Fall 2015

Dear Reader,

This semester SOMOS received an abundance of submissions from a wide variety of contributors: from undergraduates just starting their time at Brown to established writers. The pieces range from introspective reflections on the self and others to bilingual, emotionally-charged verses to comments on recent campus events. Both two- and three-dimensional art pieces beautifully echo themes of Latino/a identity, spirituality, and physical place.

Among our most poignant conversations this semester was the question of the magazine’s name: “Latino” vs. “Latinx” Literary Magazine. While we have decided to maintain our previ ous naming convention of “Latino Literary Magazine” to honor our SOMOS tradition, we en thusiastically support progressive expressions of identity that the term “Latinx” suggests. This duality of tradition and forward movement is reflected in the diversity of submissions that we have the privilege of working with.

Various pieces directly reflect Latino culture while others do not, but still allow us to see how the community utilizes español, português, English, and visual image to share thoughts, emo tions, and observations. We are honored to publish each of these pieces in our Fall 2015 issue of SOMOS. We hope the content of this issue will inspire thought and conversation among readers just as it has among the editorial staff.

Disfruta, Curte.

SOmOS STAFF

vISuAL ART

4

DO yOu WAnT TO BE THE LIGHT OR THE DARknESS: Petitions LAuREN E. GALvAn

39 42

mEmEnTO mORI mARIA ARBELAEZ

PALETERO DAnIELLA BALAREZo 6

8 9

SAnD DunE SARA SOLAno uRCHInS SARA SOLAnO

COCA-COLA JuLmAR CARCEDO

EL Sueño PALO BLAnCO CESAR BERnAL SOmBRERO CESAR BERnAL

ARCHES ISABELLA TERAn REFLECT ISABELLA TERAn

DRAGOn ISABELLA TERAN unTITLED RuDy TORRES CHITWAn, nEPAL RuDy TORRES

unTITLED RyAn GREEn unTITLED RyAn GREEn unTITLED RyAn GREEn

PicuñI mAPu LAuREn E. DEAL | PHOTOGRAPHy 38

LITERARy ART

SIn TITuLO II Jose JuRADO

SOy BORI? EDEmIR CASTAnO

nuESTRO AmOR En EL muSEOJARDIn DE RODIn DIEGO AREnE-mORLEy

14 19 20

LA muJER mARIA ARBELAEZ 10 12 13 16 17 18 24 25 30 31 32

5 7 11 22 26 33 36 40 44

CuERPOS ETHEL BARJA FRIDA, COn y nATALIE mESA

A QuESTIOn ABOuT STRuCTuRES Jesús LEvyA

ÁBACO & InDÍGEnA & CESAR vALLEJO BERTA GARCIA FAET

InDIGEnOuS PEOPLE’S DAy ROnALD SCOTT

nI SIQuIERA yO RyAn GREEn unA CAnCIÓn mIGuEL BACHO CABEzAS

O AmIGO, COmunISTA AnA IlievskA

WORK In PROGRESS AnnA DeLAmeRced 43

DIA DE LOS muERTOS AT BROWn unIvERSITy EmmA GLEEmAn & LILLIAn Domínguez

DO yOu WAnT TO BE THE LIGHT OR THE DARknESS: Petitions LAuREN E. GALvAn | PHOTOGRAPHy

Sobre una piscina de estrellas Me sumerjo. Los tonos rojos me abrazan con delicadeza Y están procedidos de notas azules y moradas

Me abrazan como una canción delicada abraza a una flor De mil estaciones

Sobre estas estrellas, veo continuidad. Sin corazón y sin estribor Sin calcular nada, únicamente remando sobre una corriente púrpura

De deseos, que distorsionan los pequeños fantasmas azules de las llamas

“Di la verdad, sobre las llamas verdes, di la verdad”

“Si mientes, que mil desgracias caigan sobre tu espalda. Que por siempre se te nieguen las piscinas púrpuras, verdes, pero notablemente azules de las estrellas bailando en cacofonía”

