E X I S TCapital City PCS Literary Magazine Volume 1June 2015

editors note

EDITOR IN CHIEF Elder DeLeon MANAGING EDITORS Chada Cooks Emoni Lewis

COPY EDITOR Antoinette Wimbish BUSINESS MANAGERS Luchelle Jackson Kydadah Alexander

ART EDITORS Isaiah Dozier Victor Ramos Leideen Escobar

LITERARY EDITORS Meredith Mendoza Cynthia Diaz Sherida Magana- Williams

LAYOUT DIRECTOR Julia Penn

FACULTY SPONSORS Jill Weiler Sarah Simmons

Capital City Public Charter School100 Peabody Street NWWashington DC 20011

Copyright 2015 by EXIST Literary Magazine. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part is prohibited without the consent of EXIST Literary Magazine or the individual authors or artists.

COVER ART: EXIST BY TAZ ROBINSON

To exist we must be willing to accept our own iden-tity. People tend to conform to societal norms, ob-scuring our true origins to become more favorable to the masses. If we reject who we are, we deny everything that makes us alive, everything that can be associated with us, everything that causes us to exist. In Capital Citys first Literary Magazine, EXIST, we explore our many identities through our poetry, memoirs, short stories, paintings, drawings and photo-graphs. Through our artistic expressions, we advocate overcoming the adversities from stereotypic ideals that cause us to question our ability to both exist and co-exist.

EXIST was the product of Capital Citys Publication and Design class, a semester-long class where students experiment with a variety of forms of creative writing. We would like to recognize those who helped con-tribute to the production of this magazine. First of all, we are grateful to Julia Penn for her tireless efforts, creativity and expertise in directing the layout and design of EXIST. Next, we give thanks to Jose Cue-vas who helped with the selection of art pieces from students currently at Capital City and CCPCS alumni. The 826DC writing mentors read countless drafts and provided meaningful feedback both online and in the classroom. Our principal, Belicia Reaves, along with the CCPCS administrative team not only envisioned this course (with the expectation of a literary magazine) but also provided the support necessary to transform her vision into a reality. Finally, to all those who submit-ted writing and art, we send our gratitude for your interest, time and work, and wish that we could have included all of the submissions. We hope that everyone enjoys the beauty and power of the pieces included in these pages.

Antoinette Wimbish, Chada Cooks, Emoni Lewis and Elder DeLeon

E X I S T

table of contents

poetry

3 Exist Cynthia Diaz 6 A Structure to Keep Meredith Mendoza 9 Beautiful World Marcus Perkins 11 Hands Antoinette Wimbish 12 Thus Spoke Nietzsche Sherida Magana-Williams 16 Ants Maria Jose Sanchez Carrasco 16 Power of Lead Cynthia Diaz 16 How the Letters Rose to Power Daniel Nguyen 18 Tierra Phong Le Nguyen 19 My Own Household Isaiah Dozier 21 Stop and Stare Ruth Fuentes 26 Its Complicated Chada Cooks 28 Confusion Ashley Carela

mixed media

Facial Exchange Maria Aguirre 2 Melting Pot Jorge Ortez 23

work on paper Flower Owl Taz Robinson 5

Skyline Julia Penn 6 Eyes Edwin Zelaya 8

Hands Ana Nguyen 10 Man in Blue Shirt Tyler Rogers 11

Meditation Yanci Flores 15 Spirals Mesgana Dagnachew 17

Finger on the Button Yanci Flores 20 Untitled Forrest Penrod 27

Baby on Tracks Zari Ventura 29

Eagle Boy JaQuon Blandin 4Summer Books Dona Anderson 8

Mirror Evadne Lewis 10 Finding Joy Emoni Lewis 14

Birds Deyna Rosales 17 Good Boy Kydadah Alexander 20

My Destination Was Made Aida Bonilla-Torres 22 Best Cookies Ever Made Brandy Suyderhaud 25

Lost and Found Elder Deleon 28

prose

18 A Beautiful World Devondre Moore24 Cookie Monster Devondre Moore

work on canvas

June 2015 3

I amThe culture that shapes my identityThe experiences that have made my realityI am The loss, pain and failuresThe lessonsI am Too complex, too uniqueTo be understood by mere manI cannot even begin to describeWho I am

If I am not who I was in the pastBut my past has made me who I amAm I my past, present or future?Am I all three?Or am I none at all?

I am MyselfA self that is constantly changingRenewing AdaptingPursuingMaturingI am a self that has been built up fromOther people and experiencesI am a self that belongs to expectations andSocietys standards

I am a self that is notMy own.

