Spring 2013

LATINO LITERARY MAGAZINE

SIAEE

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Marina Camim

LAYOUT EDITOR

Marina Camim

PUBLICITY CHAIR

Emily Gonzalez

PORTUGUESE EDITORS

Carolina Gomes and Giovanna Moraes

ENGLISH EDITORS

Gabrielle Guadalupe and Joseph Rosales

ART DIRECTOR

Valeria Fantozzi

TREASURER

Gabrielle Zerbib

CONTRIBUTING MEMBERS

Pablo Galindo-Payan,Julia Alvarez, Lillian Dominguez, and AngelicaWaner

SPANISH EDITOR

Nestor Bedoya

LFTTFR FROM THF FDITOR.S

SOMOS Latino Literary Magazine provides students a space to share their heritage and promote a dialogue of culture and history. The prose and poetry you will find in this issue are passionate and intimate. The English writing pieces move us across cultures,from Latin America to Pakistan, from Los Angeles to Vietnam. Rich in narrative descriptions and lyrical imagery, this issue speaks of hope, of remembering, of family, and of love. The Portuguese pieces, "O Artista" e "Melhor de Mim, explore the infectious power of a teeling; sometimes abrasive,sometimes

buoyant, yet always resonating the authenticity within each experience.

The art pieces transport us to different parts of the world, narrating unique storiesand allowing us to explore the diversityof Latin culture. Once again, photography is the preferredmedium for most of the submissions.

We are honored to present you with the Spring 2013 edition of SOMOS Latino Literary Magazine,

PROSE AND POETRY

DOMINIKA FIOLNA I the chicken bus experience I 1

JAMES MAMANAI a perfect circle I 4

ZAINAB SYED I please listen I 5

ZAINAB SYED I piercing a city back into tapestry I 9

JARRED TURNER I o melhor de mim I 12

KATE HOLGUIN I women of the faith I 13-14

ELAINE HSIANG Io artista I 17

GABRIEL NAJAR I cuervo de chivo (goat horn) I 19-20

MEIA GEDDES I centered I 24

MARIELA MARTINEZ I how my grandmother sews in the night I 25

LE TRAN I at 8 I 29

DIVYA BHATIA I the memory room I 32

MEIA GEDDES I us I 37

ART AND PHOTOGRAPHY

KATHARINA WINDEMUTH I sisters I 2

LYDIA YAMAGUCHI I her head in the clouds I 3

LYDIA YAMAGUCHI I el trombon en el malecon I6

DOMINIKA FIOLNA I the old lady with the llama: un nuevo sol I 7-8

VITOR OLIVEIRA I capoeira I 10

DOMINIKA FIOLNA Ithe chair: coffeelandI 11

LYDIA YAMAGUCHI I drift away I 15-16

REBECCA BLANDON I careline I 18

DOMINIKA FIOLNA Ithe terms from guatemala: far off I 21

ANGELICA WANER I zapata vive I 22

MELISSA CHIN I jose marti mausoleum, Santiago de cuba I 23

LYDIA YAMAGUCHI I la tarasca - celebracion cubano I 26

MELISSA CHIN I havana at sunset I 27

REBECCA BLANDON Ithe lion's keeper I 28

KATHARINA WINDEMUTH I swimmer I 30

MELISSA CHIN I mother teresa's garden, havana, cuba I 31

ANTHONY RIVERA I dancing the land: exploring language and liminality in new england landscapes I 33-34

DOMINIKA FIOLNA I lady carrying loads: great weights I 35

FRANCISCO OLIVEIRA I west coast sunset I 36

THE CHICKEN BUS EXPERIENCE

There is no travelling through Latin America without any "slightly shocking" bus rides. It's not even exclusive to the Americas - those little local buses run around the whole developing world. Once you board a converted-yellow-US-school-bus, you'll know what I mean when I say these are special. I boarded the first 'local' bus in Guatemala only a few daysago. What a ride!

It's quite important to mention they're called chicken buses, at least here in Central America. Of course, there's a very good reason for that. I wish I had captured the moment in a picture, but I missed my best-ever opportunity. Seated in the third row on the left, I peaked over my book (you can't really read on such bumpy roads) and saw a... chicken peaking over a hole in its card box. I swear weeven made eyecontact.

