his final verdict. “Pants for men. Dresses for women.” “So then why do women wear pants, huh?” Julio shot back. The Padre stared directly at Julio now, for he had been facing away from him the entire conversation. Julio stared into the deepset eyes of the Padre, which were almost threatening in appearance. The Padre leaned in closer and whispered almost reverently to Julio, “Be- cause your generation is a sinful one.” And with that, he leaned back and declared, “Pray to the Father, Mother, and Son and you will be forgiven for your sinful thoughts. Amen.” He then slid the window shut.

---V---

Almost two weeks and several what-the-hell-did-I-dos later, Julio stared remorsefully at his newly delivered kilt. However unsure he might have felt, Julio nevertheless found himself examining it with intense fascination. It was a dark blue utility kilt with side cargo pockets and brass studs. There were two snap closures (one on the inside, one on the outside) and two small side buckles that added extra fastening. The hemline was a standard twenty-three inch drop. Julio figured it to be about knee-length. That seemed appropriate to him. He was fine with displaying his lightly-haired legs to the world, but wasn’t too keen on showing off any thigh. His upper gams had yet to see the light of day, and he’d rather it stay that way. Julio glanced at the digital clock by his bedside. It was half past five, but his girlfriend wouldn’t be home from work until seven o’clock. Just to be safe, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and checked Taylor’s Facebook status. She had tagged herself at the mall where she worked: [Bored outta my mind. Can’t wait to get off in an hour to go home and see my babe! ;-)] He let out a relieved sigh. He had more than enough time to try on the kilt to see how it would feel. He approached his kilt with the immaturity of a child who resists the swallowing of cough syrup out of the irrational fear that it might somehow hurt him. “Enough,” he demanded of himself. “Just wear the damn thing!” And with that rallying cry, Julio stood up, unlatched the top of the kilt, wrapped it around his waist, and then snapped it close. He did it! Julio Flores was wearing his very first skirt. He stood silently for a moment to get a hold of himself. He swayed his body back and forth

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a bit to get a feel of it. It felt …it felt…weird. That was all that came to mind. He felt weird. Julio decided to walk around the bedroom. He observed the extra leg movement he now had as he strode about the room. His geni- tals, too, were hanging loose underneath rather than being tightly compressed in his jeans as they had become accustomed to over the years. He liked the way it felt. The stance of his walk grew more easy. He left the confines of his room and paraded about the entire apart- ment. He took notice of the breeze that circulated between his legs. He felt free. Julio walked back to his bedroom and looked at himself in the closet door mirror. The color suited him nicely and somewhat matched the shirt he was already wearing. He wore a smug smile on his face and gave himself the look over again and again. “I look great,” he stated confidently. “Pretty damn hot, too.” Julio sauntered over to his iPod dock and selected his favorite Lady Gaga song. He then performed an impromptu fashion show, always winking at his own reflection. “Walk, walk. Fashion, baby. Work it. Move that bitch c-razy. Walk, walk. Passion, baby. Work it. I’m a free bitch, baby!” He managed to retain every ounce of masculinity he had always possessed. His penis hadn’t fallen off. It wasn’t the end of the world. In fact, he was overcome with an unbridled desire to debut himself to the world. Julio was living proof that men could wear a skirt, if they wanted to, without losing face. He burned with the conviction of a missionary, ready to spread the gospel to all men. He would have walked right out that front door if it hadn’t been for one thing: the kilt was too big. He hadn’t realized it at first because of the excitement he was ex- periencing, but during his catwalk the kilt began to sag on his butt. It then began to slip down his hips altogether and sat mid-waist. He attempted to tighten the buckles, but it only scrunched up the top of the kilt, which made it look poorly. “Damn it,” he lamented. His debut would have to wait. It was then that he heard a faint jingling sound coming from the living room. Julio whipped his head around to face the digital clock, which displayed the time as 7:05 p.m. He held onto the sides of his kilt and rushed to the front door. The locks were being penetrated.

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The doorknob was rolling. Julio peered through the peephole and was horrified to see Taylor standing outside. Julio let out a small whimper and slid back the deadbolt Taylor had just struggled to unlock. He tried to unfasten the buckles of his kilt but began to panic as Taylor once again began unlocking the door. He made a mad dash for his bedroom and slammed the door. Their bedroom had no lock on the door, so he knew he had mere minutes to save himself. He ran back and forth around the room, all the while trying to unfasten the buckles that, while initially had been easy to tie, had now suddenly become impossible to untie. He abandoned the buckles and undid the snaps. The kilt had slightly loosened its grip on Julio’s waist, but could not be easily taken off. He tried in desperation to pull the kilt over his head as if it was a t-shirt. Appreciating his own stupidity, Julio rolled his eyes and tried to shimmy out of the skirt instead. He had pulled it down to his knees but froze when he heard Taylor enter the apartment. She slammed the front door behind her and frightened Julio who in- stinctively attempted to run, but, because of the kilt wrapped around his knees, tripped instead. He was now on the floor wrestling with the pleated demon that clung viciously to his legs. He wanted to cry out or blow a whistle. Finally, he kicked the kilt off and watched it land on the floor a few feet away from him. He grabbed the box it had come in and stuffed the kilt inside. “Julio! Babe, are you home?” Taylor yelled from the other room. Julio, in his bare briefs, stood guiltily with the box in his hands and felt as if he was holding a bomb. At the sound of her approach- ing footsteps, Julio made a final desperate leap over his bed towards the window, threw the box outside, and hurled himself onto the bed. “Hey, babe! Home so soon?” Julio asked. Taylor stared at her boyfriend lying on the bed in only his un- derwear and noticed he was breathing heavily and staring at her intently. She recognized it and groaned. “Oh, babe. I just got back from work, and I’m beat. Do you mind taking care of yourself right now and I’ll get you later?” Julio nodded emphatically. Taylor smiled and blew him a kiss. “Thanks, hon. I’m gonna shower first and then I’ll make us some dinner, ’kay?” Julio nodded again and let out a huge sigh of relief as Taylor dis- appeared into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

