2 011 Ⅲ 011 Milestone: 2
EAST LOS ANGELES COLLEGE
Milestone: 2011
EAST LOS ANGELES COLLEGE Cover Illustrations: Tracy Liu, front cover; Elizabeth Rodriguez, back cover
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EAST LOS ANGELES COLLEGE Monterey Park, California
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Milestone: 2011
Editor Emeritus Carol Lem Editors Dolores Carlos, Lauren Gras, Juan Gurfield, Alexis Solis Selection Staff College Literary Magazine Editing Class of Spring 2010 (English 32) and a panel of editors Book Design Patricia Heckman Student Artwork Dulce Brassea, Kelvin Cheung, Martin Cordova, Steven Correa, Zulma Cruz, Lidia Garcia, Tracy Liu, Manuel Lopez, Susanna Negrete, Elizabeth Rori- guez, Robert Rodriguez, Katie Yuchen-Wei
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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mTable of ContentsM
Editors’ Note...... 5 Ben Russak Killer Appetite™ ...... 7 Diana Recouvreur Forward Motion ...... 10 In Queue...... 11 Orphanage, China ...... 13 Wonder, Land – April 15, 2009 ...... 14 Trudi Hayashida The Doll Chest ...... 15 Jose Zuniga Selling Grass ...... 21 Some day...... 27 Gus Ugalde Cyber-battle ...... 29 Tiffany Ip The forgotten tastes ...... 31 Louis Augustine Herrera-Galindo Love’s Descent...... 34 Sharif Hamideh Palestine ...... 36 Bob Noz Gestures ...... 37 Kenny ...... 43 Samuel Dominguez Sickness unto Death...... 49 Sergio Garcia The Hour of Lead ...... 51 Songstress ...... 52 Stevie Johnson Waiting ...... 53 Oliver Bedolla This Is Just To Say...... 61 Yvette Correll Escape ...... 62 Look Closely...... 63 Oscar De Leon You Were ...... 64 Luis Madrigal Gray blue eyes Pt. 1 ...... 65 Gray blue eyes Pt. 2 ...... 67 Gray blue eyes Pt. 3...... 69 Christopher Makoto Yee Life With Matt ...... 70 Home Cooking...... 77 Contributors’ Notes ...... 79
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Robert Ramirez
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mEditors’ NoteM
e took over the editing of Milestone, ELAC’s literary journal, from Carol Lem, who did a wonderful job on the journal for many years. We determined to try and keep the sameW high quality in our acceptances that Carol had, and in fact, sev- eral of the pieces included in this issue had been selected by her and her class in “Editing the Literary Magazine,” last spring. In addition, the English department decided to include the work of a recent Eng- lish language learner who is talented. We have many talented writers at ELAC, and this journal represents some of the best of their work. If you would like to be published in the next Milestone, watch for our “Call for Submissions” flyers. The artwork is a product of our art department at ELAC. We would like to thank Trish Heckman, Graphic Arts Designer and the art department for their invaluable help in putting this issue together. Since this is our first attempt at editing the journal, we are sure we have made some errors. If we have inadvertently missed someone’s work, it was due to this changeover, and we apologize.
— Dolores Carlos, Lauren Gras, Joan Gurfield, Alexis Solis
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Elizabeth Rodriguez
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mKiller Appetite™m by Ben Russak
OU KNOW THE FEELING: all of a sudden, deep in the pit of your stomach you feel a pervasive hunger. It may hit you Ynear the end of your workday, or as you wait in an idling car at rush-hour, or right before you go to bed. It may even wake you up in the middle of the night as your partner sleeps soundly by your side with one leg securely fastened to yours. Now, if you are a human being, the answer is easy; just slowly peel back your partner’s leg, slip on some sweats, hop in your car, and drive through the fast food restaurant of your choice. You will be back home, fully fed and fast asleep, before anyone knows you are gone. Yes, humans have it easy, but, you might be asking, what’s a multinational corporation to do? Well, fear no longer, you conquerors of consumers, for we have the answer: an all-you-can-eat, seven course banquet, guaranteed to stuff both your stomach and your coffers. In fact, if you partake in our cornucopia of consumption—which Eric Schlosser revealed in his book Fast Food Nation—you will be delighted, you will be delirious, your competition will be devastated, and while you may never be fully satisfied, you will always be able to come back for more! So, let’s start with something light: Employee Empanadas. Stop treating workers so well! Grind them into easily digestible pieces. With our lobbying team and our patented union busting tactics, not only can you strip them of benefits and decrease their pay, but also work them to the bone, violate state labor laws and stop worrying about those pesky little safety codes. Simply hire teenagers, recent immigrants and undocumented workers. Let us explain. Desperate people make ideal workers because they’re far less likely to protest long hours, underpayment and safety code violations. And while such violations might result in worker injury or even death, when you consider the billions of dollars in profits your company can achieve, the risk is nothing by comparison. We guarantee that an unfortunate amputation will cost you no more than $36,000, and a careless worker’s death, a mere $480. Plainly, death at the workplace is not so bad. Hell, it might even be preferable to life, especially when you consider that the dead can’t file lawsuits. However, we recommend avoiding teenage deaths as the data we have on their parents’ understanding of the U.S. legal system is unreliable. Now that your appetite’s been whetted, let’s move on to course number two, Soup of Supplier. You might think you don’t want to
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anger the people who provide your product, but a big multinational corporation like yourself has absolutely nothing to worry about. Remember, you are the boss; you tell them what you want to pay and make them figure out how to deal with it! The key here is market influence, because in the world of capitalistic distribution of goods and services, or “McOnomies of Scale” as we like to call it, size does matter. For your third course—a little roughage to drain the digestive track and make way for the main courses. I know you’re probably scoffing, “Salad? That’s what the meat on my plate eats!,” but believe us, we’re only interested in you growing big and strong, and getting as large a portion of market share on your plate as possible. Remember, there are other folks out there who have their eye on that same juicy market share and they might not go down as easily as the employees and supplies upon whom you have already dined. Many times they can create complications during digestion and may even try to come back up (this can be quite messy). So it is important that you tune up your body before you chow down on your competition and eat your vegetables! Now for the fourth course, let’s cleanse the palate with a little soil. As Franklin Roosevelt once said, “the Nation that destroys its soil destroys itself”. Well, nice try, Frankie. We see this mindset as a classic example of ineffectual micromanagement by governmental busybodies. We prefer the slogan: “The Corporation that Destroys its Profit Motive Shits the Bed.” Why worry about tomorrow when you can make a killing today? Finally, it’s time for the main course! During this promotional season, we offer three options: Toasted Township, Butterflied Borough or Corn on the County. “Whoa!” you might exclaim. “Entire cities?” We can’t possibly digest all of that!” But these civic centers will go down as easily as the workers, suppliers, and competing businesses before them. Just note Schlosser’s example of the celebrated case of Lexington, Nebraska. Lexington was a sleepy town with a rich history of wine cultivation, churches, and Indian massacres, until a corporation decided to set up shop with one of their renowned slaughterhouses. Within one decade, due to a high turnover of a largely uneducated and grossly underpaid migrant workforce, this quaint town was transformed into a crime-ridden, poverty-stricken, gang and drug infested community, and one of the most profitable centers of the meatpacking industry! And while the town staggers along, that corporation is stronger than ever, thanks to the selfless sacrifices of places like Lexington. That is only the tip of the iceberg! One
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particularly glorious Saturday morning, one of our co-sponsors devoured the entire Nebraskan tax code for breakfast, with the simple threat of relocation to another state. The kicker? After they got what they wanted, they relocated anyway! Now that you’ve left entire cities writhing in the septic tank of your forward momentum, you might wonder if the meal isn’t finally over. But no corporate feast would be complete without its pièce de résistance, Cutlet of Customer, a fatty delicacy not to be missed! Some of you might think, “Are you frigging out of your mind? If we eat our customers, who’ll buy our product?” But hear us out—with all the money saving practices our strategists put in place, certain contaminations are bound to occur, but more often than not the overall population barely notices these “microscopic” problems. Even with our ever-increasingly centralized meatpacking facilities, a serious food-borne illness couldn’t possibly affect more than a few million people… probably. And such, uh, regrettable losses are easily mitigated by foreigner outreach programs, ensuring a steady supply of new customers. We understand that even with all our assurances, you might be saying to yourself, “Aren’t we too late? Schlosser’s already exposed you; it’s too risky.” Well, hold on folks. We promised you seven courses, and we here at Killer Appetite Industries have been saving the best for last, the crème of the crème brûlée, if you will. The very fact of this “exposé” is where the beauty lies. Everybody knows our tactics, but nothing is being done about it. Nobody cares! More than a hundred years ago, Upton Sinclair wrote The Jungle, his attempt to blow the whistle on the meatpacking industry. He revealed the same things as Schlosser: worker exploitation, safety violations, governmental corruption, and corporate greed. What did that mean in the long run? Bupkus! He wrote: “…tens of thousands of cattle crowded into pens whose wooden floors stank and steamed contagion…and there are not merely rivers of hot blood and carloads of moist flesh, and rendering-vats and soup cauldrons, glue- factories and fertilizer tanks, that smelt like the craters of hell, there are also tons of garbage festering in the sun, and the greasy laundry of the workers hung out to dry, and dining rooms littered with food, black with flies, and toilet rooms that are open sewers.” Sound familiar? We thought so. So come on down, big boys, grab a bib, and dig in to the low risk and high profits. And when you’re stuffed, we’ll throw in a free pass to relax on one of our comfy chaise lounges in our Binge and Purgatorium, guaranteeing your Killer Appetite™ continues, ad nauseum! Bon Appétit!
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mForward Motionm by Diana Recouvreur
we continue in this way, racing along the same figure eight track, propelled forward, contained in our individualized vehicles, hardly glancing at each other, wanting to out accelerate each other, afraid that the shock of eye contact would throw us off course, cause a breakdown, a traffic jam, a need to clamber out of the wrecked vehicles and have to perambulate along the same figure eight track, propelled forward by another containment entirely,
Steven Correa
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mIn Queuem by Diana Recouvreur
I want to br- -eak them into pie- -ces.
They snake, around buildings, in a slow, purposeful, meander trying to reach a piece of approaching greatness, to occupy its space in hopes of being touched and changed.
I will not stand and pine for flesh and tunic.
They linger and pause sometimes as the confused reactions of mob mentality mistaking monotony for spectacle, breath drawn abated released deflating in disappointment.
I move forward and sometimes between disbelief and awe.
It seems that they are everywhere, everyone suspended, waiting, one by one, in files, to the rhythm of clocks and shuffling feet, inching toward sustenance and even to piss.
I find other measures more satisfying.
Sometimes I build without snaking, quickly passing with no less purpose, in a deliberate gait, in near frolic in anticipa- tion of the end, torch lit, drawn toward the dark, wanting the flame to catch.
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[Artist Unknown]
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mOrphanage, Chinam by Diana Recouvreur
Forty daughters live in a white room with linoleum floors, in steel-barred cribs, where faces reflect in each silver sliver, laying on interlocking-wooden-planks mattresses.
Little sisters (Mei Mei) without names (Mei Ming), found unwanted in boxes, in alleys, abandoned in garbage bins, laying in fear, nestled among refuse, discarded and tearless.
Forty bodies seeking comfort, twisting this way and that, stretching beneath or curled over sparse squares of fabric, fingers sometimes stroking the sometimes toy tied to bars.
They live to prove their resilience, their will to endure, in spite of one-per-family, boys-bring-honor, what-a-shame, to earn Yu Tian (Sweet Rain) and Tian Lan (Blue Sky).
Forty pairs of eyes gaze toward the single window— opened to dissipate the smell of spit-up formula and soiled diapers— staring out into the night, at the hazy but certain moon.
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mWonder, Land – April 15, 2009m by Diana Recouvreur
Buried amongst daisies, the blue sky opened, and she was illumined by a single golden eye, where peripheral warmth caressed cold skin, and we hoped she was lost, down a rabbit-hole.
Peace, it would seem, spread across her face, her head, at rest, on a self-spun golden pillow, and it would be easier to imagine a dark wood, where grinning cats often wax philosophical.
But time caught up with her even there, when the eye drifted, the warmth bled away, and cold shadows dyed the daisies a surly gray, we were left with the heft of her still slumber.
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mThe Doll Chestm by Trudi Hayashida
LOOKED OUT THE WINDOW. It was an early spring day and the wind was fluctuating between being breezy and howling. AtI times, I imagined that the wind was angry and wanted to blow away the little flowers and bushes outside. Clouds were blanketing the sky. It was so gloomy that it seemed as if the sun had sought refuge behind the dark clouds. It was unusual because I was so used to the bright, hot Bakersfield sunshine. The little room that I shared with my mom was connected to my family’s grocery store. When the wind blew just right, like it was doing at that moment, the faint scent of the onions, oranges, bread, and other wonderful things that we sold would fill the air. I can still remember everything so vividly, even after more than fifty years have passed. Being the typical six-year-old at the time, I was playing with my dolls and reenacting an event I had heard about—going off to war. Mom would listen to the news on the radio every night, especially since the war had broken out in Europe. We had heard not too long ago how Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor. I remember wondering what was going to happen next and being scared of the thought that we would go to war, too. I was pretending that the boy doll was a soldier and the girl doll was his wife. She was wearing a plain, pale blue dress. Maybe I should dress her up in something nicer to see her husband off? I opened up my doll chest and rummaged through some doll dresses, spilling some onto the floor. I found the perfect dress—a bright red one with pretty lace. I was getting bored spending all my time indoors. My mother had forbidden me to go outside, so I spent my time playing with my dolls or lying in my bed and looking out the window. I was beginning to feel really hot again, which gave me chills. My throat felt like it was on fire and I had a hard time swallowing because it was so painful. I decided to have a seat on my bed for a few minutes until I felt better. At that moment, my mom walked into the room. She looked exhausted and had a frown on her face. Her usually perfect, wavy hair was a tangled mess. She got out a small suitcase and began filling it with our clothes. This seemed strange because we hadn’t been able to go on a vacation for a long time, since our family owned not only the grocery store, but a restaurant and hotel as well. “Where are we going?” I asked her in a scratchy voice.
