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COVER ILLUSTRATION: Lizbeth Navarro

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East Los Angeles College

Monterey Park, California

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Editor, Advisor Carol Lem

Selection Staff Creative Writing Class of Spring 2005

Book Design Trish Glover

Photography Christine Moreno

Student Artwork Leopoldo Alvarez, Diana Barraza, Graciela Basulto, Shin-Yi Chiu, John Draisey, Rafael Esparza, Ngoun Hean, Ricardo Ibarra, Zong Da Li, Shugo Maino, Denise Monge, Jose Monge, Denise Monge, Lizbeth Navarro, Laura Urbino, Joel Zavala

East Los Angeles College1301 Avenida Cesar Chavez

Monterey Park, California 91754

Milestone is published by the East Los Angeles College English Department.

Material is solicited from students of the college.

A writer is not so much someone who has something to say as he is someone who has found a process that will bring about new things he would not have thought of if he had notstarted to say them…; he engages in an activity that brings to him a whole succession of unforeseen stories, poems, essays, plays…but wait!

When I write, I like to have an interval before me when I amnot likely to be interrupted. For me, this means usually theearly morning, before others are awake. I get pen and paper,take a glance out of the window (often it is dark out there), and wait.

— William Stafford, from “A Way of Writing”

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 4 3

Contents

Editor’s Note 7

Part I: The Work

Monique C. Alvarado I Am 9 Generations Lost 11 Of Rainbows and Goodyear Blimps 13 September the 21st 15

Henry Armenta Dying to Live 17 Cars 18 Pleasure Towers 20 My Two Girls 25 Russian Roulette 26

Jose Del Real You 28

Jasmine Gallegos Things I wish Weren’t Said 29 Death Came to Look for Me. 30 Or Did I Go Looking for Death?

Ann Marie Gamez A Torturing Desire 34 The Search for Reason 36 Father and Daughter 39 Pick a Part 40 Tamales 41

Travis Joe Bring in the Beer 43 (After Li Po)

Louise Leftoff Lessons of Your Spirit 45 A Sonnet 46

Ruben Lopez Day’s End 47 The Ride of Your Life 48 The Adventures of Bushman 49 and Johnny

Arthur Marines Coma 56 Heavenly Father 57 Elmer Horrid 59 Dream 65

4 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Adriana Michel Security 67 Confused Minds 68

John Monge Henry 69

Joe Morales Freddie’s Words 70 Citizenship 74 Body of Water 75

Rudi Ramos Oropeza The Baseball 76

Nancy Perez Kodachrome 80 Logs on Fire 81 (with apologies to Samuel Taylor

Coleridge’s “The Eolian Harp”)

Louie A. Rodrigues Words of Life and Death: 84 A Creation and Death Story Penetrate 86 (“Sucking it Up”)

Pat Sandoval Beans 87 The Crossing 88 My Back Yard 93 Today’s Forecast 94 Andes 95

Benito Rustic Solis Flashback to Village Green 96 Lesson Learned 99 Jasper and Me 100 Dues I Pay for Livin’ 101

Debra Urteaga The Week-End 102

Michael Venegas Fairy Tales are More Than True 103 The Riddle of St. Ives 106 Sacrifice 107

Dianna Virata A Great and Terrible Beauty 111

Christopher Breaking Tradition 119 Makoto Yee Lecture on a Lazy Day 120

At the Ready 121 Poetry 122 Assignment 124

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 5

Part II: A Workshop Poem 128

Carol Lem I Hear 129

Henry Armenta It’s a Dangerous Thing to Forget… 131

Jasmine Gallegos Reflection 132

Ann Marie Gamez The Sorrow of a Man and His Wife 133

Pat Sandoval It’s a Dangerous Thing to Forget 135

Michael Venegas Daily Routine 136

Christopher Being at Home 137Makoto Yee

Part III: Writing about Literature 139

Monique C. Alvarado Sensibility in the Victorian Era 140

Jose Del Real Finding My Other Self 146

Alexander Martinez Journey into the Heart of Darkness 150

Nancy Perez Everybody Plays the Fool Sometimes 155

Part IV: Live Reading Report 158

Henry Armenta Live Reading Report 159

Arthur Marines At a Milestone Reading: 161 Chris, Claudia, Nancy, and Henry

Adriana Michel In the Presence of Luis J. Rodriguez 164

Pat Sandoval Flor y Canto 165

Contributors’ Notes 167

6 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 7

Editor’s Note

Having just returned from a walking trip in England’sLake District, then London, I am still hearing the voices of

Wordsworth, Coleridge, Blake, Keats, Dickens, Woolf, and Eliot as I sit

here reflecting on another time, country, setting, other cultural legacies

handed down to a multi-ethnic generation of emerging poets and writ-

ers on this campus. Students who have passed through our literature

and creative writing courses especially know the enduring lessons that

these authors continue to teach us when we read, study, set pen to paper

and struggle to express who we are, how we feel about our deepest

desires, joys and sorrows in a few articulate words. As human beings, this

is a legacy we all share.

I am thinking, in particular, of Wordsworth’s well-quoted passage,

“poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its ori-

gin from emotion recollected in tranquillity….” In another place from

his “Preface to Lyrical Ballads,” Wordsworth declares that “these passions

and thoughts and feelings are the general passions and thoughts of men

[and women].”

The contributors in this issue have gone through the writing process

of recollecting those feelings and thoughts that in their best moments

move beyond the individual life to the universal. Whether the writer

reflects a Latino, Asian, or Anglo background, when he/she recalls those

feelings about a loved one, or the time of crossing over from innocence

to experience, or that enlightening moment of self-awareness; or when

the writer explores a particular subject matter like identity or race, or

even a literary text, his/her poem, personal narrative, short story, or essay

reaches some core that we can all respond to or learn from.

For example, as in other recent issues, Milestone 2005 includes a sam-

pling of essays (refer to “Writing about Literature”) written in response

to literary works studied in class. My hope is that they will be of some

help to students who are doing a close reading of a text, keeping in mind,

of course, that each instructor and assigned paper have their own

requirements.

Another added section is “A Workshop Poem,” a series of poems

which evolved out of a class exercise in which I wanted the students to

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 4 8

focus on imagery and texture. Finally, a section on their experience of

seeing, being in the presence of a live reader. For many, attending a live

reading is a first-time event.

Once again, I would like to thank the students in the Spring 127

Creative Writing course, who applied their workshop skills to selecting

the first cut of submissions for this issue. As always, Milestone belongs to

the writers, artists, and students on this campus as well as the communi-

ty. Those of us who have nurtured them in our classes, counseled them

through the transfer process, and represented them on the administra-

tive level know the importance of having their creative and academic

works represented in a college literary journal.

I would also like to express my ongoing appreciation to Trish Glover,

Graphic Arts Designer; members of the Art Department, in particular

Chris Moreno for her gathering of student art in this issue; members of

the English Department, and my colleagues on the Milestone

Committee: Susan Suntree and Joan Gurfield. Congratulations for

another successful publication.

— Carol Lem, Sierra Madre 8/16/05

9 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Monique C. Alvarado | I Am

I am of languid tropical breezes,

The trade winds bring word of new spices.

I am of sweet mangos that drip with sweetness,

A thousand tropical hurricanes that I have never seen.

I am of La Isla de Encanta and Little Havana

Celia Cruz and Buena Vista Social Club fill my heart with rhythm

I am of King Taco and Cinco de Mayo

Nourish me on my late Friday nights, drink to Victoria!

I am of Guanina and her Cristobal

Forgotten lovers of the tree

I am of America and El Mundo Nuevo

I have forgotten the mother tongue which lives in my blood

I am of Pasteles, Arroz con Gandules, Enchiladas and Ropa Vieja

My tools are the pilòn and caldero, Cocina Criolla

I am of the Taino, the Aztec, the Spaniard and the Moors

The bulerias of Granada move my feet.

I am of Santeria y Los Orishas Ochùn and Yemayà

The slave lives within me.

I am of Platanos, Pan dulce and Horchata

It reminds me of home

I am of confusion and mixed heritage

I am of me.

“Los Hijos de La Chingada,” the sons of the fucked.

Grito de la Second-Generation Latina

The Spanish father which scorns my sub-humanity,

The Indian surrogate that doesn’t recognize me,

And the raped mother who shelters me.

What of the land that holds me to its breast?

It nurtures me like a fattened cow for slaughter

Working as its donkey, the burro to plow the fields of capitalism

The “white ceiling,” Guerita is a good place to be.

Raped of my dignity, my cultural identity melted to “Non-white,”

“Latina”

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 10

11 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

On the flipside, my home heritage that doesn’t recognize me,

Gringa, Pocha, deprived of my birthright and the native tongue

The children of the conquered with no home

Nothing more than a half-breed

Not qualified enough for either side of the border

Reduced to a “coconut,” neither Cuban, Puerto Rican, Mexican, nor

American

I am the child of –ism, only a number in the spectrum of humanity.

My eternal life depends on my faith in Catholicism,

God is not supreme, the pope is.

I eat through the hand of Capitalism

Likewise my people starve on the Island by way of Communism

Free Market or Gov’t owned? Come to America on a converted taxi!

Estamos aqui by way of Colonialism!

Held back by Racism, Sexism, and just about everything else…

The point is, we’re here The Children of the Lost

Monique C. Alvarado | Generations Lost

It all began with a compass to guide a lost soul home. Ajourney thought to be compromised long ago. Not by sea, air or land.

Oh no. It was a journey that began in my soul, one which I had always

anticipated but thankfully never came. I had always known the day

would come when I had to say goodbye to my childhood. What did it all

mean? Where would this journey lead me? I have always been in the in-

between of everything: Love and hate, dark and light. I get lost between

pinto beans and black beans, red white and blue and red white and green.

Where does it all go? These are probably my biggest ghosts. Where did

my loyalties belong? I could write a book on how to get lost, I cannot tell

how to find your way back. This isn’t about who I am it is about who am

I to become. It is no longer important because I take my own fate. My

fate is no longer a check to Downey Mortgage. My fate is no longer

babysitting myself for the weekend.

My mother always taught me that if you need an answer to some-

thing just feel. You never ask, you never argue, you simply just wait for

God to give you the go signal. Angels will guide your way if you just feel

and believe in them. To me it was maybe the biggest line of bullshit that

I had ever been fed. For me to believe that after years of hell and turmoil

to silence myself and wait for something else to help me was very hard. I

always searched elsewhere for my answers. I may listen to your words but

rarely do I follow them. It only took eight months for my armor to be

eroded. My seventeen years of accumulated armor and grit had worn

down to a whimpering little girl. I could be likened to an orphaned fawn

in my naivety and my confusion at my state. It was a good eighteen years

in the making; my destruction was plotted since before I was conceived.

The strange omens of a superstitious family fed many of my fears and my

mother’s. It goes deeper than the Christian devil; it is part of the religion

of my mothers before me. It goes back to both Europe and Africa.

Santeria, silly to think of such a trivial religion, my mother sure believed

in it. To those who believe in the supernatural and strange happenings

this is for you. It comes complete with heritage, altars and blood sacri-

fices, even Catholic saints. It is a slave religion and tradition. It was

maybe tied to the slavery of my soul. Sometimes I can feel the drumbeat

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 12

of my ancestors pulsing through my veins when I am weak. It calls me to

something raw and primal. One may wonder what such an obscure belief

has to do with me. Well that’s what I have tried to figure out all my life.

There are many stories told, I can merely tell the story that was told to

me by my mother. It is the truth, she swears by it. I can argue not to her

convictions, for one person’s convictions are their realities. Since her

reality was mine, I guess it is shared.

Ever since my mother was a little girl, she saw a dark man. Tall,

dressed in a great black coat, he would follow her. Many times she would

look out the window to see this man take hold of himself with dark eyes

beckoning her to touch him. This man was merely a specter for no one

but she knew of his existence. He haunted her dreams, scared her and

never left her alone. These deranged dreams and visions of a young girl

didn’t fade with womanhood. It became her. Robert, to her Satan him-

self, was maybe the most detested example of man she would ever come

to love. It was not him, however. It was his mother. She was “una bruja,”

a witch as far as people are concerned. The man in black was known only

to my mother. In a thin veil of an egg this woman, her future mother-in-

law, told her all that set her for life. This old woman who detested my

mother foretold her destiny… and there I was standing next to the man

in black with my sister. How strange to see your future children standing

with your version of the devil, or maybe he represented something else.

The men who would come in and out of her life, perhaps even a guardian

angel. Whatever he was it meant evil in our lives. Whether my mom fol-

lowed that destiny I will never truly know but it has always been her

echoing shadow when all went wrong even to our very last days together.

The beginning is not what it truly is. It is my crossroads at a path. My

intertwined past, present and future. �

13 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Monique C. Alvarado | Of Rainbows and Goodyear Blimps

The world was so wonderful; full of colors that wouldpaint any child’s imagination. I could dream of days so wonderful

and never reach them again. The earliest shades of my memories saw this

most wondrous forest. The eucalyptus and oak trees mingled together on

that patch of heaven. The sounds of mourning doves were the beautiful

sounds that bring me back. I must not have been older than four years

old. The gravel driveway hurt against my bare feet as I tried to mount my

noble steed to visit the land of my fantasies. Betsy was as good as any

other house pet, except she would run like the dickens when I would

attempt to ride her old thirteen year old back. For a noble steed she

wasn’t cutting it. As long as that old dog wouldn’t be my horse, I couldn’t

save my prince charming from the evil shark witch. I mustered all the

dignity that my short curly pigtails would give me as I searched for a

mount worthy of my time.

The forests were thick and daunting during this time of summer as

I searched and searched. On my journey a small bush attracted my eyes,

its bright orange fruits swollen with the ripeness of summer screamed to

my young palate. Surely it must be sweet. I reached with my grubby

hands to that forbidden fruit; however, my hand caught on something

far more rewarding. Truly it was a gift sent by … well I can’t say. It was

blue, plastic and it had wheels. Today I recognize it as a cheap kid’s model

of a Goodyear Blimp, but then it meant so much more. It was the epito-

me of my prayers answered. I now had my horse to carry me to the sun-

set but no direction in which to find it.

Nobody ever questioned my activities. I felt this wild sense of free-

dom, nobody could touch me. I had a bathtub for a pool and the trees

for my friends. It was such a wonderful place with its maroon carpets,

70’s décor. It was Danny’s House, not my own. Yet I never felt alien in

that house. Danny always looked so kindly at me, as if we were equals at

my young age. I had been the little girl he never had. To this day, when I

attach a face to the name “Dad” it is not my true father’s face that shows.

It already had its own prince in the form of eighteen year old Andy. To

him I was simply “Uggy,” the daughter of another one of his dad’s girl-

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 14

friends, at least so it seemed. Nobody that I can remember really played

with me in those days. I simply drowned myself in a dream of Rainbow

Sherbet ice cream and countless re-runs of Little Orphan Annie, my hid-

den soul-mate. Everything was alive with the magic of my imagination,

nothing was impossible whether it was a castle made from the fallen

branches of my favorite tree or simply bumbling around my makeshift

bed causing mischief. If only things stayed so simple.

I had noticed small things happening around me, strange men cut-

ting trees in the yard, things slowly going into boxes. It was as if perfec-

tion itself was slowly disappearing. Then it happened.

“Mommy, Mommy,” I cried, “can I get a Yoo Hoo?” My mother’s red

lips pouted back at me, there was nothing but affection in those hard-

ened but still gentle brown eyes that glanced back at me. “Of course,

mama.” We pulled out of the liquor store as I got my Yoo Hoo and

M&M’s and my mom got her usual Marlboro Reds. The old Volvo

squeaked with age as she drove it to the house. It was empty. It should

have struck me then but it had never dawned on me. I jumped out of the

car as I had done so many times before.

“Get back in, we’re going home,” my mom said gently.

“But we are home, Mommy.”

“We don’t live here anymore.”

“What about my toys and my kitty?”

“It’s taken care of, don’t worry about it.”

I fidgeted around in my seat as I looked at the fleeting image of the

house. My last memory of it was the cut down trees in the yard and the

condemned house. I later learned that my last piece of heaven became a

set of apartment buildings and condominiums. I often wondered if some

other little kid would discover the magic that I first discovered. Perhaps,

my existence would mean nothing to the bunch of Cholos who would

invade my magical forest. Whisked away from love, life and ceaseless

adventure, I became one with a stranger…. Myself. �

15 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Monique C. Alvarado | September the 21st

6 weeks a mother

I’m sorry you weren’t wanted.

Just a little tumor of cells Mommy couldn’t have

Another alien object into my womanhood seals your fate

Your first picture sits in a folder at Planned Parenthood

Are you sure? Okay, Sign here…

More girls herded like cattle into a slaughter house…

That’s what it is… a slaughterhouse for souls

Asian, Mexican, White, all there for the dark purpose

Only a few moments now sit between my womb and a trashcan

Bio-hazardous waste…Just like my mind

Just a tumor of cells… the constant unnatural reminder

The booties given to me by a protester stay locked in my hand

I shut my eyes tight waiting for what is to come, what is happening

Daddy sits playing tic-tac toe in the waiting room…

Hush little baby, don’t you cry

One day I’ll explain why

Just hold tight and close your eyes

Watch as your mommy slowly dies…

Daddy loves you, always has, even before you were conceived

I can’t do it, I’m not strong enough… my mom is dying and so am I

Mom, I’m scared, please…

At least it wasn’t a coat hanger like my grandma did in an alley, 1951…

Thank you, Roe vs. Wade

You’ll see lots of family members from Mommy’s side

5 of my brothers and sisters will greet you and so will my aunts who

shared your same fate

Ah, the needle in my arm…

Sweet release, numb the pain… when I wake up you’ll be gone…

Mom, Wait… please

I’ve made my choice, you’re a cluster of cells that will torment me

forever…

The twilight anesthetic works wonders… I will remember nothing…

feel

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 16

Nothing, bye my baby, I’ll dream of you

Be a good boy or girl, the tears fall down, I’m sorry…10,

It’s okay, I’ll see you again

9, 8, Never see kindergarten, 7,

6, 5, Never feel the breeze tickle your face, 4, 3

2, I’ll never hold you, 1…

Half an hour later… I’m still here

An ache in my abdomen reminds me of your presence…

Bush is an asshole, and I’m a Democrat is all I can say…

Wheel me away… in a daze…

In my room away from you

–Elena, September 21st, 2004

17 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Henry Armenta | Dying To Live

Through my belly button window I heard my mother crying

She argued with my father on whether to keep me or not, she was only 17,

Talking about how they had nothing to offer, but after 120 days

I was still kicking…she let me live…so I peeked through my window

And realized the world’s depth, so I…

Prepared for death…when I exited my Mother’s legs

Because the minute I was born, I started to die.

Death…I was only given this promise because my parents don’t have

much to offer but love…my Mother, from birth, she started to kill me

When her water burst…life is what you make of dying

It might end with the beginning for me: a woman gave birth to me…

Maybe at this rate a woman will give death to me…

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 18

Laura Urbino

Henry Armenta | Cars

As a young boy your friends, qualities, possessions, donot really matter. How many guys are in your crew of friends? Who

has a car? Who is doing who? It all just doesn’t matter? Things are simple,

but when the pimples and hormones kick in, the simplicity of a young

boy’s life gets kicked out. Some girls are attracted to the shiny things in

life like mosquitoes. “Friends” become simply an overused word, refer-

ring to the past most of the time, “We used to be friends,” or “I guess

we’re still friends.”

Hearing about Who just got a new car? Damn! And now she is going out

with him?! were things I spurted out in disgust against some wigger white

boy or wet black Mexican, who all of a sudden became an instant celebrity

because of a car and which girl was handcuffed around his arm after.

