POETRY, STORIES,

AND REFLECTIONS INSPIRED BY A

SEMESTEROF

OTHER VOICES LECTURES AND

PRESENTATIONSStudent Coordinator:

Natasha Huey Discussion Section Leaders: Mariel

Estrada, Magali Nuñez, Virginia Puc, Samuel Hong, and Jenny Xie

Staff Coordinator: Alberto Ledesma Faculty Sponsor:

Genaro Padilla

Sponsored by The Student Learning Center and The Department of English

AN INTRODUCTION TO DIVERSE, INNOVATIVE,

AND EMERGING LITERARY CULTURES

OTHER VOICES

Page 1

CONTENTS.............................................Ligia Barahona 2

...........................................Jason Barillas 2-3

...........................................Karly Behncke 3-4..............................................Danny Carreto 5

...................................................Stacy Chan 6 ............................................Jessica Damian 6..............................................Maria Esparza 7............................................Courtney Foley 7

.......................................Rolando Gutierrez 8................................................Jiahui Huang 8

......................................................Harry Isitt 9...............................................Rebecca Lee 10

..................................................Nancy Mai 10............................................Joanna Padua 11

................................................Victor Perez 11.....................................Gregory Pescheret 12

.................................................Aja Salazar 13................................................Nicole Shaw 13

OVers!of#2012,#thank#you#for#making#this#a#memorable#semester.#As#discussion#leaders#we#had#a#blast#planning#this#semester#and#we#hope#you#all#enjoyed#it.#Other#Voices#would#cease#to#exist#without#all#of#you#and#we#thank#you#greatly#for#making#it#happen#and#allowing#us#to#challenge#you#in#ways#that#hopefully#helped#you#grow#at#a#scholarly#and#personal#level.#Due#to#all#of#your#hard#work#and#dedicaCon#Other#Voices#will#live#on.

We#would#also#like#to#thank#Alberto#Ledesma#and#Professor#Genaro#Padilla,#who#make#the#Other#Voices#class#possible.#As#the#staff#coordinator,#Alberto#exceeds#his#duCes#to#insure#that#OV#runs#smoothly.#We,#as#discussion#leaders,#are#very#fortunate#and#grateful#to#have#someone#so#dedicated#to#OV#and#its#students.#Nevertheless,#there#would#be#no#OV#without#the#support#of#its#faculty#sponsor,#Professor#Genaro#Padilla.#Thanks#to#him,#this#publicaCon#is#possible.#On#behalf#of#all#the#discussion#leaders#we#thank#you#for#providing#us#with#the#opportunity#to#experience#being#student#facilitators.#We#hope#you#all#enjoyed#the#class#as#well.#

# # # # Jenny,&Magali,&& & & & Mariel,&Natasha,&& & & & Samuel,&and&Virginia

Detail from poster produced by a past Other Voices student.

Cover: “Song In the Heart” original art prepared by Virginia Puc, 2012. All the images used in this booklet come from the flyers we used this semester to promote The Spring 2012 Other Voices Speakers’ Series.

SPRING 2012

Page 2

La MalincheI am Pocahontas, I am La Malinche and I am beautiful!

I have inherited the intelligence of Pocahontas and La Malinche; goddesses of beauty, inspiration, and strength. I carry with me the pureness of the wind buried in the land of my ancestors. I am the maker of dreams; that who has lived in harmony with all that exists in nature, on earth, the universe and all the spaces in between—my people call me noble innocent child; La Buena, the warrior. La Malinche.

I am a Tenakomakah Indian, daughter of The Great Chief Powhatan. I speak the native languages of Algonquian, a 3,000 year old tongue that means “They are our relatives, our allies”, Nahuatl and Mayan, all the earliest languages of love.

I am the most beautiful Morena, Mestiza; not of one, but two entities—the most perfect representation of belleza bruta—of natural state. My name is Matoaka Pocahontas, “little plaything” of extraordinary qualities and strong-willed personality. An honorable heroine, my ancestors say. They tell me so in my dreams when they whisper… “You are beautiful, you are our daughter. You carry Indian history and kindness in your bones and our spirit in your soul.” Mi nombre es Pocahontas.

Yo soy tú, tú eres yo—todas Mestizas, todas hermanas of one history. My Mexican-Aztec heritage became a colonized version of my history; yet hermosa like the glorious princess of the Iztaccihuatl Mountain, who loved earth as the gods loved heaven.

Sí, I am the architect of olive-brown and cinnamon skin. A blend of beauty with long wavy black y rubio-castaño hair, of delicate short features. I am precious and gorgeous; a jewel in the land of treasures—what once was the virgin land of my Nahuatl and Mayan ancestors—tus ancestros. I am you, can you see it now?

Soy de orígenes indígenas: the native daughter of many lands, the natural essence of a healthier Earth long ago. I am a mezcla of various ethnicities, with the virtue of the Third Eye—the knowledge of La Tierra y La Naturaleza. I can teach you the ancestor’s way to care for the land—to cure our suffering land.

I come from an extraordinary line of warriors of peace and love. I know because my ancestral spirits have told me in my dreams; they live in my dreams, in the ways I honor their teachings—when I plant a tree, a seed of love. When I apologize for my mistakes and learn to be better every day…Cuando digo: ¡te quiero!

My heart is the beating drum of the Indio’s past; my body is the sacred temple of our history and my soul, a singing multicolored rainbow. I embody the most

powerful weapon used in ancient times by my people: driven by courage, harmony and wisdom, the only weapons with which to heal pain.

I have inherited my foremother’s multilingual abilities to communicate with the past, the present and the future. With sisters of many colors and from far away lands, whose native tongues are as complex as dreams.

My ability to speak many languages allows me to bring the messages of my history, mensajes de hermandad everywhere my ancestors lead me. My cultures and traditions shape my dual-identity with the bright colors of the mighty guacamayo rojo, las vibrantes mariposas, el sol transformado en maíz y las melodías de la flauta de barro ceremonial. I have always been hermosa. Hija de la siembra, la cosecha and prosperity.

I carry the wisdom of my ancestors, the magic of their spirits and the essence of their soil—Mother Earth lives in me and you.

I cherish my indigenous ways in bundles of love and healing powers. They protect me and guide me every day. Nuestras ceremonias rituales are our offerings of gratitude to the Gods for the corn with which to make tortillas.

Love has been imbedded in my soul, in my spirit by those who came before me; the God of the sun “Ah Kinchil,” the wind “Kukulcan,” the rain “Chac,” the spirit “Torngasak”—heaven and earth “Tirawa-Atius.”Soy una flor silvestre labrada en piedra. Of precious stone that can trace my past, my present and my future. I am in the sound of the airstream, the pure smell of the sacred soil; yo bebo, respiro y saboreo la Madre Tierra—yo soy naturaleza y vida.

Yo soy de la tierra del Cacique Montezuma where gold, silver and pearls are the everyday décors in Chalchihulles and Alta Vista. My people lived in a land of astonishing beauty and wore Cotaras with soles made of gold, decorated with multicolored seeds de tamarindo, copinol y jícara.

I know my native lands like the palm of my hand. I know where the sembrado grows tall and abundantly, where the garrobo hides and the codorniz sings the morning tune.

This is my story and the story of my people—this is your history. I speak the indigenous language of the brave and the strong, a sound that can be seen with your eyes in the ruinas de Tenochtitlan. I am here to embrace the true accounts of my past, my present and my future as a way of giving a voice to what has not been told and what has been forgotten. This is my way of reclaiming my space, my in-betweeness and my time in history.

My name is Pocahontas, La Malinche and I am beautiful!

The Bite For the majority of my life, Guatemala had existed exclusively in my mind through the stories of my mother’s childhood. Growing up, I would look forward to Saturday mornings not because of the Saturday morning cartoons like most kids my age but because that was when my mom would take my sister and me down memory lane along with her. Hearing her stories would make me feel as if I was in the movie theatre and her memories would play out on the screen before me. Even to this day, at the mere mention of Guatemala my mind immediately races to my mother’s stories. But that’s all Guatemala was for me, a place that served as the location in which my mother’s stories would take place. Nothing more.

For so long I would see my grandparents, or what I thought my grandparents would look like, in my imagination through my mother’s stories, so when I heard that they were going to visit for Christmas, I was ecstatic! For about just as long I had yearned to taste my abuela’s tamales that my mom had described as being one of her favorites dishes from the many that she cooked. My sister had always maliciously boasted how they’d taste, “They’re so warm and scrumptious!” Those were a couple of the things that my sister had on me, she was being taught “adult” words “because I am such a grown up!”, so she would claim, and had eaten my grandmother’s tamales, plenty may I add. My excitement was so that my mom scold me at one point while at the airport, “Calm down! If the airport people see that an Osito is making such a commotion they’ll kick us out.” Baby bear is what my grandmother called me when she first cradled me in her arms and ever since then the nickname “osito” stuck. As soon as they emerged from the arrival gates my mother squeezed my hand. “Ahi estan!” My

Ligia Barahona

Jason Barillas

OTHER VOICES

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sister exclaimed as she rushed to their embrace. Upon greeting them she pointed at me and said, “Ese es el Yeyson!” That’s Jason, as soon as I heard those words I blushed. I had only actually seen them in photographs from when they had just wed. Instead of rushing to them like my sister had, I hid sheepishly between my mom’s legs.