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—VI—

The next day, Julio sent an email to the eBay seller informing him of his situation. The seller was helpful and sympathetic. “It almost always happens to first time buyers,” the seller reassured him. He told Julio to send back the kilt and that they would in turn mail him a smaller size immediately. “I’ll even refund you for the shipping!” the seller added. Julio set about searching in the bushes outside of his apartment for the box he had foolishly thrown out of his window the night be- fore. It was outside that Julio encountered his disgruntled neighbor, Mrs. Kravitz, with whose head the airborne package had collided. After an apologetic twenty minutes, Julio was able to retrieve his box. He mailed it back to the retailer that same day. A week and a half later, Julio was surprised to find Taylor carry- ing in his newly arrived package as she settled in after coming home from work. “You ordered something?” she asked innocently. Julio leapt from the couch and instantly took a defensive stance. “No. Yeah. Maybe. Where’d you get that?” he asked her in an accusa- tory tone. “I ran into the delivery guy outside, so I signed for it,” she ex- plained, still carrying the box. She noticed Julio’s intent eyeing of the box and grinned curiously. “What’s in it?” She raised the box and shook it, trying to decipher the rattling contents inside. “Is it some- thing baaad?” she teased. “It’s nothing, babe,” he said, as he suddenly made a quick grab for the box. But Taylor, being quicker than Julio, dodged his reach. She now sensed his eagerness. “WHAT is your deal?” Her voice took on a mock-victimized tone. “It’s like you’re trying to hide something from me.” “I’m not trying to hide anything, Taylor. I just want my box. I’ve been waiting for it for weeks and I just--” Taylor’s eyes widened as a sudden realization dawned on her. Her mouth fell open, scandalized. “Oh. My. Gawd. You bought some kind of kinky sex toy for yourself, didn’t you? That’s why you’re acting all nutso.” Julio could see no other way out for himself than to just play along. “You got me. I bought a sex toy to get my freak on when you’re not here. A man’s got needs.” Taylor eyed Julio skeptically. “Well, what is it? What does it do?” Julio extended his pointer finger and reached around to his back-

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side to demonstrate the lewd act. “Well, first I take my finger--” “Ew!” Taylor tossed the box to Julio. “Forget it. I don’t wanna know, you perv.” It then occurred to Taylor that she had left her phone in the car. Taking advantage of the moment alone, Julio dashed to the bathroom with the package and locked the door. He hurriedly ripped open the box to examine the new kilt. It was the same as before, only a size smaller than the last one. He smiled and quickly wrapped it around his waist. Locating the snaps, he reached them together only to find that the buttons would not meet one another. “Nooo!” he moaned. In disbelief, Julio sucked in his belly. Using all his strength, he forced the buttons to meet. Holding his breath for ten seconds, he let out a powerful exhale and watched helplessly as his stomach protruded violently and ripped the snaps apart. The Battle of the Bulge had been lost, yet Julio refused to surrender either graciously or with dignity. “You’ve got to be FUCKING KIDDING ME!” he yelled to the kilt, which had fallen to the floor. Julio stamped on the inert skirt and made quite a raucous. He reached for the empty box and ripped it apart in retaliation against the Fates. It was then that Taylor knocked lightly on the door. “Babe, why are you yelling? Did you hurt yourself with your new sex toy? Do you need me to,” she groaned, “pull something out?” Defeated, Julio sat himself down on the toilet and hung his head in sheer disbelief at his poor luck. “No. I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.” “Okay, sweetie. I’ll go get dinner started then,” she said. And after a hesitant pause added, “You better wash your hands!”

* * *

Julio spent all of the next day deciding on his course of action. It was obvious that neither the size thirty-six nor the thirty-eight fit him properly. Nonetheless, he wanted the kilt badly and was deter- mined to remedy the situation by any means necessary. He chose not to contact the seller right away. He felt having to send back the kilt so soon would be too embarrassing. He decided that the easiest thing to do would be to simply gain more weight. That way he could fit into the size thirty-eight while at the same time finally get that Rob Kardashian-sized ass he had always wanted for himself. Over the next few days, Julio began consuming every edible thing in sight to “bulk up”. Taylor had noticed the sudden junk food rush,

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but didn’t become fed up with the new diet until he began to eat in bed. “That’s it, Julio! Quit porking over everything,” she warned him, “because I love you and whatever, but if you get fat then I’m dump- ing your ass.” Julio chewed on a Twinkie as he considered this unexpected ultimatum and concluded that no girlfriend equaled no sex. The following morning, he trashed his Twinkie stash and changed his strategy. He decided that losing a little weight would probably be the better option.

* * *

For the following week, Julio dramatically devoted himself to his new cause. He cut down on his intake of fatty calories and avoided his old eating habits altogether. He also began to work out just a bit more. For starters, he began actually going to the gym after work instead of just saying that he would, like he normally did. He ran the tread- mill, spun the bicycle, and swam laps in the pool. Thanks to his new exercise regimen, crash diet, and a naturally fast metabolism, Julio lost the desired couple of inches that would get him triumphantly into his kilt. That upcoming Saturday afternoon Julio came home after work with great anticipation. The day had arrived, he felt, to finally slip on his kilt at long last and march proudly out the front door. It had been well over a month since he had originally ordered it those many panic attacks ago. Julio was now at a place emotionally and mentally where he was no longer concerned with the fear that had once fueled his insecurities. He had stuffed the kilt under the bed during the duration of his workout week and so headed straight for the bedroom once he got home. He discovered Taylor standing by the bed with the blue kilt in her hands. He froze. She glared. The jig was up. Taylor clenched onto the kilt and spoke with all the passion of a lover who’s been wronged. “JULIO FLORES!” she yelled, holding up the kilt in one hand. “Whose nasty ass skirt is this!? And why was it under OUR bed!? Are you cheating on me!? Who’s the bitch, Julio!? WHO’s the bitch!?” Julio, having attended many of Taylor’s past reprimands, knew to keep his mouth shut when he was in trouble. He knew never to speak until it was his turn. It was never his turn. He loved Taylor and knew her well enough to know that she needed to go through