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“I have to get our clothes ready for camp,” she answered. “What camp are we going to? What are we going to do? Can we go fishing?” I asked, extremely excited. Camp! In all my six years, I had never been camping before. It sounded like a lot of fun from what I had heard. I started to think about what it would be like to run around in open space again. Maybe there will be a river or stream that I can splash in and see fish. It will also be nice to sleep under the stars. My grandparents and uncle must be looking after our businesses while we would be away. Then I realized something: How could we go camping when I was still really sick? In fact, I would be going to the doctor the next morning. “We’re not going to that kind of camp. We’re going to a camp for Japanese. All Japanese are going,” she answered. I had never heard of a camp just for Japanese. Was there really such a thing? “Why do we have to go?” I didn’t understand. “Because that is what the government wants,” she said. “But we’re American,” I insisted. “I know, but everyone doesn’t see it that way,” she said in an exasperated tone. Her face had become hard to read. Her eyebrows and forehead had begun to furrow and she was biting her lower lip. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad or worried. Maybe it was a combination of all three. It began to scare me a little. My mom always seemed to have it together. She would always make sure that our clothes were clean and nicely pressed. However, her clothes were wrinkled and had some food stains on it, as though she had dropped something on her self because she hadn’t been concentrating. “But what did we do wrong?,” I asked. “Why do we have to go to this place called camp but we weren’t really going camping?” “We didn’t do anything wrong. We are at war with Japan, and we look like the enemy,” she said. Her face slowly became smooth again. She took a deep, drawn-out breath. I noticed that mom’s eyes were getting moist the more I asked questions. She dabbed at her eyes with a cloth and tried to smile, but her attempt proved to be feeble. I decided that I shouldn’t ask any more questions right now. I had never seen mom cry, not even when she told my father that she was getting a divorce. I didn’t want to be the one to cause her to cry. She must have noticed that I was beginning to feel scared and unsure of what was going to happen to us. She hugged and reassured me, “Don’t worry. We are all going to be together. You, me, grandma, grandpa, your uncles. Shinpai nai.”
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Mom and I had been born in America, so the only time we would speak Japanese was with grandma and grandpa since they didn’t speak much English. Also, whenever mom wanted me to really listen to something she was saying, she had the habit of repeating it in Japanese, like at that moment. Mom finished packing our clothes and then said, “Ann, we have to get our things ready to leave, so if you feel up to it, can you get some of your toys ready? I’m going to go back to watching the store, but I’ll check on you in a few minutes.” I had a hard time digesting everything that my mom had told me. Maybe I was kind of in shock. A few minutes passed. As I walked toward my dolls, I stepped on some doll clothes. I didn’t want someone to step on the clothes and get them dirty, so I started to pick them up. With my arms full, I walked over to my doll chest. It was the color of the sky after a good rain—a deep powder blue. The trim was black and had metal clasps to close it. Inside, there were two small drawers, two larger drawers, a little shelf, and a hook to hang the doll clothes. I had covered the outside with travel stickers that I had gotten from my uncles and mom so that it looked like the doll chest had traveled around the country. I opened one of the drawers and put the doll clothes in. Then, I clasped it shut. One sticker caught my attention—an American flag that looked as if it was waving in the wind. I wanted to tear it off. I tried to use my fingernails to pick it off, but it wouldn’t budge. The more I tried to pick, scrape, and tear, the more it seemed to stick. The next morning, I went to see my doctor. Dr. Goodman was a tall man with brown hair and glasses. He looked down my throat and took my temperature. After thoroughly examining me, he took my mom outside the door, thinking that I wouldn’t be able to hear, but I caught some of the conversation. “She has strep throat and is very sick. I don’t think you should move her. Maybe if I said something…,” Dr. Goodman said. “Thank you very much, Dr. Goodman, but I don’t think it matters what anyone tells them. They want all of us to leave,” mom replied. Mom took me home. Over the next couple of days, mom would sell the grocery store, the restaurant, and the hotel for a few dollars. The brand new panel truck that mom had just bought had to go, too. The people that were buying knew that we had to leave within a few days, so they could take advantage of this. All of our other possessions would have to be put in storage, including many expensive toys that my uncles and grandparents had bought me, since I was the first niece and grandchild. Some of our things
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wouldn’t be able to fit, so I began to wonder what we would do with the rest. “Ann, you have to pick which toys you want to keep and which ones you don’t,” Mom told me. “I can’t! I like all of my toys! I can’t choose!” I yelled, not knowing what she was planning to do with the toys I would get rid of. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you. It’s hard for me, too. There are a lot of things that I wish I could take with us, but we can’t. You have so many toys that losing a few isn’t so bad. You can keep your favorites. Please help out,” she said, kneeling down so that our heads were almost level with each other. She was looking straight into my eyes. There was a pleading look in her eyes. It was hard seeing her like that. “Okay,” I said. I picked out some toys that I hadn’t played with in a while. She thanked me with a forced smile and took the stuff we wouldn’t be taking or putting in storage outside. She told me not to follow her. I was to stay inside and play with my toys because she wouldn’t be outside for too long. As I began to play with my dolls, I could smell wood burning. Was someone barbequing? It didn’t smell like food. The smell got stronger. I was afraid something in the grocery was burning, so I ran outside to tell mom. Then I saw what was on fire: our things! I asked her why she was burning everything. “I didn’t have the heart to sell anything else of ours. We worked so hard for everything—what do we have now?” she said, her eyes welling up with tears. Just when I thought her eyes were barely able to contain the salt water, a lone tear escaped. She wiped the tear with her right hand and looked at it for a moment, as if she was in disbelief that it had come from her. She sank to the ground and her shoulders slumped over. She started to cry loudly and the tears fell like rain. I ran to her, knelt down, and hugged her. I didn’t know what to say. Was there anything I could say to make her feel better? So we sat there for hours just hugging and crying, not saying a word. The next day, we went to the storage unit. Mom unlocked the door. The lock was so rusty that it left some reddish orange color on my mom’s hands. She rubbed her hands together to try and rub away the rust, and then opened the door. The room would have been pitch black if it wasn’t for the sunlight shining through the open door. Mom walked toward the middle of the room to turn on the lone, small light bulb in the middle of the little room. As she walked, the floor creaked a few times. It was a glorified closet that had a weird, dank smell. I wondered if our things would be safe
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there. The storage room was made of cheap, thin wood that looked at least a hundred years old. What if it rained hard? Our things might get ruined. We had tried to keep as much as we could, so we easily filled up the room. Mom put my doll chest in one of the corners. We closed the door and put on the rusty lock. That was how we said goodbye to our things and the life that we had known.
After two and a half years in the camp, we returned to the storage room. Mom unlocked the door and opened it slowly. The door groaned. It was evening, so we wouldn’t be provided much outside light. In the dark, we slowly made our way to the middle of the room with our arms outstretched. I started to wonder why we hadn’t felt or bumped into any of our things yet. Mom turned on the little light bulb. All of our belongings were gone! Mom fought back tears. Then, in the corner of the room, I saw it. There it stood, almost proudly, untouched by the thieving hands: my doll chest. I guess the burglars thought that the doll chest was worthless.
I watch my granddaughter playing with the doll chest now and it brings me great joy. Like my daughters before her, she puts her things inside, hiding her most prized possessions from the outside world. She takes out a beautiful red and white striped dress and begins to dress her doll. The chest has lost some of its luster, turning from a bright sky blue to a more dull blue. The latches have lost their sheen and the hinges creak sometimes when you open the chest. Some of the stickers have lost their parts. However, it still has a hint of cedar every time you open it. The drawers and shelves inside seem to be unchanged by time. The paper lining the drawers and shelves is still bright and without scratches. The American flag sticker also remains. Though the outside edge has little tears in it and some of the color has dulled, the flag is still intact, “waving” in the wind.
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Kelvin Cheung
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mSelling Grassm by Jose Zuniga
GUESS THIS IS MY BULLSHIT STORY. It’s about a girl; that’s how these things go. She wasn’t a punk-rocker, so get all that I-met-her-at-a-clubI shit out of your head. All my friends want a punk- rocker chick with their frizzy pink hair and their tagged-up vans. With their creatively-cut skirts, you know with the black silk, looks like Freddy gave them a spanking. Well, some have pony-tail hair or their hair split down the middle, so they could look all innocent, ha, pendejas. This isn’t about a punk-rocker girl. It’s about her fucking sister. Her name is Lucy. She’s a freaking nerd. She has books on top of books in her dresser. Her room is all white, no pink shit anywhere. She has a bed with those flower-embroidered bed sheets; hey, no one’s perfect. Lucy has brown hair, but she recently highlighted only a few strands blonde just to see how it looks, so she looks weird with a strand in the middle of her brown hair pointing her out in the class. She’s usually in blue jeans and a tight sort-of sweater, you know those cut-at-the-sleeve sweaters with the huge buttons down the front. None of her buttons are buttoned, ever. I guess she doesn’t have the fucking time. Her skin is brown, not tan; fuck that tan shit. In other words, she’s Mexican and she wears glasses, mas bien, two big see-through coasters on her head. I don’t know, that’s not why people trip on us. Pues, enough about these crazy bitches. I’m Junior. Junior Meza y que. I’m into grass, you know, zacate. Some people call it other names, but I’m into that shit for real. I like to watch it grow, to plant it, and deliver it to people. I worked as a consultant to college students for the community college system because of my success in the planting business. I don’t know any college-educated people; to me, they’re fucking crazy people, who believe the books they read. Look, I don’t mind, just don’t try and sell me that shit. One of these little fucks was going on and on about how God created all men and women to be equal. Chingado, I know women and men aren’t equal because if that was the case, I wouldn’t have to go to the fucking store every two weeks for six lazy bitches, my sisters, to buy tampons for them. Plus, there’s one big difference which I pointed out to the guy. He said he didn’t mean that kind of equality. Shit, I didn’t want to know about any other kind of equality to tell you the truth. Pues I guess I should tell you what fucking happened. I was in the
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garden of the college up there in Pepperdine, up by the mountains in Santa Monica, where all these rich idiots live in these houses in front of the ocean. When that shit becomes unsteady, they’ll be swimming right quick, let me tell you. I don’t know, I hope not, but I’m just saying, they’re like six feet from big-ass ocean waves. I was digging with one of those dirt-scoops, you know, so I could plant the grass deep. Like three-foot grass patches were sitting on top of each other on top of the Ford truck, I’d pulled up beside the garden. A hundred feet of dug up holes lay before me, when here comes the punk rocker. She’s wearing these black boots and she looks mad as shit. Get this, me hijo, “There’s a condom on your back.” Pues, the girl was right. I was wearing one of those green work jackets and stuck to the back of it was a small plastic thing with a hole. I took it off and threw it in the hole. Boom, se fue. Bye, then, right; so I grab a ten-foot grass bundle and set it, cover it with dirt and move on. I was like done with the whole garden when here comes the manager like two hours later and all the dirt and shit is put up. I’m sweating, my jacket is off, I’m wearing a white T-shirt browned by the dirt, and here comes this doctora that signs the checks for the school in her fancy gray skirt uniform and she said, “Mr. Meza. Mr. Meza!” She couldn’t get me first because I was so far up. I was stepping on the grass to make sure it was good. I was breathing pretty hard by that time and told her, “Wzup?” Behind the guerita was the punk-rocker girl; this time she was carrying a backpack with drawings of black skulls down the side. The lady adjusted her glasses because probably she’d been reading so many fucking books, she lost her sight and said, “Did you dig up a condom in the premises?” “Oh,” I said, “You still with that shit? It’s over there; I put it in the hole.” “We take matters of sexual harassment seriously here, Mr. Meza.” I said, “Wait, wait, lady. There’s none of that sexual shit going on here. There was a condom on my back, so I got rid of it.” She adjusted her glasses again and said, “You’re fired, Mr. Meza. That is no way to treat college students.” “You going to fire me after I finished putting up your grass? Who’s going to pay me for that, home girl? Besides I’m one of your work- related student advisors.” “More like work-retarded. Didn’t we ask you to plant this grass last week?” “No, lady, you asked me to plant the grass this morning, and look,
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it’s done.” “We asked you to plant the grass last week!” “Well, chale, home girl, believe what you want, I don’t need to work for you, got plenty of jobs over in East L.A.” “Well, Chay-la, to you too! Get off my campus, vagrant!” And that’s how it went. I saw her walk away, up some fancy steps into her fancy building. Right behind her was that punk-rocker chick with her pink hair. So, then, I called up el pinche Ruben. Ruben is a fat guy working on behalf of the Green Tree Growers Association, who hired me to set up these huge grass patches for the Santa Monica community college area. Before that, I had been working with Green Peace to grow grass in those fucking hot little houses but they were growing more than just grass in that place. They had plants that grew tomatoes and jellybeans at the same time. They had corn stalks that reached the roofs. They even had a freaking flower that smelled nasty as hell. Man, I just quit that joint and came to work for this fucking gordo, except now he’s acting shady with the paychecks and the work. “What is it now, Junior?” “No te hagas guey, fucker. This lady said her grass needed to be put in last week.” “She has no grass? That’s not a problem to me, ese.” “Stop that shit. I don’t joke around with work, vavaso. Did you get an order to put this grass in last week?” “Yeah, I did; so what? She should be happy we’re putting it in at all. Her fucking contract with us is almost expired.” “Well, now she won’t pay up, and it’s all your fault. I could put in grass in this school from head to toe in a day but now you got me in some kind of trouble with this lady.” “Don’t worry about it, fool. I’ll hook you up with the spare change from Julio’s job. He just got done putting in some fancy grass for the Hiltons up in Beverly.” “Don’t fuck with my money, Ruben. I’m going up to East, they need me to finish a job I was working on over there.” “Yeah, right, you’re going to see that firme hyna from last week.” “Chale, holmes, how’d you know about her?” “I used to put up grass too, puto.” “Yeah, right, with your flabby-ass arms. You’re smoking grass and imaging you put that shit up.” “Get back to work, pendejo. I got a phone call to make.” Before I left the campus, since I wasn’t getting paid anyway, I lifted the grass from the ground and left Pepperdine college with a one-