Me sumerjo en tu dulce voz de avena. Sobre el sonido de luz construyo una escalera que me lleva adentro. A un lugar donde las paredes están recubiertas de pastel

Tu voz es como la champaña que estalla en la noche de la incandescencia, cuando el sig nificado se ahogó en confusión. Cuando los plateados cubiertos tintineaban al sonido de mil fuegos artificiales. Cuando todos te celebramos. Cuando celebramos al lado del río y cuando los manteles eran tan blancos y los destellos de las olas suaves se multiplicaban en el techo del puente.

SOy BORI?

EDEmIR CASTAnO

Someone once told me

I was their Nuevoriqueno

Mix of ancient spice & contemporary attitude Never exactly understood who he thought I was Big city boy with small town dreams Or Small town boy with big city illusions

I am inspired by Julia de Burgos Y Pedro Pietri y todos los otros

Que trabajaron tan duro para Pennies y rosaries that were supposed to get them White fences/instead of steel bars

Dalmatians/instead of Attack shepherds That mauled their prosthetic hopes

Am I a beacon?

A fiery NuyorfuckingRican!?

That will spit poetry so acidic It'll dissolve layers of Skin, hair and skull

Until your subconscious can hear me speaking. Cause a chemical reaction so that Our people can rise from the ashes Of our conquered identities To cultivate fresh life From the land enriched by Slaughtered serenity. Of a peaceful peoples That called their land Borinquen, Land of the Brave Lord That cannot return Whilst his people remain sleeping In consumer fairy tales Socially constructed additions To summer homes At the cost of Borinquen

Rodin alrededor arrodillado delante sus piedras debajo de mis memorias a los pies de estrellas que me han caído como piedras encima. Este bronce me da la impresión que nuestro amor perdido no se oiga como eco porque jamas lo he visto mover. Se queda como estatua y yo también que no me muevo somos tércos el amor y yo. Jamás sea nuestro amor derretido se cayó por su peso por el piso en el pozo de agua tibia y bronce oscuro.

Suaves y dulces más lagrimas mias cruzando el jardín polvorosa como si cruzan la callecita seca de la cara. Ya no quiero hacer nada más que acostarme sobre los planes suaves de arbustos ingleses, a ver si me caigo entre las hojitas y las ramas a rellenar el espacio vacío como la memoria misma de nuestro amor. Si habrá espacio en tu cora zón como me aparece en tus ojos bronce vivo... no quepo si no habrá, será completo la estatua nuestro amor lo pondré a otro lado al lado del fuente en el jardín de tu corazón.

EL Sueño PALO BLAnCO CESAR BERnAL | ACRyLIC On RIvES BFK

cuerpos un cuerpo sobre la hierba puede ser cualquier cosa un cadáver, por ejemplo, o un cuerpo celeste abierto a la intemperie del hambre sí cualquier cosa una manzana de discordia, por supuesto, o un puñal encendido con olor a fruta recién cortada olor metálico a filo matinal ¿y qué pasa con los cuerpos cuando el puñal deja de ser puñal, la manzana, manzana, y el cadáver, cadáver? pueden confundirse retomarse puñal en el ojo de la manzana cadáver prado rojo interminable el prado deja de ser prado y es sólo una garganta con un grito atravesado y caliente Inverso

Hay un monstruo en casa alimentado por nuestros párpados que lo esperan detrás de la puerta en el verano

un monstruo en casa que viene disfrazado a mordernos las manos con dulzura

¡cómo ha crecido este monstruo! que sus dos piernas no pueden ya sostenerlo ¡cómo hemos dejado que engorde! a veces siento que camina detrás de mí viene como recordándome mi nombre como recogiendo no sé qué despojos

por ahí deja un pedazo de sí mismo viscoso y maloliente para sortear los días en que despierte temprano y sea algo que no sea exactamente él mismo y sobre él llega la tarde y nacen de sus ojos pensamientos abismales colmados de amapolas hoy nos hemos levantado contra ese monstruo aprisionándolo contra la pared en la oscuridad recordándole a sus vivos y a sus muertos ahora reconozco esas heridas que todos señalan con sus dedos