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her three stages of grief before anything could be resolved. The first being anger and disbelief, the second being dramatic betrayal, and the third culminating in female empowerment. She had exhausted anger long before his arrival and was commencing her second stage. “WHY, Julio? Why? I gave you the best years of my life! I made love to you! Hell, I cooked for you! And this is how you do me? Is she prettier than me? Or is she just sluttier than me? Am I not good enough for you?” Julio remained still as the hysterics wound down. Taylor, still clinging to the kilt and waving it over her head as a flag of injustice, prepared for her grand finale. “You know what, BABE? I. DON”T. NEED. YOU! I work for MYSELF! I drive my OWN car! I make my OWN money! I’m young and still BEAUTIFUL! Who needs YOU?” And with that final exclamation, Taylor pressed the kilt against her face, fell to the bed, and sobbed pathetically. Julio sighed and walked over to her. How he had managed to stay with such a person for three years now was a testament to his patience and devotion. He sat by her and stroked her long black hair reassuringly. “Taylor. I’m not cheating on you. Why would I ever cheat on you? You’re perfect to me. I love you and only you. You know that. I wish you’d just talk to me rationally for once instead of always blowing up on me.” Taylor removed the kilt to reveal her face and sat up to face Julio. She sniffled. “So this tired looking skirt doesn’t belong to some nasty skank?” Julio laughed and cleared up the matter. “No, babe. It’s mine.” “Yours?” “Yes. It’s mine. Remember the box that came in last week? It wasn’t a sex toy. This was what I ordered. It’s for me to wear. Not you. Not some skank. Me.” He smiled at her, confident that he had fixed everything. Taylor’s face fell once again as she uttered a muffled, “Oh, my god…” “Yeah. You must feel pretty dumb right now, huh?” he surmised. He leaned in to hug her but she pushed him away and jumped up from the bed. “God, Julio! You’re GAY?” Julio leapt from the bed as well. “What? No!” Taylor’s hands went to her face and pressed against her cheeks. “You’re gay! I knew it. Everybody always said you were, but I always said, ‘No. That’s just the way he talks.’” Julio raised his hands in appeal. “Taylor, I am NOT gay! Why would you…what do you mean you ‘knew it’? What’s wrong with the way I talk?”

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“Well, you know,” Taylor confessed. “When you get excited your voice gets all high and you giggle.” “I do NOT giggle!” Julio said defensively. “I snicker, maybe, but I don’t giggle.” Taylor’s eyes rolled to the back of her skull. “You listen to Lady Gaga, Julio.” Julio’s mouth fell open in protest. “Hey! She is an American trea- sure!” he countered. Julio and Taylor stared at each other in silence as they both took in the situation they had found themselves in. They began to laugh. They laughed uncontrollably until their ribs could bear it no longer. Once they had composed themselves, Julio explained the entire mat- ter to Taylor. Taylor was relieved to know that he had only ordered a kilt. “I don’t get it, babe. Why didn’t you just tell me all this in the first place?” “I was afraid you wouldn’t approve,” he responded bashfully. Taylor smiled, displaying her perfect, white teeth. “Julio, I don’t care what you wear, so long as you look good wearing it. You know I just want you to be happy.” Julio felt foolish at the way he had acted over the past month. He should have known Taylor would understand. Their relationship was founded on an intimate bond they shared with one another. He was a fool to doubt her affections. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked. “Try it on.” She picked up the kilt and tossed it to Julio. He grinned and removed his pants. He then slipped on the kilt, which fit him perfectly. “Chow! Sex-ay!” Taylor hooted. “Shake it, but don’t break it!” Julio giggled. That is to say, he “snickered”. Taylor looked at her phone and realized she had to get back to work. Julio walked her to the door in his kilt and embraced her. She kissed him tenderly and then slid her hand up his skirt. Julio, sur- prised at Taylor, batted her hand away playfully. “My dear, how easy do you think I am? Respect me!” Taylor rolled her eyes at him as she opened the front door and ut- tered a last thought. “Oh, please. Get over it. That’s what girls have to deal with all the time. E-Z-Access.” She winked and closed the door behind her. Julio shook his head and stopped to smooth out his now ruffled skirt. He then received a text message on his phone. Joseph: Julio:

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—VII—

It was with a newfound air of confidence that Julio boldly stepped outside of his apartment that spring afternoon. He had taken all of half an hour prior to his excursion to carefully select his outfit. He settled on the following ensemble: first and foremost, his navy blue kilt, which sat comfortably on his hips and flowed with an effervescence about his legs; next, his favorite Beatles t-shirt, which was a colorful display of the band’s “Yellow Submarine”; next to last, Julio stepped into his well worn Vans sneakers, which were of a light gray checkered pattern; and last of all, almost as a safety measure, Julio grabbed his favorite sunglasses in an effort to conceal any ex- pressions of terror that his eyes might betray to the public. He stood just outside of his doorway and surveyed the scene. There were cars continually driving down his block; small children and their parents walking hand in hand in familial contentment; gardeners bounding from lawn to lawn, blowing aside discarded leaves with leaf blowers. Julio willed himself forward and descended the steps from his second floor apartment. He held onto the railing as if his legs could fail him at any second. He reached the bottom and looked out at the busy street before him. He then promptly turned around and went the back way towards the alley. He reasoned that taking the back al- ley was the faster route--not to mention the more discreet. Julio could not help but constantly look over his shoulder to see if someone had seen him yet. Nobody was out here. He was safe for now. Finally, the alleyway reunited with one of the main streets. Five more blocks down would be the main street where he was to meet Joseph at the Shake Shack for a quick lunch. What would Joseph say when he saw him? What would the people around him think? His ephemeral injection of confidence from Taylor had already begun to dissipate. He could feel himself begin to sweat slightly as his heart rate increased with every step. There was nobody around, but he could sense the impending scrutiny that awaited him. Julio dodged behind a nearby tree and reached into his kilt pocket for his phone. He had to text Taylor and get another confidence boost. He waited for her response, but it never came Julio reached back into his pockets, put away the cell phone, and retrieved his iPod. He knew exactly what song would make him feel better. It had been one of his father’s favorites to play around the house when Julio was a child. He pressed play and sang along, bliss- fully unaware of the environment around him.