Antonio couldn’t even speak that good of English! He stumbled on

words like “Whacks-Happen-ning!”, (What’s Happening) and this beau-

tiful girl Tricia (straight out of a magazine like High School Playboy

Edition, or something) was all over him like flies on shit because he had

a car; it was hard to swallow like vegetables as a kid. Antonio used to get

straight bagged on like groceries. We were cool in 7th grade, and I always

defended his illegal-alien ass. We used to smoke his dad’s weed before

school in his back yard tool-shed and then eat his grandmother’s hand-

made tortillas while walking to school. We were not Starsky and Hutch,

we were real cordial though. Soon as his drug dealing caballero poor

excuse for a dad let him have one of his pimped-out rides, I was craving

those tortillas!

It didn’t get any better either. White Mike (whose rich dad bought

him every hip-trendy shoe, shirt, jacket, and a brand new car) seemed to

be like a beehive for the sweet honey-bees at my school. White Mike’s dad

didn’t just buy trendy clothes, or a car, he was also secretly buying a

young girl’s virginity, at a cheap price if you ask me. White Mike was

truly a Geek in 7th grade though. I used to copy off him in algebra, his-

tory, science, health classes, not English though, every day. He was an

elite student at the school; he used to get out early from school to take

classes at the high school. He had to keep a grade point average though,

and on Final Exam day, I accidentally didn’t just copy the answers on his

19 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

paper, I copied his name too! So we both failed the class. I figured I owed

him one when I saw him waiting in the spot where the bus used to pick

him up, where it took him to the high school (looking sad, desperate and

alone because all who were like him were where they belonged), so I let

him hang around me and my friends. It wasn’t as bad as I thought either

—I mean, he was like insurance. The Principal and Counselor didn’t has-

sle me as much when they saw me with him. He used to always chip in

for sweet buds, not like my other friends. His mom was so excited about

him finally having friends that they actually let us smoke in his room!

I never really expressed my envy to them or my over excited joy

either, but they both forgot who was there when they were doo-doo on a

shoe. I wasn’t mad at all that they finally got some putang pie either. I was

just in awe of how they became famous for what they had, and not who

they were at all. It was all a façade; their true identities lied underneath

the oversized yellow Fubu shirt. I saw guys who used to ask me why I let

them hang around me, slap hands with them in the parking lot, begging

for a ride in one of their cars after school. Girls who were dating homo-

football players the week before were now in one of their passenger seats,

mosquito-hoes (I called them that because of their fascination with the

shiny things in life and blinded by the fact all that glitters is not gold).

As a male teenager, friends do not matter; possessions, quality of

clothes and cars matter. What girl is on your side matters, not friends

who kept you from getting deported or voted most likely to be the next

Vanilla Ice. �

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 20

Henry Armenta | Pleasure Towers

In the good days, my family lived in a condo, on the twenty-third floor of Pleasure Towers in Ormond Beach, overlooking

the Atlantic Ocean. Now, inside the concrete jungle I lie on the pave-

ment, bullet wounds have stricken me badly, the same place I had my

bike stolen by some negro, the same place where my father slapped poo-

puts around for bringing around collateral in exchange for drugs.

In a pool of my own warm burgundy blood I lie. It gushes from my

wounds in a hurry, making the crime scene for the evening as I struggle

to breathe. I reach toward where my heart stays, beating hard and fast as

a U.P.S. delivery man. “He didn’t get it,” I mutter to myself proudly—my

chain, my father’s chain, my heritage, my prominence. The overexcite-

ment of my defensive victory makes it harder for me to breathe.

I see the bastard who tried to rob me of my prominence near me, his

body suspended over the sidewalk and street. His body shakes and trem-

bles all over the usually noisy Hope Street where many have died; his

heart searches for an answer from his brain, but it lies on the street. His

heart beats in dismay for an answer becoming paranoid of its last beat,

his body stops the shaking. His body is cleansed of the evil soul that con-

trols it and fades in the day’s moisture. Witnessing the bastard die in sec-

onds feels like an hour, I wonder where in the hell the ambulance is. After

watching the bastard die in front of me, with familiar wounds and on the

same damned street, I realize my own fate and can clearly see it in front

of me. I reminisce about the happier and less bloody times: the good days

when my family lived in a condo, on the twenty-third floor of Pleasure

Towers in Ormond Beach, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

My mother was a beautiful Mexican immigrant. She migrated to

California in the 1970s and met my drug-dealing father on her daily route to

the bodega, on the corner of Hope St. where my father pitched drugs to

fiends. He was a Cuban refugee, who came to America for money and money

only, though his fascination with my mother soon took over. His popularity

around the blocks that made Torment City was something like a local super-

hero. People would greet him everywhere he went, he seemed to take all the

power well. He brought the Circus to Torment City for the children and built

21 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

a Bar and Casino for the adults. Most of the money came from the bosses,

whom my father worked for, but it was his ideas. My mother was kicked out

of the house after her father found out she was seeing my dealing dad. He

quickly bought a condo on the beach where soon after I was born.

With a beautiful view of the ocean from the condo’s huge porch, we

had lunch on Sundays. My father would calmly try to give life to a cigar

with his lighter against the strong sea-breeze. My father’s gold snake-like

chain that wound around his neck and hung down low to his stomach

sparkled and shined trying to overpower the sun with its beauty and imi-

tation of bright light. He grabbed and placed me on his lap, facing the

ocean, while my mother exclaimed, “Ya te dijo que no fumas eso! Mira tu

hijo te esta mirando! Quires que el fuma tambien?!”, while she served

food on fine china on top of the small outside table, while I simply just

stared out at the clear water of the Atlantic Ocean. It shined like a new-

born son in a mother’s eyes and glittered with a sparkle as the sun stared

over it proudly as a father showering it with its gift of bright sunshine.

The seagulls ripped through the air’s thick heat, sometimes dolphins

would come close and play near the shore’s shallow end. I stared in awe

of the beauty, never taking it for granted. The dolphins’ noisy language

tickled my ears pleasantly as they jumped out of the water as if trying to

catch a cloud or high five the sun for keeping the water warm for them.

Time was my father’s only enemy it seemed in those days. I remem-

ber going to the market and the old grumpy, grocery clerk would stumble

around the register just to give him a bag of fresh tomatoes, jalapenos, and

fruit; and even though the grocer insisted on no payment, my father paid

him well. When my mother and father went out for a night on the town,

the bartender (a playboy who would go home with most men’s wives)

would let my father get behind the bar and tend to my mother; his charis-

ma showed in these moments as he served customers drinks, asked for

tips. He was a man of many fortunes then.

His most obvious of fortunes by the simple man’s eye was his cadena

hung around his neck tight like a sneaky anaconda around its prey. It

swayed side to side with a cocky swagger, harmoniously smiled with a shine

like an ocean sunset, diamonds glittering even at night like city lights. It was

the cause of much envy in the humble city of Torment. People would gaze

with a sigh or stare with a devilish grin. Women would powder their nose

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 22

and push up their breast to their chin in its presence. A harmonious dream

of theirs was to caress its diamond cuts and its gold tail. Not too many men

or women could wear a chain like that in Torment City or keep it around

their own neck for that matter, but my father did. It was a sign of power,

prominence, no one had tried taking it or dared too; it damn near had a life

and history of its own: how much it cost, how much it weighed grew as my

father did, basking in his glory with a bigger pendant or more diamonds.

Then came a letter from his good friend Tony, his words were in

simple English.

Hey, how are you? Good…it’s cold over here, I know it’s hot over there.

I’m watching and covering my own ass over here, don’t worry though,

I heard the birds chirp loud over there, because they come in the morn-

ing, they’re watching you, they were watching me, I have no doubts in

you, I’m going to stand up for you, the world is still ours, it feels like the

world is against us, study close, prepare, when it rains people get wet…

by any means, Ay Te Watcho, chivos son para tacos….

It was a warning to my father, the feds were coming for him, an inform-

ant was close to him, police and snitches deserve to fry, and when times are

hard people die; it was a letter most feared, even my father. No one ever fully

recovers from these times, loved ones die, and friends rot in small rooms.

A big bust came slowly, rumors of my father’s old partner being

killed for snitching ran through the city. Tony “Tight Lips” was the first to

get pinched. Tony was my father’s right hand man, they slowly went their

separate ways respectively in business after my father moved in Pleasure

Towers’ fine condo estates. Tony never spoke much about anything, his

presence was always felt by what he didn’t say, his facial expressions never

showing any emotion. He brought the drugs his father used before he beat

him and his mother; instead of using it, my father sold it to some white

girls at a beach around the way from Torment, they lived in a luxurious

condo. Tony got the girls to get their friends onto the white lines. My

father befriended the area, and they set up shop there; they were the only

men with the white rocks, and they became instant celebrities on the

brighter side of town. Yet it wasn’t home, the expensive life was for big

businessmen, not two wetbacks who were new to money. Tony stayed

loyal to him even after he left the city, to expand the business and buy a

23 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

mansion in Miami. Rumor was that my father and he were running from

the police on the beach, long before the pigs were on payroll, and Tony

was gouged badly under his eye by a bullet scathing his face, taking a nice

chunk of his cheek bone; the blood blinded Tony and he fell down a hill

twirling like a tire or a star from the sky with a bang. The police caught

him and asked if he was hurt, he replied with nothing. Tony felt they were

only asking him to spite him for being caught, not to get help for him, “If

ya tink I’m hurt, call the nurse!...or go fuck ya self!” he shot back when the

pain inflicted. But Tony still didn’t admit to being hurt, running from

them, or my father being his accomplice. He did three years in prison for

that one remark. From then on he was Tony “Tight Lips”.

Now it seems Tony must have told several precincts and the Feds to go

fuck themselves because the word came back to my father from Miami,

Tony was killed the same day he set bail for himself as he exited the

precinct. The bosses were nervous, even with Tony being the last person to

squeal like a pig. He was killed though the bosses did not know what Tony

was being indicted for. I mean every Latino gets pinched now and then.

But this sent a message, the bosses were paranoid with being sent to prison,

they were old. They couldn’t afford three or four years, they were lucky for

another day. He upped his security when in Torment City he urged my

mother to do the same when she went to stores or lunch with her family.

But security doesn’t secure you against fate. The day my father was

killed was a message to those who accepted it. Torment City would soon

be bothered with want-to-be “dope-boys”. You see, my father robbed the

city of its drug addicts’ money and big drug investors, and he put money

back into the community. He chose to move into Pleasure Towers

because of the view of Torment City from the balcony. He said he could

watch over the city at all times to make sure no poo-puts’ son tried to

become a drug dealer, or accepted sex in exchange for drugs from pretty

crack-addicts and killed for respect, instead of giving back for love and

receiving respect. Most drug dealers after the 1970s came from drug

addicted parents, unlike my father who did it because he was dirt poor;

he took offense to that, an offense to his intelligence.

His blood shed over Hope St. as he ran from Pleasure Towers back

to Torment City, the police behind him, no one helped. The television

blared with news updates of the bloody scene. The news said my father

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 24

was so shocked by the police finally coming for him and being wounded

that he ran throughout the city in disarray, yelling and ranting.

The city told a different story. The police were also some well-dressed

poo-puts, who were trying to rob him of his chain and break into our

home. They busted in the doors and windows; the letter from Tony

warned him of the Feds, and they had come. They didn’t just raid the

house, they were also concerned with repossessing him of everything. But

my father lost it once he ran for his life toward Torment City. Wounds on

his right leg and bruises, cuts across his face, a dislocated arm, but it held

onto his chain tightly. He screamed Tony’s name loud once he made it to

Torment City; my distraught mother, who kept covering my eyes and ears

inside the dim lit corner bodega with Tony, heard all. Tony overlooked

him through a small crack in the window drapes. I wanted to help him,

whoever the man was yelling, his rampant yelling of “Tony, you coward!

You left here! Now you want to return in my shoes! In my pussy that I

married?! You were always a fucking poo put!” as he was beaten in the

streets he loved. The massacre lasted long, people were in their houses,

peeking from windows. He was beaten into the concrete, face up staring

at the sky. The loud city was mute, the stores closed, it was as if a tornado

were coming. The city was ready for a disaster to come and go. Tony

kissed my mother in the dark store and quickly walked out the door when

the yelling and noise halted. The thunder I heard outside I still hear in my

dreams. It took away the rampant yelling, the tension in the bodega was

gone. My mother kissed my forehead and ran out the store, leaving me

inside. Tony returned without my mother, gold snake in his hand. It was

more like a shiny rope reminiscent of the one my father wore. Covered in

blood it shined, yet not as proudly as the sun, the way my father’s did. It

had the same pendant, but my mother was terrified of it. Tony stared at

the gold rope victoriously. He stared at me, he said nothing, he just stared,

my small stomach turned; he placed the heavy chain around his neck and

asked me to sit on his lap as he fumbled with a cigar trying to light it. �

(Note: My story evolved out of a Creative Writing journal exercise in which the

instructor, Carol Lem, asked us to steal a line from a short story that would

make a striking opening for our own short story, then to begin with that line

and write whatever comes to mind to see where the imagination goes. The first

line of my story, “Pleasure Towers,” comes from Heather Seller’s “It’s Water, It’s

Not Going to Kill You.”)

25 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Henry Armenta | My Two Girls

She usually just shows, not a surprise

Because I welcome her with a kiss

She is loud and proud, likes to stand out

When I’m with her, that’s why I don’t like to take her out

Even though among my friends I’ve subdued to share her

Because her love sometimes is too much for me

So much she can take on three of me

Or so good I have to share her, for others to believe me

The way her long strands of NATURAL RED HAIR smells beautifully

It runs along with every motion her head gives,

The way the scent stays on my hands after I have it in my grasp

She is never shy

She converses with everyone

Leaving memorable impressions with her stories of

When she was a little younger she was a roadie with Rock and Roll acts

But they would ignore her when the WHITE girls showed up

She would make a boring party live with one match of feelings

Starting games like KISS, KISS, PASS in the boring room of men

My mother says she is a groupie

And gateway for worse things to come in my young life

If I continue to stay with her

It may be true because my puppy love with her used to get me by with

a kiss or two

In HIGH school

Now my mood changes when she does not arrive on time

She comes and goes as she pleases

She is greedy

And doesn’t come around when I have no money

I would WITHDRAW money I didn’t have…but still didn’t have

enough

For a ‘real good time’ she said

She just kept on screwing my friends, playing her head games

I used to adore her

Now that I’m older I just think she is a whore.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 26

Henry Armenta | Russian Roulette

They have tried to ban you in certain states

And yet, you continue to break muscles and ligaments,

Away from flesh

Left proud sprint runners and average walkers

As helpless cripples in wheelchairs

Turning strong bones, brittle and frail

You have left strong men in the fetal position

And gun control?

(Interruption)

Gun control?!

It’s using both hands,

Securely over me when you let me shoot off at the mouth, at someone

With my revolving barrel there is a solution to all problems

Place me in your hand

You’re now a more powerful man

You stand over men

Who don’t pick me as fast as you

I know you love me!

You keep me tucked and nestled away

Next to your family jewels

And every time an argument ensues

Especially when the guy’s too big to wrestle with…

No! no, no

That is self-protection

You take away mother’s first, second and third born

Make police officers victims

27 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

But pigs deserve to fry in a skillet

Since when were you a vegetarian?

Self- protection? What about when you shot your

friend when he came on to your girlfriend?

Was that Self-protection?

The killing and murders

Had stricken your streets and states before your ass was born!

And will continue after

Your ancestors created me, put their faith in my one arm embrace

You lie before me, who gave you power?

Me? Or those who came before me?

You, if you can beat me at my own game

You know the routine, just reverse let my mouth kiss you

Instead of whoever is facing you

One bullet, then

smack my ass,

stretch back and pull on my hair

Place my lips on the side of your head, so if I scream you hear

The loud noise before the pain inflicts

You can stare at the ceiling if you want

so you can pray after every pull

If I should climax before you,

my love for you is stronger, and

your soul is what I deserve, after all you gave me power

I guess we’ll have to see

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 28

Jose Del Real | You

At night when

I look upon the wishing

stars I wish

and wonder for my

dreams to be answered

but they can

only be answered by

you.

29 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Ngoun Hean

Jasmine Gallegos | Things I Wish Weren’t Said

My young ears, too pure to understand the depths of your demons—

You confided in me the truth of your life:

Innocence stolen at five, heart betrayed before you were of age,

Mother at fourteen, wife at twenty-one, three kids and a husband who

beat you.

Now you were raising me to be afraid, afraid of the outside world.

My fears manifested into phobias.

My fears of men—and love—caused me to depend on you.

You sheltered me, you inhibited my growth.

Now I am free from you. Free of your fears. Free from your demons,

too long to escape.

Countless nights I remember trying to console you as you lay in bed

crying.

But I was too young, not ready for all you bestowed upon me.

The things I wish weren’t said are now my childhood memories.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 30

Jasmine Gallegos | Death Came to Look for Me. Or Did I Go Looking for Death?

It was like any other night. The moon was shining, thewind was cool. It was a night you could leave the house without wear-

ing a jacket. I started the night off with screwdrivers, big tall glasses filled

with ice and each one stronger than the one before. We piled in the car,

feeling a bit more comfortable as we laughed and started to enjoy our

night, the warmth of the alcohol coursing through my veins. The cool air

encircled the car and I felt relaxed. I thought of how the night might

unfold, I was ready for anything. Johnny, Leslie, some of her friends, my

cousin Esther, and I reached our destination. At 10:30 it was too early to

walk down the street to the club; so we stood in the middle of a large

parking lot with the bright light of Hollywood Blvd. shining on us.

Johnny pulled out a massive bottle of vodka from the depths of the

trunk. We passed the bottle around, one selfish drink each; around and

around the bottle went, quickly disappearing into nothing. With the

empty bottle in front of us, we were five young eager drunks ready to

start the night.

My balance became unsteady, I noticed that my speech slurred as

Esther asked, “Are you all right?” I simply replied, “Yeah I’m cool,” and took

another gulp bigger than the last. I was in control, or so I thought. As the

bottle quickly came to an end, it was time for us to walk down to the club.

On Sunday nights the Ruby turns into Club “Beat It,” the entire night is

dedicated to all the eighties music including some modern pop as well as

indie rock, three rooms full of hot sweaty bodies drinking and dancing.

I noticed I became quiet as the liquor was taking over. My sight,

becoming blurry, the cars made me dizzy, so I walked with my hand close

to the wall for balance; the lights and the sound of the cars became so

intense that the sound alone stung my ears, making them ring as though

I lost one of my senses; everything else seemed to intensify. We

approached the front of the club. A large man standing at the entrance

checked my ID, which made me uncomfortable. I wondered if he’d be

able to smell the liquor seeping from my pores or from my mouth when

I’d speak, and when he checked my ID would he notice that I was under

the legal drinking age. Somehow, I made it through. I paid my ten dollar

31 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

fee and walked in. I made my way through these thick black curtains

leading me into a room full of girls dressed in under garments; their out-

fits varied between corsets, bras, fishnets, and whatever else they could

think of. Some of the men were dressed in costumes. I saw one guy in a

chicken suit and another dressed as the Cat in the Hat, while several oth-

ers dressed as women. It was a place that I knew that the next day I would

feel guilty for. On a different occasion and if my mind were not inter-

rupted by alcohol, my long pants and simple blouse would have bothered

me. I didn’t seem to mind that I was modestly dressed in a room full of

girls who were dressed provocatively. A few days before, my mom sat me

down for a “talk”. There we were the two of us alone at the kitchen table

and her lecturing me about staying on the right path, “It is easy for a

young girl like you to be persuaded into sin, sin is all around you, and

remember God sees everything.” I wanted to say that God would, then,

have his hands full, but I just said, “Ok Mom, I know.”