ARCHES ISABELLA TERAn

FRIDA, COn y

nATALIE mESA

Frida tan bella

Con tu cabello oscuro Y ojos brillantes como girasoles de campo

Frida tan torturada

Con un colibrí enclavado en tu pecho Y el dolor de una eternidad en tu rostro

Frida, yo te entiendo Con todos tus colores Y en todas las maneras en que tú eras la tierra

Frida, yo te siento Con el poder del viento Y la canción de mi alma

how can we talk about columbus day?

how can we talk about an event which both created and destroyed a continent? to be latin american, individually, is to deal with the dialectics of belonging to both the native and the european and yet somehow it isn't out of the picture for one to feel as belonging to neither. as such, when the question of columbus day comes up we must come back to this question. is there really anything to celebrate? the alleged discovery of the new world by the europeans and their subsequent pillage of the americas is still very much a fact. maybe there isn't that much to celebrate. the dialectic, in its synthetic nature must lead us to the conflicts of identity that we face as latin americans. how can we be critical of these histories of colonialism present in the americas? can the herald truly do anything? not really. they can apologize and move along because, after all, they must publish daily. the problem isn't simply that they have insulted the people but rather, that they have allowed their systems to allow for this to happen. their problems are much greater than simply allowing racism to infect their pages. their racisms

are fundamental to their structures. there is no progress to be found in their pages. if we are to work through the complexities that being latin american/latinx means, we must find in ourselves the capacity to be critical of our inherent dialectics. only in our grouping can we find the capacity for breaking perpertual bonds of confusion and rage that are so often the effects of our complicated relationship to the native and the western. we are both and neither. we are new and yet not independent from each other. to celebrate columbus, as symbol of the old regime – of the empire, its religion, and the colonial project would be to deny ourselves of the great multiplicities found within us. we are each of us, as carl sagan said, a multitude. in this moment of crisis, of fast decisions, and quick consequences we must find in ourselves the time to come into communion with one another to ask these hard questions. we don't need the herald to tell us that what they did was wrong. their structures cannot allow for their apologies to be significant. we cannot turn to the university which allows for their racisms to go virtually unchecked. we can only unite as a community. as the brown noser, a satiric university publication, clearly noted, all we know is this: there was an internal error.

ÁBACO & InDÍGEnA & CESAR

BERTA GARCIA FAET

ay del ábaco, ay del cuadragésimo clérigo pálido y celíaco ay del vértice, ay del último tubérculo hambriento o psicológico

qué haréis vosotros con el antílope triste, con la píldora onírica de las fiestas pletóricas qué haréis vosotros con mi amor tan fanático, vándalo unánime de la estadística tétrica

yo quisiera viajar en un relámpago agrio románico y bífido como una herida a lomos de un lobo o un pelícano ciego sincero o demócrata o castillo lejano

hacia el júbilo puro de la histeria mesiánica hacia el íntimo glúteo de la fístula bélica a la derecha del padre de césar vallejo oh fúnebre, oh cómplice, oh espasmódico tigre

pero ay del indígena, ay del herbívoro y cómico esqueleto económico ay del pírrico y febrífugo beso de la muerte marítima o minúscula

qué haréis vosotros con mi cónyuge líquido y su pestaña azul y su córnea geodésica, qué haréis vosotros con el pájaro sánscrito y con los niños felinos o sordo-cojos

yo quisiera comer ubérrimos músculos de gárgola o uva o diáspora cabalgando un isósceles humilde y mozárabe y un sulfúrico haz de explosiones

en la selva excéntrica de la cópula mística, en la guerra utópica contra la náusea inalámbrica y limpiar el dulce vómito de césar vallejo, oh pirámide, oh página, oh metalingüístico miércoles

CHITWAn, nEPAL RuDy TORRES | PHOTOGRAPHy

Yá’át’ééh, shí éí Ronald Charles Scott, Jr. yinishyé. Naasht'ézhí Tábaahá nishłí, Tsénjíkiní báshíshchíín, Áshįįhí dashicheii, dóó Kiis'áanii dashinalí. Chʼ ínílį déé naashá.