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“We all live in a yellow submarine. A yellow submarine, a yellow submarine.” Julio marched to the beat of the drums and the trombone as it emanated from his earphones. The whimsicality of the song put him at ease. He was happy about his decision. He exuded an aura of sureness. His head was held cockily high as he paraded down the main street. He smiled brilliantly as the crowd on that busy Saturday afternoon began to take notice of this daring young man in his blue skirt. Before he’d even realized it, he had arrived at the Shake Shack. He entered the restaurant, and everyone stared. Why wouldn’t they? Before them stood a handsome, young man in a blue kilt, whose mysterious eyes were concealed behind reflective shades. It was a teenaged girl who made the first remark, offhandedly asking him if he was from Scotland. But Julio didn’t hear her. How could he with The Beatles pouring into his eardrums? He zoomed on by her and sat at the nearest empty table. He hadn’t seen Joseph anywhere. He reached for his phone and discovered three awaiting text mes- sages, all from Joseph, in this successive order: Julio immediately texted him back. Joseph: Julio grumbled slightly. Obviously Joseph hadn’t picked up on Julio’s angry tone as he had intended, but that was the way with texts. He shrugged it off and ordered his food. After ordering, he leaned against the nearby wall to wait for his order. There was another guy right next to him waiting, too. The guy was Hispanic and a couple of inches taller than Julio. His head was shaved, and he wore a long, white shirt that was one size too big. The voluminous t-shirt, Julio speculated, was probably intended to hide the fact that the guy’s shorts were pulled down way past his knees. The knee-high tube socks accentuated the effect. The whole time Julio had been observing the other guy’s outfit, he had failed to realize that the dude was doing the same thing to him. He asked Julio one thing: “Yo, that a skirt?” Julio, still wearing his sunglasses and listening to his music, looked straight ahead and pre- tended not to hear him. The other man, falling for the ruse, pulled out his cell and quickly began to text someone, all the while trying

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to discreetly take Julio’s picture with his phone. Julio’s order was ready. Relieved, he grabbed his to-go bag off the counter and left the restaurant. Joseph’s place was about a ten-min- ute walk away from the Shake Shack. About five minutes, something unfortunate occurred--the music died. Julio reached for his iPod and discovered the battery was dead. Suddenly, Julio could hear the silence. He was once again aware of his surroundings and the people that bustled around him, stealing quick glances at his skirt as they walked by him. He wrapped up his earphones and tucked his iPod back into his pocket. He paused as a boy in his late teens excitedly made a beeline for Julio. “Whoa! What’s with the skirt, bro?” he asked all too ecstati- cally. Julio said nothing as he gave the guy the look over. He was wear- ing a plain black t-shirt with a red cap slightly tilted to the side. His charcoal gray jeans were slim fitting and sagged on his butt, his red briefs clearly visible from behind. He kept reaching for his pants to pull them up but only actually ever moved them less than an inch from where they already were. His sneakers were a metallic crimson. “Where’d you get that? What is it?” the guy probed. “It’s a kilt,” Julio clarified. “Oh!” the boy exclaimed. Leaning in a little closer to the boy, Julio slyly confessed, “But it’s really just a skirt when it comes down to it.” “Right on, man!” the boy cheered. “Where’d you get that, though?” “I bought it online. They don’t really sell these in local stores, you know.” “Yeah, man. They sure don’t. Why’d you get it?” He seemed in- trigued. Julio paused to consider this. “Because I wanted to.” The kid nodded in understanding. Then, forgetting his manners, he reached for Julio’s kilt and felt the material as if it wasn’t at all a weird thing to do to a stranger. To further embarrass Julio, he added, “Are you wearing underwear?” and almost lifted the flap to see. Julio cried out, “DUDE!” and tore the skirt away from his grasp. “Oh!” the kid replied apologetically, “Sorry, bro! I just never seen this on a dude before. Can you turn around for me?” Julio was beginning to feel like a spectacle. Especially when passers-by began to stop passing by and focused on the exchange between the guy and the dude in a skirt. And even more so when the kid raised his phone up to take a video of Julio and yelled, “YouTube, son!”

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The kid embarrassed Julio just a bit; the accumulating crowd gathering around them to stop and look--parents and children, older folks, teens, and other guys and girls his own age--began to make him nervous; but it was what happened next that really did it. Before the crowd encroaching on him could come to their own conclusions about the skirted man, a passing car full of young, obnoxious men roared right past them. Their horn blared loudly to catch Julio’s attention. One of the douchebags in the car stuck his head out the window, stared straight at Julio, and shouted the one word he had dreaded since the inception of his new fashion: “FAG!” The kid filmed the car as it sped off and then turned back to focus his camera phone on Julio. The silence was deafening. Julio’s heart shattering could be heard for miles. He had lost his sense of self. He had never been so publicly humiliated. He felt the eyes of everyone around him. He heard snickering, whether real or imagined. His face turned a regrettable shade of red, and he began to sweat profusely. Turning quickly away, Julio dropped his to-go bag and bolted for home. He restrained himself from nearly ripping the kilt off alto- gether. At this point, he felt walking home in his underwear would be far less dehumanizing. He had finally turned onto his street after a torturous walk of shame when he happened upon two young children playing on their front lawn. The children stared intently as Julio attempted to rush past them, his skirt swaying gracefully around him. The little girl giggled and yelled out to Julio, “Are you a man?” The older boy grabbed his sister by the shoulder and scolded her, “You can’t ask people that!” The little girl ran screaming playfully into the house at Julio’s reproachful glare. The boy remained where he was and gazed at him. Julio could no longer take any more of the child’s silence and angrily stared him down. “WHAT are you looking at?” The boy innocently stated, “I didn’t know boys could wear skirts.” Julio was disarmed by the boy’s point-blank response. His shoul- ders relaxed, his facial expression softened, and his voice lost all fury as he responded to the little boy. “They can. If they want to.” The little boy, no longer intimidated by Julio, approached him and reached to feel the hem of Julio’s kilt. He rubbed the material between his little fingers. He must have become satisfied because he let it go. He walked around Julio and took the view in from all sides.