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hundred foot dirt road that was level to the ground. They didn’t pay for it, so it’s my grass. I got in the truck and drove straight down the hill, through the already-planted grass, which was illegal. I even broke into the freeway by driving through the planted flowers in the front. The front end of the truck took out a whole plant and its roots of pretty pink flowers. I left streaks of tire-marked dirt along their fancy road and in part of the sidewalk. I was doing about fifty or sixty up and down those Santa Monica hills until I came to the 10 freeway. It was a smooth ride to East with my white truck, muddied from the front because of the wet grass. At the overpass, where the 10 meets the 5, I got stopped as I came around the turn of the freeway where the bend meets incoming traffic. It was pretty funny because I was doing forty-five on the turn and around fifty when I got stopped. The light came on instantly. I was wearing my blue LA hat. The police officer got off all hot- shot, while I was looking through the glove compartment for my registration. I found it inside a white plastic bag I used to keep a donut in. It was all blurry, but you could still see that it was a company vehicle. He came up to me, looked me up and down, at my brown white T-shirt and my hat while I was just looking up at him, smiling. “License, registration, please.” I took out the license and registration and handed them to him. He didn’t even look at them, just handed them back to me. There was a tarp on the grass in the back, so he got curious. “What are you carrying back there?” “Grass,” I said. His hand went to his gun. I could tell he was a rookie and new to the stopping people thing. He had stopped me because I was brown, literally. So, he told me to get out and put my hands on the hood. The fucking hood was burning hot. It was like placing your hands on charcoals, but fuck it, I did it. Then, the handcuffs, and here comes the rookie assuming shit. So, he calls me in as a drug dealer, even though in the passenger’s seat, you could clearly see the Grass is Green and Company jacket just lying there. Cops have all these gadgets that make them look fancy. A belt with pouches that hold paralyzers, sprays, knives, handcuffs and a holster on the side for the standard issue gun. On a shoulder, most of the drivers have a communication device. I’m guessing it’s because they’re too lazy to run to the receiver in the car in case anything serious goes down. So, I talk to him, try to explain, “Hey, it’s just grass. Uncover it,
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holmes.” “Shut-the fuck up! Sit there and don’t move!” He had put me in the back seat already like we were taking a trip to the precinct. Here came this fucking tow-truck with a white guy at the wheel named Roger or Bill. He had a bearded face and a beer gut, and he was not happy to be there. The thing is, he one-upped my truck from the front with a hook from the chassis, old-school like, released the hand-brake on the Ford and was about to pull it away when he saw the jacket. He saw the grass because the tow-truck put the front wheels off the ground, so it unbalanced the tarp. Then, you could hear, through the speeding traffic and the loud sirens of incoming police cars, a white man named Bill yell out, “FUCK!” Then, the Irish came out, “Yer stupid, little fuck from Alabama! It’s grass, not weed! Shit! Shit! Do you know how much I had to pay to get here! Motherfucking rookies.” He grabbed a crowbar, unhooked the hook, but the front fender came off and landed on the floor. “FUCK!” I started to laugh. “Motherfucker! No, stay there, idiot. I’m going home.” He got in his tow-truck and left. The police officer, still unaware of the problem, got out of his car and went to the tarp to inspect the back. He got this look of curiosity that wasn’t evil anymore. His eyes weren’t red and blazing. They were blue and innocent because he was about to open the tarp. He opened it, saw grass sitting on more grass. He did a curious thing. He began to throw the patches to the side, searching for something hysterically. By this time I had seen his badge and memorized it. Number 11067, a guy named Dempsy. I didn’t know his first name but the receiver lady kept referring to him as Eric. The front of his shirt revealed the name Dempsy. The other cops got there and saw me in the back seat, and then they saw him, all dirty from throwing patches of grass to the side. Then they turned back to look at me. I shrugged with a smile. What else could I do: I was handcuffed and in the back of a car with no handles. A fight ensued between the four policemen that came. One of them had dragged the policeman that stopped me off the truck and two others were verbally assaulting him. A fourth one was writing things down on his notepad and talking to his shoulder about what had really happened. This part came through the speakers on the receiver, which the police officer had left on. “Nevermind, Cherry. It
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turns out to be real grass, as in for recreational purposes.” You could hear someone on the other line trying to hold back their laughter. The word “rookie” was mentioned more than once. A lady police officer came to the back where I was sitting. “Um,” she said, “You could leave now, sir. I suggest you make haste. Sooner or later, the Chief’s son is going to come to realize that this is all your fault and then, well, you don’t want to be here for that.” She released me from the handcuffs and quickly, while the police officers argued about me, I grabbed the front fender, went around the truck, put it in the back, got back in the truck during a conversation about a “spick,” and drove away. From the rearview mirror, you could see traffic slowing down and watching a bunch of police officers arguing about grass. The grass business is all messed-up. Half the time people think we’re selling weed. I guess the point is: don’t sell a stupid product that has 100 stereotypes behind it.
Zulma Cruz
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mSome daym By Jose Zuniga
El Miklo used to collect
Crooked bottle caps
Of Millers, and Bud Lights
In a white plastic bag
And carry them around
East Los
Like a trophy
Until one day
Un bald-headed
Aztec-tattooed
Tall-ass fool
With a rat-tail
Above his lip
Pushed him into the river.
Pinche water under the 710
Overpass that gathers
There when it rains
Because he was on his
Way to tag up the surface of the
Freeway, except
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Que vino la poli
And took both of them away
But they had to let him go,
Shit, he’s Mexican
He’s wearing glasses, though.
Shit, he’s Mexican.
I remember a cell door
Like cold bones after
Touching ice
In the near-end summer
Days of that
Tarantula-filled prison
They called home,
But they had to let him go,
In the fall, por caerse
En un charco
Fell into the hole
Shit, he’s Mexican,
He’ll make it out of there…
Someday, holmes.
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mCyber-battlem by Gus Ugalde
Y BEST-FRIEND KAREN IS SO DEAD! MYesterday, I found out that she friended my BF Josh on Facebook from my BFF from MySpace, Maria. She told me that if I wanted to still be Josh’s GF that I should take a look at his page—I mean WTF? So, not believing the bitch at all, I logged-on to FB just to prove Maria was full of shit. When I got on, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! She has been Facebooking Josh for weeks! OMG! I couldn’t believe it. How could she do this to me? Doesn’t Karen know that I could read anything she writes on his wall? How stupid is that? I read it all. She’s such a whore. Here she is talking dirty to Josh on FB and at the same time we’ve been MySpacing each other like nothing’s going on. What a two-faced bitch! I can’t believe she’s trying to steal my BF from me. Wait till I get my hands on her. She is so no longer my BFF—TTYL bitch! I’m gonna kill both of them. I just saw Josh last night and he acted like nothing was up at all. I wonder how long he’s going to keep this a secret. I’m not telling him I know. I want to know when he plans on fessing up. How could he do this to me? OMG I feel like I’m going to explode. How could both my BFF and my BF treat me like shit? They both WILL pay. Since I didn’t want him to know that I know just yet, I texted the bitch to tell her that I knew what was going on and to stay away from my BF. She didn’t text me back, so I decided to go to MySpace and wait until she went online so that I could catch her there. It didn’t take long because the bitch is an attention whore and can’t stay away the chat rooms for very long. I sent her an IM just to say hello to see if I could get her to answer and it worked. I asked her what was up girl and if she had gotten my text earlier, and she said that her phone was acting up and that she couldn’t get texts right now – something about dropping it in the toilet – yeah, STFU, like that isn’t a big fucking lie. I was LMAO when she told me about the phone. When I asked her about Josh, she said that there was nothing going on and that they were just “playing around.” “It doesn’t matter,” was my response. I told her that she needed to lay-off my BF and chill. She told me to go “fuck myself” and that I couldn’t tell her what to do and then logged off. I was so pissed that
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I went on Twitter to tell all my friends what a slutty whore she was and that she was trying to steal my BF from me. When she read my tweet, she tweeted back to tell me that it was on. I now had a new enemy. It was time to talk to Josh. I emailed him, telling him that I knew what was going on with Karen because I knew he would get it as an IM on his Blackberry right away. He’s never home and he sleeps with his phone. He answered right away, denying everything. I said STFU due, I guess you’re just as stupid as Karen and don’t know that I could read your wall postings. When I told him that, he said that I had it all wrong and that they were just kidding around. I now had two enemies. The next day, I got this IM message from Josh and all it had was a web address, so I copied and pasted it onto my URL and hit go. What I saw just about killed me. It was a YouTube post from last night that Karen posted with her and Josh practically screwing while someone was recording it! OMG! What a nasty bitch! There she was with her tongue halfway down his throat while he’s got both hands on her ugly ass! I couldn’t stop crying. My only thought was revenge. After I quit feeling sorry for myself, I knew exactly what I had to do. I swear I’m going to kill both of them while recording it and streaming the video online. Yeah…that’s a great idea. It will be TTYL to both of you dirt bags!
Zulma Cruz & Martin Cordova
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mThe forgotten tastesm by Tiffany Ip
WEET IS THE MEMORY OF PAST TROUBLES’ said Marcus Tullius Cicero. Remember the times when ‘Schildren have troubles while eating? Those troubles were such sweet memories for me. I will never forget the times when I was eating my favorite Swiss wings (i.e. sweet chicken wings), the bones would be on the floor and sauce all over my fingers and around my mouth. Time flies, and I am no longer that little girl. I seldom ate Swiss wings with my family since I attended high school, when I started to spend more time with my friends and hang out afterschool. We used to stand in a corner of a mall and wolf our favorite Taiwan cold noodles down in a rush. These foods signify different stages of my life and the memory of people whom I love. Looking back to the changes in my favorite foods, I am astonished that I have traveled such a long way from when I was a little girl. My memory of my family usually involves Swiss wings, which made them my favorite food. I treasure the times spent with my family. It was a time when meat wasn’t affordable for every family. Besides, Swiss wings required a few hours to prepare. My aunt used to cook them every Sunday. In the morning, I would go to the market with my aunt and sister. We would buy frozen chicken wings from an old man with a white beard. Then we would go to a shabby grocery shop to buy the crystal sugar and soya sauce. This was a precious time for me, as I was living in a small village without any markets. When we got back home, my sister and I would thaw those wings. After that, we would just leave the wings in the sauce for few hours on a low fire. However, we had to keep the lid opened to avoid effervesces. The pleasant odor would slowly spread through my house. After all that, the dinner would begin! Without waiting, my sister and I would have our hands on a chicken wing and snap it as if we had been starving for years. It tastes salty but a little sweet, like the mixture of my favorite snacks at that time, salted potato chips and candy canes. I loved it not only because of its taste, but also because of the love of my family. That’s why I wouldn’t order this in restaurants, as they could never make it taste like what my aunt cooked. Time passes and a girl grew into teenager. I put down the Swiss wings for cold noodles. Like most other teenagers, I hated going back home, as my parents would shout at me for my poor test
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Dulce Brassea
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results. Once in high school, I loved hanging out with friends rather than going back home. There were many grocery shops near my school that sold Taiwanese cold noodles. The noodles were very affordable but they tasted so awful. They were prepackaged noodles, which are stored in a refrigerator. We could add the sauce we like and eat it directly. Garlic, ketchup and soya sauce could be chosen. Side dishes like seafood and sliced sausages were offered, too. All these were sold for one dollar. The noodles were cold, but we would eat them in winter and never got bored with them. However, these grocery shops didn’t provide seats; therefore, we had to stand in a corner of the cramped shop to eat. These cold noodles signify the times when all of my friends kept chatting after school. We talked about everything: the teachers, the celebrities and gossip, like other girls do. Swiss wings taste almost the same as the cold noodles, as soya sauce is used as the main flavoring. The cooking method is simple for both of them. All I have to do is mix the sauce with the food. However, Swiss wings are much more valuable than cold noodles. In terms of meaning, Swiss wings and Taiwan cold noodles symbolize two stages of my life: my childhood and my teenage life. When I was a child, I cooked and had the Swiss wings with my family. Like the sauce in the big pot, the whole family is mixed together. In my teenage life, I had the cold noodles with my friends in a shop. The ones who shared my favorite food with me changed. The relationship between my friends was like the noodles, twisted with the others while one could be separated easily. I love soya source so much that it made me loved Swiss wings and cold noodles. However, the sauce for these foods is a bit sweeter than the normal soya source. The reason why I loved these foods is because of the memories and troubles brought by them. I left the place where I grew up and the people who taught me a lot. They taught me how to love and how to grow. We got along with the others, wound up like the noodles but separated by thousand miles of oceans and land. They gave me such an incredible experience of life. They made me cry, made me smile and imprinted in my life. Time passes, and I could never back to those days. Only when tasting the Swiss wings and noodles am I brought back to those days when I was a girl.
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mLove’s Descentm By Louis Augustine Herrera-Galindo
A simple gesture perhaps
The running of his finger
Across the edge of your foot,
Heel to toe; simple and dirty,
Like the first time Daddy says how pretty you look
In that dress or how strong you’ve become,
Notoriously noticing that change in you,
The same one you’ve just noticed yourself:
A blossoming of sorts,
Knowing all along the insidiousness of the touch,
Love’s descent-
Up underneath you, way inside, something crumbles,
Like the shell of a Roly Poly
You’ve squeezed too hard between your fingers
Because the texture of its spine, its exoskeleton,
Like thin sheaths of glass,
Was too inviting - and
How no one will believe
You never-ever
Meant to harm it.
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Katie Yuchen-Wei
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mPalestinem by Sharif Hamideh
Tears, Raindrops they’re all the same stream down her face stream down the drains… Purifying streets as they make way From left to right oceans sway… From up to down the tears drop On scarlet soil, On a holy rock… On a dying root where olives rot… On a bird that prays towards the sky Melodies that bring raindrops From clouds that cry…
The Boy and The Turtle :
Soft hills like silk sheets, and mountains like murals.