I dropped it fast and turned to search for my camera, but those lovely chicken buses have so little leg space that my backpack was impossible to pull up from under my laieeswithout doingsome seriousyoga onthespot. AndI'm not able to dothat. Soit took me a goodfive minutes, and trying to be secretive and technologicallyculturally sensitive, I directed the lens at the box and... thechicken was gone!It hid inside,getting more bored than curious over (I assume) a usual view. My once ina lifetime opportunitywas gone, at least until the next such ride.

"Show me your chicken" I kept thinking, while peaking over every minute and a half, before I realized my English phrasing might get really awkward sometimes, whether only in my thoughts or documented on myblog. Either way, the charm didn't work.

I was absolutely initiallydisappointed in myself and themissed opportunity,but therather foggy window provided me with enough enterainment instead. Soon enough, I saw the beau­

tiful spread of Lake Atitlan in front of me, and just as I was about to gasp and smile to myself, we turned aroundyet another corner tosee afew wildly posed excavators feeding on a nearby hill So much for the hopeful,breathtaking views.

It did turn a little more positive whenI noticed two grown men playing with a ball ona gas station by the road. It wasn't a soccer ballor anything of themore-professional sort,no. Itwas asimple,small, rubber ball—likethe first ballyou ever got. And theyseemed happy.

Then I felt the head of the guy sitting next to me fall heavily onto my shoulder. He was fast asleep, thank heavens he wasn't snoring, and I tried to subtly move away in the little space Ihad, butI wasn't assuccessful asI wished.

I remembered one time I fell asleep on an unknown Indian man's shoulder traveling backin high school after an all-nighter at a trainstation. Funnily, I had a group of friends with me who, instead of waking me up, thought itwould behilarious to waitfor my expressiononce Iwoke.As the Guatemalan man to my right had no friends there to either wake him up or laugh at him-he was forgiven and,frankly, ignored.

Falling from one hill onto another, 1let myself enjoy the beauty ofthis overtly cheapand questionably safe, unpredicted rollercoaster ride. Highly recommended (but notfor your nerves).

A PERFECT CIRCLE

Icreate boundaries. Its what I do. Jackson Pollock said his paintings didn't have a beginning or an end; he didn't create boundaries, he eluded boundaries. I hate Jackson Pollock. They say Giotto could paint a perfect circle without using a compass; Giotto was a Shepherd boy, and likely a fool, but he painted a circle so precise that Giorgio Vasari, the greatest artist in Italy, quit painting altogether when he saw it. Giotto could paint a perfect circle because he understood boundaries, but I am a perfect circle, because I create boundaries.

It's notthatMimi wasasymmetrical—nay, I adored her for her symmetry, for her even blue eyes and chin-length brown hair, her skinny legs, thick calves, and metered, ballooning breasts equalin both size and purpose. It's not that Mimi annoyed me in particular, and it's not that we didn't have a mutually beneficial relationship—we did. But when I love somebody—and I loved Mimi, truly—I do so with subtlety and grace. Regardless, I refuse to be suffocated. I need to come up for air sometimes. With Mimi, there was no air, or at least not enough air. Sheloved me, butit is possibleto love someone too much. I loved Mimi because she was nearly symmetrical—she was sketched symmetrically. And that's

where I came in and tried to fill in the missing lines. I leant her the boundaries that she didn't have yet.

Part of me knows that Mimi fell for me because I'm good—and I don't want to say great, though that's what my professors tellme—and because,at RISD, I get quite a bit of recognition for my work. I wasa junior, she wasa freshman, I had my own studio apartment,she had a dorm room; Ihad a lot to offer her. But Mimi was a mistake. She was pretty and sweet and caring, sure, but she was naive. If I could have just scrubbed out that naivete and replaced it with some refinement, she'd be more than a sketch. She'd be a perfect circle. Like me.

PLEASE LISTEN

"I cannot guarantee to endure at all times the confinements of even an attractive cage. I must exact a cruel promise and that is you will let me go in a year if we find no happiness together."