My abuelitos arrived just a couple of days before Christmas Eve, for the most of which I remained distant from them. It wasn’t that they were unfriendly quite the contrary, they sought me, at the ready to ambush me with their kisses and hugs, I was just very shy. “Venga”, my grandpa called me, he held a portrait of something, I didn’t know of what until I sheepishly walked towards him. At the mere glimpse of the picture I instantly became intrigued by the picture of what I could only make out as just a green bird. My fascination with the bird stemmed from the fact that it reminded me of one of the legendary birds from the Pokémon franchise. As it turned out it was the picture of the Guatemalan national bird, the Quetzal. Bearing no association with the then Pokémon craze that was sweeping the nation. “Pokémon?” I asked my grandpa. He gave me a perplexed look and answered with “No, es el pajaro nacional de Guatemala, Quetzal!” The details about its importance to the country and where the bird’s habitat was fell to deaf ears since all I could think about was how the bird could pass as a Pokémon and how it could have all of these assortments of powers. I’m pretty sure my grandpa caught on to this, at least to the fact that I wasn’t listening to him because he just ended with a weak smile and patted me on my way.

On Christmas Eve I woke up to the sound of water running in the kitchen and to the warmth that it emitted. Upon entering I saw my grandma hard at work, washing long green leaves that she would quickly dry with a rag. Meanwhile, she had a pot where she was cooking small chunks of meat. When she saw me standing there, she smiled at me, a signal that I took as an invitation to come closer. She whispered, “Me ayuda?” I nodded in confirmation. She wet my hands and then instructed me how to shape the maza. Once the meat was ready, she instructed me to place a couple of chunks in each maza shape I had made. “Ahora las ojas.” She brought over the pile of leaves that she had not long ago dried, and showed me how to position the maza on them. She then picked up a large spoon and added a red sauce to it. Once having done so, she folded the leaf horizontally and then the two tips vertically, tying it completely with a thin piece of leaf that she had stripped from it. I did my best to follow, but my fingers were unable to tie a knot fast enough before the whole thing began to unfold. At this my grandma chuckled and helped with folding it. She then wrapped it with aluminum foil and dropped it into the pot of water, along with the others she had already made and turned the stove on. “Ve? Me ayudo.” As she smiled so did I. “Al rato van a estar.”

I later realized that the tamales were worth the long wait. When I took that first bite of my grandma’s tamale I felt as if my taste buds were having a party. My sister was right, they were scrumptious. It was in that same bite that I a strange feeling over took me. I saw myself running along with my mom and her siblings to the dinner table, upon my grandma’s call. I could see my mom’s younger self make a paper boat out of newspaper and hand it to me to sail on the bucket full of water. I walked up the hill with my mom and her only brother to fetch water for the week. Rushed to collect the flowers that would be used to make the carpetas for Easter Sunday. The more bites I took of the tamale, the more my mother’s memories raced into my mind but this time I would take part in playing them out. I was no longer seated in the theatre but up on the screen, participating in the action. The image that struck me the most was that of the Quetzal soaring above Guatemala, with its wings wide open and its long tail waving majestically. I no longer saw it as a potential legendary Pokémon, but as for what it truly was, the Guatemalan national bird, the symbol for Liberty.

At my young age I of course didn’t know what to make of this experience. But now that I am older I realize that my grandma’s tamale created a sense of connection to my Guatemalan roots. Ever since then, anytime I enjoy one my grandma’s tamales or any other Guatemalan dish, I am reminded of where I come from and see the Quetzal soaring high above in the sky.

Karly BehnckeThe Many Lives that I Live1.“Budget cuts and fee hikes in the coming years” Words that always make my bones tremble,at the thought of more financial stresses in the coming years.Endless heartaches and headaches at the amount still owed to the institution.Education is my right;my right to learn about the history of my people;to learn about the environmental stresses on our communities;my right to obtain the knowledge I need to make the difference in the world. Education is empowerment,and empowerment is change.I came here to learn,but since when did knowledge become more expensive,than my livelihood? The long nights of reading, the countless words written on the blank screen in front of me,and the stroke of my pen as it marks the judgment of my knowledge. Where the term "Public university" means “open university," yet it is opened into the pockets of the typical studentand not into the enrichment of the mind.

2. I speak, no one hears,in a place of female subordination.Female, they say.Girl, woman,egg-producing, young-bearing expectations.Expectation.Expectation to be feminine, and assume a role.Inferior under the societal oppressions that still lie deep into the soil of our history. "There is no place for you but the kitchen"a friend says through his puckish smile.Yes, at first a joke I assume as I process those words through my mind,but a reality in that more than one see this to be true."no place but the kitchen" echoes.I am skeptical of your ignorance, for I have no idea of your ego trapped behind your male pride.I am no wo-MAN, I am Womynstrong in her everyday battle to fight the forced conformities of society. If I shout, you will listen.

Jason Barillas (cont.)

SPRING 2012

Page 4

3. Separated, but one in the same.I am pulled by the rope that still embraces the existence of my parent's love.From left to right, and left to right, never finding balance.Very far away, yet still very connected. Put in the middle, I attempt to make them separately proud,and keep them both at ease.they both expect different of me, and always say that they are proud,but I feel as if I owe them more.They don’t realize, nor understand what I emotionally experience knowing that each despises the other.I do what I can, and yet sometimes I feel like I have done something wrong.Regardless, I just continue on each day,Acting as if their separation doesn’t bug me,and that I don’t fantasize about the day that we could all become one again.When one seeks refuge, so does the other.When one calls for help, there is another call waiting. 4. You see her everywhere,the Pinole in her skin, the fire in the eyes,and the wrath in her fist.Fighting for equality,and a better future.She is not quiet, nor weak.Her retaliation to the westernizers is shown through her determination to influence change and raise awareness for the oppression of her people.Latina por fuera, pero Xicana de corazon. I am the new Xicana. One who rises from the cultural awakenings of our past Chicanas.Here and now, is where my fight begins for my people and myself. It is time to reclaim our identity and unite as one for our ancestors buried in the sacred clay of our Mother Earth. 5.Some may call me a child; some may call me an adult.Being stuck in a age with countless responsibilities,yet plenty of rules and regulations.Trapped within the paradox of many,“You’re still too young” and “you’re too old for that”I am not just 19, but also 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,14,15,16,17, and 18I embody my 19 years of existence, which also means 19 years of experience.Living within a nation where I am too young to have a drink in a bar,but old enough to enlist and shoot a gun.Miriam Makeba said “age ain’t nothing but a number”But age marks much more.Age marks wisdom, year’s lived, memories, and experience.

6. He is my booger.7 years old, and I still call him my baby.As the word “sister” mutters out of his mouth time and time again, I am reassured that I forever hold a special place in his life.

He might be legally detached from my family,But that doesn’t stop me from taking the role of teaching him what I know.When my mother said, “honey your going to have a little brother”,My 11 year old attitude responded by saying “I don’t want one”;In fear that I would lose my already limited motherly love. Yet on that day, something changed in me,And I forever promised to show this little one everything that I know.He became my monkey, and although there is that emptiness that I feelever since they took him away from me when he was 3,I know in my heart he will still always and forever remember me as his “sister”And love me as much as I love him.To hear him say “my sister showed me” is the greatest joy one can obtain.

7.“Ain’t no power like the power of the people, ‘cause the power of the people won’t stop”

One voice, one unityIt was Salvador Allende who once said:“To be a student and not a revolutionary is a contradiction” I fight for the power for my people,And will always be devoted to do everything I can.Many tell me that no matter what, this system won’t changeBut I challenge them to take a position and prove me wrong.Educate, Agitate, Organize my beautiful Mechxistas taught meAnd it was my antepasados who showed me that there can and will be changeThe 60s didn’t occur so that today we can just accept the terms and conditions they give usIt is our duty to fight for not “better” conditions, but “equal” conditions.Activist I am, and activist I will always be, despite the odds not being in my favor.Because being a Womyn, and person of color, they never will be,And I seek to change that.