His Blanket a shield against the whispers, against a scream.
His paintings free nightmares to the colorful dream, through mounds of coral reef.
Deep beneath, perhaps under the Caspian sea. He opens his eyes to see, the wise turtle float gently, with mother ocean’s breeze.
He swims hastily and grabs turtle’s shell near Brings forth his ear, in order to hear clear, the wise turtle then say:
“Does not the sea’s salt burn your eyes, like fire burns hay?” Sudden pain as he awakes, so early it’s late. Rubbing his burning eyes he contemplates: “I can’t wait until I paint, I want to hear what turtle has to say!”
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mGesturesm by Bob Noz
AD, D-A-A-D, IT’S ME FRANK, your monkey. Where are you? I’m home… all by myself and… and I’m scared. Where are you?D It’s me Frank. I… I guess… you’re not home yet ...... Frank… Frank… you’re probably asleep already. This divorce is really making it hard for us to get together… there are so many things I have to tell you. So many things you need to know. The crowd of parents and friends stood or sat quiescently in cliques, chewing their snacks as if they had been put out to pasture while the deadened air heated up from the friction of the teams’ monotonous movements and by the waves of steam that escaped from their sweaty bodies encased in noisy protective gear, skating back and forth across the gray, polyurethane-coated, cement court. “It’s too late!” “Yeah, it’s too late!” Inside the West Covina Roller Rink, the young roller hockey players of various ethnicities began to fool around on the bench, antsy to get to the pizza and drinks they knew were coming. “No it isn’t!” countered Frank, one of the better players on the Red Wings’ team. Only the more mature players watched the game with the same intensity as their coach. To the others, their glances acknowledged the tug of the arcade games while in front of them, their own game had entered the doldrums and time was running out. On the court, both sides had fallen into lazy routines and predictable defenses. Apathy condensed in a monotony of constant reversals of errant playmaking, led by each side’s shooters as one team randomly shot only to wind up chasing the puck to the other side again. The less experienced skaters struggled to keep up with the others. The Red Wings’ coach had dumped the bench in order to comply with the mandate that allowed everyone to play equal amounts of time, and it was working against him. Carlo, who used his hockey stick the same way an outrigger uses its stabilizer, was laboriously making his way down court when he got creamed in a squeeze play by a couple of snickering Oak Leaf players. Carlo was slow to get up, figuring 128 seconds was enough tournament play to brag about, prompting the concerned refs to allow the Red Wings’
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Robert Ramirez
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coach one more substitution. The coach studied the young faces, suddenly serious, and then chirping like little birds, competing for his attention. He pointed and thumbed his choice into the game, “Frank, we need one more goal.” “Right, coach.” Frank swallowed and rolled quickly onto the court, his handsome dark eyebrows furrowed like Michelangelo’s David. Slapping the top of the concrete barrier wall while punctuating the words, “Get-down-court-quickly!” and “Set-up-the-play!, the Oak Leafs’ coach used a combination of gesticulation, expressive eye movements and clenched teeth to keep in constant control of his team, and he always seemed disappointed with their efforts. “There’s time for one more play—now score a goal!” he snarled as they rolled by him with the puck. Somewhat mechanically, they were doing just that but in the quick action that ensued, Frank, who wore a number ten on his white, black and red, Red Wings’ jersey, intercepted the puck from a careless pass. He was swift in taking advantage of the exasperation of the opposition and quickly skated down the right side of the court while the Oak Leafs’ goalie watched him apprehensively as one watches a shark that has invaded one’s beach. “Frank! F r a n k! Hey Frank!” He could hear his name being called out by any number of his teammates, guys he had left behind in his race to score a “hat trick,” and he needed one more goal. Somewhere in his mind, his name also echoed a raw memory of Gina, an infatuated schoolmate, who had placed his name on the sides of her white sneakers. She was calling him and then insulting him with the word “beaner” when he ignored her. Then, she snuck up, and pantsed him. All this would have gone unnoticed, except that Mrs. Barril, a staff member, saw it and reported it as conduct unbecoming Christian children. “Frank, what happened?” his father asked. “It’s okay dad, she had a stupidity attack, besides, I don’t want to go there anymore. They took her side—she said I had called her a sneaky little bitch—which I guess I did, when she pantsed me. What if I had pantsed her? Anyway, it was my third suspension, so I got expelled. But as a Christian school… the place sucked big time!” “Frank, wait a minute, F-r-a-n-k!” he heard his teammates calling again. Then, as if waking from a bad dream, he realized that he was in an enviable position up court. Everyone wanted to be in his spot; maybe it was because he made it look so easy. He heard the soft whirl of the new Hyper Boss 401 bearings he was running. In the
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moment that it took him to look down at the puck, his mind raced ahead, picking up the thread of what seemed a recent random conversation that was easily plucked from his memory. Frank, you are to stop asking insubordinate questions. You are to study, learn your subjects and graduate. He cringed as he remembered the stodgy vice principal’s words. Isn’t the purpose of school to learn to ask the right questions? There you go with your insubordination again, she said, don’t you remember that arrogance was man’s first sin? My job is to guide you along the proper path. A-l-l right pucky, he said to himself, let’s lead you down the righteous path of victory. He laughed at the ease with which he made the little round puck change directions abruptly with skillful prods from his stick. Then he grinned as his mind transformed the goalie into the padded vice-principal. “Try to stop me now!” Frank chewed on his mouthpiece with the same deliberation that he used to draw the two backs toward him and to the right side of the court before he would make his move. He was calculating and probing the two defenders when he sensed another white, black and red jersey. It was the realization that he wasn’t alone that triggered his thoughts again. We wear uniforms with elastic waistbands now, because some kids began to wear a style that looked like gang attire. It was like minorities had become contagious with something. Without staring directly, he saw that Lee, his teammate, was somehow all by himself about twelve feet directly in front of the goal. He didn’t see Lee’s timid gesture as Frank focused on the goal; but he heard Lee tap-tap his stick on the floor: calling for the shot. Behind them, they could hear the field noisily making its way up court. “Frank! Hey, Frank! Wait, Frank!” But number ten knew where he was. He came in for the showdown. He slowed down just enough to allow the two backs to set their determined selves between him and their goalie who had shifted his position off-center, forming a tight triangle of opposition to number ten’s hockey stick. Tap-tap-tap. There it was again and as he engaged them with several body moves, tap-tap, tap-tap. This time Frank heard persistence, maybe a give-me-a-chance sound. Frank’s resolute face broke into a half-smile and in a gesture so slight as to be momentarily overlooked: he made a sweet little pass to Lee. The racism is getting worse around here, Frank said to the vice- principal.
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Are you calling me a racist? she asked. There’s something wrong here and it isn’t me, Frank stated. We have to wear uniforms now—like we’re on the same team—but some never act like they’re on the same team. Lee watched the puck wide-eyed to make sure it was there, stopped in its tracks. It was. Frank couldn’t have placed it better if he had done it with his hand. The crowd stopped chewing their gum, their gummy bears, their nachos with imitation flavored cheese, as their eyes followed the moving puck that travelled the same speed as the one Frank had intercepted only there was no defender to intercept it. This fact injected numbness, like a dose of Novocain, deep into the mind of the Oak Leafs’ coach, who stood with his mouth open at the barrier wall, then shaking his head in disbelief hearing himself say, “Nice pass, number ten.” He retrieved himself with an emphatic hand signal across his throat to his best players and gesticulated with both hands in the air. Rodriguez and Kelly zeroed in on Lee, their sticks ready to do some damage. I’ve known them since first grade. Some of them are calling me a beaner and worse. I’m confused, Dad… what does it mean to be a Mexican, and why is it so bad? Sitting there, the little black, hard plastic puck struck terror into anyone associated with the opposition, for where it stopped, it was out of stick reach in front of the large but slow moving goalie. The crowd was full of “Oh, no’s!” and emphatic, “Yes’s!” Only Lee remembered that he had never taken a shot like this in a game; in fact, he hardly touched the puck at all for all his effort. The realization of this fact made Lee a little nervous and he almost lost his balance as he hastily raised his stick above his helmet. The second time I got into trouble was when I stopped Alphonso beating up on RJ. Someone had to do it, RJ’s so small for his age. And of course, I got caught fighting. What a setup! No explanations allowed. We got a lecture on fighting before we were suspended. They’re all mixed up, or maybe it’s me. Fortunately, they were four seconds away, yelling and screaming to distraction: “Get him! Stop him! Kill him!” All those hot practices, all those dreams plagued by uncoordinated movements, poured like beads of sweaty memories onto Lee’s face, but he was determined to put the puck where he had practiced, where even now a familiar loud voice kept repeating, “Away from the goalie!” “You got it, Lee,” Frank reassured. “It’s all yours. Just put it into the
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net!” Lee was totally wound up, his stick high in the air. Behind the barrier wall, one coach was encouraging Lee, the other was trying to neutralize him. The crowd was hushed as Lee’s stick came down hard behind the puck. If it had been made of metal, there would have been sparks flying and perhaps a little flash of lightning. With a lot less than a perfect follow through, Lee rotated on his skates like a clumsy ballerina pirouetting as the puck took off toward the goalie, whose apprehensive eyes could not follow it, because he closed them at the moment of its impact with the stick. If it had been shot like most other times into the body padding, the goalie would have stood a chance of defending against it. There would have been a last minute struggle for the loose puck—but Lee shot it wisely, high and into the corner. That made all the difference. When the field caught up to them, everyone saw that the puck was in the net. In the clamorous display that followed, no one heard the final buzzer, as arm-in-arm, Frank and Lee were escorted off the court. Lee had not only scored but also broken the tie to win the game. Amidst the well-wishers—two families, one Mexican, one Chinese shook hands for the first time. Among the trilling whistles of the kids and the referees, the celebratory cheering and mobbing of their teammates, Frank and Lee were grappling with what they had done. While exchanging congratulatory laughs and a thumbs-up sign, Frank cupped his ear to hear his father’s words. Frank laughed as he repeated them: “Perfect setup!”
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mKennym by Bob Noz
OB STOOD AT THE ENTRANCE TO a familiar room, as an overwhelming odor of someone different percolated into his Bnose. It filled him with disgust. It was the odor of a grubby locker room, where used socks and old jocks straps have been thrown behind or on top of lockers, and masked with those expensive colognes that claim only a guy secure in his manhood can wear them. There was the immediate impulse to walk to the window to let in some fresh air, but there was an obstacle course of dirty clothes, basketball jerseys, CD’s, baby toys, a couple of basketballs, an air pump / gauge apparatus, partially empty boxes of Cinnamon Toast munch cereal—“I asked you not to eat in your room, Kenny!” Peering deeper into the room, “It’s not the same room anymore.” The closet door was open, revealing a similar mess to that on the floor, bed, and furniture. The bed had only a mattress cover on it, and something akin to a sleeping bag atop. “I didn’t sign up for this. There used to be a hospital bed in that corner and the smell of sun-dried laundry, with traces of baby powder.” Bob caught his reflection and didn’t recognize his own face. “I’m being deformed by disgust.” He stepped into the hallway for some fresh air before looking around the room again. Next to the TV, there was a group of small figurines. “Looks like a pantheon: Kobe, LeBron, Shaq, Jordan… .” He exhaled as he said, “What should I do? What should I do?” Hijo, necessito que me ayudas, por lo poco que me queda. Quiero morir aquí en mi casa. Prometame eso. “But Mom, you don’t realize what you’re asking me to do.” All I got back was her serious stare. Her eyes were the same, but her face and body had become that of a viejita, a small, frail viejita. “All right, Mom, I’ll put everything on hold, my Masters, my life… because… because…” I couldn’t say something more meaningful, like: for everything you’ve given me, I give you this time out of my busy life, or, this time, I’ll sacrifice for you, Mom. Kenny’s coming through the kitchen with a basketball in one hand and his cell phone in the other. “Yeah, dude, that barber is great! It came out perfect this time.” He gazes at me. I say, “Hi Kenny. How ya doing?”
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“Hold on a minute…” He slows to a stop, puts the cell phone on his chest. “Hi, Bob.” “Excuse me, Kenny, but it bothers me that you spend most of the day in bed. Aren’t you supposed to be looking for a job?” Kenny stretches up to his six foot height from which he then observes me with a stare. I stare back at him wondering what ideas are passing between those two appendages decorated with diamond studs. He responds after twenty seconds. “Say, Bob, did your son get into that university he was trying so hard to get into?” “Yes, he did. He’ll be attending this fall. Ya know Kenny, my son Frank got good at something he can trade for a salary, a good salary. Now, he has some dreams he wants to realize, maybe make some big bucks. He’s not waiting for someone to hand him his future.” Kenny still stares down at me, the ball now shifts onto his stomach, and both of his arms cross over it. “My dad makes big bucks, over a hundred thousand. He’s got a big house out in Encino.” “I’ll have to admit I never made a hundred thousand a year. Your father’s obviously good at something. You have to start getting good at something, using your time better. You have a beautiful one-year old son and Jennifer—…” There’s a honk at the rear gate. “Sorry to cut you short Bob, but I’m getting together with some buddies. Besides, I’m just renting a room.”
. . .
What should I do? I know what you would have done, mom. You were never very warm toward your own, much less someone else’s. I remember what you said, when I tried to hug you once, “no seas encimoso, no fuimos criados así.” I remember only two times in my life… once when I graduated from high school, and the second time when I graduated from UCLA. That’s a long time between hugs, mom. You know, there was a third time… you probably didn’t feel it. I hope it wasn’t too painful for you. I could see that something was happening by the way you jerked in my arms, and rolled your eyes. I think your heart gave out, after working hard for 97.3 years. I hope my hug was the last thing on your mind. Maybe, we both got our wishes.
. . .