ExistCynthia Diaz

MARIA AGUIRRE

4 June 2015

Eagle BoyJaQuon Blandin

I always wished that I could fly. To feel the crisp cool air envelop my body as I soared through the air, pure adrenaline and ecstasy through my veins. I always wanted to escape the pain and suffering that I went through on the ground. The constant stress and fatigue of schoolwork, home responsibilities, feeling alone and in distress. I needed to get away.

Then one day it happened. I was glancing over a cliff in the forest trails near my house when I slipped and got flung into the air. I started to panic. I thought this was the end; I was going to die. I was halfway between life and death when I felt a metamorphosis happening in my body. I felt my arms growing feath-ers, my mouth becoming a beak, and my legs becoming talons, until I transformed into a full-fledged eagle.

As if I were born with the abil-ity to fly, I began to soar through the air like a fighter jet through the clouds. Gliding through the air with blinding speeds and swooping down on potential prey. I was in total bliss. For the first time in my life, I felt happy and free. I had no more restrictions in my life. I felt like I could accomplish anything.

I was having the time of my life, enjoying the wondrous freedom of being an eagle with no worries in the world, until I realized that when I wanted to turn back into a human, I couldnt. I started to panic. I flung my wings open in a frenzy, imitating a chicken with its head cut off. I couldnt believe this was happening to me. The fear of not being able to revert back to my initial form prompted me to pass out.

When I opened my eyes, I was in a cramped cage inside a dim room, barely able to spread my wings out. Then a man opened a door and walked in. He had a crazy look in his eyes, like I was his dinner or some-thing. He walked up to my cage. Such a beautiful bird,

too bad Im selling it on the black market. I screamed internally! Hes going to sell me on the black market? I said in my head. I couldnt let this happen.

He walked out of the room and closed the door. This was my chance. I picked the lock on the cage with my beak and flew onto the floor. Then I waited for him to come back, with my wings out, ready to fly through the door when it opened. He opened the door, in shock of what he saw before him. How the hell did you get

out of your cage?! he yelled at the top of his lungs. He attempted to scoop me up with is arms, but I wasnt hav-ing that. I flew up and poked one of his eyes out with my beak. Argh! He yelled, in in-tense pain.

In blinding speeds I flew out of the door and out of his cracked window of his 10-story apartment. I was still in my hometown, so I knew the way home, but I realized that getting home wasnt going to be that sim-ple. My wings were still fa-

tigued from all the earlier flying I had done and I was losing air. I tried to glide through the air and onto the ground safely, swaying left and right to avoid apartments and billboards. I was almost home. As soon as I was on my home street, I got hit by a car. Smack! was the only thing I recall hearing until I woke up.

What the hell were you dreaming about? asked my mom as I awoke from a cold sweat.

I had a dream that I turned into a eagle and I couldnt turn back. I said.

That explains the bird noises you were making in your sleep, she said. I was so confused; it had all felt so real. I got up and looked through the window, still wishing I was still an eagle.

For the first time in my life, I felt happy

and free. I had no

more restrictions in

my life. I felt like

I could accomplish

anything.

June 2015 5TAZ ROBINSONTAZ ROBINSON

6 June 2015

My identity isnt mine.My struggles originated before my own story.They sprouted from previous lives;In fact,they were generated generations before mine.

It all started in an insignificant sized countrywhere the hunger is real and the poverty is overpoweringwhere the smell of the sweat is bitter,hands are stained with dirt from long days of back breaking labor,til backs hunched like an over worked horse,where childrens torsos are the perfect reflection of a stray dogs ribs.In an insignificant sized country In the country ofThe Savior.

If I were allowed to choose what the structures ofmy life were built from,It wouldnt have been this one.

A weak foundation leads to nothing but hardship and even the ruins of the building

In my case Im a 53 slim building, built straight upto stand tall

constructed over my ancestors shoulders,my Salvadoran ancestorsThe ones who grew up on dirt roadsraised by elderswhile their parents were out hard at workwhere having different blood didnt differ from the respect and obedience you are to give In the street where the neighbors were held in higher respect than ones own mother

I was built on top of bodies of hard worktoiling over the boiling oil

I came from a line of food vendorsa line so thick it runs through my blooduntil it reaches the very first drop that first ran through my veins a line that touches every city in El Salvadora line that stretches through Texas, California, New YorkAnd the District of Columbia Walking across miles ofDesertssand

A Structure to KeepMeredith Mendoza

June 2015 7

forestand pavementwith huacales filled to their rims with a variety oflocal appetizers

I came from the line of vendorsa line so thickso thick with pridea line unwilling to die from hunger or povertya line unwilling to sit and wait for a miraclea line of do-ers,action takersa line standing tall when gravity gets heavier

Born into a family where poverty runs back to my first ancestorsWhere a cause-and-effect chain reaction makes it almost impossible to step out of the economically struggling life

But why?Why would I ever,want to do something as preposterousas to step out of my deeply embedded family line of prideful vendors

Money may never overflows my pocketsMy stomach may never be completely full after every meal

But a thick layer of cementtransported directly from El Salvador fills my structure.Cement built strong from lifeitself.I was born into this line of vendersIm a vendor myself.