8. His arms, his lips, our bodies becoming one,In the uttermost moments of passionTo watch him sleep,Is one of the loveliest sightsThe movement of his chest with each breath,The wrinkles in the corner of his eyes when he smiles,The way he licks my cheek,And sticks out his toungue when he looks in the mirrorIt’s these tiny details that make me fall in love with him more and more everydayHe is my one.I cannot contain the fire that burns within when I see him,Or the chills that flow through my bodyI am struck by how amazing he truly is,And his dedication to making everyone smile In their upmost moments of darknessWithout him, I do not feel completeAnd it is him that gets me through my most difficult timesAs he lies there staring at me,He says “one day…I promise”As if he will make it his very goal in life

To make me become his happy ending,Yet he doesn’t know that since the day I met him,I knew he would be mine

9.Use me as your wall, to fall onto when all else failsThe person who will be there When you think no one else is leftAnd the shoulder you allow your tears to fall on In your moments of sadnessI am no typical friendEven if you don’t consider me a friend at all,But I do assure that I am that someone Who will be there to listen, just when you need someone to listenThe person that you wouldn’t expect to be there in times of difficultyOr that person that defends you when all others turn their backAnd despite the differences, will always be on your sideI will not judge, or tell you that you’re wrongI will simply let you know that you have someone that will never leaveSomeone that understands you, And understands that you don’t need me in every waking momentBut do hope that every once in a while, you think of meAnd never afraid to say “hello” to an old friend

10. I am and embody all these things,These are the lives that I live all at once and every day of my life.Many always say you only live once, and to live it to the fullestBut what most don’t take into account the many lives one lives.Each one of my personas contribute to my identity,And expose the inner dimensions of my complex personality.Yet I am no more human than another, And share the many similar humanistic characteristics.In humanity, there is no one superior to the next,But in society we are fixed to view our world through a pyramidHierarchal structures Which define us on a spectrum from most important to least importantThrough this spectrum we are taught to hate, and despise each otherAnd overemphasize our greediness for the nextWe all have different qualities, struggles, and experiencesThrough the many lives we must live To withstand the wind of change,

One must join bunches.It is not about race,

Or religion even.All it is,

Is our disgrace, which,Must be forgiven.

Forgiven, doesn’t mean forgotten.Fix it, rather than forget it.

All it is, is our disgrace,While Language is our Base.

Karly Behncke (cont.)

OTHER VOICES

Page 5

Selected PoemsQuerida Mama

Querida mama le estoy escribiendo este poema para decirle cuanto la quiero y la respecto en mivida.

Since I was a child, I had to face discrimination, pain, embarrassment, and most of all confusion.

I taught life would be wonderful and long lasting happiness, but I hardly had the chance to spend it time with you.

I always wish you were there when I was in my cherish moments, but you couldn’t because youwere helping our family through tough timesback in Guatemala.

Usted se sacrifico bastante para la familia pero nadien vino para su ayuda cuando tenia problemas.

Although you had to do some important decisions in your life, I still consider you someone special andimportant regardless what others say about you.

While, I was growing up, I learn to be accustom to be myself. Unofortunately, I had to live life as it was meant with it’s complicate situations I wouldn’t be solved.

I learn to find ways to make my life interesting and adventurous when I look back I wouldn’t regret anything.

Eventhough I had to experience life with complications and struggles, I still manage to enjoy it even if it was for a few minutes.

I personally wouldn’t have any resentment towards you because you were the one, who gave me life to this world. If you are reading this, I would like to say how grateful I am to have you because you didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do and always encourage me to follow my passion and happiness.

Cuanto Me Encanta Bailar El Tango

When I have the chance to dance Tango…that’s when I have the opportunity to express my inner self and forget everything that is going aroundme. I just focus in the moment and make the most out of dancing with lovely my partner.

There is nothing more fun than dancing tango on the streets, on the wooden floors,or even in the Milongas.

Tango gives me the opportunity to besweet,creative,compassionate,and most of all be adventurous.

When dancing tango I don’t walk, but I take my time and glide through the floor with confidence and glamorous giving the oppression of how much fun I am having dancing with the rhyme of the music.

Cuando bailo el Tango…I love doing somebolinetes,rock steps,ochos,check steps,y especialmente algunas cruzadas y terminando con sacadas al fin de la cancion.

This is everything I do to create the most memorable moment with the help of my partnerbecause I’m not nothing without her.this dance was meant for two than one.

Si yo no tenia la oportunidad de bailar tango, yo pienso que yo no iba a tener el ritmo ni la passion!

Life is not a struggle, but an adventure!

What can we ask as for about lifeif it gives us the basic needs, but in realitypeople to this day have to struggle in order to get those needs met in order to survive in this country so called prosperity. It’s sadly to say not everyone have the same privilege of livinga glamorous life.

I’m one of the few families who had to experiencehunger, sleepless nights, frustration and most of allhopeless during harsh moments.

You don’t expect a little boy struggling in thissociety, but I’m here to tell you that this is not a host.I had to work when I was a teenager picking up cardboard through out San Francisco, Daly City,Millbrae, San Bruno, and San Mateo. I deliver TheExaminer in San Francisco in the worst possible conditions of being windy, cold, and rainy.

I would not be telling you my story to you, if I just gave upin what I believe in. At times, I wanted my life to end because my life was so challenging to overcome. At times, I wish I could solve my family living conditions but with what. I did not have the wealth or the opportunity to be success at a young age. When I need someone to support

me no one would came to my rescue. I learn in the hard way no one would come and help if you don’t act upon or saysomething to grab people attentions.

At times, it was a miracle or a surprise to me how far I have comein life. Some times, I would tell my personal experience to others.They seem to be amaze how much I had to go through in life, and still be acting in a positive way. The reason they are surprise by the way I was taking responsibilities of an adult, while still being a teenager.

I always tell myself that I should be lucky because you have an interestingstory to tell to anyone how you have to face a lot of obstacles. I still manageto continue pushing or dragging myself to accomplish your dream that is to create a better future for the future generations that they don’t have to go through what I had to go through when I was a child. I don’t want them to repeat history again, but to improve it for the others who will come later on.

Why do we need politicians to run our lives?

Why are we so foolishto believe in their folks, hopes, and promises.

All this time we have not made any progress. We still see corruption and injustice not within the people,but in the government.

We shoud ask ourselveswhy do we still elect politiciansinstead of finding other ways toimprove the system that worksfor the whole instead for the few.

At times we can see that we do notNeed to depend on them so much as we might think.

Making this adjustments would lead us to give new opportunities and new waysto see the world in a different perspective

The possibilities to make these small improvements for the minorities and immigrants, who struggle survivingin our society. Instead of denying and discriminating from what minorities can and cannot do is something that politicianshave and always will do, if we don’t put a stopto it. !

Danny Carreto

SPRING 2012

6

The Perils of Being A PlannerThat’s the problem with me: I’m a planner. It is an integral part of my life. I plan for things to go as planned. I plan for the future. I strategize about everything. I sort of expect things—no, I do expect things—to continue in a linear fashion more or less. Yes, they’ll change with time, but for the most part, they’ll remain on the same track. Toward the same destination, you know? But once things deviate from the original plan, everything that I’ve penciled into my mental planner, well, they disappear. Then, I start to grapple with my problems. And what’s my answer? I recommence my planning and start from the infamous square one, scheming another plan of grandeur. But I’m pretty sure—okay, I’m positive—that I’m not the only one who wrestles with the idea of planning and its consequences.

Truth be told, it is culturally and socially embedded in humans to plan and to set goals for the future. As much weight as the truism holds that it is momentous to live in the present—to be physically, emotionally and spiritually there and feel the surroundings that encircle people—tensions still arise between the present and the future. This particular space, nestled between now and tomorrow, is uncanny: it resurfaces unconsciously.

Rather than relishing the present, people are invariably told to look as far into the future as they can, to map out a five-year plan or to approximate the time one who will spent with a significant other before he or she becomes insignificant in their lives again. People plan for different stages of their lives. For example, they expect to live in their apartments for X number of years before moving in with someone or into another house. People expect job or internship offers to come by a certain time, as long as they play their cards right.

Just take a look at celebrity couples: they have just announced their engagement and are getting ready to set up for their wedding preparations, but what do you know? Pregnancy salutes the couple. The duo then has to put marital bliss to the back burner and make room for a baby. Humans are wired to plan. Sometimes, this means devising secondary plans when the initial plan goes haywire. In the work force, companies constantly have a timeline, a particular vision, always inquiring of their employees where they see themselves in a few years from now. Restaurants that are hot commodities mandate reservations to be booked at least one month in advance. Otherwise, expect to dine at the corner restaurant down the street that seems to be misplaced. And then, there are those moments—sometimes, people just have those extraordinary, comprehensive plans that practically smell like the Next Big Thing, but they require both attention and nurture. Thus, in order for operations to perform smoothly, planning ahead is key.

At the same rate, society deprecates those who cannot or have not hatched a plan for the weekend or for the next month, per se. If people are uncertain of their weekend plans or incapable of regurgitating their tentative blueprint for spring break, they are patronized immediately (“How do you not know what you’ll be

doing?”). When individuals lack a sense of urgency, they suddenly garner attention—the deplorable type of attention—given their out of sight initiatives for the future that may be either blurred or wholly nonexistent.

So, of course, I measure out my life in coffee spoons. I want to take precautions—by my standards, taking precautions means brewing plans as quickly as I can—to avoid the slippery slope of being categorized as the “non-planner.” Perhaps it is the beauty of having some sort of direction that makes people, including myself, gain a sense of togetherness and find comfort in the future because plans somehow make tomorrow that much more promising. Or maybe planning provides people the opportunity to gather themselves like a gathering storm to control, or shall I say, to attempt to control, an uncontrollable future.