Hello, I am named Ronald Charles Scott, Jr. I am of the Zuni Water Edge Clan, born for the Hon eycomb Rock People of the Cliff Dwellers People Clan; my maternal grandfathers are of the Salt People Clan, and my paternal grandfathers are of the Hopi Sun Clan. I am from Chinle, Arizona, which is in the middle of the Navajo Nation reservation. By this traditional introduction I am showing you who I am, who my relatives are, and who I represent. I am currently studying abroad for the fall semester at Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland. As many of you are aware of, or as I hope that all of you are aware of, on Tuesday, October 6th, 2015, the Brown Daily Herald published “Columbian Exchange Day,” an opinion piece by M. Dzhali Maier ‘17 that argued for Native Americans to “celebrate the Columbian Exchange, not the man.” In her article she has stated, “It is the right of every person to interpret a holiday any way she chooses, but sitting down in the Sharpe Refectory and plotting an ‘Indigenous People’s Day’ demonstration over an egg and bacon breakfast is hypocrisy at its finest.” In addition, she has argued that individuals today exist in a “modern world glimmering from stem to stern with Old World trimmings, atop foundations established by Columbus.” The article was deleted from the Brown Daily Herald website due to “an internal error,” and an apology has been published on the Brown Daily Herald's website, but an apology to whom?

I will state that I do not want apologies, I want action. Regardless of this “internal error” and the apologies from the editorial staff at the Brown Daily Herald, the Brown Daily Herald has con tributed to the continuous erasure of Indigenous students on Brown University’s campus, and has promoted an ideological framework that Indigenous peoples have no legitimacy in their emotions, in their trauma, and, it seems, in their existence on Brown University’s Campus. This article has made a negative impact on those of Indigenous heritage, and an apology will not fix that.

The Brown Daily Herald needs to be held accountable, and it needs to consider how to better reach out to voices who have been historically excluded from all forms of media. I am aware that the Brown Daily Herald does not “tolerate racism” and is “committed to fixing the shortcomings in [their] editorial process that allowed this” opinion piece to exist; yet, I ask again, how did this piece get published and posted through your current editorial process? And what of the writer of the “Columbian Exchange of Ideas”? From what I am aware of, your intention to address the col umn with her has not come to fruition, and probably will not in the coming days.

Brown University needs to be held accountable as well for being silent and complicit in these events. Brown University has consistently contributed to the erasure of indigenous students on our campus. For years, the Native American Heritage Series has asked to host their Annual Spring Thaw Powwow on the main green of campus, but it has not allowed this because it will supposedly ruin the grass. In addition, Brown University has continued to avoid developing any formal relationships with either the Narragansett or Wampanoag nations upon whose land the institution was built. Instead, they have forced the Indigenous students at Brown to develop these kinships on their own.

Despite what M. Dzhali Maier’17 and her defenders believe, it is not my people nor the ancestors of the indigenous nations of the “Americas” who should feel grateful for Christopher Columbus’s “discovering” the so-called Americas and introducing invasive, non-indigenous species. Rather, those who largely benefit from settler colonialism should acknowledge the forced and sometimes willing sacrifice of our ancestors, and their resistance from and their resilience to a foreign power who seeks to dominate them.