The room had been vacant for six months, but memories lingered. On the day Kenny showed up with his grandfather, Bob remembered
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that the carpet was still drying from the steam cleaning. The closet was still full of her clothes. There was a combination blackboard/corkboard in a wooden frame where notes concerning meals were neatly printed, about how much of what was eaten or drunk. There were also medication schedules noting when a drug was administered. Several prescription drug inserts hung from a thumbtack pinned to the cork. In a separate grouping, there were also children in various black and white and color photos carefully pinned to the cork surface. Some of them had inscriptions in one corner, like, “To Grandma, with Love.” “Bob, it’s not good for you to be alone. It would be better for you to have someone to talk to, and help you around the house. I know it’s hard losing your mother, but life goes on.” “I guess so. I’m just getting my diurnal rhythms back. I still get up in the middle of the night, thinking that I forgot to feed her or give her her medications. I hear—or maybe—I just think I hear a noise in her room, and I’m wide awake.” “Yeah, I know it’s rough, but do me a favor Bob. Kenny’s a good kid. He’s getting a medical degree soon, probably in a couple of months. Come on, do me a favor, and let him move in.” “A medical degree? Is that why he has scrubs on? Is he going to be a doctor?” “No, not a doctor. He’ll be a sterilization specialist. You know, technical stuff. It cost us ten grand.” “But, you know, Albert… I hadn’t even considered renting out a room, much less having someone stay with me. I still have all her clothes and stuff… have to finish painting… I just don’t know…”. “Come on Bob, it’ll be good for you, and you’ll be doing me a favor. I’ll even throw in two or… maybe even three hundred bucks … for two months. Come on.” “What’s wrong with your place? It’s just you and Henrietta, and he is your grandson.” “Oh, didn’t I tell you, we’ve got some important people from Boston—for the holidays. Henrietta’s family is distantly related to the Kennedy’s. Come on, two months, and you’ll be doing us a big favor. When can he move in?”
. . .
“Bob, could you give me a break, say reduce the rent $100? I’m having a hard time getting the money. Please, just for me, can you do it, please?”
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“Kenny, you agreed to the rent amount. In fact, you were paying $75 to $200 more. You were only supposed to be here two months, count them, October and November of last year.” Kenny starts to cry, “Please, Bob, give me a break, please.” “Okay, I’ll cut you some slack, this time.”
. . .
Kenny leaves early each morning, says he’s off to work, “temping.” Now a perfumy fragrance comes out of his room, but there’s the same mess as before. The only time it changes is when his wife / girlfriend comes over and straightens up his room for him, which is not very often. One day, I catch him coming through the kitchen. I say, “Hi, Kenny how ya?” He’s on his cell phone. He’s got a glum look on his face. “I’m in a hurry. I’m late this morning.” He’s out the rear door, walking down the walkway to his car. “I’m doing hard manual labor,” he says, “working like a nigger.” “Hey! Don’t bring your racism into my house. If you have to work hard, that’s your problem, no one else’s. You got that?” He pauses a moment, “I’m not a racist. I probably have more black friends than you do.” He curses me under his breath. Kenny goes out to his car, then comes back to the rear door, says he forgot something. He sees that I’m upset, so he says, “I’m on my way back to my room. I’m just going to step by you. “ He raises his hands chest high with open palms out, like we’re playing ball, only I have the ball and he wants me to drive on him. I’m still blocking his way, so I reluctantly step aside. “Okay, Kenny, some other time.” On his way out, he says, “Have a good day.” He gets to the kitchen door, does an about face, and he’s standing next to me as I bring stuff out of the fridge. “What!? Don’t I get a response? You the only one that deserves a response here?” “I thought you were in a hurry, Kenny. Are you upset because I told you that this month, I’m not giving you a break in the rent?” “This isn’t fair. You told me that you would lower my rent $100 a month.” “I lowered it for one month, not for every month. Your father pays your rent, most of it. Surely, you can come up with $100 per month. Ever since you got here Kenny, it’s been, ‘take care of Kenny time.’”
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“What you talking about?” “Kenny, the first thing out of your mouth was ‘can you help me with some dental work?’ I’m not your mother or father or your nursemaid. It’s part of renting a room, you come up with the agreed upon rent each month.” “Okay, Bob, I know you have an anger issue. You don’t have to go ballistic on me.” “Kenny, you’ve rented or lived in how many places so far? Six? The result is always the same: you’re out in six months. Can all those landlords or family members be bad?” “How about you? The neighbors can’t stand you, I’ve asked them. Your brother and sister don’t talk to you. Maybe YOU have the problem.” “Could be, Kenny, maybe I’m the bad guy for letting you stay here. There would be no problem if I hadn’t let you stay. But, you know what? You’re out of here at the end of the month. I’ve had enough. That’s it. You can just find yourself a cheaper place to stay.”
. . .
Three weeks later: Kenny’s been avoiding me. He leaves early and arrives late, except on weekends when he’s absent. One morning we meet early in the kitchen: he’s on his cell phone as he rushes by. We look each other in the eye. “Good morning, Kenny. Howya doin’?” He momentarily disengages from his cell phone. “Good morning, Bob.” As he passes, I say, “You know what time of the month it is, don’t you?” He stares incredulously at me, says, “I have to call you back,” into the receiver. “I thought that was just a passing thing, an argument between friends, nothing serious.” “Maybe you’re right, but I was serious.” He’s staring at me with that incredulous look on his face. “You can’t mean it, Bob. I’ve been trying so hard not to rock the boat, not be confrontational. I leave early and come back late so as not to disturb you. I paid you the extra $100 you wanted.” “Kenny, the $100 was what you had agreed to when you first came here. If you want the money back, I’ll give it to you, but you have to leave right now.” “No, I don’t want the money back. If I had known, I wouldn’t have paid it. Why didn’t you tell me in the middle of the month? Why didn’t you remind me?”
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“Listen, Kenny, I told your grandmother three or four months ago that I wanted you out. Then, I agreed to hold off for three months, until spring. Well, spring has arrived and your time has come. You’re out the door by the end of the month. That’s it.” “Don’t be a fuckin’ asshole, Bob. But… Bob… I have no fuckin’ place to go.” “Kenny, you have family. You have a mother and a father. You have grandparents, and… surely, you’ve been in this situation before.” I look into his eyes without resentment or anger, but with all the resolve I can muster. “I’m sorry, but you have to leave. Good luck to you in all you endeavor.” When he returned that afternoon, I handed him a roll of plastic bags. I put all the groceries with “Kenny” on them in a box. Without another word, he turned, carrying his box of groceries and dishes, with a practiced hand, like he carries his basketball, and left down the rear walkway. He climbed into his car, with one of his buddies in the passenger side. The engine had been running all this time. He put the box on the rear seat with all of the plastic bags, and then he rattled away.
Manuel Lopez
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mSickness unto Deathm by Samuel Dominguez
White snow Covers the earth With a blanket of infinitude: Endless chatter.
Clear ice Hovers over the waters, Lake and shore Heed the silent call.
For this, for all this You have been blind.
Dense dust Buries the fields Like moss on a stump: Endless clatter.
Cliffs of granite exit the earth And arise from the sea: Each groove Delicately shaped by eternal breath Dust to rock For all this, for this I have been blind.
The sky gnaws at the earth- Skeleton of a habit. The sea gnaws at the earth- To walk in but not on Until finally here, You and I Are left with a patch of dirt for A soul.
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Robert Ramirez
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mThe Hour of Leadm by Samuel Dominguez
Lead grew into my skin Etched by warm steel Carving out from metal to skin Settling on the surface Pouring into pores: Substance out of chaos, Void of form. Deliberate hand That submerges into shadow Like dirt into land Steady eye That emerges from darkness Like snow from sky. Focus on breathe and vibration Buried in the memory of sensation That sends the solvent down Through tense, arrested muscles Iron alloyed to bone Carbon loosened from blood Pumping my heart of lead.
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Susanna Negrete
mSongstressm
by Sergio Garcia
she spits the universe in words tickles your spine with its wind
with vibrations of space she obliterates time
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mWaitingm by Stevie Johnson
T WOULD GO DOWN IN HISTORY as my favorite episode of “Scooby Doo.” Runner ups would include, “Sonny & Cher andI Scooby,” “Jackson 5 and Scooby,” but my all time favorite was “Scooby-Doo Meets the Harlem Globetrotters”. It was comforting to watch the Globetrotters. Always putting on a good show, the Globetrotters were consistently dependable. To me, they were like having your own personal variety pack of fun fathers. Papa Curly, Papa Meadowlark… There was a knock at the door, but nothing was going to rip me away from my Saturday morning father filled fantasy. I stayed glued to the set. “Stevie, your daddy is here,” my mother claimed from the front door. Since my ears were not accustomed to the words “daddy” and “here” in the same sentence, I must not have heard her. “Globetrotters…I’m a fan myself,” said a smooth voice standing over me. I looked up and there was my pops. I was so excited. There he stood like the benched team member called in and ready to play. Animation to reality, my biological Globetrotter. Only his outfit was a caramel colored leather blazer, tan slacks and a white shirt and shoes. I jumped up, hugged and inhaled my father. His scent was security. “Ma, why didn’t you tell me daddy was coming?” “I didn’t want you to get disappointed if he didn’t show,” she says calmly, looking directly into my father’s eyes. “Come on Champ. The whole day. Just you and me.” I was bursting with joy. Our house was right next to the school I attended, J. J. Hill elementary. We walked along the bordering fence past the school’s playground to the end of the block. “Pops, where we going?” I asked. “Anywhere you want. I live just a couple of blocks away.” “Ooouh. I want to go to your pad.” Spitting out lingo I picked up from my older brother. “My ‘pad’ huh?” Pops said with an amused smile. “Yeah, your pad.” We chuckled at this cool bonding moment right past the convenience store, Tom Thumb, to my father’s apartment. As we entered the cream colored building, I felt like was going to finally meet this ominous creature that kept my father captive. This
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void that was bigger than I. His apartment felt like the set of “Love, American Style”- a 70’s sitcom. Clean, well appointed, upbeat. It felt lonely, like most of the characters from the show seeking love. I noticed two identical couches in his living room. “Pops, why do you have two of the same couches?” With the flair of a magician he stated, “These are not just any two couches, but upon closer observation they are indeed…”. He pushed the two together and flipped a nearby blanket over them. “…voila! A bed!” I can see why I picked him as my father. A Globetrotter in his own right. Magical. Endearing. When he brought me a glass of orange juice, mid-checker game, I saw emptiness on his face. His sunken cheeks and chiseled jaw added to his good looks, but my father had a longing in his eyes. Perhaps this is what made him so charismatic. He held an honest vulnerability. My dad was the epitome of the likeable everyman, doing his best to deal with his fatal flaw. As we continued hanging out, I saw a light begin to shine in my father. He truly was enjoying himself. He liked me. It was the perfect date. When it came time for him to walk me home, I asked if I could visit every Saturday. He said to me, “Stevie, you and I are like these couches, separate but one. From now on, every Saturday, me and you, Champ, that I promise.” The warmth and sincerity of those words confirmed that this was the best day of my life. Beaming all week, I excelled. A weight was lifted. School was better. Somehow I even seemed smarter. My neighbor, Howard, across the street, was also excited for me. He just wanted to get a glimpse of my dad. I told him that I was walking to my “dad’s pad” Saturday, but next time he was coming to my house I’d introduce him. He, too, was without a dad. In fact most of my neighbors, friends, and cousins didn’t have a dad, and if they did it was usually a destructive relationship. My mother was happy for me, but she reserved her enthusiasm. Every night she was up late sewing for personal clients. Surrounded by cirrus clouds of smoke just above my head, I’d see her there sewing away. This was her routine. Seamstress work downtown, always there when I got home, cook and connect with me, then sewing way into the night. Some of our best conversations happened while Ma sewed. Seldom inhaling, Ma would dangle her cigarette off her bottom lip with the confidence of a trapeze artist. Ashes would often grow an inch or so before falling. In between the buzz of the sewing machine I’d ask questions.