When the long day closes, sometimes plans do not go as planned much to everyone’s dismay. Plans—those that range from the most tentative to the most definitive—suddenly bevel to the left or the right and do not transpire as steadily as people hope. It is then safe to proclaim that planning has the deadly power to warp people’s minds. When plans fail, they have the capacity to occupy a space that people would never imagine. They leave people with a letdown and the opposite sentiments of feeling victorious. People quickly realize they cannot conquer the future anymore. This reality becomes too blunt, too brutal. Naturally, people’s perception and vision become distorted—violated to say the least. All notions of confidence and security are torn apart. Admittedly, I perceive planning as a way for people to beat the time, for it is a force to be reckoned with—in hindsight, of course. It makes tomorrow and the next year seem much more clearer and goals much more attainable. Yet, planning also has the ability to complicate life, notably the divide between the present and the future. It steers people from breathing the present air, smelling the flowers and the like. Somehow, the act of planning always delivers obstacles to people to simply throw them off the path, merely to remind them to stop planning too much into the future. Perhaps, one day I will learn. I will learn to cease my mind from scheming plans that are too extensive or elaborate. But it won’t be today. Or tomorrow.

Selected Poems Jetta

I miss your old carthe VW with Betty Boop floor matsand the electronic blue dolphinsswimming in your radio’s backlight

But you sold that car and the new one was never the same

The other girl who rode in it,her presence stained my seatand you let her come inbut said she never had it like that

Now I want you to hold her It may sound crazybut she seems a better fitbecause she laughs at your jokesand takes all your shit.

BackWhen im at home I still feel like im eating Flintstone vitaminsChewing something i think is sweet chalkMy body has lived here.for 21 yearsand it scares me that I've forgotten.

SelfishFor my great and grand motherswho have experienced tumultous relationshipsso that I wouldn’t have to. I have the obligationto stop taking your leftovers as my love lunchlike a ten year old

Stacy Chan

Jessica Damian

OTHER VOICES

Page 7

If I Had SuperpowersIf I had superpowers, I would change all the wrongs in the world,Stop the thunderstorm that causes so many homeless people to be cold;I would make sure that everyone got what they deserved.

If I had superpowers, I would have the strength to fight villains;I would have the courage to go on roller coasters,And speak my mind even in the toughest situations.

If I had superpowers, I would make sure that everyone has equal opportunitiesAnd that education is accessible in all communities.

I would fight for justice,And destroy all forms of poverty.If I had superpowers, everyone’s dreams would be a reality,And we would live in a world without brutality.I would be as fast as the flashWhen I feel like running homeOr maybe even to Rome.

This would be more than just a dreamWhere everyone gets free ice cream.

10 Things I Learned About Myself During My First Year at Cal

10. I like going to Oakland and I don’t find it scary. In fact, it reminds me of home and makes me feel better when I am homesick. I have never felt that I am in any danger while being there and if I could never go back home, I would probably choose to live there.

9. Writing is my way of staying sane, but it can be my worst enemy at times. I love to write. I hate it when I am forced to do so. I believe that writing is a personal process where I can share feelings and opinions that I can’t really say to people, but I lose my inspiration when someone tells me that I have to write something.

8. I love Pacoima, my hometown. I always fed in to the stereotypes about Pacoima and how it was “ghetto,” but being far away from home made me appreciate everything I have lived through. It may not be the safest place in the world, but it has given me the survival skills that have helped me get through all those essays, midterms, and finals without wanting to kill myself.

7. I have a lot of passions; I just don’t know which one to focus on. I have taken many classes that I enjoy. When I think I want to study a certain subject, I take a different class and fall in love with the new subject. Then, I don’t know what to do. I love to learn. I want to learn everything there is to learn and more!

6. I can express myself better through writing than through speech. Sometimes I want to say something, but it is difficult for me to say what I think. I forget what I want to say and my tongue gets twisted. I do have some moments when I am truly passionate about what I am saying and I let my feelings out, but those are rare and I wish I had more of them.

5. Naps are essential. They help me get through my day because they allow me to just go to sleep and forget about everything even if it is just for an hour or so. Naps are my pause button and I wouldn’t be able to survive without them.

4. I like sharing my experiences with others and having my voice be heard. I am really shy, but for a strange reason, I like assignments that allow me to share my experiences with others. I guess it just gives me hope that I can change somebody’s life by telling them about mine so that hopefully they don’t make the same mistakes that I have made.

3. I love my family more than I thought I did. I always knew I loved my family, but being far away from them has helped me realize how close I am to them and how much I need them in my life. It has made me realize how much I take them for granted because not everyone is lucky enough to have such amazing parents and sisters.

2. I am afraid of failure. I am afraid that I won’t be able to accomplish all my goals and make my dreams come true. This is the main reason why I can’t choose a major. I am afraid of making the wrong decision and becoming something that I don’t want to be.

1. I am completely lost. I have no idea what I am doing! I am still learning about myself and am in the process of figuring out who I am and who I want to be. I hate the pressure that comes with the questions, “What is your major?” and “What career are you studying for?” because I don’t have an answer. I just hope that I find my answers soon and that all the decisions I make are for the best.

!

How to be an ActressMove to LADrop 10 lbs.Gain 2 cup sizes

Bleach your hairBleach your teethBleach your anusBlue contacts

Remove all hair not on headSpray tan MAC your faceBrain on the back burner

Low cut topsLow cut jeansTrue ReligionForget faithLucky me

Unbearable pumpsJingling jewelsPurse dogLeased Mini CooperLoft 600 sq. ft./ $2,000 mo./ Hollywood

Alexander-MethodStanislavsky-MethodStella Adler StudioWoolson’s Emotional triggers

Double shift at the Cheesecake FactoryPaycheck to a backyard photographerCommunity theatre resume

Showcase, Mingle, Mixer, Network, Get work

AbramsBallMorrisOsbrinkYou will never join that rank

Audition, Rejection, Audition, RejectionOne day I’ll be discoveredYeah, when hell freezes over

But none of that is meFast talkingSailor mouthCombat boot wearingReady to rumbleMean little bitch

Brown hairBrown eyesThin buildA cup5’2 ½” Because it does make a difference

Not BlackNot CaucasianNot HispanicNot AsianDon’t put your colors on me Fuck MarketabilityGive me my money

Mommy dearestI don’t want to lose my soulI’m never gonna get on that Disney showBut it doesn’t matter

I’ve got somethingThere’s an artist insideShe shouldn’t have to hideBecause this isn’t real lifeAnd I’m gonna leave all of this pain behind

I’m gonna grab the cash and runI’ll be Bonnie and He’ll be ClydeWe’ll jump in the carDrive and Drive and DriveTo a better lifeWhere real people reside

Maria Esparza Courtney Foley

SPRING 2012

8

CapableI am a man with two capable hands,

I don’t need a woman to make me a sandwich.I am a man with two capable hands,

I don’t need a woman to clean my house.I am a man with two capable hands,

I don’t need a woman to warm my tortillas.I am a man with a capable mind,

A capable mind to recognize:To see, perhaps even analyze,

How the men before me have failed.Those men who were strong enough to work the field

Yet, too weak to lift a finger at home.Those men who carelessly went around their wives,

Simply because they could,Making justifications with chants of ignorance,

“We are men, it’s only natural.”Call it tradition, I call it straight bullshit.

Who am I to tell a woman her role in society,When it was a woman who brought me into society.

Men above women? Maybe in ignorance.Women above men? Maybe in beauty.

I am a man with a capable mind,Respect for our women should not be hard to find.

FabricaThe sound of huge industrial machines winding and

twisting material into carpet filled the factory that morning, just as they did around the clock. From the looks of it, other than the planned staff meeting before the start of the work shift, everything seemed as if it’d be another Monday morning in the carpet factory.

As the workers piled into the meeting room, where they normally do their stretches at the start of every shift, murmuring started amongst them.

“Did you hear what Gloria said?”“No, what did she say?”

“Apparently, more orders have been coming in. I think there might actually be more work available for all of us.” “Are you sure?” “Well that’s what she told me.” Three men in suits walked in with one of the morning supervisors who happened to be bilingual. Suddenly all were quieted. They began to talk to the workers, the supervisor roughly translating every word they said. Apparently, they came from Georgia. The company had various factories throughout the United States and the one in Georgia was up there, as far as order of importance. There had been stories of coworkers transferring to Georgia and taking their families with them because there seemed to be more available work there. However, those men weren’t there that day to talk about an increase in available work. The company was to downsize.

The three men finished what they were there to say and left everyone to start their stretches and get ready for work.