For far too long the United States and many of its fellow Eurocentric countries have apologized for their colonial history and influence, yet there is no systematic support in place, nor any structural action being taken to fully cater to the needs of the Indigenous population. These colonial powers do not recognize the structural violence of settler colonialism and that my legitimacy as an individual hinges on laws constructed by a government that has desecrated my ancestors’ buri al grounds, distorted my history, and continues to not acknowledge the very consequences of their actions.

Despite my community and other Indigenous communities being portrayed as struggling, they are also thriving in constructive and meaningful ways as we respond to the internalized trauma and violent history forced upon us. Indigenous nations across the world are developing forms of political, religious, cultural and economic interchanges and interrelationships. Indigenous Nations across the world exist on the periphery, yet they have contributed so much more to society than Christopher Columbus. And that is what needs to be acknowledged with Indigenous People’s Day. Much of white-centric American society and beyond, has been largely influenced by tradi tional teachings and practices of the Indigenous Peoples of the Americas. Below are a list of some of these contributions to “America”:

1. The current system of federal government, in which certain powers are given to a central government and all other powers are reserved for the states, was largely borrowed by the system of government used by the Iroquois League of Nations. In addition, the bald eagle, the symbol of America, was adopted.

2. More than 8,000 members of Indigenous Nations volunteered and served during World War I before they became recognized citizens of the United States in 1924. Later 24,000 members of Indigenous Nations served in World War II. In addition, the Navajo Language, an Indigenous Language, was used as a code that was never broken and is credited to have secured the win for World War II.

a. The Navajo code talkers did not get official recognition from the Pentagon until September 17, 1992.

3. Much of the roads and railroads used in “America” today were originally trails made by a network of Indigenous tribes across the land. Indigenous people selflessly guided early colonial settlers without asking for recognition or payment (i.e. Sacagawea).

4. That wonderful Pumpkin Spice flavor that everyone is obsessed with comes from the Indigenous nations of the “Americas.” Pumpkin originated in the Western Hemisphere, as did potatoes, tomatoes, corn, and so forth.

5. The fashion industry is obsessed with traditional geometric designs unique to the Indigenous Nations. Just look at Urban Outfitters trying to sell authentic Navajo designs.

6. Fourteen of the United States names (Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, Connecticut, Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Nebraska, New Mexico, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Wisconsin, and Wyoming) originate in Indigenous languages.

7. Lacrosse, canoeing, relay races, tug-of-wars, ball games, and other sporting games came from traditional games from various Indigenous Nations.

8. Indigenous peoples in the Western Hemisphere, unlike the early European settlers, had long understood the importance of bathing/hygiene.

Indigenous People’s Day is about solidarity and the resilience of my people, my ancestors, and all of those who have ever been oppressed. Indigenous People’s Day is the acknowledgement of our history, our heritage, and our contribution to society. It is about breaking our chains of isolation and communication to attain an international community. In my culture, we have a traditional teaching, K’ézhnidzen , which means in English “acknowledging and respecting the kinship and clanship.” Brown University prides itself on being a community, and I will admit that it is one of the reasons I decided to attend Brown University. When I arrived on A Day On College Hill, I found a community that I could invest myself in. A community that I know would stand in sol idarity with me when I am in need of it. Acknowledging and changing Fall Weekend/Columbus Day to Indigenous People’s Day is an occasion to strengthen our Brown community, the process of unity, and the recognition and celebration of resistance and resilience.

M. Dzhali Maier ‘17, and others who are opposed to changing the name of Fall Weekend to Indig enous People’s Day, may believe that I and those who stand in solidarity with Native Americans at Brown are tearing Brown University’s community apart, but we are not. The truth is that it is they who are tearing apart the Brown University community by reinforcing a history of violence, of disunity, and of oppression.

unTITLED RyAn GREEn

unTITLED RyAn GREEn

cualquier cosa que sea mi alma es la mía y siempre va a ser así. nadie puede cambiarla. ni siquiera yo. a veces en la mañana yo me despierto y miro la luz tan roja y suave a través de mis párpados. y en ese momento sé que yo también soy una ventana y que cosas pueden pasar a través de mi.

pero yo no puedo pasar a través de mi mismo. a menudo yo trato de hacerlo.

pero cada vez yo encuentro un testarudo obstáculo invisible e impenetrable.

es como el tratar de lamer la cima de tu propia cabeza.

y por eso yo sé que contengo algo mas duro que yo dentro de mi y a eso llamo mi alma.