I want you to fall for a girl without wings for her to be fragile so easily broken for you to put her back together to put her into a shapethat will he you all the way leaving no room she will not leave anyroom inside you unlit no windows down or blinds closed everything will be clean and quiet a girl who will fill you with silence in her you willlearn the melodyof every dawn and everylovers song a girl who will comewithout barbedwire only a picket fence if even that white washed and quaintshe wil build you into a home so sturdy and promise to never walkaway or leave things unturned who will ask to live somewherewith water lots ofwatei salty so salty at your feet watch you watch thewaves break their shoreline chase the fireflies in you learn to huntfor woodpeckers withyou

I am asking you to fall for another girl one who knows howto bea keeper not keep you out who has never known what it means to exhausta heart min will not let love break down its walls anymore I wish for you agirl whow ne\ er erect walls to protect herself a girl not easilycharmed by vanishingacts who will not take for the sky will always leave footprints or a map chart the places she will go I wish for her to bea found thing anchoredtc and never never disappear on you someone whowill memorize your quiet nuances and blush blush just thinking of you so re anot er girl without wings who will paint how sunnyyou make the world together the way you hold hands in the rain both sogolden like wnrlH m*t° e u aVen likehoney like honeyand cinnamon together in3 world with no shattering no absence or dark no dark

r 10 C ark toni§ht I wish for you another girl who will not ask you tofal tor someone else K *A hp o u«.i u 1 will hold you without fear be a little broken to let yOU in 7 without trembling

PIERCING A CITY BACK INTO TAPESTRY

It is believed that Lahore has been forgotten by its lovers. Yet, if anyone should lead a search forher missing parts,theywould find them inside my fathers chest and reflected in my mothers eyes. Every night, her soil tugs at their lungs, calling them to my grandmothers garden. We will not fight to save that which we do not love. In her sky, there is nospace for birds and when spring comes, she does not dress-up. When the foreigners were evacuated from Islamabad after 9/11, my father was given the option to go with them, but he could not bring himself to board that plane. With every tree, every songbird, and everyone that he had known looking up at him, he could not choose to build a life anywhere else. Thesoil beneath his feet was the only home he had ever known.

Three years later, we packed our bags and boarded a plane toRomania. Now, myfamily is a 21st centurynomadic caravan.We travellight and cross many deserts, but there is no place to anchor in the sand. We might as well be floating; shifting sand dunes without a place to claim.

My parentslong for home;I find it most often in their eyes, always searching for a memory to land on. On nights when they wake up without fireflies guiding their eyes or the sticky summer sweat heavy on their breathing, they remind themselves they are doing this for their children. Come Ramadan, or Eid, any achievement or distinction, there is no one to call and bring home for dinner. With family oceans away and distance no shorter than before, the memories of their childhood are fast becoming too strong. They fear they may forget why they left home in the first place, so at night they carefully uck away the memories, but they cannot hide how fierce the pull of home can be. I have found it in their eyes.

We 316 lear"ing to become shape shift­

ers, as we wait for an Australian passport so we don't have to be shamed in immigration lines. 1 am beginning to realize, when our passports are no longer green, our skin will remain the same. An olive colour, made of theearth. We have never known how to be anythingelse. Never known another language or another home. It is not easy to erase your own bloodline or distance yourself from your own memories. When your country has been birthed by sacrifice, you hold the pain of incision closeto yourchest. Youcan never forget how thick blood can run, or fiercely it runs within you.

I amtold to remainsilent whenit isnecessaryto speakup. Tohold back,when it isnecessary to pushback, defiance rages inme. After all, my bloodline has no history of being unhinged, or unnerved. I have inherited Lahore's missing parts from my parents and written them intoa poem. At night, I unwrap its secrets and holdits pulse close tomy chest.At dawn, refusingto surrender, I pick up my pen,anchor it to inkand layit in a desert, hoping the sound will ricochet off the earth,gather wind and sweepacross thisland as a galestorm. Itsthunder will build silenceinto slogans and weavetruth intoa song.It will bethe anthem of this earth. It will run thicker than defiance within us all. Till then, being anchor-less means I can take up anycause and call it mine.It means they will never find my roots. It meansI will grow in the wild. I will learn to bestrong on myown.