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Vvvvvvrrrrrrtttt. “Ma, what was your dad like?” Vvvvvvrrrrrrtttt. “Tom Stover? Oh, he was a mean man, said to have sold his soul to the devil. He had the power to heal or kill. That’s how he made his money. Healing people far and wide. He buried his money on his forty acres by his tent. He wrestled with the devil three days before he died.” Silence. I was paralyzed, too scared to asked about my Grandmother. Vvvvvvvvvrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt. With her back to me, Ma kept her eye on the stitching the whole time. Vvvvvvvvvrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt. “Ma, do you still love Pops?” Vrr—“Ehheeehghhh!!!” Ma snorted in pain. Her fingers again. I knew the routine. I jumped up to loosen the wheel on the side of the sewing machine. The first time this happened she called me in from the other room. One hand was covering the other that was attached to the needle on the machine. She instructed me to turn the wheel on the side. I tried but it wouldn’t move much. “Really turn it, Stevie.” She gritted her teeth, hiding her pain. I caught a glimpse of her left index finger with the sewing machine needle through it. This panicked me into whipping that wheel around almost back down for a second stitching. “Good! Good! Baby!” she proclaimed, pulling her threaded finger away from the culprit. This time it was her thumb. She was on her feet for this one. A thin stream of blood arched from the platform of her nail. She went and got pink Charmin bathroom tissue and wrapped her thumb. I went around to the other side of the sewing machine, facing my mother as she continued to sew. My question was only answered by the blood seeping through the pink makeshift dressing covering her thumb. Vvvvvvvvvrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr… Saturday morning. It may as well have been Christmas, Scooby- Doo’s melodious moans were on in the background and Ma cooked me cheese eggs and toast. Usually I fixed myself Lucky Charms on Saturday, but today I needed no luck. I was going to spend a day hangin’ with my Pops. In the doorway before I left, Ma held my face in her hands and looked me directly in the eyes. “Stevie don’t feel bad if things don’t turn out.” Her Bandaid thumb rubbed and cut under my right eye a bit. Ma had that longing look in her eye just like my father. My desire for her to be mistaken created a survival button smile that cracked upon my face. I kissed her on the cheek and busted out the front door. Like clockwork, Howard was waving from across the
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street. “Papa’s Pad!!” he yelled, grinning from ear to ear, cracking up. “Tell our Dad I said ‘Hi.’” I liked Howard. He reminded me of a little government official. He was so diplomatic. When someone from school told him his mother was a prostitute, he politely declined the suggestion and told the other kid to consider his mother one instead. One day Howard came over with panic in his eyes. He wanted me to look at something. My younger cousin Danny was with me, so he tagged along. Howard took us up to his mother’s bedroom and showed us her circular bed. No big deal, other than it being unmade in the middle of the day. Then Howard pulled back the sheets. Massive amounts of blood soaked the center of the mattress. Danny was so frightened he ran home, bouncing off a wall before aligning with the doorway. I marveled at the density of the blood. I noticed the stains down the side of the bed and spots on the hardwood floors like wet blood crumbs down the hall. Howard asked, “Do you think my mom is a prostitute?” Staring at the blood I said, “Your mom is pretty and all but –“ “Little Stevie, Howard, what cha’ll boys doin’ in my room?” We turned and Howard’s mom stood over us like Cleopatra Jones fresh out of the shower. Dripping wet in her robe she really was beautiful. “Mother, I was concerned for you so I wanted to get Stevie’s opinion.” Well, almost a politician. “Howard, now what would Stevie know about your mama’s menstrual flow?” On that note, I wanted to vanish. “Uh, misses Howard mom, um ma’am, ma-ma, may I be excused?” Blundering words, I realized I didn’t even know Howard’s last name. Howard’s cackle carried down the block as I passed Tom Thumb and walked down the hill towards my dad’s apartment building. A conquering smile came over me. I headed down the steps to apartment 3b. What will we do today, I thought. I reached up to push in the square plastic black button surrounded by a gold tin box representing a doorbell. Ka-Chink. The ring fell flat. Any moment my biological Globetrotter would appear. In the silence, I listened for his footsteps and thought of what my opening line would be. “Son number two arrive,” said in an Asian accent, stealing a line from the Charlie Chan TV series. Naw. How about, “What do you call small change? Son of Bill.” Is that funny, I thought? A while passed and I pushed in the black square again. Ka- Chi-. Worse than the first time. Maybe he’s asleep or in the shower. I
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listened for any movement, flush of the toilet, phone conversation, anything. Nope. “I wouldn’t rush to answer a door with someone who had jokes like that,” came across my mind. Ka-Chink. Nothing. “Why wouldn’t the doorbell ring right?” Ka-Chink. Ka-Chink. Ka- Chink. I pressed my right ear and face against the door. Is that Pop’s TV or the neighbor’s? I went over to the other door to listen. “I think it’s theirs.” Back to pop’s door, then the other door. This time the neighbor opened the door, and I almost went falling forward. “Sorry,” I said backing out of the apartment. “Can I help you, boy?” said the slightly irritated lady exiting with a grocery tote. “No, I’m just waiting on my dad.” “Oh, you that boy that swat flies at the Co-op. I haven’t seen you over there in a while.” The lady looks at my father’s door. No words. “Well, I hope to see you over there soon. It’s good to see a young man trying to make something of himself.” She headed up the steps and continued on with her day. When she left, so did the sound of the TV. I sat against the wall between the two doors for a long time. I got on the floor to peek under the door. Nothing, just carpet and the lower half of the two couches. I sat there. Maybe he meant every other Saturday or one Saturday a month. Then I thought maybe he really didn’t like me, he was just being nice until our day was up. Maybe he moved. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he was working. Maybe he was with Mary Fletcher. My heart began to pound. I began to knock. Nothing. I couldn’t go home. Ma would be so disappointed. I decided to stay. Eventually he will show up. It’s his house, right? Hours later the neighbor returned with groceries in tow. It didn’t take a genius to compute the situation. “You want to come in, get something to drink?” she said, sympathetically. “No, ma’am, I was just leaving.” Waving at my dad’s door I tried to play it off like we just spend a fun filled day. Outside the apartment, I didn’t know what to do. I definitely didn’t want to pass Tom Thumb or see Howard. What was I going to say to Ma? I started walking in the opposite direction from home. I didn’t know if I was angry, hurt or mistaken. When I got home, Ma had food ready. I had to buck up. The problem is, I’m a horrible liar. I could never tell a lie, especially to Ma. She could sniff out a lie before it was even thought. At dinner she asked how my day was with Pops. I said, “Umm huh.” Nodding my head. “We’re gonna do it again next Saturday.” Ma studied me, looking for any signs of pain. I sat up straight, and
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put on that patented button smile. In school, Howard hunted me down, eyes beaming with excitement. “Stevie, how was Saturday?” “Man, you wouldn’t believe it. I’ll have to tell you after school,” I said, giving a brush. “Ah, man. Keepin’ family secrets…I’ll see you after school.” He skipped away. Howard will be just as hurt as I was when I break the news to him. How could I tell him? On the walk home we were being followed by the upperclassman that was hassling Howard about his mom being a prostitute. I guess he couldn’t let go of Howard’s last quip. He kept kicking Howard’s foot as he walked. Finally Howard turned and demanded the bully stop. “What chu gonna do about it, punk?” He shoved my politician friend. Before I knew it, I flipped the villain to the ground and plunged on top, grabbed his head and hit it on the ground twice, yelling, “Leave him alone. Leave him alone!!!” The bully got so scared that he bolted up and ran off. I had never done anything like that before. “Gahh lee, Stevie. You just flipped Frankenstein. Did your dad teach you that?” I had no words for Howard. Pumped with adrenaline and disbelief, I backed away and crossed the street home. Saturday. I was back to Lucky Charms. Scooby wasn’t doing it for me. Ma noticed the TV was off. I knew this would garner a question from Ma, so I jumped in before she could ask, “I’ll see you when I’m back from Pops’.” And out the backdoor I fled, also avoiding the possibility of Howard, but not Tom Thumb. A few steps and I was directly in front of Mary’s store. I muscled past on the hopes that this Saturday would be different than last. Ka-Chinkinnngchong. The black square was in a good mood today. Maybe it was my Lucky Charms. A smile of relief came over my face when I heard footsteps heading toward the door. Every other week, I smiled. A door opened, but it was the neighbor’s. Apparently this was her ritual as well. “G’mornin’ child.” She addressed me, looking at the patrolling door between my father and me. “Another day with your father?” I nodded yes. She pasted on my patented smile and left. Wait a minute, that smile is mine. Ka-Chink. “Knock, knock, knock.” Nothing. “Please answer the door, I’ll do anything. You promised.” Thoughts like this ran through my mind for hours. Waiting. I had to get out of there before the neighbor returned. I took the scenic route home. I saw her about a block away. I turned. Can’t go by
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Tom Thumb. Howard will be waiting. Ma will want to know what we did. I found myself being pushed further and further from my house. After that incident with the bully, Howard didn’t question me so much about my father. He did catch me a few times on Saturdays leaving. We’d wave. Ma didn’t question me so much either, and since my dad didn’t have a phone I’m sure she assumed I was doing something with him. I continued going to my father’s apartment for several months with the same results. One Saturday during month four, I was waiting on the inside steps to father’s apartment. The neighbor lady came in from outside. “I have something for you.” She invited me into her apartment, made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and gave me a book of hidden word puzzle games. “Something to help you pass time. You find the hidden words amongst the others?” She worked a full puzzle with me, and before I knew it, it was time to return home. I would continue my vacant father visits every Saturday, now being filled by Jackie, the neighbor, my new friend. I completed one full book of hidden puzzle games with Jackie. Sometimes she would give me advice on the step or invite me into her apartment. Once in a while we’d just watch television, maybe Soul Train. The blows to my father never answering the door were softened by hanging out with Jackie. That was until she got a boyfriend. Then she became more and more consumed by her new lover and she didn’t have as much time for me. I might have become jealous and didn’t say much to them when they headed out. Right around the ninth month I decided to talk with the caretaker to see if my father even lived there anymore. He said “yes;” in fact he’d just dropped off his rent yesterday. There was a moment of hope. I sprinted down to his apartment and stared at the black button on the doorbell. Then I heard noise that definitely was coming from his apartment. Ah, what a relief. He was here. As I prepared to knock, I heard a woman’s voice. Some giggling, soft music, followed by a deeper, semi slurring voice giving playful instruction. My dad was drunk and with a woman. My heart sank. The bond that we had entitled me to visit anytime. I guess I made that up in my mind and it backfired. I stood there, frozen, listening to their distorted fun. I burst into tears, standing there, unable to move. I needed someone, anyone, for I felt I was coming apart. I shuffled a few feet to Jackie’s apartment and knocked on her door. It opened slightly. I peeked in, calling her name. The flood of tears made it hard to see in front of me. Then I thought, what if I’m walking in on another unsolicited moment, and I stopped. Wiped
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my eyes and stood noticing something very unexpected. I was standing in a completely empty apartment. Jackie had moved. Gone. My emotions threw me onto the street. The pre-winter wind blew its warning across my face; it burned under my right eye where my mother had scratched me with her Band-Aid. I thought of my Grandfather Tom selling his soul to the devil. I felt that my father had sold his soul. Then I thought about my mother’s damaged thumb. I stood in the parking lot of Mary Fletcher’s store staring at the big red sign “Tom Thumb”. My grandfather Tom, my mother’s thumb, and all of the pain. Lidia Garcia
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mThis Is Just To Saym by Oliver Bedolla
I have replaced you with an ancient, benevolent, Mexican God. I have replaced your flesh with corn and your blood with chocolate. I drink the chocolate and it gives me strength; not like your wine that makes me stupid and useless. I eat tortillas Instead of bread; they taste much better than your flesh. I pray to a Feathered Serpent; one that slithers like me and is celestial like you. Yeah, forgive them christ, for you have died for their sins, but not for mine.
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mEscapem by Yvette Correll
Standing here alone Cuffs on my hand I stare at the locks Unable to understand
Restricted from feelings U n r e s t r i c t e d from pain Every move I make Adding onto the chain
Held back by a rope Only going so far Slowing down my pace Running in the same ol’ tar
This burden I carry As I continue my way Hoping to F R E E myself Some- how, some- day
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mLook Closelym by Yvette Correll
Born into this world I did not ask Raised like this As I’m handed a mask
Coloring away my tears Painting the smiles Putting on an act As if this were my style
R u n n i n g since my birth Inside I try to hide Unable to be captured As I fade behind my disguise
So can you break the wall Get past the outer me Look d o w n deep inside
Secretly wishing to be f r e e d
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mYou Werem
by Oscar De Leon
You were as loud as the wind in a an open meadow You were strong as a golden bear You were braver than a honey badger You were a smile that never showed regret in dark days Now you are a friend called dead I won’t cry, I will just remember and smile at what you were
Dedicated to Arturo Rodriguez who died in Iraq 3/13/2011
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mGray blue eyes Pt. 1m by Luis Madrigal
The first thing I noticed was your crooked midnight blue bow-tie then, I noticed your piercing gray blue eyes then, I noticed your crooked smile that’s when I knew you were mine we aimed for the same salsa jar in the isle of Big Lots we stopped short of our hands touching we laughed and you said ¨go ahead¨ I thought I really couldn’t ¨flip a coin for it,¨ I said ¨how about a date for it?¨ you asked we stopped at the nearby McDonald´s I adjusted your bow-tie and your hands grazed mine why anyone would wear a bow-tie to Big Lots was beyond me but, it must’ve been god sent because I was so close I could smell the Downy detergent on your clothes ¨someone told me you didn’t exist and I almost believed them,¨ you said ¨I’m as real as the cup of coffee in your hand,¨ I said all the chances we took all the wrong left turns all the one night stands now in front of us stood something bright something new ¨are you really gonna make me wait?¨ you asked ¨i´m not that kind of boy,¨ I said, but we kissed, anyway you held my hand under the white plastic table, anyway you jumped in to my brain and made a home, anyway you pumped new blood in to my veins, anyway ¨i´d rather be in your arms than across this table,¨ you said so we walked outside in to the night and sat on the curb with my arms wrapped around you
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¨a new version of us,¨ you said the hopes of it all all the mistakes yet to be made all the snapping remarks but I imagined it had to be worth it so we got up after a while and you began walking away you said, ¨don’t forget me¨ I said ¨how could I?¨ a card with your name and number, I held in my hand what happened that night would never let me go but it´s not like I really ever wanted to leave
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mGray blue eyes Pt. 2m by Luis Madrigal
It’s 7:47 I have nine yellow roses there’s thousands of petals on the floor and, I’m not wearing a tie I knocked on two wrong doors each with a cold look of its own I’m fidgeting, I can’t stop blinking I hope I don’t fuck this up what was committed to memory and what will be said will not be the same I need you to go along with what I’m about to say I finally knock on your door God, you look beautiful in my gray dress shirt and those purple briefs I simply cannot ignore I guess you weren’t expecting any guests but, I’d go to a five star restaurant with you looking like this you’re surprised you squint your eyes you point at the flowers then you smile you take the flowers and cross your arms “what’s the matter with you?” you ask with a look of disbelief “YOU’RE the matter with me,” I say as I rub my head “why only nine roses?” you ask “I couldn’t afford a dozen,” I sadly admit yet, you don’t let me in are you aware? You always see through me I tap my hands on my thighs