I walked into this large dance room full of bodies, dancing, laugh-

ing, talking. The heat from the room rushed over me. My cheeks flushed

and beads of sweat started to form on my forehead. The heat from the

room was so powerful, as though I just walked into hell and from what I

was told hell was full of sinners all living together on fire: bodies sweating

from the heat in a large room full of people, in a constant struggle—guys

and girls fighting in line for the bathroom, waiting to order drinks, fight-

ing with each other because the temptation of lust was all around.

The music was so loud and intense it made the floors and the walls

vibrate. The people dancing moved to the loud beats and the lights

flashed displaying a spectacular multicolor light show that filled the

entire room. I stumbled as I made my way to the outside patio where it

was free and cool, untouchable. At this moment the words of my mother

were of no importance to me and as for God watching me, well I would

just say a prayer tomorrow. It always worked for my family to just say a

prayer, maybe go to church the next few Sundays and all would be for-

given. Hypocrites dwelled in my house, so what my mom and stepfather

told me went in one ear and out the other, but still I knew what was right

and wrong. I learned it on my own. Years growing up in and out of

church a few things were likely to stick.

The outside patio was full of people and swirls of smoke filled the

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 32

crisp air. From their mouths came big puffs of cancerous air. I joined in

and had me one of those sinful pleasures, believing what my cousin

Esther told me, that a cigarette would calm this intoxicating feeling. But

to my surprise, it added to it. I was cool and sophisticated and even when

the words out of my mouth made no sense, I was still free, free from the

dominance of my mother, the chaos that lived in my house. At this one

moment I lived for myself. I enjoyed every one of those pleasures: drink-

ing, smoking, anything seemed fitting. At this point, the alcohol was at

its peak; even though my feet were planted on the floor and my legs still,

my body swayed like a ship swaying back and forth. I leaned against the

metal bars for support. I stood there for about ten minutes or so, an eter-

nity. I tried to carry on a conversation but I found it difficult to find the

words. Silence was my best friend. My cousin told me it would be a good

idea to go in and dance, for dancing would sweat out the alcohol. I held

on to her as she guided me to the main room while Billy Idol’s “Dancing

with Myself” was playing. From this moment on it’s a mystery. I was told

later that I had collapsed and passed out. The security had to carry me

out. Esther and her friends threw water on me. She slapped me a few

times and even bit my cheek just to get me to wake up. All their efforts

didn’t help. From what I was told, the paramedics got there shortly after

and raced me to Kaiser Hospital off Sunset Blvd.

When I finally woke up, I found my arms and legs strapped down to

the hospital bed. I noticed the clock on the wall said 5:02 a.m. I thought,

what the hell happened, what am I doing here. Then I heard a voice say,

“Oh you’re awake, do you know where you are?” I looked to my right and

noticed a woman nurse writing something down on her chart. “Yeah, I’m

in a hospital, but what am I doing here?” “You drank too much,” she

replied. Then I wanted her to explain why I was strapped down to the

bed; she said it was because I was trying to hit and kick the doctor. I

couldn’t believe it! Me out of all people, I was bewildered. I then asked

her if she could please take them off because I needed to go to the rest-

room. She said, “You sure you are ok?” Still stunned by it all, I said yes

with great assurance.

My mind was going a mile a minute. I didn’t know what to do or who

to call. No way was I calling my mom. What would I do? The nurse then

assured me that my ride was on their way. She gave me my own clothes to

33 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

change back into since I was wearing this very fashionable hospital gown.

I pulled my belongings out of a plastic bag. They smelled horrible since

they were still wet from me throwing up on myself and from the water

everyone threw on me. This experience of putting back on my clothes was

very humbling and all too real. I thought, “Oh my God, they saw me

naked,” I was mortified. It now started to sink in. I realized I could have

died, but now I was so grateful for having the opportunity to put on my

wet clothing. My parents could have received that bag of my belongings

and how awful they would have felt. They would have received a phone

call in the early morning informing them that their daughter had died

from an overdose of alcohol.

I signed my paper to be released, and the first thing I noticed when

I stepped out of the hospital was a huge Scientology sign right above me

as I looked up towards the sky; I’m still not sure why that stuck out in my

head but it seems all too surreal. When I got home in the morning my

mom was still asleep. I managed to sneak in. I rushed to shower but my

reflection in the mirror caught my attention. My face was pale, my eye

makeup had managed to run down my face. I then noticed a scratch on

my cheek; I later discovered that was a result of my cousin biting my

cheek. That scar still remains today, I see it as a reminder. It looked as

through I just got into a fight and lost. My body was bruised, my under-

arms numbed from the security guards picking me up. Those arm bruis-

es mapped out precisely where they placed their hands. I looked at myself

for a while realizing what I just endured, knowing all along that I caused

this to happen.

Two years have now gone by and I haven’t touched another drink, I

can’t even stand the smell of rubbing alcohol. Friends have asked me to go

out dancing with them. I always make up an excuse why I can’t go.

However, if I do go again I know I will not make the same mistakes. �

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 34

Ann Marie Gamez | A Torturing Desire

The bottle of Cook’s champagne rested patiently in theblack plastic bag, awaiting its cue when he was to wrap his industri-

ous short hands around the green neck and gently start to twist the white

plastic cork. Unleashing our boiling chemicals from within, a red shade

tinted our faces as a symbol of everlasting friendship. A thin weave of

hemp bracelet was a gift from him. It meant we were friends, friends

never to be parted by silly love games or by the evil of jealousy or deceit.

It was for two people who loved and enjoyed each other… as friends,

who were always going to help each other through thick and thin…as

friends. Still, the boiling pits at the bottom of my gut urged me to break

this saintly purity and open myself vulnerably to his smile, his nose, and

the small dimples under his cheeks.

A heavy, midnight colored sky with scattered specks of white and a

bright beautiful full moon rested just above our heads as we both walked

to our evening’s celebration that late May Saturday night. It was the time

of year when the night begins to stay warm and families have Memorial

Day camping vacations, a happy time of year. We were on our way to cel-

ebrate our achievement. After four months of rehearsals, costume sewing

and set building, the kids of the El Sereno Youth Center had just per-

formed Grease, which meant our work was done. I was going to miss

those kids, a certain attachment grows on you after four months, but

right now, I just wanted to be with him and celebrate with an ice cold

bottle of champagne.

We walked up a hill and then down. We followed the curving street

passing quaint little houses with creative gardens, all lush and well-kept.

The tree tops shaded us from the moonlight and leaves shadowed our faces

as we continued to walk down even further, all the while recapturing small

moments of what had just happened while it was still fresh in our minds:

Amy taking forever to come on stage on cue because her transition from

“good” Sandy to “bad” Sandy took longer than we thought backstage, or

when Tony was frantically looking for his Converse sneakers, an essential

part of his costume. Funny stories but stressful at the time. Only quiet

hums of crickets and crushing dried leaves bombarded us now.

The porch light was on but nobody was awake except for the dogs

35 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

that barked at any movement in the darkness. Making our way to the side

and to the back of the house my anticipation rose and my blood was even

warmer. I was with the only person in the world I wanted to be with, my

best friend. He had helped me with the kids backstage. He was amazing.

That was when I knew that I loved him. Watching him carefully I saw his

gentle playfulness and his sweet charisma. It had been denial before, but

I couldn’t deny it anymore. Everything piling inside but fear took hold

and my insides were hard. I forced myself not to “feel” anything.

We sat in the red dimmed room. The glow from Gene Kelley and

Debbie Reynolds on the television danced perfectly on his cheek bones

and the tip of his nose. He sparked up the bowl of weed and took a big

hit. A fierce ray of white smoke shot out from his circled lips and all the

while I only saw him taking me into his arms and kissing me passionately

like something out of a lustful Shakespearean play, but instead he only

passed me the bowl. The cork of the bottle rested on the table as he

poured the champagne into small, finely shaped Jagermeister shot glass-

es. A fancy glass for a special occasion. A toast to “Hanging in there” and

may smiles never leave our faces, even as we drink. The cool, fizzy chill

of alcohol soothed and caressed the inside of my throat and filled my

belly.

My senses were numb and buzzing with excitement. My heart

pumped angrily against the wall of my chest reminding me that I was a

coward. My eyes shifted from him to “Singing in the Rain,” to my thumb

and forefinger delicately embracing my champagne and a joint, and then

back to him. I only smiled back at him and ached at the torturing desires

within me. �

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 36

Ann Marie Gamez | The Search for Reason

I had fun then. I was happy. I mean I knew there were problems,but that was for everyone. Everyone has problems, what was so special

about ours? I kinda liked it back then. I was free to run, learn and discov-

er, and I was smart. Maybe too smart, maybe my ears shouldn’t have been

where they had been. But still, starting another day… was exciting.

Being an auntie at the age of seven was so much fun. I wasn’t just any

auntie, I was his favorite auntie. He loved me so much…and he still does.

My little Justin-noodle. He loved me so much he wanted to marry me, of

course he was only a baby at the time and didn’t know what he was say-

ing, but that’s how much we appreciated each other’s laughs and games.

We would make fortresses out of all the blankets, sheets and chairs we

could find in the house. The objective was to make as many passageways

and rooms as possible and then we would just crawl around and sit, and

crawl again until one of the sheets would just give and like dominos, each

blanket would fall and we’d start all over again.

Things comforted me like my mother’s homemade macaroni and

cheese. The honor of taking off my father’s shoes and socks when he got

home from the coca-cola factory, only to replace them with his

huaraches. Watching Alvin and the chipmunks or the Smurfs. It’s hard to

tell where these elements exist now: these particles of life that float

around and become lost. They’re all faded to gray…but they still do

exist, I think—no, of course they do.

Sometimes a person’s mind wanders too much into undesirable

zones. You become lost and without vision. You become a blinded fool.

Most of the time people love misery. People love to be the victim. It’s

always easier to blame a dilemma on someone or something else. It would

free the soul of guilt, temporarily. People love to dwell on their own sor-

rows and like to listen to other people’s problems while at the same time

thinking to themselves how much better their own life is. It’s a double

standard scenario and it happens to everyone, which is why I refuse to

allow the worst of my life to take command on who I shall be today.

I remember as a child always wondering what would become of me.

I never understood why people would tell me that those would be the best

years of my life. I always knew that wouldn’t be true, and I still take that

37 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

stand. I was very lonely as a child. School was my savior. It gave me the

opportunity to distract my mind from the problems my family would cre-

ate. My two older brothers seemed to always be in jail, or I would come

home to see both my parents giving information to police officers in front

of my house, due to my two older brothers’ mishaps. I once came home

from an after school workout session feeling good and rejuvenated. As we

pulled up my street I quickly spotted two cop cars parked in front of my

house. I instantly was aware that something, yet again, had happened. I

walked passed the officer and my father speaking to each other and head-

ed inside the house. I was actually shocked by what I had seen. A pool of

blood rested on top of the dining room table while small drips ran off the

edge staining the brown shaggy carpet. I didn’t know whose blood it was

or why it was there but it was definitely related to my two older brothers.

It was easy to call them losers and be upset with them; however, it was not

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 38

Diana Barraza

39 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

really their fault. It’s just the way they were raised. They were my father’s

first two sons and his pride. They had every inch of freedom in the world

while my two older sisters had to stay home and clean the house. It used

to be a sexist household where the men had the majority.

When I look back I realize where everything went wrong. My par-

ents had their own problems with each other and hadn’t paid any atten-

tion to the proper upbringing of the entire family. Thankfully, I didn’t

come around until sixteen years had passed since my parents’ first child.

I grew up alone, but I also got the tail end of blunt sexism and domi-

nance. I was still able to taste the early years of upbringing though I was

given a more positive outlook on life. My sisters told me (not my par-

ents) that I could be whatever I wanted…and I believed them. They

would not allow any mishap on my upbringing. Lola left the house very

early in my life, but she did what she felt she had to do in order to live a

better life. She got married at twenty and had Justin at twenty-one. Four

years later she would give birth to Christa. In a way, that was her way of

showing me possibilities to happiness, by giving me companions in my

childhood, whereas my sister Lidia stayed at home through her early

twenties and continued to have an influence in my life. All of my siblings

left me alone to carry whatever destiny they were sought out to have, but

not my sister Lidia. She never left me. In fact, she became like a mother

to me. She paid attention to my likings, dislikings and habits when my

mom never knew half the time what was going on with me.

I tell myself it could have all been worse. I could be homeless, or

broke, or dead…but I’m here. Even though there’s always an excuse to rant

about sorrows, it’s important to also forget and move forward. And so I ask

myself from time to time, where did all these small pleasures go. Whatever

makes life worthwhile for me I have to keep. It moves me forward to the

next day and excites me to know I’ll find a new appreciation each time.

So where are all these small pleasures now? They’re there in the dif-

ferent flavors of homemade dinners and fancy cuisines. Different blends

of spices, herbs and sauces, gliding and marking my tongue with colors.

It is there in the realm of watching old black and white classics at two in

the morning, admiring the elegant romance of a platinum blonde dame

and a tall, dark and handsome gentleman. And it is there when even hav-

ing an open conversation on politics in Los Angeles with my father. �

Ann Marie Gamez | Father and Daughter

Every time he enters the kitchen,

my comfort place,

tiny balls of spiky fizz

speckled with

dissatisfaction, temperament, remorse

crawl up his sleeve,

Ya comieron los muchachos?

A shrug of the shoulders

nodding no

should be good enough.

I don’t care if they ate,

these loathing leeches that are never full,

sloths

gluttonous savages.

Oiga me!

Te pregunte algo?

Narrowing eyes

a tight jaw

an invisible muzzle

locking it shut:

that’s the best I can do.

My English words aren’t good enough.

The black soles of

his brown leathered shoes,

crush – demolish

free mind, dignity, respect

as they stain

my beige terrycloth pants

with reality:

Damn ill-fated

mongrels

destroy my comfort place.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 40

Ann Marie Gamez | Pick a Part

Welcome,

here have a seat.

We can accommodate

anyone’s needs.

You can choose what you like,

or we can have it manufactured.

So how may we serve you?

I see what you mean.

You need some smoothener

and a boost of EG.

That flapping skin

shrouded with bumps and whiskers

holds varieties of dimples

and moles that cause cancer.

Oh my, oh my

you should have come sooner,

we just had a special:

a perfect package to start having nooners,

injection of botox

with all sets of implants,

lipo or staples

even laser beam plans.

But I’ll cut you a deal,

since I see you’re in need.

No need to worry…

you will be pleasant to see.

41 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Ann Marie Gamez | Tamales

Only the mujeres do it.

The delicate gentle swaying

of my mother’s fingertips,

not like the working hands of my father and uncles

that easily tear the thin ojas.

Eight chairs surround

the wooden dining room table.

Eight work stations.

Hours of chit-chatting labor

preparing the chili alone,

a task that swallows an

entire cycle of sun and moon.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 42

Denise Monge

Scattered wooden spoons,

pastel Tupperware bowls and

ojas soaking in water

placed on the old mantel

that protects the finely polished wood

from the masa and chili spills.

Every woman knows her duty.

First the jefa rinses the ojas, then

Sandra and Racheal

spread the masa

on the smooth side.

As the oja makes its journey

around the table

tia Maria and Ventura pour

the chili down the center.

Wita and Lola always get

the easy part.

One, two, and a third fold

from top to bottom.

The last station…

wrapping it in white paper

and packing them into dozens,

at least twenty-five.

Three hundred small bundles

of pork and corn.

A burden a woman must carry

to keep the spirit of Christmas alive:

repeat generations of chisme,

feed the hungry bellies

of tired factory workers

and their offspring.

A challenge I am unsure

of handling.

43 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Travis Joe | Bring in the Beer(After Li Po)

Hey there!

The dirty waters of the toilets

Raising up from hell

Rush in their flow to the sewers

Never turn back again

Hey there!

Dim in the windows of broken halls

A grieving for lack of hair

This afternoon blue-black bruises of pain

Now healed flesh with night

For satisfaction in this life

Drink to the limit

And never leave a glass

Be empty during the night

Heaven gave me skills

And they shall be used

I lose a lot of money

I gain a lot of money

So cook some meat

Cut it up

Be happy

And when you are ready to drink

Down a lot of shots

Hey dog

Yo homie

Bring in the beer

Keep the mugs coming

And I’ll bust a rhyme

Blow the trumpet and hit the beautiful drums

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 44

All I want is to stay dead drunk

And never sober up

The legends of the past

Are dead

And only the greatest drinkers

Have a fame that lingers on!

Back in the day

P of Diddy

Held a party in New York

A gallon of beer was free!

All the joy and laughter they pleased

So you, my host,

How can you be poor?

Get out!

Bring some beer

I’ll pour it for you

Take my car

Take my expensive leather jacket

Call the bellboy to get them

And trade it for some beer

Together we will drink away our sorrows for all eternity.

45 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Louise Leftoff | Lessons of Your Spirit

As your spirit remains

Nourished.

Nourishing me.

- Mary TallMountain (from “Matmiya”)

I see you in your kitchen

Moving the cut, fresh green beans

To the soup kettle on the stove,

Cutting, chopping, washing, seasoning,

Always moving, always nourishing,

Always caring for us.

Your calling was to nurture.

How fortunate for us

That your inclination was to give.

I wonder how these skills found their way

To my orphaned grandmother

Who had no one to teach her.

Before we sat down to our table

That sighed with the burden of bounty you presented us,

I saw you carefully prepare gifts for those who, having none,

Could also share in the same goodness and sustenance

You gave to us.

I know now that the gesture was for your own sake,

To make you feel right. And normal. And good.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 46

Louise Leftoff | A Sonnet

Across the green the two stroll with hands gripped

tightly together so as not to risk

losing the other. The bent man takes out

his handkerchief and brushes away the

dirt residing on the old bench as his

companion waits, eyes wide open and etched

with her years. She eases down to her seat

and the old man slides in close beside her.

Together they share the green, quiet place,

their only movement is her brushing away

a small fleck from his nose, a gesture more

caress than touch, and alone together

await the last movement of the symphony

to which their souls will soon dance forever.

March 18, 2005

47 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Ruben Lopez | Day’s End

I sit on a blue lawn chair,

A fireball in the sky

Slowly being extinguished.

The cold creeps up on me

Like a spider crawling up my spine.

I close my eyes

As a cool breeze

Dancing on me

Makes me shiver

Like a shy schoolboy

Being touched by a jezebel

For the first time.

Rubbing my arms,

I French kiss the day goodbye.

A black blanket

Slowly falls over me.

Tiny white pinholes fill it.

The day goes

The night comes.

The fireball in the sky,

Once alive with flames

Bouncing up and down

Like a child on a pogo stick,

Is now a corpse.

I stand and head inside.

A smirk appears on my face

As I mimic the day

Only to return again.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 48

Ruben Lopez | The Ride of Your Life

An analogy for life, and probably the one that fitsit best, is that life is like a roller coaster. It’s a fast paced ride where

you have your highs, your lows, and are thrown for so many loops you

don’t know which direction you are heading next, and yet you always

hate the fact that the journey has to come to an end. So where am I head-

ing with this? What can I possibly write to fit in with this analogy? I guess

what I’m trying to say is that although we were never asked to get on

such an insane trip, we do have some measure of control. And although

the ride gets a bit bumpy and hard to handle at times, the best we can do

is sit back and ride it out because no one ever said it would be smooth.

If they did, would you want to ride it? Personally I wouldn’t, what fun

would it be? I mean, don’t give me some lame ride from Knott’s. Give me

a ride that’s a cross between Six Flags and the roller coaster from hell.