When I die, it means they will bury me in the sky. This ink my garment, this voice my tombstone.

O MELHOR DE MIM

A a<;ao come<;a no meu cora^ao, Crescendo mais e mais no meu estomago, Movendo-se para cima e para baixo, como uma infe^ao atraves dos meus pulmoese minha garganta Antes desair da minha boca, Infecta meus labios, revelando meus dentes Fazendo com que o brilho nos meus olhosse desperte Quando tudo sesincroniza, Um som encorpado sobe asminhas profundezas, Chacoalhando minha propria alma.

WOMEN OF THE FAITH

The priest in Torreon had always told bisabuelita Lucia Oviedo that ifshe was a good soul, she would die and go to heaven. Instead, she died and went to Santa Ana.

There she was, a newlywed at sixteen, in a canvas tent lying supine on a wool blanket underneath a thin cotton sheet. Sweat dripped down her face as she kept screaming out in pain and terror, giving birth to her first child with only another migrant woman sitting by her side (she had said she was a midwife of sorts). Her husband was nowhere to be found—probably off drinking with her brothers, flirting with girls even younger than her, she assumed.

She alwaysthought she hadbeen a good soul, butasshe enteredthe final stretches oflabor, she remembered how when she had been young, during la revolution, she always disobeyed her parents orders not to leave the church (their new homeafter theZapatistas pushedthem out)when there was fighting right outside. Asin, todisobey your parents, the priest had said. But sometimes the bullet holes through the adobe brickwere too slight for her to see through to the action on the other side.

"Dios mioV she pleaded, staring up through the small holes in the canvas tent up to the California sun, "ipor que me haces sufrir tanto?

No response.

The priest in Acambay had always told mama Clotilde Martinez Cano that if she was a good soul she would die and go to heaven. Instead, she died andwent to Marysville. th„ * rrC kneW She WaS already quite old at Wilfredo M uT tW° Wry youn8children: ~°'M Edie"tWO' She 'tied to conrol her two precocious children in a place she thought everyone kept calling an esupermarket

1 What kind of place was this mercado, where i people bought fruta in a canand leche sometimes • came in a solid powder form?

• Esevan dolers, the cashier seemed to say to her. She stared at him blankly. What did esevan dolers mean? The cashier got impatient and startedyelling ather. Edie startedcrying and Wilfredo hid behind her in fear. Finally some sort of superior came to the register and caked the cashier down. The superiorlooked ather and held up seven fingers. She scrambledfor her wallet and carefully counted out seven bills that had the number one on them.

She alwaysthought she hadbeen a good soul, but as she walked home from the esupermarket, she remembered how her parents had always wanted her to go to Toluca and marry a rich doctor or lawyer. Instead, she married a boy from her little town of Acambay, trained as a silversmith andnow a bracero,a farm workera farm worker that had taken her from her beloved home. A sin to disobey your parents, the priest had said. But what other boy in Acambay, or even Toluca, didn't drink or smokeand would stay faithful toher?

"Dios mio\" she thought, staring down the long dirt road back to the ranch where she now lived,"ipor que me haces sufrir tantoi" No response.

The priest in El Paso had always told grandma Rebeca Martinez that ifshe was a good soul, she would die and go to heaven. Instead, she died and went to Nebraska. And then Virginia. And then Massachusetts.

Jose told her he loved her and that the best gift she could give him would be the giftof children. So, because she loved him, she gau him children—first one,then another,and before she was forty, there were seven. She gave him children, and she followed him to wherever the

United States Air Force said they needed him,"a good man like Joe." A good man like Joe, she thought, every time he scolded her for leaving the house without telling him, and every time he hit her for talking to another man, and every time he disappeared for days—"serving his country' he would say, but he was reallyserving some gringa named Carol in California.