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“It looks okay,” the little boy concluded. Julio beamed and looked down at his skirt. “Thanks. I’m glad you think so.” “You’re not scared to wear it?” “I was,” Julio admitted, “because some people can be mean to people who look different. But nice people like you make it easier.” The little boy looked Julio in the eyes and shared his own experi- ence. “One time we went shopping for clothes and I wanted to get the same socks that my sister was gonna get ’cause I liked them. But my daddy got mad at me and told me that those socks weren’t for boys.” He paused in reflection for a moment but then smiled. “But my momma said to him, ‘Don’t be dumb! They’re boys’ socks, too, as long as a boy wears them!’” He laughed and lifted up his pant leg to show Julio his pink and black checkered socks. Julio smiled. The boy’s mother called for him and he rushed off inside, forget- ting to say goodbye to Julio. Julio allowed the moment to sink in. He readjusted his skirt, which had become slightly askew, and triumphantly sashayed on home.

Francine McKinney

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My Afternoon With Dominicn by Joshua Castro & Dominic A.

T WAS FIVE MINUTES ’TIL THREE one Saturday afternoon in Ilate January. I knew this distinctly because I had spent the last half- hour obsessively checking my phone for the time. I was sitting on the steps of my back porch for what seemed like forever, waiting for a boy to arrive. His name was Dominic. I had met this young man a week earlier at a Starbucks one town over. It had been an arranged meeting—the latest in a string of online encounters. He walked into the place, and I instinctively knew it was him. He looked different in person than in his pictures. His photos made him look intimidating, handsome, and too-cool-for-school. He was still all those things, mind you, but now he was a person to me rather than just an e-mail or a photograph. He approached my table, where I sat with a hot chocolate, engrossed by a book of Fitzgerald’s short stories. We spoke to each other, made introductions, and then made private, wild assumptions about one another. After an hour of chit-chat, we decided to leave the café. He offered me a ride home. This allowed us more time for conversation and speculations about each other. Upon arriving in the alley behind my house, he parked and we continued to talk. We sat for hours, actually, and talked. What we spoke about, I’m hard-pressed to remember. It was more his charac- ter than the actual words he spoke that kept me bound to my seat, unwilling to exit the vehicle; his smile, his eyes, the way he laughed that assured me that this was a man that I wanted to know, that I wanted to keep for my own. In any event, that was a week ago. He had disappeared from my life almost completely since then, which was why I was completely surprised this Saturday morning when he called me up out of the blue and asked to spend the afternoon with me.

—II—

He said he would come pick me up at three o’clock. Most people will designate a time and then either completely abuse it or ignore it altogether. But he didn’t. It was precisely three o’clock, and not a minute sooner or later, when his car rolled into my driveway. He saw me sitting and waved for me to come.

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I rose from the steps and walked slowly to the pickup truck, taking my precious time. I opened the passenger door and took my seat on his Hello Kitty upholstery. It took only one glance from him to make me feel rather uneasy and childishly insecure. He was in his early thirties and unintention- ally handsome. He wore blue jeans with a white t-shirt, and kept his unkempt dark brown hair under an olive green beanie. I believed him to be Hispanic, Mexican maybe, but he didn’t look it. The light complexion of his skin, most of which was hidden beneath a mosaic of brightly colored cartoon tattoos, glowed. In my eyes, he was per- fect. He started the truck, and we were off. “Hey, fat-ass!” he exclaimed. It was meant, I’m sure, to be a warm, teasing welcome, but it served only to make me feel even more un- sure of myself than I already did. “Hey,” I muttered. “How are you?” “Bored,” he responded. “Why else do you think I’m here?” He smiled at me while he said this. I nodded and turned my head away from him. “Of course. So what’s the miracle you called?” Dominic stared at me, almost astonished, and asked, “Does it have to be a miracle to think that I would miss you?” I ignored the question. I hadn’t seen him all week. If he was trying to be affectionate, he had a funny way of showing it. A silence per- vaded the space between us for all of five seconds before he started into one of his nonsensical rants, which I found to be annoyingly endearing. “Wouldn’t it be fun to be locked up in a prison in Russia?” he said. I turned to face him. “No. Not really. Why do you ask?” “I wonder how long it would take to learn the language? Russian is said to be the most difficult language to learn.” He became silent as he counted off the array of languages he supposed he knew, in an effort to compare them. “I wouldn’t know,” I remarked. “The only language I ever mastered was English. I tried French but could never get past French 1. Not because I couldn’t understand it, but because I just never finished the damn class. I know a little Spanish, too. But then again what Mexican blood doesn’t?” Dominic nodded slightly and then massaged his back with one hand. “My back is being a difficult bitch right now.” “I suppose you’ll want me to rub it for you?” I wagered. “No,” he replied. “If I were in a Russian prison, hopefully I’d find a dark haired man with light eyes and a huge, uncut penis to protect

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me and love. I’d smuggle things in my ass for him if he asked.” He nodded his head solemnly as if already pledging himself to his cell- mate daddy. “Well, I wish you and Demetri all the happiness in the world,” I replied. “And all the hot, passionate love-making you deserve.” Dominic received the blessing but reconsidered. “I just hope he won’t try and pimp me out for money or cigarettes. Unless I can pick the john, then why not make a few dollars? I wonder how bad the food is in my Russian prison?” I stared in bewilderment as I paused to find a suitable response, but he had by then already found a new topic for discussion. “Joshua, if you were black, your name would be Jerome or Charlie. And you’d run track instead of swimming laps, like you do. Did you know that, Jerome? You wouldn’t be allowed near a pool, because it would mess up your pretty little weave. It would fall to pieces in the water, Charlie. And that’s a pool health hazard, is what that is!” I laughed in spite of myself. In typical fashion, Dominic then cut through his own conversation with a new question. “What do you usually drink when you go out clubbing?” “Mostly mixed fruity drinks that aren’t too expensive. I like cranberry-vodkas or, ooh, cranberry-Malibu.” I licked my lips as my sensory memory kicked in. “I’m too much of a black chick at heart for that shit,” he explained. “Nothing but a cold forty-ounce for this bitch. You know, if I was a black girl, they would call me a ‘ride or die’ chick. A real ‘break a bottle over a nigga’s head’ chick. Lil’ Kim, Nikki Minaj, none of those girls would have anything on me. I’d have the magic c***, too.” He went on, but I’d become so uncomfortable now with his graphic descriptions of the female anatomy that I tuned out. I rejoined at the mentioning of the word “doughnut”. I guess I was a fat-ass after all.