Give me a roller coaster that will make me lose my lunch, wipe my

mouth off, throw my hands back up in the air, and scream, “IS THAT

ALL YOU GOT” as my car takes me 800 feet past cloud nine to the very

top where I peer down only to be thrown for a curve, dropped, and put

through so many loops that the world seems as though it’s spinning out

of control only to have me shout, “AGAIN!” Give me a ride that makes

me truly want to say that this was the best ride I’ve ever been on: THIS

has been the ride of my life! �

49 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Ruben Lopez | The Adventures of Bushman and Johnny

I t’s midnight in UnStAm and the roads are nearlyempty. The citizens have retreated to their homes for a night of

peaceful slumber before the glare of the morning sun awakens them.

Only a few porch lights remain on, and those few cars on the road are

rushing home to turn them off. It is a quiet night in UnStAm. UnStAm

may not be the cleanest place, quietest place, and sometimes not the

nicest place on Oddworld but on Oddworld it is the one place where its

citizens would dare to dream and have the chance of making that dream

a reality. UnStAm is quite a nice place and its protectors see that it stays

that way. UnStAm’s protectors, The Freedom Force, are on the job 24

hours a day finding new ways to protect it from any threat. The Freedom

Force is led by Commander Pow, who receives his orders from Bushman,

the man patrolling UnStAm’s streets with Johnny, his possible successor.

Like most nights this one seems to be an uneventful night until some-

thing catches Bushman’s eyes. Quickly turning his scooter around,

equipped with a sidecar for Johnny, Bushman races, or moves as fast as

possible, to the beams of light that catches his attention. Suddenly, his

eyes widen as a squad car cuts him off on the road and races down the

street. The squad car travels a few blocks before turning and coming to a

stop. Both officers emerge from the squad car and rush to get more infor-

mation from the officers in charge at the scene.

Bushman, who had been following the squad car, turns a block away

from the street the squad car turned. He quickly gets off his scooter and

rushes up the fire escape of the closest building. Johnny looks at

Bushman running up the fire escape and sighs, “Always rushing, aren’t

you?” He then begins to follow Bushman. Once reaching the top he

searches around for Bushman, who is near the ledge watching the com-

motion. Bushman turns to Johnny, “Glad you finally made it. There’s not

much I can make out from here, but whatever it is it’s in that building

and has the locals on the edge.”

“So what do we do now, Bushman?” Johnny dusts off his pants and

fixes the mask that covers his eyes.

“Someday you may be in my position, Johnny, what would you do?”

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 50

Bushman asks Johnny.

Straightening his military vest, “Well, all the windows are boarded

up, which means we don’t know what’s in there, so if we try to go in we

will be going in blind. So I say we go down to the locals and get as much

Intel we can from them. We then Evalu-”

Suddenly Bushman yells out, “WRONG!”

Looking confused at Bushman, “But you didn’t even…”

Once again he is cut off by Bushman, who is standing at the ledge,

letting the wind blow through his red, white, and blue cape. “No, Johnny,

we go in now. They will never be expecting us to simply rush in with no

idea of what we are really rushing into. We must do this for the protec-

tion of UnStAm,” Bushman asserts with both hands on his hips. And as

the moonlight bounces off the “B” embroidered onto the chest of his red

spandex uniform, “Johnny, contact Commander Pow and tell him to

have the Freedom Force on stand by.”

“What are you going to do?” asks Johnny, who is already on his super

secret watch to Commander Pow.

“Nothing,” Bushman simply replies, not turning around to look at

Johnny, “I’m just going to hold this pose a while longer. It makes me feel

like a real superhero. And besides it’s so cool.”

“Shouldn’t you contact Commissioner Public? I mean that’s what I’d

do.” Johnny asks as he shakes his head at Bushman, who is smiling while

standing in his pose.

Bushman turns around, “What are you, a girl? I mean you just want

to talk to everyone, don’t you? Every night it’s the same thing: talk to the

locals; they might have information, talk to the witness, this may be the

wrong guy, and then there’s your constant planning. Now I know you

can’t wait till you wear this red, white, and blue cape, but until then I

wear it and you do what I say. Remember, I am the leader of this team,

but your suggestions are taken under advisement. Now there is no sense

in worrying Public, so there is no need to contact him about something

that’s going to be an in and out job. Now let’s hurry up and do this, if we

do it fast enough we can make it home for Conan O’Brien. By the way,

did you paint our house?”

“Yeah, I thought it would look good white.”

“So we live in a white house?” Ok, I mean it doesn’t say ‘superhero’,

51 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

but I guess white is good.”

“Well, what color would you have painted it?” Johnny asks as he

shoots a grapple hook out of his gun.

“Black,” Bushman smiles.

“Ok,” Johnny nods, as he holds onto the rope, connected to his grap-

ple hook, and swings across to the next building. Bushman shoots his

grapple hook and follows behind Johnny. He lands next to Johnny, who

is on the side of the building waiting for him so they can scale up the

wall. As they begin their climb, Bushman suddenly falls. Johnny stops

climbing, “Not again.” He looks down at Bushman, crawling out of a

dumpster, and yells, “Bushman, remember to tie the rope to your belt.

Shoot your hook up. I’ll wait for yo- don’t point it at me! You know what,

I’ll wait for you on the roof.” Johnny quickly scales up the building when

a lady, looking out her window from across the alleyway, suddenly stops

him. The lady raises an eyebrow, “Hey, aren’t you Johnny?”

“Reporting for duty, mam, but I suggest you go inside now and shut

your window. As he watches the lady close her window he quickly swings

to the side as a hook nearly misses him. “Sorry about that,” a shaky voice

whispers.

“Just hurry and get to the top, Bushman, I’ll be waiting for you.”

With that said Johnny rushes up the building and onto the roof.

Moments later, as Bushman struggles to climb over the ledge onto

the roof, Johnny is seen kneeling down by a skylight looking at his adver-

saries. Bushman runs up behind Johnny, taps him on the shoulder,

kneels down by him, and asks nearly out of breath, “What do we have,

Johnny?”

“A few henchmen are all I see, Bushman. I don’t see their boss.”.

“Then I suggest you look closer at the first floor,” Bushman com-

mands in a tone that signifies he knows who the criminal mastermind is.

“Holy homicidal hooligans, it’s Heinous,” Johnny says as he stands

up by Bushman and punches his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

“That’s right, Johnny, Sa’dism Heinous, our so-called friend seems

to have gone back to his old ways…if in fact he had changed them at all.”

“I’ll contact the Freedom Force, Bushman.” Johnny turns his super

secret watch on.

“No Johnny, it’s time we take down Heinous for good.” Then rub-

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 52

bing his chin, “We can’t afford to wait for the Freedom Force. By the time

they come it may be too late. We must go in now and thwart any chance

of him escaping.”

“Gee Bushman, you’re right. What was I thinking?” Johnny looks

down at the ground.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Johnny. It’s a simple mistake on your

part that I —,” Bushman begins as he walks away from Johnny. And as he

continues on with his grand speech, Johnny secretly contacts

Commander Pow to inform him what is happening. Just as Johnny closes

communication with Commander Pow, Busman finishes his grand

speech and then turns to him, “Shall we go in?”

Johnny walks up to the skylight, looks inside, “How do we get in?”

“Never fear, an opening will appear,” Bushman says as he pats

Johnny a little too hard on the back forcing him to go through the sky-

light. Bushman watches as Johnny plunges through the skylight and with

a big smile, “Good work, Johnny. Take the initiative and attack them.

You’re going to make a fine superhero yet.” With that said, Bushman

jumps through the hole in the skylight that Johnny made. As he lands on

his feet, he looks at Johnny who is a bit motionless lying face down on

the floor.

“Bushman!” Heinous yells as he is taken by surprise by the UnStAm

protectors.

“Heinous, the jig is up. We…we,” Bushman stops to look at Johnny

still lying on the floor, then looking back at Heinous, “Excuse me, let me

just go check on him.”

“By all means, go ahead,” Heinous says as he steps back to lean

against a couple of boxes. “You mind?” Heinous asks, as he puts a cigar

to his mouth.

“Actually yeah,” Bushman complains as he stares at Heinous. Then

turning to face the omnipotent ‘fourth wall’, “I mean, sure your friends

are doing it and it may seem cool at the time —.”

He then stops and is joined by Johnny who continues, “but recent

studies show that more people die of second hand smoke than from

smoking.” Heinous walks up to the other side of Bushman, faces the

‘fourth wall’ and says, “So don’t be a murderer be a friend, don’t smoke.”

Then all at once they chime, “This has been a public service announce-

53 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

ment brought to you by Bushman and friends.” Without missing a beat,

once the last word is spoken, they all return to their original places. And,

as if a director has yelled “Action” they pick up where they had stopped.

Taking the cigar away from his mouth and stuffing it back into his

coat pocket, Heinous shrugs his shoulders , “Fine. Now go. Go see to your

friend.”

“Thank you,” Bushman smirks as he rushes to Johnny and picks him

up by his arm.

“Ahh…my face,” Johnny groans as he holds his hands over his face.

“Great effort, but you have to follow through on the initiative you

take, otherwise what’s the po — OH my god,” Bushman says in a

moment of fright, as he stares at Johnny’s face.

“What?” Then as he looks at Bushman’s face, he becomes nervous,

“What is it? My face?”

“No. It’s just a scratch,” Bushman says to calm down Johnny.

“What the hell happened to you?” Heinous asks as he stares at

Johnny’s face. As Johnny looks at Heinous, Bushman, trying to catch

Heinous’s attention, shakes his head “No.” Clearing his throat Heinous

looks at Bushman, then looks at Johnny’s face, and then looks back at

Bushman, “Now?”

Standing Johnny straight up, Bushman replies, “Now.”

“I’ve got you now, Bushman,” Heinous says with a grin.

Staggering on his feet, Johnny says, “No. You’re going down,

Heinous. Me and Bushman will see to that.”

“That is where you are wrong, John - eww,” A figure in the shadows

says, before it is stopped by the look of Johnny’s face. It then continues

after a few seconds of silence, “You have walked into a fight you can not

possibly win. This building is crawling with Sa’dism Heinous’s men, as

well as my own.”

“Who are you? Step out of the shadows so we can see you,” Bushman

orders in a stern voice.

“My name is Oz’ma… Dr. Oz’ma Shroudin, Bushman, you and your

now long faced friend, Johnny, are our prisoners.” Dr. Oz’ma Shroudin snaps

his fingers, signaling his men and Heinous’s men to surround the duo.

“Bushman!” Johnny yells as he looks at the surrounding force.

“What is it, chum?” Bushman replies.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 54

“What did he mean long faced friend?”

“Now is not the time for that, Johnny.” Bushman tries to focus on

the men circling them. Then all at once Heinous’s men and Shroudin’s

men rush in to attack. Bushman and Johnny fight with all their heart, but

at the end seem no match for such an overwhelming force. It may have

been the end for Bushman and Johnny if not for the Freedom Force that

comes crashing through the skylight, led by Commander Pow. It seems

as though the tables have turned and Heinous’s and Shroudin’s force

would be crushed, until Heinous uncovers a nuclear bomb. “I have been

saving this for such an occasion,” Sa’dism Heinous smiles.

“You can’t bluff your way out, Heinous,” Bushman says, as he stands

in front of the might of the Freedom Force.

“Who’s bluffing, the bomb is active…the bomb is active! Shroudin,

we never discussed this,” Sa’dism Heinous says in fright, as he looks at Dr.

Oz’ma Shroudin holding the triggering device.

“You must excuse my indignation, Heinous. For now I tend to prove

my actions have merit, whereas your actions, as well as Bushman’s and

the Freedom Force’s, are fallacious. However, I must thank you for skew-

ing my attention to the true problem. UnStAm. Where there lies a coun-

try with men capable of great potential lies only impotent commoners

whose leaders are little more than inept with inane delusions of

grandeur. They foolishly believe that if left to their own devices they will

show man’s unlimited possibilities of greatness. Instead, they have shown

man’s unlimited possibilities for self-destruction. They squander their

finances over petty materialistic items all in the name of “advancement

and discovery”. They create guns that kill thousands all to defend their

ideas, which they will force onto an unwilling people. Meanwhile,

around the world, less fortunate nations lose millions merely because

they cannot afford the necessities of life. They are a nation that revere the

powerful and abhor those that offer no benefit. It is a lost nation, caught

in a downward spiral with no hope of salvation…unless I interject.” Dr.

Oz’ma Shroudin clutches onto the bomb’s triggering device.

Squinting, Bushman steps forward and in a stern voice, “I dare you

to say that again…in English.” As if time has stopped, everyone gazes in

confusion at Bushman. “Oh, don’t tell me ya’ll understood a word he

said,” Bushman reacts, breaking the wave of silence that filled the room.

55 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

“Anyway, this was not part of the plan, Shroudin.” Sa’dism Heinous

responds in fright as he glares at Shroudin.

“It’s the only way to take out the UmStAm protectors. Once I’m

gone the rest of my force will help to create a new nation, ONE shaped

in our image… MY image,” Dr. Oz’ma Shroudin asserts, infused with

victory at hand.

Is it too late? Can Dr. Oz’ma Shroudin’s plan be stopped in time?

What does Sa’dism Heinous think of Shroudin’s highly dubious actions?

And what has happened to Johnny’s face? Find out in the next episode of

“The Adventures of Bushman and Johnny.” �

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 56

Joel Zavala

Arthur Marines | Coma

Sometimes

when I am alone

in the claws of company

or by myself

I accidentally fall

into a coma

my eyes

roll over white

and stare

backwards

at a dead brain

and I am looking down

at its deep and twisted

pink fleshy canyons

where on the canyon floor

deep down and without light

a boy

has secretly learned

to jiggle open

the closet’s locked door

to sneak

a drink

from the toilet

or scraps

from the trash.

57 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Arthur Marines | Heavenly Father

We are gathered

here today

pressed sleek

and black

like loyal ants

marching

on their shoulders

an old

crumbly and molding

empty box

of fancy chocolates

inside now

a dead pig

our procession

containing ranks and files

of clowns

only lacks

a baton twirler

and drummer

to turn carnival parade.

our grave spectacle

illuminates our passenger

with the

tinted green

and sleepy

surreal illusion

of importance

a grossly inflated

value that I never spent

on the dead swine inside.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 58

As an investor

my notes of love and affection

were beaten loose from my little heart

the pieces

carried off by rats

I scavenged a couple of tokens

of love

here and there

and a few i.o.u’s

that I placed inside

a cheap plastic

heart shaped

piggy bank

and swallowed.

59 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Arthur Marines | Elmer Horrid

E lmer Horrid was a short man not standing more thanfifty-six inches or so above sea level. He wore greasy thick red colored

flesh like that of a barbecued pig. His barreled chest and rubber beer

belly were Santa Claus size and hairless, covered only in the sweat and

locomotive grease that he was married to. They sat upon his skinny

skeleton stick legs like those of a water walker. The pig hooves that were

connected to his wrist bore scars, and busted knuckles were evidence of

the fights with radios and television sets, unfortunate enough to insult

him. The pointer finger on his left hoof was completely severed and the

ring finger on his right hoof was broken and smashed into the shape of

the letter “S”. He used to joke and tell my sisters and me that is what hap-

pens to fingers when you put wedding rings on them. His giant size five

and a half black leather work boots that incased his short, hairy, and fat

feet were worn soft from centuries of overtime. Their soles that once held

great thick treads like those of a World War II Sherman Tank were now

greasy and smooth with the toe and heel turned up from the ground like

a pair of curled black velvet spoiled bananas. The raw unfinished leather

laces that once gouged out all twenty-six eye holes had been torn, then

repaired only to be busted shorter and shorter now could only slither

their way to unlucky eyehole number thirteen where my father—solid,

kneeling down, straining like an ant lifting railroad boxcars above his

head—would stretch the laces so tight that it would choke the neck of the

boots causing the tongue to collapse forward while gasping for air. Then

with his short stubby furry fingers, fast but delicate like the thin precise

legs of a black widow spider twirling a web around its prey to cocoon it,

would tug, wrestle, loop, turn and pull the tiny tails of leather lace into a

knot. He dressed only in blue denim overalls or “bibs,” as he would call

them. He had three pairs, one hardly worn except on Sundays, his only

day off, and two greasy ones that Momma could never get completely

clean. So that even after a good washing they looked quite soiled as

though the stains were supposed to be like print or decorations on the

fabric. Even after all these years I can still picture his “bibs” hanging on

the clothes wire motionless except when a breeze would whisper and

dance to life the unexpected uniforms of a dictator, as though they were

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 60

two empty suits of medieval armor unable to attack without the man

inside ragging it to life. As a child I would imagine myself as a knight in

battle, our backyard the battlefield, the line of clothes an advancing army.

I would charge at Elmer’s overalls hanging from the wire. I would thrash

and beat my broken broom handle sword into them, pretending that my

razor-sharp round wooden sword was hacking off the body parts that

were not there. The legs, arms and head would fall to the ground during

the bloody battle. With the wooden sword raised above my head I was

victorious against Elmer Horrid, celebrating like the madman dancing to

the music that he could not hear.

My father, mother, sister Lizabeth, sister Ester, our dog John

Browning, and I all lived in two railroad cars that had been joined togeth-

er at the ends to make one long rusty cage. Uncle Drew and my Father,

using scrap sheet metal that they found in the Boxcar Graveyard at

Southern Pacific Railroad where they worked, had assembled two bed-

rooms dividing my sisters from my parents, a kitchen from a parlor and

one small closet-size room where he kept his Zenith. On Sundays this

room served as my father’s throne; he would sit in the entire room occu-

pying all of its empty space tightly squeezed in like a man on his first day

of a prison life sentence. He could reach out and feel the ends of his world

and scrape its cold walls that had never felt the warmth of a sunbeam.

Once locked in, no man or animal could ever threaten his throne. The

Zenith blasted out songs louder than a train whistle, music from Elvis

Presley and Muddy Waters warped the atmosphere into the light yellow

haze of blame and the heavy red sound of regret. The air reeked of moon-

shine, the floor soaked and stained with the wet boozy stench of urine. All

who entered into the throne while my father was quietly ruling his castle

would receive his royal beating. In my brain I could replay clearly in the

vibrancy of Technicolor the evening my eldest sister Liza crept into the

throne room and in her best gentle rhetoric tried to persuade the king to

surrender his throne for the night so that John Browning and I could

again use it as our warm cradle. He charged her like a loaded freight train

landing upon her with all fours. Hooves, clinched tight like the coiled

spring of a mousetrap and the accuracy of Jack Dempsey, punched my

sister’s face blood red. Her nose cracked and broken gave way to the left

hooks and flurry of right jabs. My father, stopping only because he grew

61 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

tired and short of breath, raised himself from Liza, unsteady at first like a

young colt climbing atop its long legs after birth. But once afoot he was

solid like a bull, indisputable for a few short steps, but then he collapsed

onto the kitchen floor, no longer able to keep his composure under the

tanker car size jugs of moonshine. I remember my mother and Ester

kneeling over Liza stroking her forehead, their tears temporarily washing

blood into clear streaks on her face. I remember Liza’s legs lay long and

still,not real, but more like plastic fake legs like the kind you see manikins

standing on in fancy clothing stores. Her arms sunk to the floor with

palms facing the apricot rusty ceiling. Her body was wooden with no

movement at all except for her head bobbing like a jack in the box. Her

cries for help had turned into insane clips and phrases like “O Momma,

look at me I think I cut myself chopping up onions again.” And like,

“Momma do you remember when I was just a button and got real sick

and all that blood was coming out from down there and you said it was

cause a fire ant must have fallen in the stew when we was cooking it and

I must of ate it by accident, and Momma that’s not right at all, I know you

lied to me, Momma, I know you lied to me and I didn’t care, Momma;

you know why? I tell you why Momma cause I didn’t want his baby,

Momma, I used to pray to the devil, Momma, that he would kill my baby

and you know what? He did, Momma, he killed my baby and I know I’m

going to hell for what I done but Daddy will too, Momma, I’ll see him in

hell.” I covered my ears to block out Lizabeth’s madness. I shoved my head

deep into John Browning’s fur, I was scared and so was he. I heard him

whisper, “Please, God of all dogs big and small, save us, save us from your

rusty box car hell.