She always thought she had been a good soul, but as she stared out the window of their new home in Falls Church, or Sleepy Hollow—whatever this new town was called—and watched her children play in the yard, she remembered how furious she had madeher father by elopingwith Jose. Un sinvergiienza,her father called him—just a good-looking, sweet-talking faldero. A sin to disobey your parents,the priest had said. But every time Jose looked at her with those bold dark eyes and told herthat to kiss her was to see las estrellas, she melted, and told him she would follow him anywhere. And that's just what she did.

"Dios mw\" she sofdy sobbed, her head in her hands,"ipor que me haces sufrir tanto?" No response.

The priest in Los Angeles had always told me thatif I was a good soul, I woulddie and go toheaven. Instead, I died and wentto Russia.

Do something different, I told myself, go somewhere no one has gone. No one I knew had gone toMoscow. I sat at my babushkas kitchen table, two months shy of twenty-one, eating the bean and cheese burrito that I had made for dinner. My eyes were glued to the television, in hopes of avoiding the stink-eye my babushka's daughter was giving me and my little burrito. That's not food that real people eat, she had said to me. After quickly eating, I walked to my room,passing the bathroom on the way. I could bet on the door being wide open and seeing my babushka, fully naked, sitting on the toilet, probably about to defecate. This was one of those times. She smiled and waved.

I always thought I had been a good soul, but as I sat on my bed, listening to Herb Alpert and peeringout mywindow ontothe cold and unfamiliar streets of the city, I remembered how many times I had snuck boyfriends in and

out of my house right under my parents' noses. Corey came inthrough the patio doors,Alex left through the side door off of the laundry room, and Michael once jumped down from my bedroom window onto the balcony below and then took the stairsthrough the backyard. Once with Tristan I recruited my sister to assist in the escape; she distracted my parents while we tiptoed down the hall and the stairs, and quietly out the front door. A sin to disobey your parents, the priest had said, but like any typical shoddilyraised Catholic eight-year-old, I didn't really understand the concept of sinning. "God," I whispered, "why must I suffer so?"

No response. "Dios mio?" I whispered apprehensively,"ipor que me haces sufrir tantoV' "Ha pyccKOM, nepT B03bMn! ToBopM no-pyccKMw!"1 "God? Dios?"

"R He noHMMaio Te6n. TBI B POCCMH. Cica>KM Ha pyccKOM, nmKajiyiicTa."2 My babushka stoodin the doorwayof my bedroom,a scowl on her face.

I'd always thought I didn't get religion. It turnsout, religion never got us.

1 "In Russian, goddammit! Speak Russian!" (Na russkom, chert vozmi! Govori po-russki!)

2 "I don't understand you. You're in Russia. Speak in Russian, please." (Ya ne ponimayu tebya. Tui v Rossi. Skazhi na russkom, pozhalsta.)

O ARTISTA

Pele

me diz que os homens sao brutos embrulhamos sexo emtoalhas arenosasesperando que nossos bronzeadossejam Ik Presos sao lindos. Repete palavras deculpa eaprende Sfn?ra;°nSdtoCia S6m -etals 5Epqde d°• ° deSeSP«ad — mautemos, quando e demais, meu sangue derrama tinta metalica Pele se esquececomo perdoar e eu estou picada

Logo: revisitarei as praias Pele

CUERNO DE CHIVO (GOAT HORN)

"La suerte cuando se cambia / Se convierte en enemigo / Y un veintidos de noviembre / Lo mato un cuerno dechivo/ La cabezaya la debe/Lagavilla delpadrino." "Cuerno de Chivo" by Los Huracanes del Norte *

Narcocorrido, or drug ballad, is a subgenre evolved from the norteho genre of Mexican music thathas asimilarsound topolka music because of the accordion base. What distinguishes thisstyle of musicfrom other nortehosongs isthe lyrical content. These "drug ballads" sing the romantic tales ofdrug smuggling, violence,and revenge. Countless narcocorridos include the word cuerno de chivo, which is Mexican slang for an AK-47. Nothing epitomizes romantic notions of outlaws and disorder like the Kalashnikov. Although the music is danceable with cheerful accordion and brass sounds, the idea about dancing to a song about the death of a drug smuggler or a cop in an ambush seems sinister. It seems the best way to get one's mind off the subject of death, while dancing to a song is to have a beer in one hand and a chica in the other *

Thursday evening, and I'm in

dangerous backgrounds. Eventually gangster rap spilled into the suburbs, while narcocorridos remained p0pU m 1116 rural and Poorer areas of Mexico. Also mL narco artists like Rosalino"Chalino" Sanchez began their careers selling their bootleg demos themselves, much like an up-and-coming emcee might be seen slanging his mixtape on a busy street. Although gangster rap was popular among the American youth culture of the 90s, narcocorridos still remain popular by people of all ages.