Ever since I could talk I was selling typical Salvadoran appetizers to strangers at the top of my pride filled lungsAs I became older I began to trade those items for opinionsI stand building high, taller than ever,and debate my reasoning until that prize medal is minethe prize of leaving an opinionated opponent speechlesseven if only for a few seconds

Ive transformed from my ancestorsI used their lifeto inspire mineWe started in the same spot;as child vendors selling what fit in our tiny growing handsbut I grewI grew into a twenty-first generation student

living life in itselfto growto grow myselfto grow my familyto grow my ancestorsto growourfuture.

If I were allowed to choose what the structure ofmy life were built fromIt would have been this one.

JULIA PENN

8 June 2015

The heat is thick enough to spread on toast... Since

theres nothing better to do, you pick up a random book...

Summer BooksDona Anderson

Theres a difference between summer reading and summer books. Summer reading shows up every year, boring books that you dont want to read. In fact, you would rather bury the offending text in some dark, lonely corner, never to be seen again. Those books are what put kids off reading. Occasionally, you may find an interesting one, but that is not usually the case in my experience.

Summer books, however, are an entirely different story. They arent really required reading at all. A sum-mer book is what you read on those midsummer days when its too sunny to leave the house. The heat is thick enough to spread on toast. You are home alone and bored out of your mind. Since theres nothing better to do, you pick up a random book on the shelf. Youve never read it before, or maybe you did, but you dont

remember. You dont exactly remember when or how it got here, but you might as well check it out since its here. So you sit down, read and the book sort of just gets absorbed into you while your mind wanders. You dont even notice the passage of time, the heat is cloud-ing your brain so much. But you seem to understand the book nonetheless. Perhaps you even enjoy it. Or you dont. It doesnt matter to you at this point. By the time you finish, it you are somewhat sleepy and alert all at once; you realize that you spent the whole day reading. One. Single. Book. And you dont remember much else. A summer book is all of that. The difference, is that summer reading is just a thing. Summer books are an experience.

9 June 2015

Wow, its such a beautiful worldRed flowersnext to the treewith red leaves.

The sun seems to be orangea mixture of red and yellow.I try to only think about the redness in the sunI dont like yellow.

The buildings are perfect50 story towers everywhere with a perfect diameter of 50.

Look at all the dogs running around. I really like dogs. They are so fun to play with.

Look that street has a sign. It says Highway 83. Its a prime number so its easier to remember. I dont know why.it just is.

This is a world I could live in If only it was real.

Beautiful WorldMarcus Perkins

EDWIN ZEYLAYA

10 June 2015

MirrorEvadne Lewis

Antoinette Wimbish

I cant. Two words I was taught to never use no matter

what challenges I may face. I was tutoring my friend, Jeanell, and we were sitting on the couch in my living room. She had on a black unicorn shirt, pink shorts, and her favorite purple, fuzzy house slippers. She had her hair tied up, ready to go to bed. She threw the pencil down and started to suck her teeth; her voice started to crack; her eyes began to water. I could see she was getting frustrated because she didnt really understand the double-digit math homework her teacher assigned. It was weird because Ive never seen her get so angry at herself (or at anything for that matter) when she got a problem incorrect. Tears started rolling down her face; she balled up her fist, and shoved her face into her lap, so I wouldnt see her cry.

Jeanell, whats wrong? I asked. If youre not getting it, I can try another way. Her response nearly broke my heart in two. I cant. Im special. I dont understand; I dont know it because Im stupid! Its too hard! I pushed the foldout table aside to clear the thick, tense air. Jeanell had been diagnosed as Mentally Challenged, and she told me the kids at school made fun of her be-cause of it. They told her she didnt have any friends because shes stupid or slow or special.

At that moment, something inside me burst into a flame. I lifted her head up, so she could look me in the eyes. Jeanell, if those kids at school call you stupid just because you dont know something, that means everyone in this world is stupid. Im stupid; theyre stu-pid; our parents are stupid; our teachers are stupid; everybody is stupid. Because guess what? Nobody, and I mean nobody, knows everything. They dont know ev-erything about you.