Abrazado a la misma cintura multiplicada en los ojo de la maravilla, que empuja la voz como al mismo Amazonas, abrazado a su fuego, no con el grito del orbe ni el dolor ni el espanto, sólo carnaval en torno a su figura desmesurada, dejé mi sombra enredada a las raíces del mundo. No hay desierto que contenga esta canción o el eco que la evoca, ni conjuro que enmudezca su vertiente: las calles las tumbas la gloria la muerte la esperanza la amargura el fulgor de los niños y su carcajada el licor del júbilo los cómputos eternos de cada montaña el surco del agua pariendo los valles y todo ahí donde el asombro tiene su flamígera vertiente o el silencio de los peces en los flancos de esta cintura aguardando a los muertos y sus cantos, tantos ya como las voces del viento en los recodos del bosque y las amplias llanuras abiertas bajo el sol como una flor abierta a su noche.

“Toda la sangre puede ser canción en el viento”

Tejada Gómez-Isella

Abrazado esta cintura se ha desvanecido todo en un acorde En el páramo despreciado de mil quinientas lenguas nombrado aferrado a su regazo es que vinieron a crecer las selvas que el verso mismo incendia como un testimonio -las empresas del odio y acaso su pálpito y persistenciao la arremetida fluvial de la sonrisa en todos los espacios del viento y su eco inmemorial.

Aferrado a la cintura en que naciera la canción que nos hizo nombrarnos permanece el conjuro que nos alimenta, las aras donde se extiende luz que el sol ha puesto en las generaciones como la misma era llamó a sus hijos.

Aferrado a la canción que entona Tu nombre he sabido vivir la tierra de la que nazco a la que voy en la que desaparezco.

PicuñI mAPu LAuREn E. DEAL | PHOTOGRAPHy

De um homem comunista esperamos que se chame Lenin ou Mao ou Fidel, mas o simples facto mundano é que o meu amigo comunista se chama Rui. Rui Costa Santos. Quando o conheci, Rui Costa Santos ensinava português na Universidade de Puerto Rico, secção Mayagüez. Vestia sempre a mesma marca de jeans limpos e baratos, camisas xadrez com mangas compridas (isto nas temperaturas tropicais de Puerto Rico) e, em ocasiões especiais, uma guayabera branca, hecho en Cuba. Nunca o vi vestido de fato ou com sapatos novos. Todas as camisas que possuia levavam já 7-8 anos. Quando não podia mais vesti-las, usava-as para limpeza doméstica. Quando os velhos sapatos se desgastavam, levava-os ao sapa teiro. "É dar trabalho a alguém, pão, roupa para as suas crianças e não enriquecer as grandes empresas," dizia.

Gastava dinheiro só em duas coisas: livros e álcool. Para cada festa levava uma garrafa de Don Q, um rum puerto-riquenho, e, quando saia com os amigos, convidava-os todos a beber os seus famosos shots da pior marca mais barata que os bares vendiam. Livros e álcool eram também os únicos presentes que aceitava para o Natal ou para o aniversário. "Dos livros," dizia, "precisamos para compreender, e do álcool para nos esquecemos dos antagonismos capitalistas."

Gostava era de poesia latino-americana, dos New York Yankees e Bob Dylan. Cada vez que nos encontrávamos falava-me do génio de Bob e como ele teria que ganhar o Prémio Nobel de Literatura. Quando começava a ouvir um músico particular, só ouvia os álbuns inteiros, um depois doutro, sem nunca interomper um disco. Ouvia-os por meses enquanto tomava banho, caminhava para a universidade, cozinhava. Leu ambos os volumes de O Capital pelo menos quatro vezes e em Halloween fantasiava-se de comunista, quer dizer, andava como ele mesmo.