Now *>m back to set therecord straight / with my A-K / I'm still thethug that youlove to hate/ Motherfucker, I'll hit'em up"

"Hit'Em Up" by Tupac *

Norteho music, especiallynarcocorridos,ispopular inthe Mexicanimmigrant communitiesof theU.S.In fact, someof themost popularnorteno groupsand artists began theircareersintheirnewnation.Rosalino"Chalino" Sanchez began singing in the Coachella Valley in Southern California, Sergio Vega began his career in Arizona, and Los Tigres del Norte formed in San Jose, California.

*

Growing up in the Los Angeles area meant I was exposed to various genres of music. At home when my parents had total control of the music choices on car trips and at home, I would listen to nortenos, and Mexican pop ballads. At school, my peers would listen to more contemporary and American genres of music. Going to school in the 90s, alternative rock, boy band pop, and gangster rap were the norm. My parents would listen to artists like Los Tigres del Norte, Juan Gabriel, and Marco Antonio Solis. In the schoolyard, my peers would listen to Blink 182, Britney Spears, N'Sync, The Backstreet Boys, Tupac, and Snoop Dogg.

*

On December 11, 2006, newly elected President Felipe Calderon of Mexico launched Operation Michoacan. This military operation sent 6,500 federal troops to the state of Michoacan to battle drug cartels and is considered the starting point of the Mexican War on Drugs. Nearly 60,000 people have died as a result of the Mexican drug war. Over a dozen of those deaths include narco musicians.

*

On September 16, 2005, narco musician Valentin Elizalde performed in frontof 3,000 convicts atthe

p jente Grande prison in the central state of Jalisco for son Amphitheater in Los Angeles.His face isdepicted in a Mexican Independence Day celebration. Elizalde has mural in Pico Rivera, a city known for its love of norterio roured in both the Mexico and the United States, and music with its famous rodeo and Mexican nightclubs, hasrecorded albums for major music company Univer,! Music. According to local reports, the convicts sang

On September 7,1996, Tupac Shakur and Suge jono to the song "Clave Privada" (Secret Code), a song Knight andtheir entourageexited theMGM Grand Casino celebrating Sinaloa Cartel Drug Lord Joaqin "Chapo" in LasVegas aftera MikeTyson fight. Knight and hisentouGuzman. Guzman had escaped from a neighboring rage, members of the Bloods gang, encountered members Prison in 2001 and remains an international fugitive. of the rival Crips gang exiting the venue. The two groups * engaged in a brawl, including Shakur. Thewhole fight was

In 1996, rapper Tupac Shakur signed with caught undersurveillance. Afterthebrawl,Shakur leftwith Death Row Records after his release from jail on Knight in his black BMW. After a brief stop by Las Vegas smal abuse charges. Death Row was founded by police, the two men stopped at a red light. After a brief Marion "Suge" Knight, a record producer with ties exchange withsome nearby femaledrivers, acar pulled up to the Bloods gang. At the height of the East Coast- and fired shotsat theblack BMW.Shakur wasshot multiple West Coast Rap Feud, Tupac would release his crit- times.The rapper wastaken to University HospitalCenter, ically-acclaimed album "All Eyez on Me," with hits where he stayed in the critical care unit. On September like "California Love" and "How Do U Want It." 13, Shakur died of internal building. He was 25 years old.

* *

Over 24,000people werekilledduetodrugvio-

"Conmigo no andan jugando / Pa'que se arrieslence in2011, makingit thebloodiest year ofthe Mexican gan la vida / Traigo una super fatada / Y los traigo ya en la government's ongoing violent campaign against cartels. mira'.'