You have friends; they may not be at school, but Im sitting right here. Ill always be your friend no matter what. You can call me anytime, no matter what the sit-uation. Im your friend, your sister, your cousin, your mentor, your tutor, your anything you want me to be. And yeah, Jeanell, you are special, but not in the way they tell you you are, and not in the way you have come to believe you are. You are special because you are nev-

er afraid to be yourself, and I love that about you. You cant help it if you dont understand something. You just work until you get it. You are the most genuine, kind-hearted, soulful person I have ever met in my en-tire life. Youre special because you are you. Dont you ever let anyone make you feel ashamed of who you are. You cant change that.

My words to Jeanell came out not only because she needed to hear them, but because I needed to hear them, too. It took me a while to accept who I am. When I did, I realized that people are jealous and intimidat-ed by those who arent afraid to accept who they are. They try to break you down if you try to be like them, and they try to break you down if youre being genuine.

My words to Jeanell helped me see that being myself is worth more than anything, even if Im not accepted.

June 2015 11

The hands that hold onto the oilyheart covered in self-hateThe mouths that try to cover the woundsthat reopen every day

The hands that hold on to faith thatthe heart will get betterand not bitterwith the taste of loneliness

Having been there and seen those wounds those hands kept holdstrong and caringthey caressed in the darkest of times

They were the ones that pulledthe heart from the abysswhat would have been lost foreverprotected by those close

Hands Antoinette Wimbish

ANA NGUYEN

12 June 201512 June 2015 201512 June 2015

So much depends upon desireit empties our cupsbrings man underthe desirethe love for manpossessing the want to possess the soul longs to leaveto empty the bodyand we abandon the worldfor anotherthus the cups empty

let go of desireof man of other worldsand everything will depend on nothing

Sherida Magana-Williams

Thus Spoke Nietzsche

June 2015 13COLLAGE BY CARONLINA ESCALANTEJune 2015 11

PHOTO BY TYLER ROGERS

June 2015 13

14 June 2015 June 2015

She stands in the elevator looking down in con-fusion at Facebook messages she doesnt recognize. Who is this? she wonders. She scrolls to the top of all the messages and begins to read until she gets to the bottom. As she is reading, she begins to see a connec-tion. Her vision is getting blurry, and she gets this thick feeling in her throat.

Shes now in the main lobby pacing back and forth with her mind bursting with questions. She goes to her contacts and calls her uncle to see if he can answer all those questions racing through her head. After a few calls, there is still no answer.

She goes upstairs and notices that Ms. Regina is in her office. So she goes inside. Shes trembling, with her head facing down and begins to speak. Ms. Regina, if I call a hospital would they be able to... Her voice be-comes shaky, and she begins to cry.

Ms. Regina gets up quickly, closes the door, and asks, Whats wrong?She tells her that shes confused; someone told her shes adopted and she doesnt know if it is true or false. Ms. Regina is speechless; she then gives her a hug and some tissues. After she gets the tis-sues, she cries even more. Before she can complete her question, her phone begins to ring. Its her sister. Shes telling her to come outside because her dad is here to pick her up.

She gets on the elevator and tries to make sure her face doesnt look like she was just crying. She has this mindset that when she gets in the car she is going to act normal and funny like she always does. Unfortu-nately, that doesnt work.

As soon as she gets in the car, she puts the coat over her head and lays her head down on the door. Tears slowly make their way down her face all the way until she gets home. Why didnt she tell me? Why didnt he tell me? and more questions race through her head.

Shes home now, and her eyes are extremely puffy and red. She runs to the upstairs bathroom and tries to make it so her eyes arent so puffy. It doesnt work, so when she goes downstairs she keeps her head down while on her cell phone.

She sits there and makes a new Facebook as quick-ly as possible. Just to talk to Joy. She makes the page and posts a most recent photograph of herself. Then she searches the name Joy McRae. She adds her as a friend and sends her a message. The message reads, Hi Joy. Its Emoni. Is it true? She sits on the couch shaking her leg waiting for a reply, trying not to cry. As she waits for the reply, she becomes very dizzy. Why do I feel this way? She asks herself.

After a few minutes, she receives a reply. It is from Joy. Her message says, Yes, it is true. She is speechless.

Finding JoyEmoni Lewis

June 2015 15

She goes to her room for a few minutes to think about what should she do. She comes to the conclusion to go talk to Joy and ask her, if it is true that she is her real mom, then why isnt she with her now.