---III---

“I haven’t had a doughnut in a long time,” he admitted. “I used to love crumb but then I cheated with a custard crème filled one.” My mouth salivated at the mentioning of a crumb doughnut. I was hungry. We’d been on the 10 freeway, and I hadn’t even noticed. “Where are we going?” I asked curiously. Dominic turned his head slowly towards me and grinned. “You’ll see…” he taunted. I would have rather he just told me, but that was Dominic.

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“I tried to watch ‘Paranormal Activity 2’ yesterday, but I just couldn’t get through the first fifteen minutes. You seen it?” he in- quired. “Yeah. I saw it on a date with this guy when it first came out. I didn’t like it. It was stupid, boring, and predictable.” “The movie or the date?” he asked. “Both.” I had forgotten all about that particular boy. I dated so many. It was hard to keep track of them. “Well,” he went on, “I fucken hate movies like that. Do some people really feel the need to record every detail of their life? I’m glad I don’t know anyone like that. That would be so annoying!” He honked the horn for emphasis. I felt in that moment that he would probably never care to look up my Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube accounts. “It’s the age we live in,” was all I said. He squinted his sparkling green eyes in scrutiny and pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t pay three dollars to see that. I hope you didn’t.” “I didn’t,” I assured him. I had paid thirteen. “Do you like ‘The Color Purple’, Joshua?” I did. A lot. My heart lit up when he mentioned it. “I hate to admit this, Josh, but if we were in The Color Purple, I’d be Shug Avery and you’d be Miss Celie. Po’, ugly Celie. You sho is ugly!” He snickered and stamped his foot. In the way that only he could, he had managed to somehow si- multaneously compliment and insult me all in one breath. “Thanks,” I said bitterly. “You’re the gorgeous Jazz singer and I get raped and have my daddy’s kids. Ass.” Dominic smiled at me, and I forgave him. “If I ever was to have my own kids, I would want it mixed with a black woman. Mixed children are usually the most beautiful since they get the best of both races. Well,” he amended, “unless they get the worst of both.” I was too shocked by his assertions to be offended. He sighed wistfully. “I wish I had a donkey.” I rolled my eyes and felt exasperated. I did not want to know what that transition was founded on, so I let him speak on uninterrupted. “I’m not sure what I’d name it.” “The kid or the donkey?” I mused. “The donkey, duh! Keep up, slow poke!” Believe me, it took my every ounce of sheer determination on my part to do just that. “So what would you name it?” I was interested now.

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“Oh, I-D-K. But I’d knit it a nice, oversized, red scarf. The donkey would be gray with traditional black markings. Donkeys are very sensitive to the cold. That’s why I’d knit my precious a scarf.” He said this all very matter-of-factly, insistent that his precious donkey ex- isted out there, somewhere, just waiting for his red scarf. Just waiting to be loved. In that moment, I, too, could empathize with the jackass. We exited the freeway and merged into the city streets below. I had a slight inclination as to where he was taking me, but I chose not to voice it and let him surprise me. Besides, I might be wrong. We drove for ten minutes or so before he pulled to a stop in front of a house that sat on a huge lot, almost like a farm. Turning off the ignition, Dominic jumped out of the truck, “This way, stupid!” I was unsure. We were on a stranger’s property. Nonetheless, I followed him any- way. He led me to the side of the house where there was a giant pen which housed four docile donkeys. He ambled over to the pen where the nearest donkey stood. Leaning against the rail, he reached one arm out as if to pet the donkey, but he didn’t. His arm remained outstretched, reaching but touching nothing. “I like to stop here sometimes before going up the pass on the way to my brother’s place. These donkeys are so cute and friendly. The first time I stopped here there was nobody home, but the second time the owners were home and told me they didn’t mind me. They only asked that I didn’t touch or feed the donkeys. But even if I can’t touch them, I like to give them a little love.” He wiggled his fingers and emitted a wave of affection that showered over them.

I looked at the donkeys and then at Dominic. They were normal looking, and smelly, and held no real fascination for me. But Domi- nic cared for them. So I decided that I would, too. I leaned against the rail with him and listened intently as he spoke up again. “It was pretty sad today, before I called you up. I went to the ani- mal shelter this morning to go see a dog I had my eye on; an older dog named Bertha. She looks scary, but she’s super sweet.” He tilted his head to look at me and smirked. “Kinda like you, Joshua. Scary looking, but nothing but sweetness.” I blushed, then felt insulted. He went on about Bertha. “I walked her once already a few weeks back and I wanted to get her out again. It helps to socialize them a little bit, you see.” He paused and then as an afterthought added, “She is so ugly with her overbite.” I had my fist balled up, ready to connect with Dominic’s head if

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he so much as compared me to Bertha again. “She was just a big cuddle bear. She looked interesting and needed a lil’ love. But, sadly, when I got there this morning, she was gone.” The smirk faded away from his face and gave birth to a forlorn look. “They said she’d been there too long and was old and sick anyway. So they put her to sleep.” Dominic’s voice softened, and a tiny tear, faint but visible, formed in his eye. “I wish I could have had Bertha. She was older but strong as fuck, though. I’m sad she’s gone, but I’m happy to know that I got to walk her once. Least she knew that somebody cared.” “Yeah. She was lucky somebody cared,” was all I could think to say. He waved goodbye to the donkeys and pushed himself off the rail. We walked back to the truck and drove back the way we had come. I began to wonder if our afternoon together was over. He drove silently for minutes at a time. His mind seemed concentrated on something important. “I wonder why Nettie never taught Celie’s kids English?” he asked. “That kind of annoyed me at the end of the movie that her chil’rens didn’t speak any English.” I nodded in agreement. “They lived in Africa. Guess they didn’t need it.” Dominic also nodded, “Bah! Dumb, chil’rens!” A light shower began to sprinkle the windshield. Dominic opened his window manually, grunting as he struggled with his truck’s old school crank, and stuck his arm out to feel the rain. “I can’t stand the rain,” he muttered. “The only thing I like about it is how it clears up the night sky. It gets real clear up there. I don’t feel so confused when the sky is clear.” I began to wonder if I would ever fully understand the complexity of his simplistic soul. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to my driveway. “Well,” he sighed, “I best be off.” I sat next to him in the truck, unsure of what to do. I waited, but he made no move or gesture. He only stared at me. Frustrated, I shook his hand and hopped out of the truck. I leaned into the window.“Will I see you again?” I asked almost too eagerly. He smiled at me knowingly. “Of course, dummy. Write me! I love snail mail.” I frowned. “Can’t I just text you?” “You can’t!” he laughed. “I don’t have a cell, remember?” I had for- gotten. I always forgot. “But even if I did, I would never read it! I told you I hate texting. It’s so cheap and quick, like bad sex. Not worth