“I just don’t understand.”“I thought the economy was getting better?” “That’s what the news said this morning.”“I thought Gloria said we were getting more

orders, not less.” This wasn’t the first time they had gone into a meeting expecting good news, only to be disappointed by management. The company had been doing this for quite some time. First, they started by cutting an entire shift altogether and rearranging the remaining shifts to accommodate the people they chose to keep from the now-gone shift. Then, they decided to make every shift start half an hour earlier in order to get in one more half hour of work from everybody. The company picnics which had served as proof to the workers that the company actually cared about them and wanted to reward them for all their hard work, were now non-existent. Whispers about the company’s lack of care for the individual employee went around all day, from the morning stretches to lunch break. Talk about the role of seniority quickly made clear who would be most at risk and who would be safe only by changing shifts. “We can’t let them keep pushing us around like this.” “A ese gringo solo le importa el dinero.” “But… What can we do?” “Nada, we just have to keep working and hope they see the error in their ways.” The majority of the workers were from Latin American countries. Many of them were from Mexico, while others hailed from places like Cuba, Nicaragua, Guatemala, and Honduras, just to name a few. Stories of their kids making something of themselves seemed to inspire one another. In fact, just months prior there had been talk about how Martha’s son got into Berkeley just as Don Trini’s son had done so 2 years before that. Stories of workers with children attending UCLA, USC, Stanford, and Harvard were not uncommon. It was almost as if from the physical pain of working full time doing labor strenuous to one’s health, hope had risen. The children of these workers may or may not have known the true struggle of their parents yet; their parents seem to have all their bets placed on them for a better tomorrow. The struggle may continue for now, but one day it’ll all be better.

Mother MotherMother Mother,Can you hear me?I was thinking, And thinking led to greed. I want to have her type of body,Her type of skin.Her type of smile,Her type of brain.But the most I need,Is really,To get rid of this “not-good-enough” mentality. But I can’t tell you that,

Because then, You’ll worry about me.Mother Mother,Can you hear me?I feel so tired, But I cannot sleep.Because sleeping means dreaming,And dreaming is not reality.I’m losing my mind, Trying to mute my screams,Trying to prevent my tears,From becoming a stream.But I can’t fall nowBecause strong is what I have to be,In order to save my family,And myself from me.But I can’t tell you that,Because then, You’ll worry about me.

Mother mother, Can you hear me?I have on these grown-up lenses,That only see responsibility.They say, you say,To just try my best.But I ask and ask myself again,How best is best?There are too many things,To take care of these days.I start thinking,And thinking gets scary.For I become my own worst enemy,Without noticing.But I can’t tell you that,Because then, You’ll worry about me.

Mother Mother,Can you hear me?Is it because I don’t want to be visibly alone,That I put on a smile,And never give denial?Or is it because I want to be alone,That I build walls To hold in this demented storm?But thoughts jabber on,And they leave the darkest scars,Scars that only I can feel,And no one else can see. But I can’t tell you that,Because then, You’ll worry about me.

Mother Mother, Can you hear me?If I tell you,What you want to hear,Will that put your mind to ease?But I have to ask just one question,Before you go to sleep.Was I heavy when you carried me?You answered ‘ Of course you were heavy,I carried my whole world in me.’And that was all I need,To keep fighting For the soon to be.

Rolando Gutierrez

Jiahui Huang

OTHER VOICES

Page 9

A Declaration of Individual Independence

Dear white patriarchal society,I speak to you as a member of your group, but am informing you that I no

longer wish to be a part of your organisation. Recent and not so recent events have transpired to inform my decision and I must separate the bonds of union that have so long held us together, in order to save my own sanity and join the greater cause of humanity.

Who am I, you must be asking, and why should you care? I am that ‘rarest’ of others, an English man in an America. In England I was for years sheltered from the feeling of being different; in America I may not seem that different but I have experienced otherness to a certain extent. I am, like you, a white male you see, and whether I like it or not, that affords certain privileges to me that others do not receive. My only feeling of otherness growing up came from my being a twin, but there were two other sets in my year group alone, that hardly made me different. Others around me, my friends often, had to deal with their sense of not quite fitting in, knowing they didn’t quite look like Barbie or action man, or wondering why all the children in their neighbourhood didn’t look like they did. Nope, I was, by dint of birth, protected from that. I was just your average white male confined to drift through life with a sickening sense of entitlement, knowing my biggest daily struggle came over choosing which sandwich to order at lunch or what movie I would see that evening. I disdain my privilege, and yet it was difficult to say so convincingly, for I have certainly been the beneficiary of it, and cannot say I did not enjoy the rewards it conferred upon me. I am even, grateful you might say, that I never struggled like many of my peers, that I never experienced racism or discrimination, that I was assured in my own identity, knowing who I was and where I came from. But no more, I renounce all that which I received because of my class, my sex or my skin colour and would like to send back, unopened, the welcome basket given to me upon my birth that confirmed my membership to your bullshit club.

Allow me to justify my reasoning for this declaration in hope that you might read this and be inspired to change your ways, though I fear that this may be too much like wishful thinking.

Since arrival in this country, I have been astounded by the very evident, racist power structures that support your supremacist designs. From casual racism eschewed by my fellow white males, to more serious issues of disproportional black poverty, discrimination towards Latino immigration or your refusal to differentiate between “Asians”, I have been appalled to say that I have never experienced such intolerance veneered by the rhetorical cloak of diversity. I was once asked by a black male, to change a Dollar at Coliseum Bart station, only for an attendant to confuse the individual for a homeless person, which he clearly was not, and shout at him to keep away from the customers. The black male confronted the attendant, and accused him of racism but the attendant protested that he was merely doing his job. Was I not supposed to be offended because I am white? Was I not to feel embarrassed because the attendant was supposedly “protecting” me? Protecting me from what?

How can a middle aged white male, kill a young black teenager and not be held fully accountable to the laws of morality that say, “thou shall not kill”? Or is it “thou shall not kill, unless they are black?” in this twentieth century of ours?

Why do you believe it acceptable to utter racial epithets in my presence, believing our shared skin colour and gender allow you to act with impunity? Countless stereotypes have I heard about Asians and Mexicans; are we not stereotypes of ourselves, privileged white males subjugating with our words?

For too long, we have held back our female compatriots, our sexual desire the prison guards of their own dreams and ambitions. Why must it be that women are constrained by a male judge, banging the gable, saying yes or no to their own designs for individuality? What right have we to determine who should advance and who should stay firmly within their place? 1776 had no bearing for the ‘fairer’ sex. We hold these truths to be self evident that all men are created equal and their women must be held in legal subjugation for 150 years, as they must be protected from the dangers their own equality pose to themselves. Even 90 years of female sovereignty have not rewritten this wrong; sexual attractiveness is still an attribute to put on the CV. Women have the right to their own bodies and their own sexuality, and the right if, they so chose, to control when, how and by who they procreate with. Planned parenthood is not an assault on your freedom.

Why can you not except that two people who love each other totally, cannot be married in certain parts of the country, irrespective of their sexuality? If your god is a loving God, you blaspheme when you use his words to justify your intolerance. No. Let people be people, and love whomever they choose to do so.

Spanish is a beautiful language, and South and Central America, is older than your precocious nation. Do not fear the confusion of your native tongue- diversity is to be celebrated, if we are to understand each other better.

Do not disregard these words as the musings of a white liberal. I am white by colour, and I am a liberal in attitude, but I am not a white liberal and I am not overly sympathetic to the point of perpetuating our supremacist power structures. Though I wish from now on to denounce that whiteness, I am not claiming another’s identity for my own. If you must identify me as anything, I am ‘clear’ or ‘transparent’ and I am for people, not power. For too long you have given those of us who share your appearance but do not share your attitudes a bad name. I am ashamed of you, but not ashamed of those who look and think like me.

I therefore declare independence from my state of nature, from the position of my birth and from the appreciation of you, white patriarchy. From now on I am ‘white’, ‘black’, ‘Latino’, ‘Asian’, ‘straight’, ‘gay’, ‘male’, ‘female’ and everything in between and yet I am none of those things, whatever they mean. I am human, independent of labelling. I eat; breathe; sleep; fuck and shit, just like every other person on this planet, including you. I wish you would do the same and dissolve the bonds between yourselves and your sentiments, only then can you join the cause of humanity.

Yours once, but forever no more Disgruntled White Male

Harry Issit

SPRING 2012

10

Contested Categories1.The container of the roomWas stifling Because the boy Wouldn’t take no for an answerThe air was trappedThe walls kept it inHis definition of women-of-color feminismIs correctNo matter who argues with himScience means more than ExperienceBecause we couldn’tAdd colder air to the roomCouldn’t breatheLet alone get a word inEdgewiseOn the edge of his line of sightHis eyesHis liesIf only he understood the validity of experienceinstead of arguingagainst the professorwho claimed contested categoriesexistdifferent types of feminism are different becausedifferent womenhave different frames of mindengage in different evidenceto support their conclusion.

It is in these times of confusionThat I question how my frameOf mindContradicts my identityAnd my value of experienceMy skin should soak up the scienceBut the numbers just don’tPaint the whole pictureThe world isn’t a paintBy numbers.

2.The day is soaked in dreamsI’m wandering through a hazey stuporThe corner where the walls meet is a neverending abyssI almost fall in but a voice pulls me out.The voice I’m supposed to be listening toHanging on the every word ofWriting essays to pay tribute to…

Elitism is reeking from his skin like sweatSearle says “phantom limb pain is an illusion.The limb doesn’t actually exist.”The word pain is dangling in front of my faceAnd I latch on to it, Pain. Its something I can attach meaning to.Define. I’m only half dreaming now“so is sciatica – the pain is an illusion because your leg feels to be in pain but thepain doesn’t actually originate there.”