She asks her a whole lot of questions and gets a whole lot of answers. Some of the answers she takes in okay but some she does not. She is still confused. Her mom who she has been living with her whole life comes home and says that Joy is lying. She then begins to second guess that Joy is her mom, but after she asks for her Social Security number and gets it from Joy, she

knows that Joy is her real mother. She begins talking to her mom every day and still does until this day. Even though everyone else keeps telling her that its not true. Shes told its not true, still to this day, by both her parents who she lives with now and her sister.

The day she found Joy brought so much hurt to her. She had never been so upset in her life. That day was both good and bad for her: she found out the truth, but the truth hurt. She is me: Emoni Lewis. And Joy McRae is my birth mother. I love both my mothers dearly. I just wish I was told the truth.

YANCI FLORES

16 June 2015

How the Letters Rose to Power

Letters, single by natureAlone without a voice.26 total not aware of their brothers and sisters.Having only themselves, making distinct sounds.Together, they make a difference.Creating a plethora of words, so meticulously woven to-gether.Discovering that they have twins, triplets, it never ends!

Some are troublemakers,Banding together to create c-h-a-o-s And a-n-a-r-c-h-y, wreaking havoc amongst the vocabulary world.

Then there are the righteous letters that unite,Having p-r-o-s-p-e-r-i-t-y and t-r-a-n-q-u-i-l-i-t-y.The letters you want to have.

These little, small letters growingDisplaying their dominance at the start of a word. Showing who's the leader, the capital letter.When grown letters merge, it creates a voice so BIG THAT YOU CAN HEAR IT THROUGH THIS SHEET OF PAPER.

Getting even crazier when these little letters get weapons of their own.The inquisitive letters pick the question mark.Outspoken letters the exclamation mark.And the letters that drone on and on, the comma.

With a punctual arsenal at their disposal,They now control human speech,A power once out of their little written hands reach.Thats how the letters rose to power.

Deyna Rosales

So much depends upon an ant.

Tiny and minisculeyet diligent and what not.

Trying to carry food for their emperor queen.

All while, preventing to be killed by a stomp..

So much depends ona pencil

Both a tool and a weapon

So smallordinarybreakable

Yet so powerful.

The Power of Lead

Maria Jose Sanchaez Carrasco

Cynthia Diaz

Ants Daniel Nguyen

June 2015 17

Collageby Carolina Escalante

How the Letters Rose to Power

I heard the door slowly open, and my brother come into the living room. In his hands he carried a rectan-gular shaped box covered with a gray blanket. I jumped from my seat and ran to him and asked, Delmar, what did you bring? He laid the box on the table in front of me and said excitedly, You're gonna see.

He uncovered the mysterious item, and there were three of them. Each one stared and looked at us in wonder. They were each the size of a medium mango, and their dark, black, oval-shaped eyes looked up with a sense of intimacy. They each held tight to the cage with their talons. Their feathers were beautiful, a blend of gray, white and yellow. They had a little puff of feathers at the tip of their heads. At that moment, the cage con-tained the most precious birds: Lola, Pepito and Ole. My face lit up with happiness because I had never seen such beauty in my entire life. There was nothing I could compare them to; I fell immediately in love with them.

My entire family surrounded the cage and stared as if our eyes couldnt believe what we were seeing. My brother pulled out a bag of seeds that he had brought

BirdsDeyna Rosales

in with him, and we began to feed them. They ate with shyness. That day was such an exciting day that I would never forget.

After a month, the birds began to adapt to us and their new environment. Every morning we would allow them to come out of their cage, but only Lola liked to come out. Ole and Pepito were shy; they never wanted to come out. They would bite our fingers if we tried to touch them. Each morning as the sun rose, my eyes would open to the sound of my birds chirping and sing-ing exquisitely. Our mornings were never the same. I would never forget how those birds turned my days into reasons to appreciate life.

After about nine months, Pepito and Lola departed this world along with two other parakeets we bought. Only Ole was able to survive. Now I wake up feeling empty without the sound of chirping filling my house. Our days were never the same after their arrival, and after their departure, our lives changed once more, but now we appreciate life because we understand that what we have today can be gone tomorrow.