Falava perfeitamente inglês mas recusava-se a mostrá-lo, fazia erros gramaticais de propósito, inseria palavras espanholas fingindo não se lembrar das inglesas, falava com todo o mundo em espanhol como se fosse a língua universal entendida por todos: "Cómo estás?" disse à minha mãe que não entende nem inglês nem espahol quando a conheceu no ano passado. Apesar de ter nascido em Portugal, nunca viajou para outros países da Europa e, depois da partida de Portugal, nunca voltou. Só o Caribe era a sua pátria, e Puerto Rico, com o seu estatuto de "colónia não oficial" e tão perto de Cuba, oferecia-lhe uma causa legítima e óbvia pela qual lutar.

O primerio livro de ficção que leu na sua vida foi Cem Anos de Solidão de Gabriel García Márquez, o Gabo, só quando tinha 16 anos. Antes disso, não se interessava pela literatura mas García Márquez fê-lo inscrever-se na Faculdade de Letras donde levou o doutorado em Literatura Comparada com uma dissertação sobre os romances caribenhos do século dezanove e György Lukács. Nunca lia só pedaços dum livro. Ou inteiros ou não os lê. E quando os terminava, já não eram os mesmos livros, eram cheios dele. Fazia o mesmo com as pessoas.

Quando nos sentávamos nos cafés no viejo San Juan, bebendo um cortado depois dum outro, levava um minuto apenas para mergulhar no livro que estava lendo e perdia-se no mundo dele. Enquanto eu tentava concentrar-me em vão, olhando para as pessoas em redor de nós, ele já pedia o quarto cortado e tinha sublinhado páginas inteiras exclamando "¡genial!, ¡genial!". Quando eu lhe perguntava o que era tão genial, olhava-me com um sorriso extático e dizia "este livro vai mudar a tua vida!," em espanhol, claro, e entrava numa descrição entusiasmada da vida do escritor ou da escritora em questão. Tudo para ele tinha valor inestimável e falava de escritores, filósofos e professores já mortos ou ainda vivos como se fossem seus amigos, como se estivessem lá connosco a beber o quinto cortado. Nunca escreveu um poema mas é amigo de todos os poetas e sempre teve namoradas que escre viam poesias. Quando saíamos e caminhávamos juntos pelas ruas de San Juan ou Mayagüez, saudava to dos, falava com todos, conhecia todos. É o homem mais amigável que conheci na minha vida e tem uma confiança nos seres humanos inabalável. Nunca suspeitava dos motivos das pessoas e oferecia-lhes o seu coração, toda a sua atenção e interesse, mas sempre razoavelmente e sem frases vazias. Quando entrava num quarto, enchia o espaço de bom humor e muitas vezes havia pessoas que desconfiaram dele, cham avam-no infantil, demasiado gentil como se ser demasiado gentil fosse uma coisa má. Mas ele vencia as antipatias com a sua constância. Nunca mudou de atitude, nunca vacilou. Pelo contrário, mostrou uma coerência e uma fiabilidade tais que ninguém, depois de tê-lo conhecido melhor, podia questionar. Eu não sei como ele conseguia ter tanta confiança no mundo, nas pessoas, nas coisas. Não sei como não quebrava diante de todas as injustiças cometidas pelos indivíduos. Não sei como pôde ficar tão constante face a um mundo sempre em movimento, cheio de informações. Nunca tentou convencer nin guém da sua ideología, nunca se zangou com aqueles que se riam dele. Não sei como é possível ser assim e sobreviver, não sofrer, não desistir, mas assim é o meu amigo comunista e eu nunca vou esquecê-lo, o Rui Costa Santos.