I am no longer dreaming. His claim is a slap to the face

And I am fuming, On fire agitated upsetShaking.Its as if the pulsing burn of sciaticaI felt 10 months ago is searing in my faceInstead of my leg. Illusion.

What defines an illusion anyway?If all the senses work together to validateAn experienceA visual illusion shattersAt the crash of your head turningA sound is no longer relevant When you focus your attentionOn the song playing in realityNot in your headMirrors in Ramachandran’s labRewire connections in the brainTo teach your body a limbNo longer existsTo demonstrate the pain rightfullyShould not existAnd transform it From a realityTo a disproven illusionThe pain no longer exists

But the pain of sciatica Is caused by pinched nervesAnd no matter which way I squirmed and Realigned my malfiguredLimping bodyMy pain was not an illusion. And Searle, if you call it thatPlease acknowledge thatEven though pain in my legIs not caused by damage to my legIt has a legitimate physical cause

Your definition of illusionOffends meAnd the memory Of the way I lived a year ago. It is not an illusion, the way Two lines do not look the Same length even though When measured they are…It was not an illusion For I could not feel the sameWay I feel nowBy any possible change in my perceptionBesides back surgery. So don’t you dare startTo explain why sciatica is an illusion to me.

3.He rests his hand on his bedAnd melts into the softness Of the cushionHead hanging in resentmentHe kicks off his shoes andGrumbles “I just don’t get it”“I’m so nice, why don’t I have a girlfriend”curls up in his sorrow“but I’m such a gentleman”squirms around to see my reaction“but I try so hard”stares at me in disbelief“but why does nobody notice”

Niceness.

When I say it I meanThat I want to do something For someone Without any reservationsWhen you say it you expect Something back. Ideas can be essentialized tooYou put this idea in a boxNow open it upAnd address the way you’ve Packaged it. Because I’m tired of getting Half-assed poorly packedWords from you.

4. George Zimmerman,

The definition of Black Is not suspicious.

5.I stumble in the doorwayArms aching I dropTrash bags full of clothesOn the floor of my apartment. Before I get to my roomI collapse in disbeliefI see a note taped toThe bathroom door

My roommate threatensMe and my two other roomatesIf we do not keep the apartmentCleanOn her termsShe will poison usKnock out our teethMake us abort our first Three childrenOr kill us.

Great do I get to chooseWhich oneWill be my fate?

Dear roommate,Why do you feel so entitledThat your definitionOf messy is correct

I have one tooI think one can beJust as much an adultWithout obsessing Over one crumb on the floorBut I have altered my Cleaning habits just for you

Please never threaten me Again Over a contestedDefinition

There are no categoriesOut there in the worldThey only exist Because of the wayOur minds and the worldInteractPeople are not the only Ones profiledStop shoving these ideas In boxes. Sometimes its healthier To let them lie strewn Across the bed like myClothes, its okay let Them be.

My RootsTôi là người Mỹ gốc Việt.I am a Vietnamese-American.An individual, người cá nhân, from two different cultures.I speak two languages, tiếng Anh và tiếng Việt,And I’m proud to say I am a person of color.

One common thing I value in both cultures is family.And gia đình is the most important thing to me.

My mom, who I call mẹ, taught me how to be a good person.My dad, who I call ba, taught me how to be resilient.My older sister, who I call chị, taught me how to work hard.My older brother, who I call anh, taught me not to slack off.My younger sister, who I call em, taught me how to stay focused.My younger brother, who I call em, taught me how to be more carefree.

And that’s my family. My gia đình.

EducationEducation, education is the right place for me.I learn, I grow, I discover how to see.From history to math and English and A.P.,I work hard to be here, at the best university.Aging as I am, I’m always learning something new.Telling time, reading rhymes, and how to write true.I learn that in this world, it’s very hard to beA person with justice, rights, and of course, equality.But what I do is use what I knowTo be open to new things and fix the all time lows.Education isn’t just going to school and reading books.It’s also about learning how to get a better lookAt life, at love, at appreciation for that artsFor people of color and those with hearts.We figure what we want to be through our own educationA doctor, a feminist, a world sensation.

DifferentA word with multiple meanings:Weird;Unusual;Distinct;Unalike;Unwanted;Outcast.

But what about:Unique;Special;Refreshing;Individual.

Be proud to be different.

Rebecca Lee Nancy Mai

OTHER VOICES

Page 11

Poem! !!!!!!!

As the BART continued to echo, those familiar under tunnel sounds to thosewho reside in the bay,Surrounded by the smell and sight of thosePiss stains. While awkwardly getting to visuallyKnow these strangers on a train; I felt that for that briefMomentAs she walked to arrive at her stop, for the conductor to say the stop’s name, We had nothing in common, Yet we were exactly the same.

Now to the naked eye, this is clearly insane but lend me the pathway from your ears to your brain and I know those bare eyesWill decide to change.

She was waiting for those doors to open. With her black puff coat and blue headdress underneath American-sold China-made sandals engulfed in every hole by those Tommy Hilfigure socks on her feet.

Yes, she was waiting for those doors to open. Those doors of the “American Dream” to fly open as soon as the plane landed. And handedHer new life right on the tarmac. But all she met in fact,Was more hardwork but now just undercover, Unsafe streets attended by police take 2,3 hours just to make sure that the bullets have ceased, Healthcare is real, yet everyone’s still sick.Unfair wages are only the lazynesses who pick: Working as the help, the server, the greeter at those Wal-Mart doors waiting for those unfair hours to constitute as enough to live. Well, tell that to the dreams of my kids.

Not the dreams mirrored by the television, music, movies of society’s lipsBut the dreams of living comfortably. Living full. Living safe, not the ripsthrough the headdress underneath. Tearing my culture into pieces by making me have enough time to understand yours, and forget the importance of respecting mine by invading my home and instilling your values into them so when I get off and go home, and when I get off and go home, they. are. exactly. the. same.

As I was. Waiting for those doors to open right after her. America was the birth and rise of my soul.But I waited for those doors to open.

Those doors to my dreams. My dreams of success past commuting living working schooling in those three different locations. My dreams of helping others, giving back. My dreams are also an illusion, a double agent disguised.In order to fulfill my dreams, I must attend school. In order to attend school, I must pay tuition. In order to pay tuition, I must have money NOW. In order to have money now, I must have financial aid. In order to have financial aid, my parents must not work two jobs, must not make so much; not enough to make sure my brother and I live these dreams dreamt for us long ago but to make sure we struggle also to make sure that I’m one in the numbers to make it to make sure I’m the lucky one to get out, to make sure im the prodigy of my community and slipping up means the one fuck-up who couldn’t get her shit straight and made us all look bad. No financial aid?

In order to get past financial aid, I must student loan. In order to pay it back in time, I must get a good paying job. In order to get a good paying job,

I must attend school.

Yet,I could see her strength.Through the name brands, I saw her undoubtedlywear her culture proudly in length. From her head to past her knees, she had her chin up and I could see, That those grocery bags weren’t holding her down, she was holding Them with ease.

So, I was waiting for those doors to open and as she holds her bags, I hold my books. And when that door opens, it won’t be just that next stop, it will be our destination.

Glory Does Not Come Easily Overcoming the vicious physiological effects of misery and poverty is not an easy force to reckon with, yet the man never allowed these misfortunes to become excuses for a life of failure and disappointment. Upon entering the world, economic hardships immediately overtook his life and downgraded him to a mediocre social status, which could have easily driven any man to the temptations of crime. Yet, relying upon robbery and violence were never options to avoid the life that had been bestowed upon him. If he were to escape poverty, he would have to achieve it through endless hours of hard, honest work.

As you can see my father was not the most fortunate man during the early stages of his life. Growing up in Lagos de Moreno, Jalisco, he immediately had to coexist within a poverty-stricken society, where citizens had minimal opportunities to prosper economically. The town was and continues to be unindustrialized, thus preventing the rise of large corporations or factories, which could augment the job opportunities for the people of Lagos and provide a consistent flow of money. To make matters worse, he was born into a family of thirteen, therefore making it virtually impossible for him and his family to have an economically stable life. My grandfather relied heavily on the trade of cattle, while my grandmother dedicated her days to the production of sown materials, which she would sell at the marketplace known as “el tiangis,” where competition would be very high. As it is apparent, both of my grandparents did not sustain reliable jobs, which would allow them to support their children. During certain periods of the year, my father would go weeks eating nothing but frijoles y huevos since his parents could barely make ends meet.

As the struggles intensified, my father was forced to mature rapidly to provide for his family and find an escape from his miserable life. By the age of six, he began working upwards to five hours at a marketplace, where he would bag groceries only to come back home in order to finish his school work and feed his pigeons

and rabbits that he would later sell. All this was on top of having to attend school for six hours, therefore giving him no time to enjoy his childhood. If that were not enough, by the age of twelve he had to balance an additional part time job at a small shop, where he would assist in the production of leather gloves. Though his family was able to turnaround their financial situations, my father soon realized that he now had to worry for something much greater than the economic stability of his family. It was by the age of seventeen that he came to the realization that he had to begin giving thought to his future. At this stage of his life my father knew that he could no longer continue the rest of his life endlessly working for a mediocre pay. His objective at that moment was to progress, so that he would not be forever bound to a society that restricted him from exceeding his potentials of attaining a well paid job that would allow him to begin a family of his own.