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my time. Write me!” I nodded, waved goodbye, and walked away. As he drove off, he yelled out to me, “Love you, long time!” I smiled and went inside the house. It saddened me a bit to know that I couldn’t just easily text him whenever I felt like it. I hated knowing that I had to wait for him to get home to call me, if he did at all. I’d have to learn to be patient. I walked into the kitchen where there was a letter waiting for me on the counter. It was a letter from Dominic that had been written two days ago. And at its end, was signed: XOXO

Lorna Sylvester

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Contributorsn

Michael Becerra I started off writing a short story about a cup of black coffee who was being cornered by three glasses of milk in a dark alley. I then realized I had no idea what I was trying to say, something about caffeinated racism, maybe? I could have easily drummed up some profound anecdote about growing up in a multicultural city filled with people of all races, but then I remembered that my story is about a piece of kitchenware that yells at people. Really, the story came from insomnia. It was two in the morning the night before this assignment was due for my Creative Writing class, and I was drinking my third cup of coffee. If anything, this story is meant to be an endorsement for French presses. I think it would be helpful to the reader to know that a French Press is available for purchase at your local IKEA for a price comparable to that of this publication. Craigslist might also serve as a good source for a cheap coffee press. All you would have to do is wash it thoroughly and possibly get your blood tested after its first use. Heck, even if you have to run into a Starbucks at full speed, knock over an old lady (as a distraction), and grab one of these babies, do it. You really cannot put a price on a good cup of coffee in the morning. I am also not condoning the patronage of Starbucks, by any means. Friends don’t let friends drink Starbucks.

Eileen Sarah Campos I came up with the idea for this poem in my Creative Writing class. It was our beginning-of-class exercise. The reason for the exercise was to let our minds wander and write about absolutely anything that came to our minds. My mind decided to give an inventive spin on the images that the sunlight played on my closed eyes. When I first wrote this, it was a paragraph. Another assignment had us put it into lines. When I had finished putting my words in lines, I liked it, but I wasn’t completely happy with it. Throughout the rest of the semester I kept rereading and tweaking it till it until it sounded the way I thought it was meant to sound.

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Joshua Castro I was born in ’87 in Los Angeles, California. I attended San Gabriel Academy and graduated from Alhambra High School in 2005. I’ve attended ELAC longer than I care to admit, but hope to graduate soon with an A.A. I want only to thank family, friends, and those who’ve supported me along the way. While continuing to write short stories, I also hope to someday complete my novel, T.V. E , for future publication. This story, “Julio Buys a Skirt,” is derived almost in its entirety from personal experience. The fashion trend swept me off my feet a couple years ago, and I’ve been a supporter of men in skirts ever since. I just recently purchased my own skirted garments (utilikilts/kilts) a couple of months ago and have since become very much accustomed to them. I wrote this story in the hopes of obliterating the stigma that has been long held in American society about men/boys being allowed to wear skirts (and I say ALLOWED because like it or not, we are trained from birth about what to wear and how to behave based on our genders, which is ridiculous to me.) This story, “My Afternoon with Dominic,” believe it or not, was inspired by, and partially constructed from, an affectionate (and I use the word loosely) letter I once received from someone I once had a date with. I’m both happy and sorry to say that this story will outlive the actual relationship. However, I have no qualms about admitting to myself that this story would not have been possible without him, which is why I heartily credit him in the header. Thank you, Dominic, you complete ass. Xoxo.

Aaron C. Higareda I lived in Rosemead, C.A. most of my life, but moved to East L.A. to live with my girlfriend, Bianca, and daughter, Amina, in the summer of 2011. I have been attending ELAC for six semesters, and next fall I will be pursuing a Political Science degree and an English degree at Cal State L.A. I intend to learn all that I can in order to become a better writer, and hope to help my community by getting involved in local government. I started writing poetry in the spring of 2010 and sort of just fell into it. By the end of summer of that same year I made writing a priority but was surprised and a bit overwhelmed

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that there is so much to learn about the craft. The Blue Backpack: This piece was written with respect for the great William Carlos Williams. As a creative writing assignment I had to chose a poem and imitate the poet’s form. I learned the power of enjambment and I learned what Williams meant when he says, “No ideas but in things.” Blue Beta Fish: I was inspired after a few minutes of observing this beautiful fish swimming around. Sometimes it would jolt violently, and I felt her pain because no matter how hard she tried she ultimately stayed on top of my dresser. A walk to remember: This was my first attempt at a Shakespearian sonnet, and it was a bit frustrating, but once I figured out the puzzle, I enjoyed it very much. Every day I would walk to ELAC, and on my way there I would just think about how I felt and what I saw in my new home.

Lisa Higuera I am a lover of literature, poetry, art and creativity. The power of the word has taken my breath away many a time in my life. I graduated from UC Berkeley in 2008 with a Bachelor of Arts in Chicano Studies, a minor in Ethnic Studies and an unofficial minor in Film Studies. While an undergraduate student there, I uncovered a passion for theory, art and the humanities. I was very fortunate to return to Los Angeles and take Professor Gurfield’s courses in English Literature for the span of one year, where she most generously introduced me to a wide range of authors, poets and the respective writing styles of these artists. While reading Gustave Flaubert’s “Madame Bovary” in one of her courses, I became very frustrated and annoyed by the character of Emma. After completing the novel in an almost vulnerable sort of irritation, I became motivated to explore my discomfort and figure out why this novel left me feeling so angry. I looked at my notes on Flaubert’s novel over and over, and afterwards began reading what published critics and authors had to say about the book. A pattern began to surface, and I realized why I felt so offended. I had to put

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my emotion in words, and this piece of writing was then birthed. I am very grateful to Professor Joan Gurfield for providing a space where I was successfully able to exit my comfort zone and give voice to emotion.