*

December 2007 proved to be the deadliest month for Mexican artists. On December 1 in Mat-

"A

Mis Enemigo" by Valentin Elizalde

Whenever my father goes off to a gig, healways amoros, Tamaulipas, Zayda Pena was shot in the chest invites my friends and I to go. He always said there will point blank by assailants, while she was in the hospital be girls, dancing, and booze. Even though the offer seems recovering from an earlier murder attempt. She had tempting, the whole norteno music scene isn't my thing, no personal or lyrical connections to drug cartels. The next day in Morelia, Michoacan, members of the Chi-

On November 25, 2006, Elizalde ecame e cago-based group K-Paz de la Sierra were kidnapped first big narco artisttofall tocartel violence. Afterleaving a in the early hours of the morning from their car. The concert intheborder cityof Reynosa, a GulfCartel strongfirst big raids of the Mexican drug war began in Mi- hold, in the Mexicanstate of Tamaulipas,Elizalde's vehicle choacan. While the other passengers were let go later was gunned down by members of Los Zetas, who were at in the day, vocalist Sergio Gomez's tortured body was the timethe armed wingof theGulf cartel.The narco artist discovered in the outskirts of the city the next day. A became a targetbecause of theperceived ins t omoneo few days later, trumpeter Jose Luis Aquino of the group Elizalde's songscalled A Mis Enemigos (To My Enemies , Los Conde was found dead with his limbs bound and and his praising of rival drug cartel the Sina oa arte a bag over his head in the southern state of Oaxaca.

*

The Forever 27Club refersto popular musicians

"Pongan cuidado senores / Andan buscando la who have died at the age of 27.Some famousmembers inmuerte/El miedo no loconosco / Para eso no tuve suerte / elude: Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, jams JoSoy cerca de Culiacdn / Tierra de puros valientes" plin, Brian Jones, Amy Winehouse, and Valentin b iza e. "Clave Privada" by Valentin Elizalde _ ,

*

During the bloody month of December

EverySaturdayafternoonbeforeagig,members 2007, Elizande and Gomez were nominated posthu of my dad'sband come over topick up theequipment: the mously for Grammy Awards. Neither won a rammy drum kit, the micstands, the drumkit, thewires, and the , . speakers. My dadalways asks for me to help. Mijo, ayuda

In March 2012, my da an is an a r* a tu papa. I help him lift thelarge speakers tothe backof Norte performed at the Hollywoo ar .asino, a o the greyToyota Tundra.In thebackseat Ispy theevening's venue that attracts decent artists an cover an so outfits—a white cowboy hat, ablack button up shirt, and ger artists. His band performe a ongsi e o er no a hideous red blazer with grey pinstripes. The red blazer groups at a Mexican music night. I was away at co eg has tribal signs running down theleft arm and down the He didn't give me a call. I foun out a out it on e 8 right lapel. The band's logo is on the heart of the blazer. Facebook page. They wore those gau y re jac *

In November 2006, Elizaldewas awarded "Soloist of the year" at Los Premios de la Radio at the Gib-

OFF|

CENTERED

light falls in gentle waves landing in golden puddles like lonely sunbeams it illuminates us

silence whispers circles the air inloops melds to warmskin rushes over us like aslow river

existence settles into ourstomachs legs curl likevines entwined like purple morning glorieson a Sunday morning open to the sun ibreathe to your melody as a seagull tastes blue skies , as a breezeplays with raindrops and clouds as a tree's roots delve intoearths center

HOW MY GRANDMOTHER SEWS IN THE NIGHT

The sewing machine is right across from my room, where the open door frames my mothers hunched back. The machine sits in front of the big open window in the living room. I sit in my bed thinking I can sleep through anything. The sewing machine noise. The pain in my mothers back. The weariness of her eyes.