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you keep smiling with those gray blue eyes oh, how you love to watch me suffer your arms still crossed, paying more attention to my near dozen I pull out a small black box and get on one knee you step back, and nearly drop the roses “you’re the most beautiful man on earth. I might not be worth much, but what I have, I’ll give to you. One day, I might even afford a real dozen. So, what do you say? Do you want to sit next to me on the subway train that is life? I won’t talk much, and I’ll bring snacks, but honey, just say yes.” You look down on me and say nothing for a few seconds “but I can’t get off the train?” you ask, still looking down on me “not until one of us dies” I chuckle nervously after with this, you kneel down in front of me and you do it “yes, but you have to bring some good snacks,” you say, and press a finger to my nose the small silver band slides perfectly on to your finger we look at each other and smile a new life had just been created and I hope we’re ready for a long train ride
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mGray blue eyes Pt. 3m by Luis Madrigal
The alarm rang at 7:47 you hit the buzzer and got out of bed you put your black socks on and slipped in to your gray wool slacks I handed you your freshly ironed blue shirt, and you smiled you put on my favorite gray wool blazer then adjusted your black silk tie we sat at the kitchen table for breakfast three toaster waffles and a cup of cold, black coffee same thing every day for seventeen years we didn’t say a word because existing together was all we needed you skimmed through yesterday’s newspaper you seemed concerned about the economy you always seemed concerned those gray blue eyes grew colder when you read but, they lit back up when you looked up at me all the color and warmth rushed back your face there was nothing but blissful silence in our red kitchen we always felt a calm love there I walked you to the door handing you your black, leather briefcase and you kissed me goodbye you walked away you crossed the street, then another one you crossed a street too soon and you were hit lying there in a puddle of your own blood motionless no one heard so no one came so you stayed dying alone
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mLife With Mattm by Christopher Makoto Yee
By nature, I’m an empiricist. I’ve been that way ever since a philosophy class that I took two years ago told me that I was. Before then, I was just Chris—five foot five, stocky, Chinese and Japanese, and more than willing to believe what I see. This is not to say that I have no preconceived notions or beliefs: Christ and I have a cursory knowledge of each other, and I’m usually on Santa’s good list. However, either way, no experiences have taught me more than the ones I’ve had with my good friend Matt, who has shown me time and again that you can be pleasantly surprised by ignoring prior knowledge and actually living life based on what makes you happy. Let me elaborate. When I first met Matt, based on what I had heard about him, I expected a shark, a flim-flam man, a silver-tongued snake. My coworkers had told me that this Black-Mexican—later found to be Jewish-Mexican—human conundrum who used to work at the East Los Angeles College Writing Center was both the best and worst friend that any of them could have had—you could expect to be entirely charmed by his warmth and knowledge and to rue the day when you would get a drunken phone call at two in the morning asking for a ride home from a party. At my first workplace Christmas party, he showed up in his irreverent glory—dreadlocks flowing, arms wide open, and a broad smile on his face. He was wearing a faded green sweatshirt, khaki cargo shorts, and tennis shoes that seemed to all be very comfortable, although not entirely prudent considering how cold it was outside. We were introduced and spoke briefly, discussing our majors and the school that he was currently attending and I wanted to attend: UCLA. The whole time, the only thought on my mind was how puzzling a person he must be considering how much I enjoyed our short conversation. He wished me good luck on my transfer application, and we split off to talk to our other friends scattered throughout the party. Never one to let others influence my impressions too much, I came away liking him. The next time that I really came into close contact with Matt was the following summer. I was accepted to UCLA and was looking for a place to live. Matt was supposed to help me look for a place, but we never got it together. Then, in about mid-July, he called to say that his roommate was moving out and that I could live there with him. All of the things that everyone had warned me about were
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possibly going become a part of my everyday life now—drinking in excess, minor drug use, carousing—but I was willing to give it a chance, mostly because I didn’t think it’d be as bad as everyone said, and partly because the rent was cheap. Before my time with Matt in Apartment 29 of the Strathmore Terrace Apartments, I tended to take simple activities like city driving and vacuuming far too seriously. Living together added some much-needed perspective to my life. Just like with anything else, the little things were what meant the most to me. For example, I would usually cook dinner since Matt had no idea what to do in the kitchen save for making sandwiches and instant noodles. One thing that I like to make for dinner is breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast, nothing fancy. Maybe the third time I planned to make that dinner, Matt volunteered to help. I initially asked him to start the toast, but that was a task he was adept at, so I asked him to make the scrambled eggs thinking that that would be a good way to indoctrinate him into the ways of the frying pan. My mind must have been addled by the bacon I was flipping since the eggs were gray by the time he asked me if the they were done. Not wanting to freak him out or hurt his feelings, I simply turned off the stove and assured him that they were as done as they could be. Once we began eating, I tenuously tasted the gray matter in front of me and found it to be edible, which doesn’t necessarily say much, and that its only unusual alteration was a slightly smoky aftertaste. He then looked up at me and said, “I didn’t know eggs could turn this color.” Once I swallowed another mouthful of the odd eggs, I plainly replied, “Neither did I. I thought scrambled eggs were either yellow or black.” After a moment, we both burst into laughter, partly because we had eaten most of the eggs without saying anything about it and partly because Matt managed to do something that seemed impossible. Most of our interactions went something like this—there was always a humor about life that shone through, regardless of whether we were making a mess of dinner, discussing the philosophy of Myspace, or shopping somewhat frivolously for dill weed at the supermarket. The point of all of this isn’t that Matt was unfairly described—he always tells stories about wild weekend parties that I would never want to be anywhere close to—but rather that the joy of life that he brings is far more important than any of his aforementioned lapses into vice. We don’t live with each other anymore, but he’s returned to work at the Writing Center, so we’re back in each other’s lives, and I think that we’ve still got plenty to teach each other. This couldn’t
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come too soon, too, since I think he’s at a point where he could use some perspective, and I’d like to repay the favor.
* * *
One Saturday, a March day on the precipice of spring, I had work with Nansi. A few months before, I met Nansi after hearing plenty about her, much like the build up that Matt had. In fact, some of the build up had come from Matt himself. The two had previously been in some sort of romantic relationship, and it ended uneasily, badly according to some, with every bit of idle gossip placing the blame on one or the other. Fortunately enough for all of us working there, the expected uncomfortable silence between the two was over; in fact, it had transitioned nicely into a comfortable friendship. Regardless, she is a thin, graceful Salvadorian girl who wears very colorful, comfortable, self-tailored clothing and with whom I have enjoyed any number of short, amusing discussions of silly drawings of coworkers, raunchy tutor-created poems on the Magnetic Poetry board, and other unassuming activities of that ilk that always leave me pleased to be in her company. It was an average work day—we saw several students’ essays, gave various constructively-critical comments, gave group workshops on different areas of writing, and never failed to finish with a smile. Sometime before we closed, Matt came in to visit, which was not uncommon considering that most of us come in to hang out when we’re on campus and have free time. He came in wearing a white lounge shirt with small flowers on it and khaki slacks, a somewhat noticeable change from a t-shirt and cargo shorts. I approached him with our usual handshake and asked him to what did we owe the pleasure of his company. “I have a fitting for the play later,” he responded with a nervous tinge. He was going to be in the college’s production of “Romeo and Juliet”, and it almost slipped my mind that their opening night was a week away. However, he followed up with something I hadn’t expected: “Also, I told Nansi we’d hang out after she gets off.” My friend said this as if in passing, but the upward arch of the corners of his mouth reflected a subtle, almost child-like happiness. I had seen his face when he talked about females before, and it often had a mischievous grin painted all across it. This smile was so simple in its derivation of pleasure that it could only be seen as warm and honest. Now that struck me as something significant, a sign that things were not just okay between the two but better. This is a good example of me letting reality surprise me when life does
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not come close to matching my preconceived images. I must have expected the remnants of their prior uncomfortable silence to lead to at least awkward moments where a quick glance and smile would substitute where questions about what one was doing after work would normally go. This new possibility was without precedent. In any case, the three of us left our second story settlement of the English department building together, basking in the sunlight that made the winter-chilled air feel lukewarm. We picked a nice spot along a wall outside to lean on, and Matt took out his worn out Folger copy of “Romeo and Juliet”. The book had obviously been through a fair amount of travel and was obviously purchased much before Matt got into acting. Having one myself, I could appreciate that Matt had the best publication since the Folger has definitions and references right alongside the text. The combination of its wizened exterior and wise interior reminded me of Matt. He handed the text to Nansi and asked her to read his lines with him, which she did without question. Although the material was not entirely natural to her, Nansi read with a bit of excitement and a bit more precision. She obviously wanted to have some fun with it, maybe having something to do with the flowing pink top and blue jeans she had on, but her main focus was making sure that Matt got the proper cues for his own lines, which he did. He also recited more for precision than delivery, but he certainly did deliver with passion and conviction that could only be magnified on stage. As the two continued their discourse, my girlfriend, Aimee, met up with us. Petite and cute to no end, she got along well with Nansi right from the start since she’s a t-shirt and jeans girl as well as Salvadorian and Ecuadorian, but their friendship budded from there on. She also got along famously with Matt since both had somewhat silly senses of humor, and I have a sneaking suspicion that another reason is that they both know somewhat intimate details about me. Either way, she came to my side, and we just stayed quiet so not to distract the reading. When the two finished, at least for a momentary break, lively and playful banter between us immediately emerged. Matt joked about Nansi having secret theater training, and her face lit up as she punched him in the arm. “I didn’t even read it all that well. I guess my secret training was unsuccessful,” she joked as Matt recoiled, feigning fear of further attack. He reached his right hand up high and swooped it across his body: “I think you were great. A classical performance. Plus, I hit all my cues.” “Oh, so that’s why you’re flattering me.” And they carried on much like that.
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After about half an hour, Aimee’s hunger got the better of her, so I suggested that we all go out to lunch together. I pictured a pleasant conversation about domesticated animals and their places as family members over noodles at Thai House down the street from the college. Matt’s eyes were instantly on Nansi, placing the decision squarely on her slender shoulders. She pulled out her cell phone and checked the time. Her eyes met Matt’s, and I swear that I could almost see a thread connecting the widened pools of black. “I actually told my mom that I’d be back before it gets too late. I need to get over to the bus stop,” she said regretfully. I told her that we’d walk with her if not for the fact that the parking lot was in the exact opposite direction. In all honesty, though, I knew that she would not go unaccompanied. In a heartbeat, Matt earnestly added, “I’ll walk with you. I don’t have anything to do until my fitting.” That settled it. We said our goodbyes and went on our separate ways. I looked back at the two and saw that they were right back to sharing and laughing as they walked down the tree-lined path. “They’d make a cute couple,” Aimee said to me as we walked away hand in hand. I couldn’t have agreed more. They weren’t just happy together, they were making each other happy. I wonder, though, if Nansi actually checked the time or simply pulled out her phone and looked at a sleeping screen. The following week, I left Aimee’s house on Friday night and made my way back home. We talked on the phone for a bit since she was worried that I’d fall asleep on the drive—which could not have possibly happened—and the thought came to me again that Matt and Nansi seemed like they would be immeasurably happy together. We discussed it for a bit, and then halfway through the drive we said good night since Aimee was tired and could indulge herself since she was not driving. Moments after, my phone rang again, and to my surprise, it was Matt. On the few occasions we have talked on the phone, the calls have happened sometime during the day. I jumped at the chance to ask him how his play’s opening night went, and he told me that he broke a leg, making light of my well-wish from earlier in the day. In a somewhat surprising turn of events, he then said that there was a specific reason why he wanted to talk to me, something he needed advice about: “There’s something that I wanted to talk to you about. It’s just been . . . you know, it’s hard to . . . there’s a lot of stuff that—“ And I cut him off: “I think I already know what you’re getting at. But settle down and go ahead.” Not wanting to be presumptuous, I left the opportunity to express himself in his own hands.
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“Well, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Nansi recently, and I want to . . . you know,” he said with a nervousness that I had never before heard in his voice. There was something really sacred about what he was doing at this moment, and I wanted to put him at ease. “Can I be really honest with you? Aimee and I have actually had conversations at some length about how great a couple you’d make and how we’d have so much fun on double dates.” In this case, I didn’t want to hold anything back or give generalized dating advice. This was something much too close to heart, a love or death situation. “Yeah, I know what you mean. That sounds like so much fun,” he replied wistfully, actually picturing the possibilities. “But we tried before, and then there’s that guy she was seeing, and . . . I don’t know.” “Will you be happy if you don’t pursue this?” “No, as it is, she consumes my thoughts. I even had a dream about her last night.” “Then it’s settled. I know it sounds really high school, but would you like me to see if Aimee can ask her in passing some of those questions you have?” “No, thanks. I think I just need to man up and ask her out, but I’m going to give it a little bit of time see how that’s going to play out.” As the call came to a close, I couldn’t help but feel like the world was made for this. In varying degrees, everything seems to come down to love and the extent and manner in which it is expressed. Ironically, I passed a billboard advertising the new movie I Love You, Man, a comedy about how the friendship between two males gets between one guy’s engagement. I scoffed as I drove on. “I think you’ve got yourself a good plan or lack thereof. I really hope this works out.” “Me too, pal. Me, too. Thanks for listening to me.” I could hear a smile reflecting at least a little relief crawl onto his face. “Thanks for calling. I’ve wanted to ask about it, but it never seemed appropriate.” “You’re my good friend, so nothing would really be inappropriate. Okay, have a good night, pal.” “Good night, Matt.” I pulled into my driveway, parked the car, and sat there for a moment. The world appeared to be working in unison with the desires of its inhabitants, and this uncommon occurrence left me somewhat dumbfounded. I continued to sit there, marveling at the only corporeal example of cooperation between man and fate I had ever seen.
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* * *
Weeks later, the ice cream had melted out from the middle of the cake. Matt confessed his feelings to Nansi, and she revealed to him that she was only interested in his friendship. She was sorry if she had led him on and hoped that they could remain friends. A pretty common story, right? I would argue that there’s nothing common about it, but then again, I’m probably more than a little biased. Regardless of the outcome, I witnessed my friend taking part a love so rare that it did not require romance to cultivate itself. In the end, I could not tell my dear friend Matt to give up and move from his greatest love ever. All I told him was that life is not defined by the blacks and whites on different sides of matters but rather the shades of gray that make life interesting.