Our giant Zenith radio was never able to produce song, story nor

spoken voice for John Browning and me. My father would disconnect the

long thin copper wire he used for an antenna; he kept it rolled up tightly

next to his “John Browning,” a Government Model Colt 1911 45 that he

got from his daddy after the war. Both the wire and John Browning were

locked away tight in a metal box that used to house a set of chrome loco-

motive gages. But our Zenith was so grand even without the copper wire;

when the power was turned on the megahertz meter glowed orange and

the quiet sound of a million people whispering gently poured from its

twelve inch round speaker. John Browning and I would lie awake at night

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 62

and with our special kind of ears we could decipher the top secret whis-

pers from their light hisses into the loud exotic African drum music and

vivid stories of John Wayne and his posse getting their ass kicked by Billy

The Kid and his gang. John Browning liked to listen to the sweet green-

blue flat world where there lived only dogs and a few selected special

humans and no such things as collars, chains, or fleas, not even table

scraps. In this world every dog at the end of a day would magically find

a ripped red steak still dripping blood in their bowl that would reappear

at dinner time day after day. Looking back I think John Browning liked

the Zenith more than I. I remember the day when my father crazy in the

middle of a moonshine binge broke it. John Browning must have cried

for forty days and forty nights; even to this very day he says it was the

worst day of his whole entire life, but as bad as that day was there was still

a little good in it, even if we did lose the Zenith.

That day started out like any other, nothing was different about it at

all. While I was sleeping the moon had gone home behind the mountains

and taken all the stars and darkness with it. In its place the sun had awak-

ened from its bright night of fire and dreams and he took his usual place

in the sky. The morning glories and birds were bathing in his warmth, the

fresh smell of the new day could be tasted on our tongue. Nothing was out

of the ordinary, not my mother hanging wash, not John Browning chas-

ing rabbits, not my sister’s face being purple and mushy. Nothing was out

of place but I felt afraid, something was lurking, something had not gone

to sleep, something had carried over and managed to stay alive from the

night before. We were not alone that morning; there was some other pres-

ence in the cars. I could feel it staring at me; it was consuming all the oxy-

gen in the boxcars. I gasped, squeezing my lungs flatter than flap jacks. As

I tried to suck air, it made my brain swell to a melon so that it pressed pain

on all sides of my head like the time Elmer stuck my hand in his vice and

turned it till my fingers broke. With eyes rolling back into my cheeks I col-

lapsed to the floor, I could feel the blood in my veins growing cold; ice

began to form on the tips of my toes and fingers. I tried to call out for

John Browning but someone must have nailed my voice box shut while I

was sleeping cause no words would come out. My spine began to twist like

a vine of ivy, I could feel it coiling, my ribs shearing off as it circled. I was

all but dead when I heard Elmer screaming.

63 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

He was tearing the boxcars apart, breaking everything of glass,

smashing all that was wood: chairs, table, Zenith, clock; even spoons and

forks were twisted and bent under his feet. “Where is my gun, bitch”!

“You fucking whores, where is my John Browning”? “Who took it? I

swear to God I am going to kill you fucking people”! The thing must

have heard Elmer yelling and screaming and got scared, it let go of me

and my eyes rolled back front on my face again and stared at the rusty

ceiling. My spine unwound and straightened into my vertebrae again. I

took gulps of air into my lungs like a fish suffocating from air; the ice on

my fingers and toes melted into water as the blood warmed in my veins.

Lifting my body from the floor I stood upon my knees till my breathing

returned to normal, then staggering to my feet I followed Elmer’s and my

sisters’ screams into the kitchen where all of the cupboards and drawers

had vomited their cups, pots, spoons, knives, platters, plates and many

things that I never knew we had like a souvenir bottle opener from the

fairgrounds, all onto the floor.

Mother’s stove had been turned on its side and the small pilot light

of orange flame that used to glow in the night bright enough for me to

find my way to the faucet for a glass of water was now a flame thrower

that danced in the breeze gently blowing in from the smashed-out

kitchen windows. The ice box with its rust metal doors was strong at first

but later gave up and surrendered to Elmer’s wrecking ball kicks. With its

belly broke it spit a river of milk, meat, cream, leftovers and butter

between my toes and over my feet. I gazed at the yellow white liquid, my

ears not hearing anything; I watched how the river swirled into reds and

browns then flowed into greens and back to white. It dripped out of the

kitchen down the hall and seeped out under the space at the bottom of

the door, where John Browning was barking and scratching trying his

damndest to get in.

My eyes slowly blinked open and I saw the chaos, my eardrums and

bones vibrated from my screaming sisters. Elmer stood in the corner

where he had Liza trapped choking her throat with his left hand and

punching her with his right all the while saying, “Again, bitch, say it

again”! Ester with a small kitchen knife stuck in her left arm was wrapped

around his right arm like a coiled python, trying to anchor his fist to a

halt but she only rode his arm up and down like a carnival ride.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 64

Unwinding herself from Elmer’s arm she repositioned herself on his back

then bit him on the neck. He arched his spine with pain letting go of

Liza’s throat but she just stood there not moving. Like a crab he reached

his claws back behind him and peeled Ester from his back smashing her

into the wall then down on top of Liza. Elmer picked them both up by

their necks like two roosters in his fist; he was smashing their faces

together yelling, “Kiss your sister, bitch, kiss her”! And that’s when I

heard John Browning bark louder than I ever had heard him before.

Elmer was thrown against the wall, Liza and Ester were knocked free of

his grip. Elmer was dancing with himself, jumping up and down around

the room scratching at his back like he had an orange hot rabbit stuck in

his overalls. John Browning barked again and my mother dropped him

smoking to the floor. Elmer was knocked right off his feet and onto his

back. He landed with his head propped up on the toaster as if he were

trying to use it as a pillow. I stared at Elmer on the floor, I carefully stud-

ied his snout and the hairs on his chinny-chin-chin. �

65 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Arthur Marines | Dream

And with eyelids measured in pounds, with my ears’tiny drummer boy slowing his tempo to the rhythm of his batting

eyes and sleepy yawns, my brain’s driver pulled over, turned off the radio,

removed the key, laid the seat back and snoozed. I woke up in sepia-tone

again twenty shades of slightly over riped bananas and a small handful

of brownish lemons, maybe some blacks but I can’t say for sure, because

I was sleeping. I was in my mother’s house again but instead of green

lime stucco walls with the red trim and faded rose flowered wallpaper it

was wood, from light fixture to floorboard all wood: old plank wood like

you would see in an old southern home about the time of the American

civil war. Long old and cracking weathered planks that would have been

off-white with paint peeling if I hadn’t been dreaming in yellow. I was

cowering at the front door, which was cracked half closed. There was

something on the other side, not an awful thing, just an empty nothing,

a voided area of dream still waiting to be born. My mistake was hesita-

tion. I was too slow in my subconscious to fill the empty space with a

harmless idea or teddy bear and then for a millionth of a second I wor-

ried about what might be there on the other side hiding behind the door.

My worrying quickly transformed into fear through Fear Formation*

and once fear was injected terror soon followed. The black and blurry

terror resembling the ghostly paranormal something that crouched in

the corner of my dark room when I was a child, the thing that grunted

deep hollow pig tones while I lay in bed dead still pretending to sleep,

wondering how much longer until the fear killing sun beams of light

shined in through my bedroom window and burned it quiet and dead

again. The terror sat rotting inside my stomach terrifying me and spread-

ing throughout my body like a cancer. Then it tried to come through, I

placed both hands flat against the door and pushed with every sleepy

muscle inside of me. My toes like talons sharply curled and stabbed

themselves through the wooden planks in a last ditch effort to shift my

weight forward and keep the door closed. But I am not a superman or

even an interesting man and even when at my best I will always lack

importance. I thought of failures and tauntings which translated into

my weakness and malfunction of keeping the door closed. I tried in vain

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 66

to muster strength, I called out for the green suited man that lived in the

fields behind my mother’s house. The man who held me in his arms

when I was a small boy and stroked my face, sung me to sleep and kept

me safe from thunder. The homeless man in the green suit who lifted his

green felt hat and made me smile with his candle of flame that shot from

his head. The man whose name I never asked until years later when I saw

his picture in a book and the nun said he was St. Jude Thaddeus. It

scared me to death, my brain spun in circles snapping my spinal cord at

the base of my skull. I was unable to feel or process and collapsed to the

floor. When I awoke the door was nailed shut. �

*Fear Formation: The distance between worrying and fear can only be measured

in microns. The two ”Feelings” or “States of mind” at first glance may appear to

be distinctively set apart from each other. Their only common trait is that they

share the fondness for the letter “r”, but if looked at closely and with the aid of

an electronic microscope one can plainly see that the letter “g” in “worrying” is

carefully connected to the letter “f” in “fear” by a microscopic fiber optic wire.

It is along this tiny wire where Fear Formation occurs and worrying often

creeps into fear.

67 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Adriana Michel | Security

In fantasy, I hear raindrops.

Characters have faces that look like birds.

Worry-free flyers, signing outside the window

in my 6 a.m. reality, bathe in the rain.

I awaken, first in mind then body as I hear

a low growl.

Smooth

strong

safe

and sweet.

My protector, I rest at your feet.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 68

Adriana Michel | Confused Minds

In the silent hills of Southern California

I think of Mexicans hitting beer bottles in every town,

wetbacks’ wet backs picking strawberries in dirt canals,

and the graveyard shift worker waiting for the rising sun

to relieve him.

Honest husbands are ashamed to go home.

Their wives know like hunting dogs

scents of another female.

Because

men work so hard to get paid

yet hardly get laid,

they stride aggressively through women’s hearts

knowing what they do

hurts.

69 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

John Monge | Henry

I have seen you wandering the streets,

searching for that bus home in the rain,

lost and forgotten

in a diabetic coma kind of way.

So cold and lonely, yet always the same.

Where are you going?

Why do you stay?

Is it something you have forgotten?

Something to say?

Why, when 1996 seems so far astray?

And when I pass you I always feel the same,

hope turns to loss, sorrow, separation and pain.

I have tried to return to you

with sugar in my water

then ice in my veins

but you are no longer there,

only the bruises remain.

Was it like this in WW2, Dad?

Yes, I now scream in vain.

tie me up, tie me up

the valium is wearing off.

I must be restrained,

pulled out the IVs

on the streets again.

We are forever moving

both lost in the rain,

faceless blurs

in which your eye remains.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 70

Joe Morales | Freddie’s Words

It wouldn’t have been a big surprise to hear it: the side-walks, so completely clean you couldn’t pick up a piece of litter if you

tried; the huge front gates guarding huge front lawns that were kept

primped and proper; no less than two shiny sedans in every 50 foot

driveway, and no sedan older than the last presidential election. These

were some well-to-do folks. And we were just visitors, here on a day pass,

gawking at the unfamiliar scenery from inside a school bus.

“Look at that water-fountain!” exclaimed Hugo, whom everyone

nicknamed Juice.

“Is that a mansion?!” Rosina asked out loud to no one in particular.

We were just blocks away now, meandering through small, secluded

residential streets. Everywhere you stared greeted you with a sterile, unfa-

miliar sight. Boyle Heights never seemed so distant.

We pulled up to the sidewalk and filed out, an air of anxious energy

hanging over each of us. Going to school in the Hills, there was this ini-

tial culture shock, having lived basically in working-class Mexican neigh-

borhoods your whole life.

“You a sellout now, or what?” Rafa asked, his tone of accusation

thinly-veiled.

“Nah, not even” was the only response I could muster and it hung

lamely in the air.

It seemed as if everyone had enrolled in local schools. It didn’t go

over very well when my friends heard I wouldn’t be joining them, instead

heading miles away to what they dubbed a preppy, white-boy school.

Wandering around the campus, you’d see there was no use denying

there certainly were plenty of white people anywhere you turned, any-

where you walked, in any class you sat in. I had hardly known any white

students during elementary school. Starting middle school, I was now

immersed among them.

Towards the end of homeroom, they handed out the class schedules.

I looked over my yellow perforated slip. It showed my name, DOB, grade

and ID number, as if I were a barcode. I focused in on my first class : 1.

WHG/Social Studies, Martin. Stuart Hall, RM 154.

After a brief walk, I found the room and shuffled in nervously and

71 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

sat towards the back corner. People were already sitting down in small

groups. Most everyone in here was Caucasian. There were some Asian

kids and one black girl; I was the only brown kid. I glanced around nerv-

ously as the warning bell rang. Occasionally, I glanced at the doors and

hoped some familiar face walked in, but more strangers, sometimes in

pairs, filled the empty seats, and no one from the bus. The room was full

of chatter. The tardy bell rang.

All the while the teacher sat at his desk, hiding behind a newspaper.

He ignored the bell and kept reading. I sat staring at the walls, white-

washed walls filled with political maps of the Middle East. Behind me,

black and white posters of Jackie Robinson and Sandy Koufax and other

Dodger greats were displayed. Near the farthest door, another black and

white poster; he looked a lot like the guy from “90210,” smoking a ciga-

rette and sitting on the hood of a silver Porsche Spyder. I’d later find out

he was a famous actor named James Dean. Above him was a slogan,

thumb tacked, with the phrase "God Speed,” and underneath the poster,

also thumbtacked, the warning "buckle your seatbelt.” Beneath the clock

was a picture of an old guy waving. This one looked more recent. I would

learn that he was the prime minister of Israel, Yitzhak Rabin, and he

would be assassinated by the this time next month.

The teacher sat at his own desk silently, while the room continued

with conversations. The kid in front of me turned and asked about my

“Batman Forever” folder (I’d seen the movie twice that summer). It

turned out he had the same one. We ended up talking until the teacher

finally got up from his chair. This kid would turn out to be a good friend.

His name was John Horowitz, first Jewish person I ever met. He and his

surrounding group had attended a local elementary school and were sur-

prised when they found out I was from East L.A. We all shared the next

class together and got acquainted.

During nutrition I met up and sat with old, familiar friends. So far,

so good. Everyone seemed okay. Far as I could see, no sign of any snobs.

Until gym class, that is.

* * *

No one dressed for PE the first day, instead they took roll and assigned

us lockers while everyone stood around, mostly in groups, some individu-

ally, waiting for the bell. We were outside because the gyms were closed.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 72

Once roll was taken, we were told not to leave early and left to ourselves.

I was hanging out with Juice. The contrast we made was striking, if

not comical. I, a short, chubby brown kid and he, a pale skinny guy who

towered over me by a half a foot. We walked aimlessly through the bas-

ketball courts, waiting for lunch. In the distance, we noticed Enrique

from the school bus brought a ball. He wasn’t as tall as Juice, but he was

definitely darker than I. We didn’t know him all that well but thought it

couldn’t hurt to see if we could run a full-court game.

Enrique, in his ragged blue sweater fresh off some Salvation Army

bin (like my shirt) held on to the ball and seemed to be talking to some

guy from our gym class, whom I recognized from the brand new Troy

Aikmen jersey and Air Jordan sneakers, the white ones with red lining

that looked so much like clown shoes and sold for no less than $200.

Besides that, he was tall. He even dwarfed Juice by a good five inches and

roughly thirty pounds. During roll call, I had heard him respond to the

name Freddie Lopez.

As Juice and I approached, we noticed Enrique wasn’t actually talk-

ing with Freddie, who was flanked on either side by equally well-dressed

cohorts. It was Freddie who was doing all the talking. We arrived mid-

monologue and stood listening by the baseline.

Freddie, with his hands held out, demanded the ball, speaking loud-

ly and slowly, overtly condescending. Enrique, in fact, did not speak

English, but it was not hard to tell when someone was speaking down to

you. He held the ball and stared at Freddie, his expression of silent aware-

ness staring back, unflinchingly. This unvoiced defiance, muting

Freddie’s words, was almost tangible, drawing more focus from the

hangers-on that stood silently by Freddie’s side.

Now it seemed Enrique was winning, standing his ground with

quiet dignity, still holding onto the ball and choosing not to oblige to

this stranger’s self-imposed authority. And Freddie, perhaps not wanting

to walk away defeated, started spitting insults.

“Lemme-see-da-ball, you fucking wetback choont. Why don’t you

fuckin’ beaners ever talk English?”

These words, spiteful and racist, cut through Enrique’s silence. Now

he was caught off-guard, and I too felt the same nerve struck. It wasn’t

just the syllables or syntax of these remarks, but the acidic tone in

73 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Freddie’s voice, the self-loathing in his diatribe. This guy wasn’t white,

and somehow that was the most disquieting part about it.

My friends could have spent all day talking about preppy white boys,

or being a sellout for bussing it to some outside-the-neighborhood

school. But they never mentioned the one thing I’d have to be ready to

face starting that first day of school: the obnoxious, racist, loud-

mouthed, self-hating Mexican. �

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 74

Rafael Esparza

Joe Morales | Citizenship

Because my father never wore a tie to earn

his middle wage, his livelihood was without

collars or coordination of what color cloth

to bear, least of all a shiny cufflink.

It’s true my father never wore a tie to participate

in building upon what men in suits with ties

(as always) insist (without a doubt)

is what america is all about.

Yet without a tie my father managed,

wearing working boots instead.

And what’s in a piece of cloth

that suits a special requisition?

Allegiance. To his flag he pledged,

his coarse and callous hand held

over his only other special cloth

he’d bear without pretension

75 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Joe Morales | Body of Water

I’m sitting on a sea of grass, staring at this lake’s aloofness,

the one others judge as shallow because they can’t

or won’t see the silent depth she holds.

Unlucky are they who haven’t learned still waters run deep as oceans

and find themselves overwhelmed and drown, while venturing in vain

beneath this moonlit mirror, whose reflections stay the same. It’s worth

swimming down to see and grasp the treasures they never notice.

That initial plunge: a seemingly severe sensation

but only at first because it takes time for bodies to adjust

to sudden change in temperature, then gradually that initial pain

becomes a pleasure to submerge, to explore,

to feel and gladly stand the deepest pressures and curse

the need to resurface to relieve these aching lungs. To breathe…

inhaling the cool and pleasant air of the night

underneath the ivory moon and porcelain stars engulfed

inside this water, gladly diving down the rippling gleams,

every single sense at once enticed beyond elation.

It’s worth swimming

down to see and grasp

the treasures they never notice.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 76

Rudi Ramos Oropeza | The Baseball

It was hot I remember and the sun was burning outside. I was sitting at the table writing the contents of another book to per-

fect my sloppy penmanship. It was like plagiarizing on purpose without

being punished. My hand was getting tired after writing about one hun-

dred pages from an encyclopedia; it became tedious to copy each letter

and word from it. My wrist was more than worn out; it felt as if with

every letter I wrote I was unscrewing my hand from my wrist to slowly

come off. This became torture. I thought what kind of mother lets her

son write so many pages to perfect his writing when so far to me it was

still sloppy with a couple of letters showing some potential.

I sat there now making funny noises like a monkey or snake. It was

77 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Shugo Maino

my whining that got my mother’s attention instead of saying, “Mom, can

I go now?” She came over and took a look at my work. It was as if she

analyzed letter by letter word by word to see some progress or change in

my sloppy writing, expecting a miracle that my letters would be more

straight, fine, and perfect. How am I supposed to know what’s perfect?