The wheels on the outdated sewing machine turn. She pushes the petal. The needle bobs up and down, up and down. Her fingers pull the fabric forward carefully keeping it tautand straight.Thethreadenters the fabric as it moves in and out in and out through the needle. The thread trembles as its pushed into fabric. Thefloor shakesas she pushes down. An oscillating silence fills the pauses in her movements. When she's done with one piece she holds it up and looks for loose ends to trim. Snip, snip, snip. I know that when she first came to this place, when she first sat down at this job, her sister told her that there cannot be any loose ends. All the rushed mistakes she would take home to sewin the night.Like tonight,she sewsin the night.

I get up and go to her. I tap her on the shoulder and ask her, "^Cuando te vas a dormirr My voicesounds sleepyand hoarse. Her eyes look at me with the same intensity that she uses to meticulously search for mistakes on the delicate fabrics she sews. She takes both her hands off the machine, uses one hand to hold my face and the other to gently grab my hand. Her hands are short,

stubby and wrapped in little Band-Aids where she accidently cut herself while trimming."Ya mero termino," she says.

She pulls me toward the kitchen where she heats up milk and mixes it with pink Nesquick powder. We sit silently while I drink it from a small pink cup. Then she comes to lie in bed with me. She strokes my forehead with her fingers. The bumpy layers of Band-Aids feel strangely comforting. She soon rests her head next to me as she waits for me to sleep. I close my eyes and soon grow sleepy. She notices this and slowly lifts herself and returns to her machine. She is about to push down on the petalto start her work again.She hesitates.Then, reachesover to a drawer next to the machine. She pulls out two unfinished skirts and raises them to the lightof the sewing machine.

The skirts are made of red, white, and green fabric. They are big, long, with white ruffles that frame the trimming. One is for my older sister and one is for me. We will wear them on December 12th, El dia de la Virgen de Guadalupe, to the church where we will pray, sing and dance all night with our mom. She takes one of the skirts in her hands and looks it over adding pins to hold the lacing in place. Theshe moves it forward beneath the needle. The sound of the machine purring in the night lulls me to sleep. That purring sound is the sound of love and sacrifice treaded together in the night.

AT 8

Every day I rode the bus, The yellow bus. It had the scent of dirt, of mist, of colddirty misty schoolchildren.

I sat with Alex. We were the two losers on thebus. No one wanted to be our friends But each other, I guess.

He shared things with me, Candy, toys, English. And some other words,maybe They rolled a little more. But I didn't know.

One day after school I told my mom about Alex "Mom, I have a friend!"

He isn't my trdng, white, I told her. He isnt my den, black, either. And he doesn't look like us, But he has our skin color!

We are tan people.

My mother smiles: 'Ah, then he's Mexican, my son."

THE MEMORY ROOM

The room with the memories holds still As each one screams its storyOut into theopen where no onelistens, But everyone watches -silently, As the man in the wooden boat carries his living with him, His boat bursts with his proud array ofspices Bright gold turmeric for his family, Vicious red chili powder for his losses, Swirled cinnamon sticks for his journey, Flower-headed cloves for his dreams, And tiny mustard seeds for the bullets taken Each exuding his familiar situation as Remnants of his second migration

The first, by the Mughals out of theland of Kush and Then, forced by men wearing red coats through Kashmiri peaks and Into the unfamiliar land of the people withspices in boats

The charred edges of his boat reekwith scars From the bloodbath of the night before where Next to the well, his familyshattered And he combed up their pieces from the ground And threw them into thewell Threw them at the red-coated authority Who just watched -silently, Asthe man in the wooden boat carried his life to The murky water, where its puritycleansed him Butdid nothing to compensate, the shadow Cast upon his boat remains, Never to be erased, but onlyforgotten as Tears after, his next generation ventures, Quaked out of their homes, Out of the land of the spices, to Anunfamiliar world where thousands Ofcaptured and developed memories Arestored, but never listened to

Let us be voyeurs for a moment or two and look closely, for the earth is making love to herself. It sounds smells like lovemaking.

Rain silky sweet falls into the rough palms of sycamores held by the darkwet earth in deep embrace as the sky holds themoon who kisses the fingertips of trembling waters.

Let us forget thelooking and listeningand smelling and right here now begin to do the same, slowly et us spill down upon one another.