June 2015 17

MESGANA DAGNACHEW

18 June 2015

She, Tierra, Mother, took care of us, for we were her childrenChildren, beginning from a few to seven billionBillions of us on her shouldersFrom lush grasslands to rocky bouldersShe took care of us, for we were her children

She, Tierra, Mother, hurt herself to feed us, for we were her kinFor us, she created forests protruding from her very skinBillions of us she fed with her own bloodFrom living leaf buds to a plant's flower budHurt herself to feed us, for we were her kin

She loved us with her heartBut our love for her was naught

We, Tierra's children, are destroying our sole mother, our very creatorWe modify her plants for there is no more lushWe abuse her animals for there is a certain rushWe destroy her skin till there's nothing but mushWe kill each other till there's nothing left to crush

We, Tierra's children, failed to take care of her creationsKids are dying throughout nationsPeople are starving while growing food from plantationsFood companies have

estranged us in a foundationFor a very long durationCorporations' motivations stop blood circulations which causes amputationsChemical operations lead to hospitalizations

We, Tierra's children, failed to keep our promise and reputation

Phong Le Nguyen

Tierra

June 2015 19

Tierra, mother, I apologize on behalf of humanityWe your children have reached greed of a new degreeMother, hear my pleaSend thy strength unto meFor only you there will beWhen there's nothing left but a lifeless seaOnly then will we seeThere is no hope for humanity.

I am from fish fries and cookoutsfrom ribs and Good Fridays

I am from PS2s and Xboxesraised by Gameboys and DSseducated by Nintendo 64s and Sega Genesis

I am the embodimentof the hopes of my mother and fatherthe ambitions of Che and MLK

I am from the household of I know you aint talkin We do it for this and that Um, scuse you!

I am from the streets lined with carsand buses going in multiple directionscrossing the intersections way too fast

I am from the kitchen which comes tolife with the smell of chicken, greens,cornbread, and steak

I am from my own household,with its own opinions and thoughts,restricted by no one

My Own HouseholdIsaiah Dozier

DEVONDRE MOORE

20 June 2015

Michael sat down in the middle of the road and be-gan to cry. The asphalt felt cold, and many orange and brown leaves covered the road. Across the street, he saw his red brick house. It was so close, but he wasnt ready to go home; he still hadnt gotten what he want-ed. He felt that his life was over. His mother began to call out his name again and again.

Michael! Michael! she screamed. But Michael didnt

Good BoyKydadah Alexander

care; he wanted a car to come and run him over. His mother dropped her head into her hands and threw her purse on the ground.

I hate you! Michael screamed back. All I wanted was one thing, one teeny tiny thing, and you couldnt even give me that! Michael rolled back and forth wail-ing out, Mommy doesnt love me! This is not fair! Im moving in with dad! Michael crossed his arms and let out a long, sad pout.

Michael Paul Jamison, come here this instant! his mom said. Michaels mother was starting to get really

June 2015 21

angry. She had half a mind to leave Michael right there. Shut up! Michael cried. I want this car to come

and hit me so you can feel bad. Michael continued to cry and cry.

His mother let out a little chuckle while looking at her four-year-old son who was on the wrong side of the road. Michael, we just got a toy for you last week! Come on; its getting dark, and no cars can come on this road.

Then Ill just stay out here forever! Michael sobbed. Michaels mom then got an idea and knew exactly how

to get her son to get up. You know, I thought about getting McDonalds for dinner, but now seeing the way youre acting you can have nothing but asparagus for dinner. As Michaels mom said that, she began to turn around and walk away.

Michaels eyes shot up and said, McDonalds?!? He jumped right up and ran to his mom. Ill be a good boy! Im sorry! Who needs that stupid toy anyway? I got one last week, Michael shouted.

Tell me what you seeyour mind expandsthe journey just began

You apologize for the you seeWhos fault is thatwhy dont you look at me am ugly and fat

Stop & Stare I hear againTell me what you seethe ugly I scream!The ugly

Stop & Stare I hear again Tell me what you seestare deeper than the facethen what they want you to see

Stop & Stare tell me what you see I dont see uglyJust see the beautiful me

Stop & StareRuth Fuentes

YANCI FLORES

TH

22 June 2015

Aida, look!I turned around to the back of the classroom where

two boys were laughing and holding a piece of paper. I didnt know what to say, and I started crying. Having seen the effigy that they drew appalled me. I ran out of the classroom crying and went straight to the bath-room. Five minutes later, I heard the bathroom door open. It was my teacher who was looking for me. She started asking me many questions, and I didnt have any type of answer or at least I couldnt answer them at that moment. It was hard to speak after such an emo-tional event. I know you might be wondering what this effigy was: it was a drawing of my middle finger.

One day, my mom decided to go to my grandmothers house to help her cook. I was only a few months old, and she couldnt carry me around with her while she was cook-ing, so she decided to leave me by myself in a chair as she went about her business. I was, as I am today, a curious child, so I managed to crawl where my sister, Esmeralda was cutting a coconut.