She wants me to copy, but I’m not allowed to plagiarize at school. I sat

there staring at my mother wondering what she would probably say,

something like “No es suficiente, tienes que escribir mas.” After writing

so much I would have cared the least, but a good nap would fix it all. To

my surprise my mother said it was fine, that I showed some improve-

ment in my writing; well I sure didn’t question or argue with that. I just

smiled, thinking, “Wow, my sloppy writing paid off. What do you know,

maybe I should write better once in a while.”

My mother said, “Esta bien, te puedes ir a jugar.” She didn’t have to

tell me twice. I took off like a bullet with my blue cap in my hand. The

door swung open with a hard push as I yelled, “I’m ready, guys, let’s

play!” I ran down the stairs of the front house and headed to the back

house where my cousin lived. I was wearing a red shirt with the picture

of a dragon and blue jeans torn from the bottom and the fading bluish

color on the knees. As I ran I looked at the parking lot making sure it was

big enough to play in and that no car was parked inside. I knocked on my

cousin’s door, then as it opened, “Hola esta Milo?” I couldn’t see who was

inside but I recognized the voice that said, “Ahorita va, esperalo cinco

minutos,” and I waited sitting down on a yellow chair that was rusted and

the plastic was beginning to break. The table next to me had piled car-

tons of packaged tortillas.

Milo smiled as he opened the door. He was wearing his blue cap,

orange shirt and jeans and carrying his Los Angeles Dodgers glove. My

cousin was small, naturally thin because he ate and drank milk like crazy,

and very “morenito.” He was a hell of a runner since he was small and

most of the time he was up ahead of everyone. He moved his right hand

onto the glove and took out the baseball which he passed to me. “Hey,

this is cool, pero no tengo un guante?” He said, “Don’t worry, dude, Andy

or Ryan will lend you one and I told Rene to come and play too.” We both

laughed and started running through the parking lot; as we reached the

sidewalk we headed towards our friend’s house. We opened the gate and

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 78

walked up to the door and knocked, “Esta Andy?” Andy’s grandma, who

we called Mama Guera, came to the door, “Pasenle muchahos, ahorita

biene esta en su cuerto. Andres! Llego Rudi y Camilo.” We were seated in

the living room, as we waited we flipped through the various channels on

cable TV and found some cartoons. The air was not like at home. Milo

laughed, “This is cool, not hot air, it’s air conditioning.” Andy came in

drying his hair with a light blue towel. To me Andy was a type of

American white boy but really he was Mexican, just extremely

Americanized. His family came from Mexico, but he was like third or

fourth generation who could hardly speak any Spanish to us. We some-

times laughed at him but helped him out I guess. He looked at Milo and

me, “Hey what’s up, guys! So are we gonna play ball or what?” Milo stood

up, “Well, we’re ready, we just need another glove for Rudi. Can he bor-

row one of yours?” “Sure, no problem,” he said. We walked down the hall

and into his room. There were clothes lying everywhere and his bed was

a total mess. He managed to reach into his closet and take out a spare

glove. He threw the glove over to me, my hand fit perfectly. He cau-

tioned, “It’s one of my first gloves I got, so take care of it.”

We ran out of the house towards the parking lot. Andy screamed,

“The last one there is a rotten egg.” When we got there we began to point

fingers at each other on who was the rotten egg. However, Ryan was com-

ing over walking slowly. He was bigger than us at that time both in height

and weight; he was our huge friend, but he was a cool kid, I thought,

always seemed relax as long as you weren’t on his bad side. At times he

seemed sentimental as if what we said struck him hard, but I guess soci-

ety does this to all of us at one point and we feel we got to do this to

someone else. We looked at him shouting, “It’s Ryan, you’re the last one,

you’re it” and laughed. He only stared and nodded in disagreement. Then

we all began to play baseball. First up was Milo as he stood there imitat-

ing Mike Piazza. I pitched the ball and Milo had two strikes but on the

third ball he swung and the ball went flying out into the street. Andy,

being the fastest runner, ran for the ball and on his own ran back into

second base stopping Milo from continuing. Andy laughed, “What’s up,

who’s fast… that’s right.” Besides, Andy had some serious attitude in

sports, always trying to be the best no matter what it took. I wonder now

if he’s still like that or if he’s lost his way.

79 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Next up was Ryan. As he was getting ready to bat, the door of Milo’s

house opened and Rene came out. He was the oldest of all of us. He

wanted to bat so we allowed him to go and take Ryan’s turn. He stood

there very still and got ready. I began to think, “This could be my

moment, all I have to do is take him out, three strikes that’s all.” My

hands got a little shaky and the ball was covered in my sweat. Andy yelled

out, “Come on, Rudi, take him out,” and Ryan said, “Rene is going to

send that ball the hell out of here, so just give him the ball.” I moved as

quickly as possible remembering what Uncle had taught me about curve

balls. I let the ball go just as I was told with my fingers placed at the right

part of the ball. I saw the ball going as if to hit Rene and then it curved

out into the center where he could hit the ball perfectly. My smile had

faded as quickly as the last sound I heard, which was the loud bang of the

bat and ball. I was on the floor holding onto myself as I felt pain; my head

was throbbing so fast I couldn’t hear anything that was being said. I lay

on the floor like a baby in a mother’s womb. I had tears all over my face

as if the rain had fallen, and I was red, nearly purple. I held tightly onto

my knees, unable to describe the pain. My mother came out running; as

she carefully tried to pick me up, she said, “Andale mijo, tienes que

pararte, se que te duele pero intentalo.” Andy helped my mother lift me

up; the baseball that was on top of my genitals fell onto the ground and

rolled down all the way until it reached the yellow chair that was falling

apart. My mother held my arms and Andy picked up my legs as they car-

ried me into the house and set me on my bed. I lay there for the rest of

the evening wondering what happened to my curved ball: it was perfect,

so perfect it was supposed to be a strike and not a hit, a hit that didn’t

hurt me much physically yet left me in awe that I wasn’t good or good

enough for baseball. �

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 80

Nancy Perez | Kodachrome

Standing here before the ocean at the velvety, orangehour, the last sun rays take a dive and try to survive in the deep blue

that pulls them down and fuses them into shapeless dark, wet beauty with

a hazy voice that comes and goes as the tide sinks and rises. From here I

can soon see the yellow moon over the watery forest, against the purple

sky, and the entire world for a moment stops as diamond rains set the sky

on fire and stars come gently down with brilliant streaks of luminous

magenta and gold; and at this moment I am happy; I wish you were here.

Walking on the sand as it pulls heavy on my feet as if it doesn’t want

me to leave, I lose consciousness and take a doze of the watery, shapeless

wanderings in my mind without having to close my eyes. I self-destroy

and destroy the lines of the ground and sky until heaven and earth are

joined, until I could touch gray clouds, until all becomes like sand and

ocean, until all becomes blurry and clashes into each other and all are

made one, though without form. At this time I walk through the

labyrinths of my mind with thoughts of koda colored webs, kodaflies,

faceless water; each thought fusing into the other as it is allowed when

you don’t know if you’re touching earth or flying through the sky. This is

when the greens of my mind are born and I am free.

Looking at the hushed sky above the sea makes me want to run with

the turtle with wings and forget my name; and the entire sky becomes

like a window through which I peak at my green and purple dreams, and

mountains of red, and a placid bright shower of crystals that gleams

above earth like untouched rubies hidden inside a dark mine.

I see this through the bubbles of my mind that quickly sink to rise

again; and at this moment I am happy; I wish you were here. �

81 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Nancy Perez | Logs on Fire (with apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s

“The Eolian Harp”)

To you,

My sprinkle of rain, my faint breath

Escaping, leaving death in my air,

My heart is on the whisper.

Like the wind without a cage

Is this day; sitting, sunk beneath

My bowels, my heart beside

You on this bench,

Witnessing the dying sun;

It can never be mine, yet it lends itself.

And watch the velvet sky,

How gentle its touch was on our eyes;

Choking with foggy joy, nevertheless, in joy.

How exquisite your smile, and the warmth

Sends sparks of butterflies

In silence.

And those simplest logs on fire,

The sparks come up and vanish

Into the night air;

The little orange fingers trying to clutch and the

Wind directs them into whirls,

And light dances ‘round the

Blue and pink and purple flowers.

It’s like when Peter Pan went swimming through the clouds;

Water in clouds, clouds in water.

No lines,

And blue is green and green is pink

And Romeo is Juliet

And Juliet is Romeo.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 82

The world is in flames,

For color.

And a voice that floats from wave to wave in a blur of a tone—

come with me,

We could ride with pirates on a sparkling crystal ship

And lose one eye or two eyes or three;

Let’s talk to the dancing whale,

It’s waiting next to the mermaids

With star fishes igniting with life

In a dark blue that makes

Even the whitest shell blue.

Or

Let’s go to Never Land,

It’s in the air; you walk through it every day;

Oh, look at that rainbow,

It’s raining, it skitters

Into red evening, and golden

Fireflies fly through

Cascading water falls,

Where they lead to

Pocahontas talking to

Trees and leaves

Or otherwise shuffling eyes with Smith.

And thus, you, whom I think of in the dark,

While on deck of some enchanted sail,

I burn with twinkles of starlight

And navigate seas of colors; I am

Mutated as wild, and hot, and fleeting, and

Skittering that fire does burn into log.

83 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

And what if all creatures be but

Fire burning all around, igniting and

Losing itself into whirls, a recipe

With no outline, a mixing,

A weaving with no pattern,

As over it, night air,

Transforming, fusing,

Pulling it in a trillion-million, quadrillion, tata-matrillion

Ways, and God in all?

But you, you look at

The straight jacket and turn

To me,

And tell me to “grow up.”

And thank you, my sweet solidity;

It’s not good to lose sight

Of black and white

In fact, I may need a new pair of glasses.

Well, I grew up now:

No, Peter, I can’t fly;

No, Peter, “I don’t believe in fairies.”

Ah! Damn log fire, let’s put it out.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 84

Louie A. Rodriguez | Words of Life and Death: ACreation and Death Story

There was darkness in the depths of the mind. It wasdarkness so bright it swallowed the rising sun. Man was with soul.

Man was with body. Alas, Man was without mind. Mind was clouded in

fluorescent shadow.

The Earth shone with the darkness of light, of mind, of spirit.

Omesoles (Oh-meh-soul-es) descended upon the Earth from the dark-

ness of the high Heavens. Omesoles arose from the glorious abyss of the

underworld. She-He joined as one and saw the Earth.

She saw Man lost and struggling. He saw two shadows among his

children. Omesoles beheld a glow, blinking life in pairs. The other cast

darkness unto itself. It blared light from a solo blink from a lonely eye.

“Why do you struggle so?” She cried out to Man.

And said Man, “I can not see beyond my heart. My body desires

nourishment, stimulation. My heart desires love and compassion, noth-

ing else.”

“Are you not alive and well by your heart’s will?” He whispered to

Man’s soul.

“I am not,” said Man. “Part of my being is condemned to barren

sanctuary. I can not configure on my own accounts. My creator is thyself.

Loving and compassionate is my master. But there is no balance. Pain

impregnates my soul. I give life to sorrow and strife without reason.”

“Have you no faith in your own heart?” She said.

“I have faith in you,” said Man.

“Your mind is both night and day. Your understanding of thine own

ways governs thy struggle,” He said.

“I have never known mind. The mind of the sun penetrated my

heart’s dominion and told me of your arrival,” Man said.

“If ye desire to know mind, ye shall have it,” said Omesoles.

“The Blood of Life is the Blood of Earth. Let the Blood of Earth fill

your bones. And let that blood drip from your fingertips onto the flesh

of Earth,” She said.

“Your beings shall join as one, as your maker has. Your shadows shall

unite with three eyes. For your shadow is the silence of thy mind, body

85 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

and soul in light,” He said.

Omesoles granted Man a mind. Man’s shadows adhered. The three

eyes revealed the life of Earth now flowing through Man’s veins.

“To access mind, you must sever your longest finger and let life drip

back onto the Earth from which it came,” He said.

Man severed one fingertip. Blood of the Earth dripped out. Man

witnessed the transference of life. Puzzled, Man touched the mark life

had left and smeared it in all four directions and then Man discovered

the written word. Man then chronicled life thus far from its creation by

Omesoles.

Man gave life through written word. Man wrote of one-day harvest

crops. Crops were blessed with new life by the Blood of Life. Man wrote

of woman. Woman was given life from the Blood of Life. The Earth was

filled with life inside and out. Man chronicled himself as giver of life.

Man wrote of death. Man relinquished life of those women who did

not obey. Man relinquished life of trees who upheld no shade. Man relin-

quished life of creatures that were not liked. Infuriated by the lack of care

and consciousness of Man, Omesoles emerged from the Earth that was

marked, destroying the very life Man claimed to have given.

“Why does thou state thyself as giver of life? Have you forgotten the

darkness that plagued ye?” He said.

“Thou has showest thy true nature of the mind. To rule with your

mind and heart is the dominion of a true king. Thou art an adulterous

savage. Thou shall write and write. When thou feel to have given life, the

Blood of Life shall turn to poison and infringe pain into your being.

Perpetual pain presses onto death as thou shall no longer chronicle, but

revert back to that darkness ruled by love and compassion,” She said.

“Ye shall no longer bear the talent of life transference. If thou wish

to give life through word, ye must bleed into a hollow twig. By way of

twig shaped in identity of your finger, shall Man give life to word,” said

Omesoles. �

Note: Omesoles comes from two Mexican languages. Ome= two in the indigenous Nahautl;

Sol=sun in the contemporary Spanish.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 86

Louie A. Rodriguez | Penetrate(“Sucking it Up”)

I’m pretty sure Jesus used to drinkBut his teachings had me starting to think:To lose your heart is like building a familyFrom the start —First comes the infant then passes the elder,Blood and compassion fuels the welderFusing emotion into reminiscence When children cry a watchful eye listensAnd sees that yellow house on Ellison, a few of us knewA temple in essence where more than a few of us grew Future blood sweat and tearsWon’t soon drown pain from hearing your voice Ringing in my earsNo more.In myself of you I see remnants,It’s been 15 years and the Dodgers still haven’t won a pennant, Vanilla ice cream reminds of the Chevy Nova.Now I am much older, but not as heavy on the soda.The strongest man I thought ever could existA label machine put you on the payroll list.When you two first came to the coastHow was I supposed to know I’d look up to you the most.I regret never really hitting you up for knowledgeEven though you practically put me thru college Months before I finally suck it up,My grief and hopes belong to you,Going up

87 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Pat Sandoval | BEANS

Sun gleaming through curtains made from a flour sack

Steam rising from the clay la olla

A huge woman, her gray hair tied in a bun

She stirs with a wooden spoon

While swaying back and forth in her cotton gown

Standing next to her is a boy watching every move

Quets eso?

Frijoles, mijo!

The aroma fills the room, the boy’s stomach growls

Quets eso?

After a pause, Frijoles, mijo?

The boy draws closer to the stove

Cuidau, no te quemas

Mama, quets eso?

BEANS!

Mmmm, I like BEANS

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 88

Pat Sandoval | The Crossing

H igh in the mountains of Guatemala lies a villagemade of tin roofs. A dirt road winds its way up the mountains like

a serpent. The mountainside is a patchwork of cornfields. Smoke spews

from the ceiling of the shacks as the first rays of the sun attempt to burn

through the morning mist that hugs the village like a blanket. Shadowy

figures line the road in the early morning light. Among them is a woman

who has aged beyond her years wearing a hand woven dress and an old

hat. She has a baby fastened tightly to her back with a shawl. Alongside

of her, two small children struggle to keep pace with quick agile foot-

steps. When she reaches the cornfield the landscape is illuminated with

the brilliant light of the morning sun. The young woman spends all

morning digging in the earth between the rows of tall corn, with her

baby strapped to her back and a little boy and girl playing nearby. At

noon she removes some tortillas from a knitted bag and gives some to

her children as she breast-feeds Benigno. She buries a small piece in the

ground and says a prayer for her children. She prays that Benigno pros-

per in life and never lose his way.

Several years later Benigno, at seventeen, rests under a mesquite tree

outside of Tijuana Mexico with two men and two women he’s never met

before. It’s August and the sun blazes down on the desert. The small band

of people is waiting for the Coyotes to guide them across the border.

They’ve been waiting there all night and are very tired and hungry.

They’re all carrying small knapsacks with a few provisions of food, water

and a few articles of clothing. As the sun finally reaches the horizon and

darkness begins to engulf the desert, a pair of tiny headlights approaches

them from the east. Don Pablo, the oldest member of the group, whis-

pers, “vamonos.” Benigno and the others quickly rise to their feet. Two

men dressed in cowboy hats and boots order them to get into their old

beat up Ford Sedan. Several hours later they arrive at a location deep

inside the desert somewhere east of Mexicali Mexico. It’s a full moon and

six silent figures sit shivering under a cold desert sky next to a metal fence

separating the United States from Mexico. Don Pablo, who has crossed

the border several times before, tries to comfort the group: “ No se pre-

cupen, everything’s going to be all right, in a few days you’ll be earning

89 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

enough money to send back home to your families.” The Coyotes lead

the men and women to an opening in the metal fence. They all crawl

underneath it to the other side. Don Pablo has been handed a map with

directions to follow. They must walk for two days crossing the interstate

highway to an abandoned ranch where they will be met by the Coyotes

and taken to their destinations. Benigno, Genaro, Don Pablo, Josefina

and Maria move silently in the cold desert night. Don Pablo guides them

across through the darkness carrying only a flashlight. His graying hair

and fragile body betray his age of sixty. He’s been on this journey before

and is familiar with the route. He encourages everyone to move quickly

if they are to arrive at their destination in two days. They stumble over

rocks and bushes; cactus thorns prick their legs leaving them bloody.

Five hours later the eastern horizon begins to glow with a pinkish

yellow light. Don Pablo announces that dawn is approaching and that

they should rest for a few hours before continuing. As they descend

down a wash, sandstone walls and huge boulders soon surround them.

The group of travelers spread out their thin blankets on the soft desert

sand. A young man with dark wavy hair and a baseball cap leans over

toward Benigno and introduces himself as Gerardo. He asks Benigno

why he came here, but Benigno retreats into silence:

A light rain has just fallen on the village. Smoke filters through the roofs

of small shacks. Chickens and pigs are wandering through the streets. Out

of nowhere green military trucks roll into the village and soldiers storm out

of the rear. They charge into Benigno’s home and grab his father from his

bed and drag him outside. Benigno’s mother runs toward the soldiers and

begs them to release her husband. One of the soldiers strikes her with his

hand and knocks her to the ground. Then after a long pause, Benigno turns

his face toward Gerardo and just says: “I’m here to find some work so I can

help my family.”

When morning arrives they are all sound asleep on the desert floor.

Suddenly, they are awakened by the sound of a helicopter cutting

through the silent desert air. Quickly they gather their possessions and

hide under large boulders. They remain hidden until the silence is

restored. Don Pablo exclaims, “La Migra.”

By noontime the desert is an inferno. They all struggle to keep up with

Don Pablo, occasionally taking sips of water from the plastic bottles hang-

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 90

ing from their necks. Unexpectedly, Maria falls and faints from exhaustion.

Benigno quickly shades her face from the blazing sun with his hat. A few

minutes later, Maria struggles to get up but Josefina insists that she rest a

while longer. The men build a shade covering to protect her from the blis-

tering sun. Josefina then informs everyone that Maria is pregnant. As they

wait for Maria to recuperate before moving on, Don Pablo urgently

informs everyone that they must reach the ranch by nightfall the following

day or else the Coyotes will abandon them. Don Pablo moves next to

Benigno near the shade of a large bush, they’re both covered with dust and

sweat. He spreads out the map on the hot desert sand and shows Benigno

the route they must follow in case they become separated.