My father’s ambitions soon took him to “el Norte,” where he would begin a new chapter in his life. Though the quest to the United Sates was full of sacrifice and dangerous risks, he soon managed to settle down. Letting go of his family and his beloved wife was not easy, yet he always says, “no hay que darse por vencido, hay que seguir adelante.” He was only eighteen at the time he arrived to the “land of opportunity,” thus he had to work his way up the ladder to achieve his dream of having a family of his own. My father immediately began working two shifts: one as a dishwasher and another as an employee of Wendy’s. While he worked tirelessly during the week, he managed to find a small side job during the weekend as a gardener within a landscape company. All this sacrifice and dedication went on for about five years until he was able to finally bring my mother to the US. It was then, at the age of 23, that he was able to finally establish a family. After moving to San Jose, California, my father found a full time job in a tree company. He began as a grounds man and slowly became a top climber that soon had to spend upwards of ten hours in trees that were anywhere from 40-100 feet. I am proud to say that my father has now worked over 20 years with Tree Specialist Inc., and is currently the manager of the company. That boy who once lied at the bottom of his society now lives peacefully without the constant torments of poverty that would creep up upon him during his adolescence. He can now give his children the childhood that he never had, and in the process bask in the glory, which does not come easily.

Having thus exposed the life story of my father, I hope others can appreciate it not so much for its motivating aspects, but rather for its presentation of a culture and way of life that is not typically present within a nation like the United Sates. As we grow up in such a prosperous and technologically advanced society, we tend to be unconsciously unappreciative of the vast opportunities that this nation presents to us and in the process are unaware of how fortunate we are. We are blinded from visualizing and understanding the complex social issues that lie outside of our lives and thus we do not value the most simplistic aspects of life that we take for granted on a daily basis. We are blinded from the struggles and economic hardships that are prevalent in other nations and thus we do not love our nation as much as we should. Yet, this story of my father, Victor Manuel Perez, is meant to guide us to see those images, which we have been blinded from.

Joanna Padua

Victor Perez

SPRING 2012

12

A StoryThey came out of the machine, just like the others. Just like them, they also had Perfect porcelain gray skin, six feet of height, and greyish mousey hair down to the nape of their neck. A replica and a copy of everyone else that had been created since the inception of the sameness. Nobody was different anymore and life was the same color. They didn't know what to do, but that was predetermined. Life was assigned upon conception and no longer were merit or worth in play. This was the difference without differences. Identity was scarce and divides were none. But it was “better!” The utter lack of diversity produced a “full world community.” Nobody argued, because there was nothing to argue about. People were a commodity, and when one goes down the machine pulls another right back into it's lacking place. It was a sick sense of cooperation that synthesized the downfall of diversity. It came to that point where the only answer was to all be the same. The realization that being a human already made you the same wasn't enough. Political correctness killed the beauty of difference. So now they were all the same, to kill culture and cultivate crap. Purpose was survival, but survival was bleak. Bleakness had been reevaluated and bleak was now beauty. There was no longer a need to entertain, because entertainment was work. Work was what was to be done. Profit didn't happen, all of their work was for the community. Work was function, everything was a function, a perpetually unending function. It was the circle of life. It began nowhere and ended in the exact same spot. Balance had been achieved, but as a result most was lost, but this was what was needed. No longer were there genders. He, she, him, her, boy, girl, man, woman, female, male, it was now all the same. No longer was there race. Black, caucasian, latino, hispanic, pacific islander, native American, it was all the same. No longer was there a middle class, an upper class, poverty was gone because everyone was impoverished. It was all the same. Humans were now data packages. Bits of information, processed like the pixels of the computers that decided the course of the life that was left to take. Free-will was lacking because perceptually there was no point. With differences lacking there was nothing left, aside from work and sleep. These were essential because they kept program running, an unending system controlled by the machine that kept them the same. Creativity was gone. In fact no one had even heard of it anymore. It was the biggest of the former red woods of society that the system had chopped down. It thrived upon difference, but differences were considered bad before, and now they just aren't anything. Music ceased to exquisite because no one could create it. Ideas were no longer spurned, and free- thought amounted to choosing between poultry and fish. Even that tasted the same. Art? Now what was that? It fit no place in the age of the utilitarian. The day the music died was the day that the bonds of stereotypes were finally broken, and equality was obsolete. Singing, writing, making, doing all ceased to exist. The energy was zapped as a new world order arose preaching a lack of difference. No longer would people suffer, they would be. The workers would not know love, nor hate, only work. Good and bad were gone because there no longer was a need. Food is created for energy, not for enjoyment. This was the beginning of the end, a stifling, equalizing force. Awaking in the morning around seven they trudge obediently to their locale of work. Fed hardly on a diet of gruel, they enjoy the silence of sameness in an empty grey room fit to hold about 1,000 workers in a factory. They are given the same amount everyday, striking a balance between full and hungry. After completion of this less than delectable

delight, they procede down clearly marked tunnels were they begin to pursue the plights of the working person. They produce for pleasure, this is what they did, for twelve hours of everyday. They stop halfway through in time for a cigarette. The machine wants turnover, and tobacco was means for turnover. Life was just a slow meander towards death for the masses, and unfortunately for them it didn't matter, because death was just as exciting as life. No one cared when someone disappeared. Nobody mattered. After the break, it was another six hours of work, followed by the choice, poultry or pescado. The biggest divide of choice in a society with an utter lack of freedom. Poultry eaters to one room, fish eater to the other, but nobody cared. In a world without choices apathy was king, but even that was obsolete because nobody had anything to be apathetic about. Emotion was no longer feasible. There were three needs which were about the closest things to feelings in existence; hunger, sleep, and work. Sex was obsolete, there was no need to reproduce without the machine, and it created them all without form or gender anyways. Human connection was gone. There was no need to even associate to another being. Words were no longer spoken between them, glances were exchanged but they meant nothing. What does it mean to be constantly looking at a mirrored image of yourself? Life was a bore, but a bore that was incapable of escaping. A huge void of existence, in fact a vacuum, that nobody knew they had been sucked into. This was the trap of devolutionizing diversity. The degradation of despair led to the death of dignity and difference. No longer could they discuss because they couldn't figure it out. The differences are key, but with great power comes great responsibility. There no longer was culture, there no longer was hope. Everything became obsolete.

Gregory Pescheret

OTHER VOICES

Page 13

My Graduation SpeechToday, today is beautiful. Today we celebrate. Stand tall, chest out, chin high, hearts beating so hard with explosions of pride they might just jump out and shout. WE DID IT! I AM SO UNBELIEVABLY PROUD OF EVERY SINGLE PERSON HERE. To our families in the audience, at home and abroad, THANK YOU. Without your support, sacrifice and love, none of this would be possible.

In 1969 my grandmother immigrated to this country with 4 kids. A single mother, she worked herself to the bone to single-handedly support her family. When I got my acceptance letter to Berkeley in 2008, oh wow was she so proud. She would tell me with such certainty “WOW Asia, I am so proud of you, BERKELEY, the #1 public university in the world…You know, you get it from your grandma.”

Unfortunately, less than six months ago, she passed on. I am so sad that she couldn’t be here today. I am so heartbroken by the fact that now, when I am finally returning home after four years, she has left us. But most importantly, I am so grateful to come from such a strong spirited woman. I am so proud to know that the blood that runs through my heart and mind is the blood of my grandmother. Despite the many obstacles life has thrown at us, it has been the strength of our ancestry that has brought us to success. We follow in the footsteps of women like my mother, who works two jobs, 70 hours a week, to support us. Of strong fathers who taught us wrong from right. And abuelos and tios who shared the stories of our family, keeping alive our oral tradition, so that we never forget where we came from. The strength from those who had the courage to leave everything that was familiar, that was home, to start an entirely new life for the sake of the future of their family. The courage that maintained their perseverance, when they so quickly found that the hardest part had yet to come.

I have learned so much on this journey. What it means to have received this education. Have faith in yourself, in your experience. I am not Spanish, nor is la comida de mi casa. La comida es Mexicana y yo soy Chicana. I’ve learned that we come from comunidades mixtas, where being Chicano or Latino can mean something different to everyone. I have learned that despite everything I have learned about myself and the world, I realized there is still so much I don’t know. Leaving my family for fours years, my mother and my sisters, reinforced my commitment to la familia.

As beautiful this experience has been, college will become a collection of memories and people that will forever be in our hearts but soon feel like mere snap shots of yesterday. And tomorrow, tomorrow is unchartered, and scary for most of us.