That is when my mom told me the story, that as I moved my hand closer and closer to the coconut, my sister was getting ready to cut the coconut with a machete in her hand. The machete, however, did not cut the co-conut. The machete cut my finger and left one of my other fingers damaged. My mom remembers me cry-ing and screaming my lungs out. She was horrified to see her little girls finger hanging off the last piece of skin. My moms clothes were covered with blood as she rocked her daughter trying to calm her and herself down. She didnt know what to do, but with the help of my grandmother, they took me to the hospital. The doctors told my mom that it was too late to recover my finger because my veins were too small and very sensitive. They might have been able to recover my finger, but in the future they probably would have to

My Destination Was Made

amputate my hand if any problems occurred. Finally, my mom decided to amputate my finger.

Not having my middle finger is not a problem at all. I can do everything that a person with all five fingers can do. At times I feel uncomfortable while doing an activity that requires me to show my hand because people are going to stare at me and judge me without knowing what happened. Throughout the years, I have noticed that whenever someone asks me to use all my five fingers, I end up using my left hand. When Im play-ing soccer, as goalie, I feel weird using gloves, but then again I remember that I have a left hand that has been useful for the past 16 years, and it has helped me save a lot of shots on the field. My left hand is my salvation to

any situation that would make me feel less than everyone else.

People wonder how I write or which hand I write with or if it is hard not having a mid-dle finger. Those are the most commons questions that I get. My answer is the same every time they ask. I tell them that I write with my right hand, and it doesnt hurt at all when Im writing. People also ask if I hate my sister for doing what she did.

My answer is always the same. Not at all; I dont hate or blame her because both of us were small and didnt know what we were doing; we were children.

This earliest childhood memory hasnt affected me at all. Well, just that day in middle school when the boy laughed at me for not having a finger. But guess what? The event made me feel proud of what I have; it made me feel determined to never feel less than anyone else for not having a finger. I know someone out there might have it ten times worse than me. This situation made me into a person full of courage who is able to fight any battle and overcome any obstacle in life. Im look-ing forward to growing up, graduating from college and making a difference among my family and community.

The event made me feel proud of what I have; it made me

feel determined to never feel less

than anyone else...

Aida Bonilla-Torres

TH

June 2015 23

Through my senior expedition research I learned there are about 11 million undocumented immigrants in the US that come from all over the world.This paint-ing shows a big melting pot because the United States is filled with people of different races and cultures.

The government should not leave undocumented immigrants out of the picture because the US was built on immigrants. What if the immigrants who are here are taken out of the United States? How will the US economy function without them? Many undocumented immgirants are the pillars that help the people at the top become who they are.

Jorge Ortez

The Melting Pot

Brandy Suyderhoud

24 June 2015

DEVONDRE MOORE

Brandy Suyderhoud

Best Cookies Ever Made

The best part of making the cookies is that my mother and I are able

to spend this wonderful time together ...

Every year around Christmas time, my mother and I have a special tradition of doing activities together. When my parents got divorced I was five, so the years after that it was just us putting up the Christmas deco-rations at her house.

That first Christmas was difficult. I lived with my dad part of the time, but it was still not the same as when we were all a family under one roof. Christmas be-came a much different holiday for me. That is when we started our tradition of baking cookies together.

Before we start making the cookies, there are sev-eral tasks that have to be finished. First, we take the decorations out of the attic. This now takes ten minutes; when I was small it could take an hour. My arms were so small, and our attic was a pain in the neck. The floor-boards were broken so this would make for some memorable events.

Most of them involved my moth-er telling me to get the boxes down before they fell. They have many breakable elements, and she worries every time we take them down. There are so many that she has collected over the years. My favorite decoration is one that I re-ceived when I was around five years old; it is a statuette of Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street holding a row of Christmas popcorn. When I look at it, it makes me feel like a child for just a split second.

My mother also has an entire nativity set made out of Precious Memories statues. I laugh when I see the very detailed and little figures that look so genuine. Af-ter the decorations come down, we put up the tree and start to make the house look and feel like Christmas.

Next comes baking the best cookies in the entire world. They are literally like nothing you have ever tasted before. The sweetness of sugar and chocolate together along with the delight of the vanilla work to-gether pleasantly when anyone tastes these cookies. They are the best part about Christmas because they

are something that my mother and I work on together. We turn on the movie How the Grinch Stole Christ-mas, and the house starts to smell of vanilla and pine. The cookies are not just made for us; they are also for family and friends. This tradition started when my mom was in college and was not able to afford presents for everyone. She would give Christmas tins as presents instead. Now it is my mothers and my tradition.