Arthur Liu I am from China. My Chinese name is Ang Liu. I have been in America for two years. I like America. Last year I enrolled at ELAC. I am very lucky because I met Sara Behseta, my English teacher. She is the first teacher who said my writing is good. She gave me the confidence to finish this article (“Aging”). My hometown, Yantai, is a small and beautiful coastal city in the east of China. I love the sea. The sea gives me the gift of romance and fantasy. I always dream of being a pirate to steer my ships across the ocean. Before I came to America, I studied in a medical college for three years. This experience let me know too much about life. Birth or death, growing or aging, health or disease: they are all just like a course of medicine. Life is too small for the world; it is too short for the time. Life begins and ends, ends and begins. We all are in the cycle of nature. From that time, I have thought life is so insignificant that I began to become indifferent to life. But after I read Tuesdays with Morrie, I found I was wrong. Life is like a meteor—short but beautiful.

Luis Madrigal I wrote “Bury Me in My Rings” about my own funeral and my partner. The inspiration came from an album titled with the same name. I have a joke with my partner that when I die I want to be buried in all my rings, as I have a lot of really gaudy ones, and he always replies that the only ring I’ll get buried in is my wedding ring. I can’t help what will become of my partner when I die, even though hopefully it’s not any time soon. I want him to know that I’ll still be there even when I’m not really here. “These are the Streets” was inspired by a piece of land I see when I come back home. I can see houses and buildings I have never been near, and can only visit through seeing them from the freeway. I wondered about what or who is out there and the secrets this hidden world holds.

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Diea May Writing came to me right along with puberty. It was as if the power of the feminine, with its cyclical energy and force, commanded that I play with the word and all its magic. Since that time, my experimentation with poetry has grown in seemingly distinct forms. I have produced poetry that speaks to the spiritual callings I have felt, the political enigmas I have seen and also a third brand: poems that speak from so far within me that I know not how to label them. The poems included in this edition of Milestone are of the latter type. They all come from a dark, thirsty place within me. Each of the poems stirs that part of my inner being that needs so much to caress and soothe certain fortunate ones. They range across a decade of my life and each demonstrates my undeniable want to help those that yearn. They are my food.

Guillermo Mendoza Why I wrote “Who Killed Kurt Cobain:” My father, being the huge Nirvana fan that he is, introduced me to the band at an early age. However, I didn’t take to the chaotic screams of their lead singer. Running in search of my mother’s caring arms was my first instinct; I had no idea what had just hit me. Eventually, after hearing the same album, Nevermind, over and over again, it began to grow on me. I no longer ran from the screams but rather joined them, yelling along erratically to “Territorial Pissing” even though I had no idea what Kurt was saying. I had always known that Kurt Cobain was dead, and that he had shot himself, but I didn’t understand why. It wasn’t until high school, when I really got into the subject of his death, and after reading and watching numerous biographies, I came to the conclusion that it was his unstable life of partying, which came along with his fame, that eventually caught up to him. I wanted people to understand why Kurt killed himself. Along with my coexisting love for Nirvana and poetry, I felt the best way to do this was through “Who Killed Kurt Cobain”.

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Raul Meza My name is Raul and I write, obviously. You know, since it’s being published, and you’ve probably read it if you’re reading this. Generally, I only write fiction, but the works in here are all poetry. I love writing; I love being able to put my wild, insane, and sometimes illogical ideas on paper for others to read and criticize. Also, I’m pretty awesome. There’s a lot I could tell you about myself, since I am my favorite topic of conversation, but I’ll shorten it, dramatically. I was born in LA and I am a city boy through and through. I survived various apocalypses, four excruciating years in high school, and what amounts to a stampeding herd of alpacas. With poetry, my writing tends to be rather spontaneous, like automatism in some regards. You know, without the freaky spiritual stuff. Apparently, this means I continuously think in annoyingly unexplainable metaphors or something(?) I honestly don’t know, but if you figure it out, make sure to let me know! Seriously. It would make my decade. Just saying. The first work, Danse Pathetique, is actually an idea I had been working on for some time, I had absolutely no idea how to word or use it. It came to me at 12 a.m. while I was trying to write a reading response, and it just would not go away! What I got from that were two pages of this poem, to be edited and looked over within the next two months. Eventually, it became this three-page thing that I just could not stop! I love this poem, and I am currently working on a companion piece. Gone is based on dreams and triviality and just life, in general. I’m purposely being vague. I refuse to give readers an answer, because then it takes away from the poetry, in my not-so- humble opinion. I appreciate feedback and constructive criticism! Feel free to voice comments if you know/meet me! : )

Ani Nahapetyn My name is Ani Nahapetyan. I was born in Armenia. I lived and finished school in my native country. I came to the United States of America two years ago. Now I go to East Los Angeles College, and I want to transfer to a University. I want to become a teacher of French. I like reading poems, and I enjoy translating them. There are many beautiful poems in the Armenian language. AI chose these

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two poems written by a famous Armenian author, Avetik Isahakyan, because they are wise and sad at the same time. Both are about life and have a great sacrament in them.

Ariana Renteria One of my professors once referred to me as being an instinctual writer. For me, when emotions are high, the need for written expression is a must. This piece came from a gut feeling after a night of grueling emotions. There is not much else to say about it, except that, the flow of this piece mimics the energy behind what I was feeling that night.

Dario Serrano A native of Lincoln Heights, I entered the poetry scene through my local poetry club at John Marshall High school. Following my acceptance into Get Lit—Words Ignite, I have performed at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington D.C., the Bowery Poetry Club in New York, at USC with former California Poet Laureate Carol Muske-Dukes, at Tim Robbin’s venue, “The Actors’ Gang,” and many more places! My poetry covers topics ranging from family, love, to culture and imagery that compliment my love of word play. There is not a single poem that defines my work but rather a myriad of poems that make up who I am. Currently I attend East Los Angeles College where I am a nationally ranked member of Poetry Interpretation in Speech Forensics. I taught poetry to gifted students at an elementary school and am an Event Coordinator and teen poetry mentor at Get Lit.

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