As the sun begins to set the clouds turn pink, orange and violet. At the

sight of the highway that lies before them, they become encouraged. Five

dark figures huddle together on the side of the road at nightfall. Don Pablo

instructs everyone to cross the stream of lights in pairs, with him following

last. Maria and Gerardo cross first as the others alert them of the approach-

ing traffic. Once they arrive safely on the other side Benigno and Josefina

start off. Half way across the highway Josefina stumbles and falls to her

knees. Out of nowhere a pair of headlights comes charging down upon

them. Benigno turns and grabs Josephine by the arm and pulls her to safety

just before the headlights close in upon them. A green INS vehicle slows

down and turns around across the divider. It races back toward Don Pablo.

From the other side of the highway Benigno and the others watch as a spot-

light follows Don Pablo back into the desert. Two uniformed men quickly

jump out of the vehicle and capture him. Benigno, Gerardo, Maria and

Josefina disappear quietly into the desert chaparral and hide. Benigno, des-

perately trying to stay awake, falls asleep and dreams:

Hiding in the trees not far from his village, Benigno watches as the sol-

diers drag his father down a trail into the forest. The soldiers accuse him of

sympathizing with the guerillas and demand that he provide them with

information concerning their whereabouts. Benigno trembles with fear as

he watches his father being beaten and humiliated. Benigno’s father falls to

his knees and begs for his life while the soldiers interrogate him. A soldier

walks over to him, pulls out a pistol and holds it to his head. He calls

Benigno’s father a traitor and fires the pistol.

It was getting light when Benigno and the others awake, the moun-

91 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

tains on the eastern horizon are beginning to glow with the first rays of

daylight. Benigno gathers everyone together in order to begin the day’s

journey, as he is now in charge. According to the map, they still have a

long way to go. Although Benigno has never seen this kind of terrain

before he feels comfortable in the wilderness. The map says they still

need to reach a 2000-foot summit in order to reach the ranch on the

other side. With luck the Coyotes will still be waiting for them in the val-

ley below. The mountains are a formidable adversary as they forge

through the thick brush. The bushes tear through their clothing leaving

scratches on their arms and faces. Unexpectedly, Josefina exclaims,

“Benigno, Maria and I can’t go on any further, you and Genaro should

go on without us, if you reach the ranch ask the Coyotes to wait for us.”

“No, Josefina,” Benigno shouts, “We won’t leave you here to die, we’ll

have to find another way.”

Benigno takes out the map and studies it closely. He detects an alter-

nate route leading through some pasture land west of their current loca-

tion. He informs the others that instead of climbing over the mountain,

they will skirt around it. He warns that there will be a greater risk of

being caught, but it’s their only option. The immigrants retrace their

steps down the mountain and eventually reach a stream covered with

oak trees. There is pasture land with small buildings all around. Benigno

keeps the group close to the stream as they move silently along. They try

their best to avoid the houses when suddenly out of nowhere they hear

gunshots. A group of men, appearing to be civilians equipped with

binoculars and radios, come running toward them and shout, “Stop!”

Benigno, Gerardo, Josefina and Maria scatter to the safety of the wooded

area next to the stream. From his hiding place Benigno sees a green INS

vehicles pull up next to the men who shouted at them. Benigno watches

as the men point their finger their way. In the confusion Benigno and

Josefina become separated from the others and hide in the thick brush.

Men in green uniforms jump out of their trucks and chase them, quickly

capturing Maria as she struggles to cross the stream. Another man using

high-powered binoculars spot Genaro as he attempts to scramble up a

slope that lies adjacent to the stream. Unexpectedly, another group

comes running down the other side of the slope and captures him.

However, Benigno and Josefina remain undetected, huddled in the chap-

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 92

arral as the civilians and the INS officers search. Benigno closes his eyes:

As Benigno’s father lies dead on the forest floor, Benigno lets out a cry.

Alerted by the sound the soldiers fire their weapons in his direction. Sliding to

the ground Benigno crawls toward the village. As he approaches the road he

sees his mother running his way carrying a small bundle. Grabbing Benigno

by the arm she pulls him into the forest. Suddenly a green military truck

comes rolling by. Whispering in Benigno’s ear she warns him to keep still and

that she is taking him to his uncle’s house some twenty kilometers away.

Having spent an undeterminable amount of time in a small depres-

sion surrounded by sumac and manzanita brush, Benigno and Josefina

manage to climb the hill that leads them to their destination. As they

descend to the valley below they spot the abandoned ranch house where

they are to rendezvous with the Coyotes. As they approach the ranch

house two men rush them to their car hidden behind an old barn. The

Coyotes open the trunk of their car, an old Ford Sedan and order

Benigno and Josefina inside. Soon the car speeds them away. �

93 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Pat Sandoval | My Back Yard

A plot of land lined with flowers and trees

lingers like smoke from my grandfather’s fire pit.

My child’s heart plays under the persimmon tree

while grandchildren play like lizards in the dirt.

Scraped knees and blistered hands,

something sacred:

My spirit at peace as it swirls and dances among the roses,

as it witnesses the mystery of the universe at night

and corn plants growing in my garden during the day.

I wish I could return and reclaim my life.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 94

Leopoldo Alvarez

Pat Sandoval | Today’s Forecast

There will be no sun today

Stagnant waters damned up today

Mouths move and empty tongues wag

There will be no sun today

Blades of grass push their way through asphalt trampled under foot

There will be no sun today

A prescription bottle laden with false hope lies plastered on the floor

There will be no sun today

The television’s dim light glows in the dark

There will be no sun today

A dead coyote rots on the roadside

There will be no sun today

Broken glass and cut feet lead nowhere

There will be no sun today

95 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Pat Sandoval | Andes

T he rain-drenched mountains with mist curling upthrough the slopes engulf the wooden cabin perched along a hillside.

The surrounding forest awakens with the howls and shrieks of the fauna.

An aging figure of a man arises from his bed with silvery hair. He greets the

morning light with a cup of coffee made from black roasted beans. A hand

rolled cigarette dangles from his lips as a torrent of thoughts spew from his

mouth. The United States holds no interest for him anymore, and he’s

grateful that he no longer witnesses the killing fields of this so-called civi-

lization: human beings cannibalizing each other and the earth in its so

called advancement. He nimbly prepares his oatmeal with fresh apples that

he purchased in the market the day before. He adds a spoonful of honey

that he harvested earlier in the season. He spends all morning ranting and

raving about Iraq and the destruction of the primordial rain forest promot-

ed by U.S. foreign interests. At mid-morning he packs up his only mechan-

ical tool, a weed whacker and nimbly climbs up a hillside trail. He slowly

makes his way through the fauna, a mixture of ferns and shrubs. The figure

arrives at a resting point alongside a barranca overlooking a stream. The

hillsides are covered with giant trees entangled with vines, moss, and flow-

ers. Jungle birds fly overhead announcing the presence of the intruder.

However, recognizing this fragile friendly figure they fly peacefully along

their way. The shadowy figure spends all morning clearing the tall steel

green blades of grass beside the trail with his weed whacker, with the

intruding sound of its motor piercing the solitude. When the sun arrives at

its midpoint position, the old man rests underneath the shade of a wooden

shelter made of planks and tin roofing, his mind filled with the residue of

fifty years of life in Los Angeles. He often speaks of his wife who passed

away seven years earlier and of his two children who are now grown up. He

relishes another cigarette while removing a small notepad from his pack. He

records all of the birds that he’s seen this day. He remarks delightfully of

new species that he’s never spotted before, detailing it thoroughly in his

notebook. As the sun approaches the horizon the slim figure packs up his

tools and heads back down the trail toward home. He stops at the stream to

take a bath in the pristine water surrounded by green light filtering through

the leaves. As darkness approaches he reaches his cabin.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 96

Benito Rustic Solis | Flashback to Village Green

The sun rises to reveal an average middle class neigh-borhood, surrounded by pine trees and morning haze. The

Alhambra skyline silhouetted against my illuminated curtains, I decide

to rise. I am surrounded by fake wood paneling and musical devices.

Broken plastic toys and workpants, bloodied at the knees, are strewn

about the hardwood floor.

The wind blows cold against my face as I open the door that leads

out back. I stumble toward the record player, push play, and sit back

down on my maroon colored bed as I wait for the pain in my left foot

and joints to subside. It is a daily ritual. Once the pain leaves, I will begin

my day; but until then, I listen to music. The speakers of the hi-fi sing to

me, “silent kid, talk about your family…your sister’s cursed, your father’s

rolling down, yeah; silent kid, don’t listen to your grandmother’s advice

about echelon…silent kid; don’t listen to them.”

I look out my screen door and see what I want to see. If I look to the

right, I will see only homes, slightly nicer than mine, surrounded by lush

green foliage on “the hill.”

That’s where the “richies” live. To the left, I see the castle of a once

famous record producer, surrounded by walls, eight feet high. All that I can

make out are pine trees and the tips of the castle’s roof, peering over the

rest of the neighborhood; that guy never walks outside those walls or talks

to any of us, but I have most of his recordings. If I choose to look down,

straight ahead into my backyard, I see a less pleasing image, though it is

beautiful to me: the old pickup truck that sits rusting away, with weeds

growing out from between the tires and the wheel-wells. Nobody will ever

throw it out; there are so many memories archived within its beige hull.

I can remember driving the Toyota pickup truck up Chaney trail to

meet my high school buddies and our female counterparts. There was

always some kind of substance ingested but seldom to the point of idio-

cy; mostly, people would socialize and listen to music. Maybe ten kids

would stay up at Chaney to watch the sunset, listening to music, flirting,

sometimes even making-out; but romance was never the premise, just a

random side effect of adolescents hanging out.

As the sun would settle west over the horizon of pine trees, hills, and

97 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

World War I era homes, I would watch the lights come on in our small

suburb, tranquility in my soul until, “Come on bitches; let’s go bombing!”

Ahhh, the battle cry, someone would eventually announce the night-

ly activity. Time to “bomb” the hills of our secluded town.

Between Chaney trail and Main Street, there are four miles of road,

with no cross-streets to get in the way of our self-destructive quest for

freedom; there are, however, various turnouts, occupied by beer drinking

jocks and older kids, who sit reminiscing about high school glory days

and sexual conquests, or who beat up whom and why. The best time of

the day to ride our skateboards down Chaney is dusk, the perfect hour,

the “terror twilight,” that hour when it is not quite dark, but it is not light.

That hour when the sun runs away from the onset of night, and if you are

fast enough, you can follow the sun and outrun the night sky.

“Hurry up,” my brother says to the other boys, “finish ‘em up! I want

to wash the sweat off my balls before the party tonight!” Everybody laughs

as we finish off our tall cans (usually stolen from our parents) and begin

the games. The first quarter mile is non-stop pumping, pushing against

the ground with the right foot until a maximum velocity is reached. I

extend my leg so far that it sometimes seems as if my knee were going to

hit my chest. After that, life is blurred, partially from the movement, par-

tially from the alcohol; as little as 12 ounces of beer are enough to alter our

unspoiled bodies. Wind in my face, I turn my head to the side so that the

ends of my hair stop whipping my cheeks. Trees shoot by like a deck of

cards being shuffled as the road appears to become smaller.

“Screech! Rip! Snap!” I hear the violent sound of a boy screaming as

his drunken body hits the ground, the victim of either slow reflexes or an

unnoticed pebble. Pebbles are a skater’s worst fear and enemy, for a tiny

pebble can stop a skateboard traveling 50 miles per hour, dead in its

tracks, obviously sending its unsuspecting rider straight to the ground.

“Swish!” I hear and feel my wheels slide across the part of the road

that has recently been repaved and my speed increases. The incline

becomes steeper; I am almost home. One of the girls will be waiting there

with the old pickup truck, having driven to my house to continue the

summer night’s activities.

In the meantime, I concentrate on forgetting life and the world around

me as it moves past or, rather, I move past it at 50 miles per hour. Instead, I

focus on not losing my footing, fearing contact with the smooth yet abra-

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 98

sive asphalt that lies beneath my skateboard wheels. When I reach the flat

bottom of the hill, my ride will be over—and so will this recollection.

I sit back on my bed, my bones can still remember everything, the

crashes, the exhilaration, the failed attempts at flight and weightlessness;

my bones remember everything. I sit and wait for the pain to subside and

begin a new day.

Outside my window, I see the half-pipe. I can remember when we

built it. The parents went out of town. We had two days to get it done.

We finished it in one night and skated it until the sun came up. When the

parents returned, they appeared to be angry, but we (my brother and I)

knew that they were secretly pleased. “At least we know where they are,”

I would overhear my father tell my mother. For years, we never left the

backyard, and it became the neighborhood sanctuary for all our friends

—“the posse,” especially the lonely kids whose parents worked night-

shift. We would skate the half-pipe while my father barbequed for us.

Summers and springs were the best; there was nowhere for us to be, our

lives were commitment free, so we could skate all day, listening to the

bands that are now the soundtrack to my memories: The Amps,

Dinosaur Jr., Sonic Youth, Pavement, Fugazi, Bikini Kill, even N.W.A,

and Tribe Called Quest, and of course, the Pixies and the Beastie Boys.

The ramp sits at the center of our rectangular yard, surrounded by

a rickety old redwood fence, shaded by pine trees and eucalyptus trees.

At night, the ramp is illuminated on one side by an old droplight, the

kind used by mechanics. A lamp with the lampshade removed lights the

other side of the ramp.

The pain subsides in my left heel and ankle; it is time to greet the

profession, the sucker of souls. As I drive down Chaney trail to Main

Street, I listen to the same songs I skated to in high school: the sweet and

soulful voice of the Minutemen’s D. Boone cries out, “Our band could be

your life, real names be proof. Me and Mike Watt played guitar for years,

and punk rock changed our lives.”

I drive past the next generation of neighborhood kids, “bombing”

the same hills that have made me who I am, the hills that have stolen

ounces of flesh from my elbows and knees, the hills that have ripped the

skin off my palms, the hills that put these pins in my hip, and I smile to

myself, as I considerately pass on the wrong side of the road, so as not to

impede their ride. �

99 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Benito Rustic Solis | Lesson Learned

The way you twisted my words around, I should have known you

weren’t down;

now I guess it’s time to leave.

The book your father gave me still sits by my bed,

funny how there’s time to read it.

Oh, I found a new routine.

Dirt from the asphalt, it covers me.

That funny look in your eye, you try to blame it on me

but you’re the victim of bad taste.

Paralyzed, you polarized and scapegoated me

cut my head off, what a waste.

Oh, it’s on. The games begin

and you ain’t winning since we ain’t friends (we ain’t friends).

A shot in the dark rings out at the truth;

if truth is missed, then what you have is a lie.

Loyalties contribute to the disrespect

and what is left

is just a fucked-up wreck.

Oh, I found a new routine

because she chose me, the beauty queen.

Oh, I found a new routine

soda water and grenadine

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 100

Benito Rustic Solis | Jasper and Me

Jasper tried and tried, it’s true but never had the guts to bring it riding.

Even when he had to go, he never said goodbye.

All the girls that walked about, he watched them as they busted

through their jean-seams.

And Jasper wouldn’t give it up; he had to flee the scene.

Jasper had to put it on his arms—shoot the shot!

Jasper turned up high and low and marked them at the silver bowl in

Hempstead.

Even when he had no dough, he always kept the dogs fed.

All the girls that passed him by, we watched them as they blossomed

into debutantes.

Me and Jasper never cared, it wasn’t what we want.

Jasper had to put nine railers down—shoot the fuckin’ shot!

I heard some Canadians were bringing down a truckload of yay; and

me and Jasper could fence it out in Miami, Fla. The dealers came down

and set up shop in

Sherman Oaks,

and they were talkin’ to some tweekers that you know.

Me and Jasper got some masks and picked up some guns,

poor Jasper never was the type to run.

I seen Jasper’s Momma at the store the other day, it seems that the

tweekers turned State’s Ev— rolled over for the D.E.A.

Jasper, why’d you cut them dealers down?

Jasper, why’d you cut them dealers down?

Jasper had to put it in his arms.

Shoot the shot!

101 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Benito Rustic Solis | Dues I Pay For Livin’

I’ve got a broken back, my heart is made of steel, and my blood runs

cold.

I ain’t got too much tact, stealing talent from the young and selling to

the old.

Well, I must have hit the spine ramp and ruptured up my disk.

Take care of your third lumbar; that’s the one you’ll miss.

I used to know a girl,

you know, she liked me as a kid

but then left me dying because of all the things I did.

Because I’m the type of man

who digs everyone he sees,

the dues I’ve paid for livin’

are scarred across my knees.

So when you see me walking, with messy hair and flannel shirt,

I’ll take you out for talking, loosen up your skirt.

Well, it’s a wonder I still dig ‘em when they all show me the door.

I’ve been looking for some lovin,’

but I just can’t seem to score.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 102

Debra Urteaga | The Week-end

When I see your eyes flicker like a flame

And your sucked-in cheeks ash-colored

Your white lips turning purple and blue

I know you’re bleeding from the inside.

When even with twenty-seven sheets

Your body shivers like a drill

And your bones feel like ice cracking

I know you’re freezing from the inside

When you’re the hungry kitten mewing

Or the child whining to his mother

And you beg in all your pain, “Please, please!”

I know you’re needing from the inside.

When you drop to the ground, roll around

Tear your shirt and pull out your hair

Pieces of scalp still clinging on it

Your body’s eating you from the inside.

When I smell a rotting corpse nearby

I know you’ve just fainted again

Maybe for four or five days this time

But you’re not resting from the inside.

Now that you’re gone, I think it is best.

Your body and mind now feel no harm

And the sword that once stabbed my heart

Is a pinprick in my arm.

103 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Michael Venegas | Fairy Tales are More Than True

“F airy tales are more than true: not because they tellus that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be

beaten,” G. K. Chesterton once said and in all honesty truer words were

never spoken from a writer. Every time I sit in front of the blank Word

screen, or a blank piece of paper screaming for something to exist, I won-

der if I could do it. Could I ever find the words?

Yes I do believe fairy tales are true, no matter what anyone says. I

believe in the tooth fairy, the Easter bunny, Santa, genies that can grant

wishes, and many more things. Why should I stop? Is it because I’ve just

grown too old? Or, maybe, because I’m someone that doesn’t want to let

go of his childhood? Or is it because I hope that day, even in a fairy tale

world, I will have the chance to meet my father again.

I clicked and tapped my electronic pen today before writing this.

The story itself, I thought, was trite: someone grieving over the lost of his

father and realizing that he would never get the chance to meet him

again because he lives in the “real” world. Personally, I think the real

world is all bullshit. Tell me, why would I want to relive an experience I

wish I could forget. I don’t feel I’m venting my emotions, nor do I feel

relieved that I wrote the piece. But rather, I start hating myself because I

realize something, that I am in fact a cliché and an asshole to its truest

extent. I know the truth hurts, and I know no one that is as honest as me,

but at least in a fairy tale world, the hero might be able to meet his men-

tor again. In this world, once he’s gone . . . He’s gone.

When I was a child, I had fifty million imaginary friends. Pretty

much as you can most likely guess, with that many imaginary friends I

didn’t have that many real-life friends. To this day, each world I pass, be

it junior high, high school, or even last semester, I’m constantly destroy-

ing those worlds so that they no longer affect me.