During our ritual, the house comes alive with the holiday spirit! As the cookies are baking in the oven, the house heats up like a furnace, making us go outside for a few minutes just to soak up the cold winter air.

When the first batch comes out of the oven, I always volunteer to be the first one to taste them. They are soft, and there are so many wonderful flavors that are bottled up inside one little cookie. Because they are so hot, I usually burn my mouth, but that does not stop me from enjoying the heavenly taste

of these homemade cookies. The sweet brown sugar, mixed with a dash of salt, flour, and chocolate pieces makes normal M&M cookies a divine treat.

When I bake these childhood cookies, I know that the outcome will be one of love and hard work. The best part of making the cookies is that my mother and I are able to spend this wonderful time together. Our relationship is fantastic because I tell her everything and that has brought us closer over the years. Mostly we talk about family. My mother married my stepfa-ther years ago, and with that I gained several new family members.

When I was younger, the cookies represented Christmas and family time. They also represent the power of giving. They will be something that I will bake for years to come; I will hopefully pass on the tradition to my children one day.

June 2015 25

26 June 2015

Its complicated when scars,are not fully healedthere before you were even thought of,picked at constantly in a family.

I am from weekly cook outs To none.I am from seeing family every dayTo seeing them ever so rarelyI am from family dramaAnd pregnant cousins younger than meI am from argumentative siblings And misunderstandingI am from Act first and think laterFrom speaking and bondingTo loathing and avoidingI am from Being stuck in the middleNot knowing whom to believe or trustFamily pulling you in every directionI am from tough loveThe kind you know is there deep downBut still question

I am from a place that can make your head spinNot knowing whether to smile or frownTo laugh or cryTo live or dieOr remain stoic.

Its Complicated Chada Cook

June 2015 27FORREST PENROD

28 June 2015

Although in middle school every staff member con-stantly reminded us to Know what you want to do with your lives and education is the key to anything you want to do, in all honesty, I hated school and felt that I should just live in the moment. I just wasnt on the right path, and I was lost.

Once we got our ticket for parking in the garage, we paid two dollars for a carrying cart for our luggage. We walked into the walkway connecting the parking

garage and the airport. Bright white lights hit me as if they were cop lights; any remaining drowsiness just went away. Strolling into the check-in area, I saw people hustling and rushing everywhere. Although it seemed like chaos, I liked it. Once we checked in, we had our goodbye hugs with my other family members, and then my mother, my two sisters and I made our way through security which was such a huge hassle.Finally, we made it to the gate where our flight was gonna take off, and I saw a plane up close for the first time. The lights just popped and flashed, yellow and white lights. I fell in love instantly.

Six years later, in my junior year of high school, the excitement I receive from simply entering an airport gets greater every time. Maybe its because I know ev-ery year, I am closer to being able to achieve my dream of becoming an airplane pilot or maybe its just because its my happy place.

Lost and FoundElder DeLeon

Ashley Carela

Confusion

I remember waking up to the sounds of an engine. At first I thought our car broke down, but shortly af-ter opening one eye, I saw that we continued to go along the loopy road. Windows opened, the wind blew through my hair. After opening my other eye and look-ing both ways, I saw a huge figure. This was the first time I had seen such a presence in person; on TV and in the movies, they seem small, but in person they are just ENORMOUS! It was like six SUVs lined up back to back. Shortly after I heard a huge boom, its engine revved up. Now I was fully awake. Im not a morning person, and it was 5 oclock. However, losing lovely sleep was the least of my worries. I was more shocked at the fact that I was leaving the States for the first time. Especially knowing that I might not come back for a while. I was going to Guatemala which in my mind didnt have the best of living conditions: no running wa-ter and where I might just die of boredom from not being able to use the internet or watch T.V.

This came after a rocky first half of my 7th grade year. I wasnt really appreciating anything my parents were doing for me. They would work their butts off, and all I did was goof off in school and even almost faced expulsion. So my mom had had enough and de-cided to take me to her homeland to teach me where she came from and how to learn how to appreciate what I have.

...in all honesty, I hated school and felt I should

just live in the moment.

I just wasnt on the right

path, and I was lost.

In between black whitepictures without sightbravery without fear wrong without rightcomplex world unclear

June 2015 29

ZARI VENTURA

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BONILLA-TORRES PENN ROGERS

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MENDOZADELEON ORTEZ ROBINSON WIMBISH FUENTES DAGNACHEWMOORE FLORES AGUIRRENGUYEN PENN PERKINS COOKS DOZIER ROSALES ALEXANDER