But I am sure of one THING. With strong leaders, like us, DE LA RAZA, tomorrow will NOT BE run by profiteers that prioritize free markets and free trade

barriers over justice, human rights and civil liberties. There is no denying that our journey to graduation, to higher education, did not come without sacrifice. With the struggles that we have faced on our journey to becoming educated Chicanos and Chicanas, Latinos y Latinas, any sentiments of skepticism that we’ve picked up a long the way should never hold us back. With the power of the words of Josh Healy, a Bay Area poet/activist /organizer…the uncertainty of the future will most certainly bring progress.

He proclaims, “when Hope comes back/ he will be a Black Panther baby/who speaks Spanglish/ and cooks Korean tacos…when Hope comes back/he will be one of my students/East Asia meets East Oakland…when Hope comes back/HE will be a SHE/[and] SHE will show us to burn down the banks in our hearts and love without lust or profit…” by Josh Healy

For everyday that we hold in our hearts the strength that comes from the rough hands and tired feet that brought our families to the land of opportunity, hope will come back. For everyday that we are reminded that this land of opportunity is sadly, meant for the privileged, but we still continue to fight on, hope will come back. Hope will come back…Hope is HERE. Hope is US. Hope is standing here today, against all odds, graduating from this internationally prestigious institution, creating a legacy for la familia. La familia that is humanity; nuestros hermanos, primos, tios, abuelos, amores y amigos del mundo. Hope, you are today and everyday after. So hope, as you go on to change the world, I leave with you two last bits of advice: Remember where you came from and where you’ve been and REST, yes, but don’t ever quit.

Congratulations and Thank You!

Acceptance of Feelings

Eyes openGliding across words that pierce right through to the unknown “No, this is not real…”First statement uttered off trembling lipsBut it is…

Head shaking as if my disapproval would somehow rewind time and change what isWhen things turn trivial and my direction is in an upside down spiral walking calms disturbed feelings.The corner of College and Durant, cool air engulfs swollen face

I did not realize that I was still cryingStiff legs and a heavy heart trail as I stumble through the dark and lonely streets.The air stings my drenched face, my lips thirst for words to roll off their tips

But all they find is silence and an occasional liquid prayer caressing their curvesCan’t feel my body as it moves

I have become a stranger to myself and my movement is unknown to meI am attacked by involuntary weeps and sightless treadingAround and around the dark abyss pulls me in deeperI don’t know where I am going, but I know I have to keep going

No music blasting in my earsNo friends hanging out, laughs like thunder I am alone with my thoughtsStep by step by step…

My mind screaming “go back home, it’s too dark.”My heart yelling “keep going, I’m not ready to go back! Don’t let them see you. Eyes red as a perfect sun setting don’t let them see you crying”.It is surprising how loud it is in silenceHow strong I thought I was How I manage to stay in control

My path must have direction, but not on this nightMy direction was confronted by an obstacle of mass proportion: painMy steps impacting the ground shook my body The wind kissing my tears

EyesSwollen eyesThe night accepted my wounded frame and led me back home safelyReminiscing on that night I find strength inside of myselfAs I try to avoid melancholic self destruction Remembering is stronger than passing Feelings of sorrow may come, but at least I know I feel something Waking with dry eyes from midnight mourning and moonlit weeping Eyes squinting in the sunlight, I accept the day Bright and gleaming daySleepy white puffs of empty space occupy the sky, blazing red tips from the sun’s fiery presenceI feel a smile through my grieved facial construction A strong smile, embracing my salted chicks RelaxingCalming Remembering, the fun times I laugh loudly to assure myself that I still contained a sound Tear stained, sunlit face, laughing Heart opening, warming as I stare off into the distance…

Aja Salazar

Nicole Shaw

SPRING 2012

14

Thank You for a great semester!

Detail from poster by Melanie Cervantes and Jesus Barraza.

OTHER VOICES

Page 15

Messages from OV Discussion Leaders:

Dear%151%Chavez%Group,

Getting%to%know%and%working%with%each%and%every%one%of%you%

has%been%a%great%pleasure%to%us.%Your%engagement%with%Other%

Voices%was%always%reClected%by%the%insightful%questions%you%

asked%the%speakers,%the%interesting%ways%in%which%you%engaged%

one%another%in%discussion%and%by%your%written%work%of%course.%

We%are%really%proud%of%the%hard%work%you%all%put%in%and%we%

really%appreciate%how%seriously%everyone%engaged%the%material.%

The%safe,%yet%challenging%space%we%created%during%discussion%is%

something%to%be%especially%proud%of%because,%it%allowed%us%to%

have%intense,%rich,%and%meaningful%conversations.%We%

witnessed%young%scholars%who%are%not%afraid%to%feel%

uncomfortable,%challenge%and%encourage%each%other%in%order%to%

learn%and%grow.%That%drive%to%push%forward%is%what%makes%you%

unique%and%it%made%this%facilitating%experience%that%much%more%

meaningful%to%us.%We%thank%for%teaching%us%a%lot%not%only%about%

facilitating%a%discussion,%but%also%about%life%in%general….

Best%wishes,

Natasha Huey & Mariel Bonilla

This semester has been an eye-opening one for us--a semester that has forced us into conversations that are uncomfortable, that has pushed us to think critically about the communities we live in. We’re grateful to have peers like you who ask questions that make us reflect on our unique positions both at Berkeley and in the world at large. It’s been a pleasure to hear your voices strengthen throughout the weeks and see you respond emotionally and politically to the speakers and readings. So much of what you have said has enlightened us, stuck with us, and--more often than not--made us laugh. It’s been a blast. We hope you go on in your collegiate and adult careers with this class in mind; feel free to keep in touch with your successes, fears, thoughts, and everything in between!

% % Virginia Puc & Jenny Xie%

To%our%esteemed%%section,

It%is%rare%to%feel%in%a%classroom%that%you%are%engaging%in%%

something%uniquely%amazing%that%is%not%only%changing%your%

perspective,%but%also%helping%you%grow%as%a%person.%It%has%been%

our%pleasure%being%the%discussion%leaders%for%the%Spring%2012%

Other%Voices%class.%With%that%said,%our%experience%would%not%

have%been%as%enjoyable%and%insightful%without%help%from%our%

fantastic%bunch%of%students.%We%have%been%impressed%by%both%

your%enthusiasm,%and%the%amount%of%thought%and%reClection%you%

invested%in%this%class,%as%the%publication%is%proof%of.%%Both%of%us%

feel%that%being%an%Other%Voices%discussion%leaders%hardly%

seemed%to%be%any%work%at%all,%as%fellow%staff%and%students%

brought%so%much%energy%and%enthusiasm%to%the%table%that%we%

had%no%time%to%feel%like%the%work%we%did%was%tedious%or%

unimportant.%In%all%honesty,%it%seems%silly%to%even%carry%the%title%

of%discussion%leaders%when%we%learned%as%much%from%you%all%

than%we%hope%you%learned%from%us.%We%are%proud%of%our%

students;%we%are%proud%of%our%speakers;%we%are%proud%of%our%

colleagues;%and%frankly,%we%are%proud%of%ourselves%for%having%

made%the%decision%to%be%part%of%such%an%exciting%class.%We%wish%

our%students%the%best,%and%hope%that%the%high%standards%of%

Other%Voices%will%be%maintained%for%future%generations.

%% % Samuel Hong & Magali Nuñez

SPRING 2012

16

MAKE A DIFFERENCE: APPLY TO BECOME AN OV DISCUSSION LEADERMAKE A DIFFERENCE: APPLY TO BECOME AN OV DISCUSSION LEADERMAKE A DIFFERENCE: APPLY TO BECOME AN OV DISCUSSION LEADER

SeptemberJoin a team of six discussion leaders and discuss facilitationstrategies in training seminar.

OctoberRead interesting material on facilitating group discussions.Conduct mock discussion sections.

NovemberIdentify exciting speakers to invite. Contact writers, scholars, and performers.

DecemberFinalize speakers’ list and put an interesting reader together.

JanuaryReceive a roster of students who will be in your discussion section.Plan discussions with your OV discussion section leader partner.

January-FebruaryEnjoy presenting interesting speakers, leading your discussionsection, and grading your first paper.

The Other Voices program supports the efforts of all students who are considering or entering literary studies. In the Spring semester we sponsor the Other Voices Lecture Series.

Explore the diversity of voices in literature and other media through guest lectures and small discussion sections. In the process, develop and express your own voice, find out more about the experience of your classmates, and get to knowthe research and interests of a variety of professors and departments on campus.

Become a DiscussionLeader !Each semester positions areavailable for those students whowish to serve as DiscussionLeaders in the Other Voices Program.

To apply, download an applicationfrom http://slc.berkeley.edu/writing/othervoices.htm

WE ACCEPT APPLICATIONSDURING SUMMER!

Other Voices is sponsored by the Student Learning Center and the Department of English.

For more information and a paper application please see the receptionist in the César E. Chávez Student Center Atrium, e-mailaledesma@berkeley.edu, or contact Alberto Ledesma, 127 Chavez Student Center, (510) 643-5737.

Wheelchair accessible; for other accommodations please contact us at least one week in advance of the lecture you'd like to attend.