WORK In PROGRESS

we were searching for shade from the Barcelona sun when we stumbled upon an unfinished church, the masterpiece of Catalan, its skyline intermingling with steel cranes and spires.

my eyes stretched from the bottom to the heights, discovering subtle treasures, admiring how a tortoise was carved into a column’s base, set in stone, unchangeable. or that two chameleons border the nativity facade, symbolizing change and transformation. or how the towers are topped with a kaleidoscope of colors reminiscent of a bowl of fruit from the table of my grandmother.

her lyrical Spanish echoed in my mind, the way she spun stories from childhood adventures and misadventures, teaching us what it means to grow, what it means to live.

her words were like rubies, her voice like honey, and the cadence of her mantras pulsed in my mind.

and as I stood in front of the Sagrada Familia, I was reminded of something my grandmother always told me, always whispered to me whenever I lacked courage, whenever I felt frustrated with myself, whenever I forgot to view the world from heaven’s eyes. we, too, are works in progress, and one day we’ll be complete.

DIA DE LOS muERTOS AT BROWn unIvERSITy EmmA GLEEmAn & LILLIAn Domínguez

On November 1st, MEChA held their annual Día De Los Muertos celebration at Machado Span ish House. The event featured a brightly decorated altar featuring flowers, sugar skulls, and calavera artwork. Photographs on the altar honored deceased, historically-important Mexican/ Mexican-American and other Latino figures such as César Chávez and The Mirabal sisters. The Mexican students who disappeared from Ayotzinapa Teachers’ College in Iguala, México in 2014 were also honored at the event. Students and faculty of various nationalities and backgrounds came to celebrate their deceased loved ones. Attendees enjoyed Mexican food and watched live performances by Mariachi de Brown and Mezcla.

Hogan Vivier, ’16, Education (HV)

Oscar Carrillo ‘16 Neuroscience (MeCha Event Organizer) (OC)

Emilio Vides-Curnen. ‘19 Undecided (EVC)

Renee Aponte. ‘19 Engineering (RA)

Are you celebrating anyone tonight?

OC: Yes, I am celebrating the death of my uncle and my grandfather, both of whom passed away from cancer. More broadly, I am also observing the 120,000 deaths in Mexico from the war on drugs, a program launched by President Calderon in 2006. There have been so many deaths in northern Mexico and at the border… it’s sad to see the country in havoc.

HV: I am celebrating mi abuela (my mom’s mom) Maria Elena Delano. She was a very important part of my life and a huge reason why my Mexican culture is so prominent in my life.

How does celebrating DDLM at Brown differ from celebrating it at home?

OC: Celebrating at home is more personal. The ofrendas are more personalized. We gave my grandfather a machete, which he used for his work, to cut corn. For my uncle we offered beer on the altar. Here it’s more general, more to honor political figures who have died for the larger cause and to help people.

RA: It was more like a party, festive, unlike home and yet it felt like my second home. I haven't heard people speak Spanish in conversation since I arrived [at Brown]. All the professors [at DDLM] were fluent in Spanish; the M.E.Ch.A board was there, and we were all speaking Span ish to each other. It was kinda like we were having a family bonding moment. The altar came out beautifully, the decorations were beautiful, and I was really pleased with it overall.

EVC: I’m not Mexican, but [at home] in Boston there is an annual celebration that I went to with a bunch of friends. It was a different way to think about death; instead of going to cemeteries and being sad, I experienced another perspective on death, which is something that we all deal with.

What has been your experience with DDLM at Brown? Do you think events such as DDLM are important to have at Brown?

RA: I say yes because [it] helps people that are from minority groups embrace their cultures and feel like we are at home. We can feel like ourselves and embrace our culture by being with peo ple who know where we come from and who have similar perspectives. I think it’s important that Brown makes sure these events happen.

OC: When I came here I missed home and missed the traditions, so attending this event at Brown is a way to embrace the culture and celebrate. Thank you to whoever came. More and more peo ple keep coming every year, and we want to continue that trend.