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mHome Cookingm by Christopher Makoto Yee
I had just sat down at our big, round, family-sized table at Golden China when my mind revisited a now familiar topic: I was going to be twenty-four. We were celebrating Uncle Darryl’s birthday, and like every other birthday celebrated that year, it reminded me that I wouldn’t be able to escape adulthood forever, a thought that was definitely unnerving. The worst part of it was that this dinner would have been completely different a year before. Sure, in both cases, there would have been tofu, braised string beans, and long-life noodles. It would definitely sustain us, but it lacked a key ingredient that would have made this meal great instead of good: my Grandma Yee’s touch. Instead of carefully dancing through her kitchen, she sat idly beside me, her focused dark brown eyes reflecting a desire to satisfy her family’s appetite and uncertainty about that possibility since she had no control aside from choosing dishes from the menu. Aside from the few times she would be sitting in her recliner watching the Lakers, my Grandma Yee could always be found in the kitchen. She was not just a woman with curly dyed-brown hair and a soft cotton floral top with white pants; she was yellow linoleum, dark wood cabinets, a beige-tiled countertop, and a gas-powered range whose warmth radiated endlessly from within. In the oven of that old Maytag range, there would always be some work of art: an apple pie made entirely from scratch, apricot horns that secretly had cottage cheese in the dough to make them rich, or sugar cookies that had the perfect crunch. On the stove, any number of pots and pans could be found containing savory lunches or dinners of pan-fried chicken chow mein, cha sui fried rice, or corned beef hash, all cooked with precisely measured pinches and dashes of salt and soy sauce. My favorite dish she made was quite possibly her easiest to make: pea omelet. Her process was a work of art in its simplicity: fry up little bits of pork, onion, and garlic then throw a carton of beaten eggs and frozen peas in to the pan. The first time she let me make this dish by myself, the build up was heightened by the fact that I was usually not let close enough to the stove to even touch a wooden spoon or cooking chopstick. I’m not sure if it was my parents’ influence or my Grandma’s, but I was raised to be afraid of a stove’s open flames, which only served to deify the range into an Old Testament God who would strike down His followers as often as He would grant them boons. This time, with spatula in hand, I tossed the simple stir fry with an unmatched joy then gently
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lifted the egg and pulled it away from the sides of the pan to make sure that it all got a chance sizzle on hot cast iron. For obvious reasons, the most daunting part of the task was flipping the omelet. Would it survive the quick transfer of energy in tact? Would the uncooked egg solidify when flung onto the hot stovetop? In the middle of my dilemma, my Grandma saw my concern and instantly made my concerns disappear; she took the spatula and cut the omelet down the middle. She explained that it didn’t have to be perfect since it was all going the same place anyway, and the world made sense again. I turned each half of the omelet over with great ease, and in no time at all, the dish was done. Grandma finished it with a light drizzle of salty- sweet oyster sauce and sent it off with me to the dinner table. If the pea omelet had been served for lunch, I could have had it all and some rice and been happier than ever, but it was actually only one sterling part of a meal that would hush even the harshest food critic. I can’t remember the specifics of that night since it’s so similar to every other Sunday night I’ve experienced, but it’s safe to say that I’ll never forget the first of many things my Grandma has taught me to make. She ensured my survival by teaching me how to make pea omelets since, as she likes to say, “If you’re ever hungry, just fry an egg.” The second thing she taught me to make, a lesson that I could not fully appreciate until recently, was how to make people happy by sharing food and good company, which I reflect on while gazing out of Golden China’s tinted windows.
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Contributors’ Notes
Oliver Bedolla I wrote this poem in the spring of 2009, for my English 101 course with professor Kaye. Professor Kaye introduced the course with “This Is Just To Say,” a poem by William Carlos Williams. He then played audio spoof poems of “This Is Just To Say,” and our first assignment was to write our own spoof poem. I wrote two poems and this was one of them, although I never turned them in. I later worked on the poem and turned it in when I took Creative Writing in the fall of 2009, with professor Suntree. I let the poem sit until I took Creative Writing again in the fall of 2010, with Professor Gurfield. This poem evolved from the first time I wrote it, to what it is now. The essence and influence of this poem is my love for Mesoamerican cultures. In the fall of 2007, I took Chicana/o Studies 62, Religion in Mesoamerica, with Professor Venegas, and in the spring of 2008, I took Chicana/o Studies 51, Pre-Columbian Art, also with Professor Venegas. These two courses also influenced the writing of this poem.
Yvette Correll I prefer not explaining why I write certain pieces but rather leave it up to the readers to figure out what’s going through my mind. I write because it’s my way of coping without being criticized. All my writings are very personal and have a deeper meaning than what is simply seen on paper. My writings are an insight to my life.
Oscar DeLeon I was in class when Ms. Gurfield told us to write a poem about someone. The person that I thought of was my friend Arturo, who recently passed away this March 13. I wrote the poem describing how my friend was. He was quiet and serious and very brave when getting into trouble but then again he was a calm guy.
Samuel Dominguez Growing up in East LA and the experience of ELAC has really shaped my life and writing. I try to explore the hunger and fatigue I felt as a child of a poor immigrant family, and I try to understand the internal anxiety and alienation I felt at church every Friday and Sunday since I can remember. My mom was a single mother who tried to raise four children on her own, and she did the best she
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could, but my writing is greatly influenced by watching her pain and her struggle to raise all four of us. My life has not always been good or easy and I have made many mistakes along the way, but those experiences have made my life that much sweeter today.
Sergio Garcia It’s only been lately that I discovered how my writing process works. Every time an experience seems to linger in my mind for an extra minute, I grab a pencil and jot down my thoughts in a sketchbook— the way I feel it, with no filters. In this case, my inspiration was a woman singing beautifully. After separating myself from the original draft for a bit, when I get home, I polished it up a bit, so that it can convey the way I experienced it as accurately as possible. My sketchbook is like an album of anecdotes, and I believe it captures them better than actual pictures—without contrived smiles or closed eyes.
Sharif Hamideh I remember the first time I wrote a poem. I had just come back from Palestine/Israel. Upon my arrival in America I was confused and angry because of the segregation and injustice I witnessed in my homeland. “All Palestinians to the right! Others please exit!” yelled an Israeli officer as soon as I got off the plane in Tel Aviv. I stood in the Palestinian-only-line and recalled my great-aunt crying; her gold and olive oil “disappeared” during this isolated security check. Without going into any more detail, let’s just say treatment towards Palestinians in Israel is comparable to the treatment of blacks in America in the 1950’s. I paced back and forth one night; my roaming thoughts of Palestine would not allow me to sleep. So I sat down and wrote what I thought; now my thoughts weren’t roaming but on a piece of paper, and I slept more comfortably.
Trudy Hayashida This story was inspired by the experiences of close family members who were interned in Poston, Arizona during World War II. Most of this story actually happened. Thousands of Japanese Americans lost their homes, possessions and pets forever due to this great injustice. Conditions in the camp were harsh – the winters were frigid and the summers were extremely hot. The barracks that they lived in were hastily slapped together and a tall, barbed wire fence surrounded the camp. Japanese Americans were reduced to being treated like
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prisoners for crimes that they did not commit. When Japanese Americans were allowed to leave the camp, they were faced with prejudice, racism, and feelings of isolation and loss. It is still hard for many of the internees to talk about their experiences – not only when it comes to life in camp, but also the loss of possessions as well as their dignity. The doll chest really exists and is still in the family to this day.
Luis Herrera The inspiration for “Love’s Descent” came to me in February or March of 2009. I was sitting on the couch one night at a friend’s house; we had just finished dinner and were watching television, all very innocently, I thought. Then he started running his finger sexually across my foot, and the feelings that arose sparked the poem within this edition of Milestone. You asked what inspired me to write this poem; inspiration is not always a joyous happening but can be a tragic experience that fights to be revealed. What inspires me to write is to have my experiences known, documented, so that my life and the lives of others like myself are not forgotten. Through my writing I fight to reclaim the history of gay Latinos whose voices were silent for years. My poems are mini stories of survival and transformation meant to inspire the reader. It is in the spirit of community that I offer you “Love’s Descent.” Amen.
Tiffany Ip I am a student in English 86. I was born in Los Angeles but grew up in Hong Kong. My aunt raised me for the past sixteen years and we have established a strong kinship. In August 2010, I moved to Los Angeles to continue study after graduating from high school. I am now studying at East Los Angeles College and preparing to transfer to a four year college. This piece was a class assignment.
Stevie Johnson I have always had an appreciation for the well written words of others. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I began to envision myself as a writer. I appreciate being selected for Milestone, and hope this story resonates with you. The selected piece, “Waiting,” is one of the works in my forthcoming book, “Convertible Chocolate.” Thank you for reading. To keep in touch with my other work as a writer, director and actor, you can go to www.Steviejohnson.com
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Luis Madrigal One day, I went to Big Lots to buy some salsa and chips. Once there, this story came alive. I imagined how lovely it would be to meet someone at a store. I enjoy writing about gay relationships because I love putting myself in these situations. These characters are a part of a bigger series of poems that chronicles their relationship. As a gay writer, I’d like to see more young gay writers being published, because I don’t really see enough of them in popular culture. I hope to be one of those people. Part 2 - I don’t remember how this piece came about, but I’d like to think I’m going to live in a world where, as a gay guy, I will be able to marry. I’m sure this happens a lot, but it is never really heard about. Let us move forward as a society, and allow everyone to marry. Part 3 - I didn’t know where I was going with this piece. I had created these characters and I was playing around with them in my head. At first, this started off as a happy piece, but then something in me wanted everything to go wrong. I started imagining how terrible it would be to lose someone and what happens right before you never see the person again.
Bob Noz One day, in the distant past, I walked into the English Department with three or four pieces I had written. My hope was that they were not just a dull record, but some well-crafted stories about our family or my experiences in life that I wanted to leave my children. As I remember, all of the desks were occupied and I thought it would be easy to get a “professional” opinion. It wasn’t until I showed Carol Lem my pieces that I realized I had found the right person. She read them very carefully, asked me some very insightful questions, and then invited me to join her creative writing class to make them better. I want to thank her and Susan Suntree for their help in guiding me to understand and to improve the elements of my stories. “Gestures,” is essentially a reworked “older” piece, written, I think, in Professor Suntree’s creative writing class. It celebrates my son Frank’s life around 1995, when he was a teen roller hockey jock, during a time in which we had had a few run-ins with the private school vice-principal where Frank attended primary school. I remember Frank wrestling with concepts of injustice, race, identity, religion and his parent’s divorce. “KENNY” is the result of one of Professor Carol Lem’s creative writing class assignments: Open with a scene in which the character (1st, 3rd person) must make a decision. Like James
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Joyce in “Eveline,” show (don’t tell) what’s going through the character’s mind. If possible, end with an epiphany. Use no more than two scenes. Joyce’s Eveline is a tough act to follow. I tackled the assignment using a recent experience with a young man who was like the Eveline character in that he resisted change and relied on a set of unexamined values. I had to make a decision for my own peace of mind. My epiphany was the realization that I hadn’t given myself enough time to recoup after being my mother’s primary caretaker and then experiencing her death. I could postpone my needs and invest the time in Kenny, or I could take the time I needed for myself.
Diana Recouvreur I grew up in southern California. I am indebted to East Los Angeles College and its many wonderful teachers who inspired and rekindled my love of learning. I am now finishing my Bachelor of Arts degree in English at UC Berkeley. My current project is an honors thesis on the importance of the literature that has emerged from the violence against women in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico.
Ben Russak Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation: The Dark Side of the All-American Meal horrified me on two levels: 1) that members of our government and the business community could maintain a mindset capable of justifying the monstrously unethical behavior of industrial food corporations; and 2) that people would continue to financially support these organizations even as they are being lined up at the fast-food counters like cows at a slaughterhouse. I thought, “Who is eating whom here?” I wrote this paper as a satirical response to Schlosser from the perspective of an unapologetic capitalist. Sometimes I think it’s funny. Sometimes I don’t.
Gus Ugalde I am not a typical East Los Angeles College student fresh out of high school. I am an older student who first attended ELAC in the late 1970’s and last attended in 1983 before leaving college to make a living as a working stiff. I have had many jobs in my time, from serving in the U.S. Marine Corps, to driving, to programming machine tools. The majority of my recent work experience was in the graphic arts industry, where I toiled as a customer service agent and inside sales representative. This was a numbing experience, but working for twenty-five years in the industry allowed me to buy a
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house, help raise a small family and provide for my resumption of my quest for higher education. In 2006, I went through a “Country- Western” song-like, period of time. I lost my life-mate, the best job I ever had, my father and my best friend, Spencer, the dog. It was a rough time indeed and I had to make a decision as to whether to return to school or spend the rest of my days drinking beer and watching sports on TV. I must admit, the latter was hard to pass up. My life began to change later that year when a flyer from The East Los Angeles Community Union (TELACU) found its way into my mailbox offering military veterans free courses in computer science, mathematics and writing. Mostly out of boredom, I decided to take a writing class, and to my amazement, it seemed that I had a knack for the written word. I had never written anything of any consequence my entire life, so this latent talent took me completely by surprise. With encouragement from my English teacher at TELACU, I enrolled into ELAC in the fall of 2007 and found my way into Jean Stapleton’s Journalism Department. My life has not been the same since. I now enjoy my work both as an English tutor and basic skills instructor and as a writer for various small publications throughout Southern California. My work has been published professionally more than 300 times, and I’ve had more than 100 stories published in “Campus News” since the spring, 2008 semester. I owe a great deal of my change of profession to Jean Stapleton, who has served as teacher, mentor and supporter of mine. I was truly blessed the day I met her and my life has not been the same since. With my newfound resolve, I plan to eventually earn a Bachelor’s Degree in Journalism, becoming the only member of my generation in my family who has earned a degree in higher learning.
Jose Arturo Zuniga I’ve been writing since I was thirteen, mostly poetry. I tried prose, but never got into short stories or anything like that. Whatever I had written was usually pretty lengthy, filling up notebooks at a time. When I wrote for the magazine Milestone, I was attending East Los Angeles College during my third year. I received two degrees from there, one in Liberal Arts and the other in Chicano Studies. I was taking the class to improve on my fiction and poetry writing. I think any group of people huddled together as a team to critique the works of others in a positive way will be of significant use to future writers. Right now, I’m attending Cal State L.A. in pursuit of a Bachelor’s in English, a task that proved to be much easier after attending ELAC.
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