I read, I read almost too much. One of my favorite things to read are

comic books. I know there are few people that say, “They’re only for

kids.” I don’t believe that to be true. They can be for adults too, some

comic books today are more intriguing than any book I’ve read. If any-

thing, a child, or better yet, an adult, such as myself, should model him-

self to be someone like Captain America, Batman, Spiderman, or even

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 104

Superman because they are no longer the gods of the old, they are more

human now then they were before. Villains can and more than likely go

after their families or close friends because their identities are now

known to friends and villains alike.

Batman, as an example, is constantly facing the situation of wanting

to kill the Joker because the Joker killed Batman’s second Robin, Jason

Todd, paralyzed Barbra Gordon, the first Batgirl by shooting her in her

spine, and the countless times he’s killed random innocent bystanders.

Yes, it would be easy for him to “snap” and kill the Joker, but he often asks

himself where the line is between hero and villain. To the Joker if he were

to kill he would be no different than the Joker. Batman realizes this, which

is why he is constantly bordering the line and I constantly border myself.

Superman is another. The man of steel, virtually indestructible, not

even death keeps that man down. But now that his identity is known by

105 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Jose Monge

one of his main rivals, Lex Luthor, Superman now realizes that his wife

Lois Lane is in danger to attacks from enemies, which then is when steel

becomes glass; he can be easily broken, and a god-like person becomes

human. Even now, as he currently is doing, he realizes that he can’t do

everything, he can’t protect everyone (humans on earth or aliens on

other planets) 24 hours a day, and because of that he begins to slightly

hate himself, but he can only deal with it in his own way, which we all

probably go through everyday.

I would think my child would be a better person with these as their

heroes. Yes, they are make-believe, but would I want my child’s hero to

be whoever the “hot” rapper is? No, I wouldn’t.

I do believe there are heroes in this “real” world, the men and

women that put their lives on the line for this county, the police officers,

firemen. Fact of the matter is, when those people were kids who were

their heroes? Some would say their fathers, brothers, mothers, police-

men, Marines, Army men that were defending the country when they

were kids. But some might say that Batman, Superman, etc. were their

heroes also.

In fact, I still remember when I was a kid, I wanted to be a fireman,

I wanted to be the guy to pull that family out of a burning inferno. But

real life wouldn’t allow me. At least in the imaginary world I could be

that hero I always wished I could be. Some may say I didn’t try hard

enough. If I really wanted it I shouldn’t have given up so easily. But I only

wanted to be that thing because I wanted to be able to pay homage to

those brave men and women. However, when I write about those types

of jobs and situations I realize I don’t necessarily have all the experience

that comes with each job, but I think, “If I were in this position, what

would I do?” In all actuality, sometimes I’d stay and sometimes I’d run. I

realize that in such a situation as a fireman’s I would have to leave people

to die.

Though I might never able to be a fireman, at least I can show other

people what their lives are, what they think, and why they do it. What I

lack in experience more than makes up for it in imagination. And I

would rather write stories about brave men and women and show them

my thanks by writing a “make-believe” story that in all actuality might

have been or one day will be a true story. �

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 106

Michael Venegas | The Riddle of St. Ives

I was on my trip to St. Ives

And horror entered my eyes.

It was three blind mice

With tails freshly sliced.

They said, we’re not to blame.

Latino, Chicano and Me’ican were their names.

I continued my walk,

and a man talked,

Are you Mexican, or not?

I pointed to a mouse, on down the road.

The answer to his question, I do not know.

Am I white, or am I brown?

If I can not answer,

shouldn’t I frown?

Continued on, then I saw her.

She said her name was Mary,

Mary, Mary, quite contrary.

When we found us, we were ‘lone.

She found her bus to come take her home.

But anywhere that Mary went, I was sure to go.

We reached her shoe, full of destitute,

Then I wondered, should I live this too?

She walked her way in, I thought

this couldn’t be “the fin.”

Turned around and saw the road.

I thank myself I do not know.

No more horror entered my eyes

As I walked onto St. Ives.

107 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Michael Venegas | Sacrifice

Edward, my older brother, was hiding face down under the bed as father came home. Ma put me in my playpen. She

spun the dial on my toy radio that played my favorite lullabies. The smell

of beans, rice and meat filled my nose, a home-cooked meal for a man

providing for his family. The chimes caught my eyes and began putting

me to sleep, but the roar of my father’s voice dusted weighted sounds.

“Did he go to school?” my father asked my mother hiking up his

black snake wrapped around his waist, a quick bit of a shine beams off

the buckle as the setting sun hits it.

My ma said, “He did not. They called me again and asked me to

bring him home because he was making such a ruckus. I heard him cry-

ing in the background. I couldn’t leave him there.”

Father put his hand on the door’s edge and grabbed his buckle

again. His face turned red as he scowled at my ma, “Damn it, woman,

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 108

Zong Da Li

how’s a boy supposed to become a man! You let him hold onto your skirt

as soon as he starts to cry!” The bottom of his fist pounded against the

wall. Ma hung her head low.

Normally, my father would walk into our room and see that my

brother was hiding under the bed and just walk away and save himself

for the day. But today wasn’t one of those days. The day’s work wouldn’t

let him walk away.

His big, brown, mud covered boots stomped around my pin, my

head turned to each stomp trying to keep up with him. I waved my arms

at him hoping he’d pick me up and not chase after Edward. He ignored

me and walked to our bedroom door.

“Edward,” my father yelled, “you come out here now or else you’ll

get your lesson the hard way.” Father paid no mind to my screaming.

Ma ran and scooped me up, “See what you’ve done, you’ve woken up

the baby!” I tried thinking of another way to get father’s attention. Then

I saw him unclip his black strap from around his waist. He swung his

strap against the door and made loud bangs come out from the door.

Edward didn’t open it. After a few moments father decided to kick open

the door. “I don’t want any locked doors in my house,” he said to my

brother’s feet that stuck out from under the bed. “Ya hear!”

Edward’s legs never moved through all of the monster sounds.

Father walked to the bed and threw it into the air with one arm. It made

a flat sound as it hit against the wall. Still, with the snake in one hand he

grabbed my brother’s legs and with the other pulled on Edward’s leg as

hard as he could. The hard cold bars flipped over as my brother held on

to them.

With his left hand grasping my brother’s right leg, my father with his

right hand held the snake and then shut the door. I started crying again,

louder.

Ma paced around the room trying to calm me down. She’d bounce

me up and down trying to call the sandman to put me to sleep. My

screams did very little to cover the sharp claps from my bedroom. Ma

had to get away from the stinging echoes into her ears.

She walked me to her room and put a bottle of milk in a calm pot of

water. She bounced me and tears flew from my face. She reached down

for her white flour covered apron and wiped away at my face. Once she

109 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

cleaned my face down she took my screams with it.

She placed me on the counter and I took a look at her. Tears rolled

down her face and she turned on the hot box. She then walked away,

leaving me near the hot box.

I looked around the room, begging for something to hold my atten-

tion. Each turn of my head caused my whole body to shift. The green

cold box, brown boxes with food and blue and green smooth flowered

floor didn’t matter to me. But the ants carrying their evening meal back

home held my attention. The millions of black bodies holding some-

thing over their heads, all they were showing me were their huge bottoms

hurrying and rushing home to their families. The noise that came from

the white box caught me for a second only. Then I would stare into the

pot holding my milk.

The water was no longer calm. It was hiding bubbles inside. White

smoke came out from its skin. I heard Ma step around outside her room.

Then water started to talk. I put my hand on the white smoke and it

stung. The milk inside was bubbling, gasses popped the top. It looked

like a balloon. Ma had always let me look at the milk and water before

but this was the first time that I saw it with its top. The sun shone

through the window and made its mark on the bubble. A spot of light, a

perfect circle. Within the light I saw the quick bright bite of a shine that

I saw earlier. I took my hand away from the white smoke. Deeper and

deeper, I stared into the light as it moved up and over the edge.

I started to reach out, the white smoke stung my hand and moved up

to my arm. I was looking for the shine on the bubble. I touched the rubber

tip and it burned me. The bubble and I had started our fight for the light.

Ma was still pacing around in the living room. She was biting her nails

waiting for my bedroom door to open and for my father to step out. The

screaming from my room started to get louder and louder. I could hear it

from inside my mom’s room. As my arm was in the white smoke my other

reached in also. The bubble was not going to get the best of me.

My knee touched the side of the pot as I tried to pull the bubble out

of the water. More tears came out from my eyes, I screamed louder. I

heard a door slam open and my father yelled, “What’s wrong, why is the

baby crying?”

She said, “Don’t know, I left him in the kitchen. Oh no, I left him

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 110

near the stove.” They both rushed through the door. They found me with

the top in my hands crying. I let go of the bottle and it hit the floor, the

rubber ripped and spilled over the floor. Ma grabbed my arms and

screamed, “We need to get him to a hospital!”

“We will, we will,” my father said trying to calm her down. “He’ll be

fine, it’s not that bad, they’re just a little red. There won’t be any scaring,

it’ll just hurt him for a while.”

I saw my brother in the doorway as my father put me over his shoul-

der. Ma rushed out and said just as fast, “Move, Edward, your brother’s

hurt. Go get paper towels to clean up the floor of the kitchen.”

My brother stood there looking at me, with the corner of his eye,

probably imagining I’m the devil. He sniffed and then rubbed his arm

against his face to wipe away his tears.

My father walked to the table and got the paper towels, “Get to your

room, Edward,” he said with his calm voice, “Your brother getting hurt

wasn’t your fault, no matter what your mother may tell you later.”

Edward turned around and without saying a word closed his bedroom

door. My father walked over to the spilt milk and cleaned up the mess.

“You little shit,” he told me as he laughed, “you have no idea what you’ve

done. Now he’ll never get over this because he’ll think that you are your

mother’s favorite.” Then he kissed me on top of my head, “But I’m glad

to see that you’re willing to take care of your brother also, even if he does-

n’t see it. And trust me there will be a lot of times when he won’t.” �

111 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Dianna Virata | A Great and Terrible Beauty

Drusilla was sitting up in the hard motel bed, blanketdraped around her body, glancing at the night’s client making sure

he was asleep, before slipping on her clothes and tip-toeing out the door.

The sounds of her knee high boots echoed along the pavement as she

walked toward her burgundy Mazda V6. She cursed to see her slit torn

and certain stains left over from this night’s client on her silver satin slip.

She sighed as she drove up the driveway to her Pasadena residence.

Well, not exactly “her” residence, more or less the family making money

off her student visa.

She opened the vast wooden door to see the family dining on their

usual gourmet food, even for breakfast, not even glancing up or a little

hello to acknowledge her existence. Like a ghost she glided upstairs to her

room, not wanting to overhear their latest gossip on well, her. First thing

was slipping off her work clothes in disgust followed by her boiling

shower that left her skin red. “My homemade Purgatory,” she thought,

“cleansing before heaven, in my case cleansing before I become my other

alias— Drusilla Chi, studious sophomore at Pasadena City College.”

It’s amazing how both were the same person. She was even a bit sat-

isfied with her success of leading a double life. “Looks can be deceiving

was such a cliché but so true,” she thought. Looking into her reflection,

she smiled, satisfied with her costume: a white elbow length blouse but-

toned up to her chin, pinstriped pants, along with her nine west boots,

hair pulled into a bun. Who would know that she sold her body to the

night? Hell, she wouldn’t have guessed. She could feel the stare of her

parents in a picture frame that was placed on her dresser.

She held the frame in her hands sucking up the tears of shame as she

looked at the loving photograph of her parents: James Chamberlain, her

father, in an Armani black suit that brought out his deep sapphire eyes

mirroring her own, with his blonde hair from his Nordic descent, hold-

ing an elegant woman in his arms, Jennifer Chi, radiating her lush long

Asian black hair, her piercing violet eyes, and her azure dress: “I sighed

as I thought of how much I missed them and how I cursed them at the

same time for sending me here all alone. My parents sent me here on a

student visa from Japan, where I was originally born. My visa allows me

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 112

113 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

to stay in the U.S. as long as I am enrolled in a school. Pretty good deal,

but there is always a catch, isn’t there?

“I’m staying with a Japanese family, the Yoshiharas, in Pasadena,

whom my parents send money every month for my rent. With much

scolding, and to my dismay, I was once their personal house maid in my

younger years, unable to tell my parents about the abuse till a couple of

years ago. After a threatening lawsuit they laid off. Grr, I think looking

back. Damn, they sucked up 75% of my parents’ checks when they were

only supposed to be getting 20%.

“My parents are struggling with finances, hence the need of my

night job. I hate degrading my mother’s gift of beauty she bestowed upon

me, as a deceiving tool to make money. I justify my disgrace in the

thoughts I need to survive, I need to survive. I glance at the clock, its red

digital number reading 7 a.m., gently putting the frame at its original

place, trying to shut away thoughts of my parents. I pick up my book bag

and head to campus.”

Driving through the peaceful blocks of Pasadena relaxed her mind

from the previous reflections. She pulled into the parking lot and rushed

to her Lit Class. “Oh fuck, late on the first day,” she thought. “Smart one.”

She scurried across campus to her class. She opened the door to hear the

professor taking roll.

“Drusilla Chi?” the teacher called.

“Here,” she raised her hand. She scanned the class to see it was

packed with every seat filled.

“As you all know, this is English Lit 91, or I hope you’re all aware of

that,” the professor began, “Mostly discussions in this class; I’m more on

the idea of theory than mechanics.”

“Phew, I got lucky,” she thought with a grin.

“All right, let’s begin,” the professor continued as she sat on the desk

facing the class, “What do you all think of Dickens.”

“Horrible.”

“Genius.”

“Moron.”

The professor laughed. “To make such a point, does not one need

reason, and what women love but men hate, details?”

“Dickens has good plots structures, but his characters are weak.”

Drusilla turned to see the one who dared to criticize one of her

favorite authors. A black male with a light mocha complexion, sporting

cornrows, thin silver rimmed glasses.

“Really is that so…Mr.….?” the teacher said with a grin.

“Williams,” he replied. “Devon Williams.”

“I’d like to argue that statement,” Drusilla said facing Devon. “In the

novel Great Expectations, each of his characters is complex in character

with completely different backgrounds along with intents.”

“Like what?” he snickered, “A wannabe pretty boy, a bitter old

woman, and a conceited girl that treat men like dirt?”

“That was so shallow. If you actually looked beneath the surface, you

would see that Estella does have a heart but was trained by Havishman

to break men’s hearts. Pip was tired of feeling degraded and confined to

a certain degree, thus wanting to be a gentleman where the sky’s the

limit.”

“That’s it exactly,” Devon responded, “A shallow book with shallow

characters.”

This guy was starting to piss her off.

“Money and Sex is what corrupts this world and that’s what this

book is all about.”

She was ready to wipe that cocky smirk off his face. “So why you

wearing Gucci glasses? Aren’t you part of the corruption as well? Glasses

are simply meant to improve sight, so why pay an extra 150 for a little

trademark?” she shot back. “You need to check yourself before you start

arguments. Especially when you’re contradicting what you’re fighting

about.”

Devon laughed. “Attitude, save that for the streets, Miss. This is a dis-

cussion about literature, and it’s immature of you to be doing childish

mudslinging instead of staying on the prompt.”

“Ooh,” some guys started to say.

GRRRR, Drusilla hated to admit this guy was right. “I’m just giving

reasons to defend my points instead of bitter blunt remarks. So sadly

blunt, your façade of pretending to be the mature intellectual individual

is weak and transparent.”

“Attitude indeed,” the professor interrupted, “Your name?”

“Drusilla Chi,” she said cooly.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 114

“Well, Miss Drusilla, I’ll drop Dickens before you slaughter poor

Devon.”

“Shit,” she thought, “what a great impression I must have made.

Wonder what the teacher thinks of me now.”

“What you have seen was a debate, somewhat of a quarrel as well,

but I’m expecting a lot of those in this class. If it’s not to your liking, feel

free to drop. Participation is crucial in this course.” The professor lec-

tured on the syllabus and her expectations for the rest of the class.

“Alright, you know I’m expecting all the goodies on Wednesday. Ok guys,

scram,” she dismissed. Drusilla walked up to Devon sucking her pride.

“Um…hey,” she started.

“Sup.”

“About the debate, I apologize if I offended you.”

“Yeah it’s going to leave traumas in my psyche for life,” he chuckled.

“Fine, be a dick, I was trying…”

“No, no don’t get mad,” he said, “I apologize too, and I give you

props for your argument, even your cracks about my Gucci glasses. That

was good.”

“Used to getting bowed down to?”

He smiled. “No, I’m not actually.”

“Wow,” she thought, “he had a beautiful smile. Nice deep chocolate

eyes. His style was admirable as well. A short sleeved black dress shirt and

loose khakis.

“Just not used to women like that,” he continued.

“Like what? Actually having a voice?”

“With intellect. You set me straight. Shit I should be the one bowing

down,” he said jokingly.

“Damn straight,” she laughed.

“What you up to right now,” he asked.

“Nothing, my only class today,” she replied.

“Would you like to join me for coffee or are you gonna bite my head

off again.”

“Nah I won’t, yes I’d like to.”

Throughout the semester, she and Devon engaged in many intellec-

tual debates and enlightening conversations. He looked at her with eyes

of kindness and not lust for her body which was something she was com-

115 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

pletely not used to. She reflected, “I suppose I’m falling for him. He gives

me the hope that hey maybe the entire world is not fucked up after all.

There are a couple of genuine men out there. But I’m not a princess

who’s found her prince; my life’s definitely not a fairy tale. How would

he react if he found out every other night I was making G’s off the 626

and 714 underworld? I know he’s done a couple of illegal activities as

well, but what would a man, not just any man, an intellectual, funny,

kind, sexy man like him want with a stupid whore like me? He’s too good

for me.” And she recalled one of her nights:

“Here,” a man hands me bills that should total to a grand.

“You’re short 50,” I say coldly.

“The guy at BC said 950,” he says. “Run along now, sweetie,” he says

with a grab of my ass.

I push him against the wall, the heel of my boot digging into his

neck. “Don’t you sweetie me, you disgusting sad excuse of a man.

Everyone knows my minimum is a grand. If you want the shit you gotta

cough up the shit.” This guy isn’t taking me seriously. I pull out a garnet

handled butterfly from my arm warmer and stuck the blade to the ten-

derness of his throat. “My 50 now,” I say, slowly cutting the delicate skin

of his tendon, a line of blood trickling down his throat.

“Fuck, alright, get off me.”

I throw him on the bed in disgust. He’s clutching his throat and

nursing his wound.

“Stupid bitch,” he mutters as he hands over the 50.

“Thank you very much,” I mock curtsy in my school girl outfit.

Fucken chinks. I make my way home and rush due to a lot of work

still needed to be done. I securely double lock my door and grab a wood-

en box hidden in the back of my collection of books. Glass, methamphet-

amine, speed. Same purpose, different names. I’m not an addict really.

Every few months I get overwhelmed or shit happens. I delicately place

the little ice crystals in a line using my credit card. I place the small straw

over and inhale through my nostrils its raw intensity. Alright, time to

crack the books.

The next morning with much energy, Drusilla got through the lit

class with much anticipation to spend time with Devon. Being with him,

she felt like worthy of something, that she was worth so much more than

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 116

what men paid for her.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fine, why?”

“Very perky you are,” he replied.

She laughed at his comment. “Just a great day, and good company,”

she said with a smile.

They made their routine stop at Starbucks for their caffeine boosts

as thought she needed any, she giggled.

“Delilah?” a man’s voice called.

She froze in her tracks. “That’s my work name,” she thought, “No

not in front of Devon.”

“Excuse me?” she weakly replied.

“You look different,” he said looking at her up and down, “I wouldn’t

miss that nice sweet body though. Worth every bill.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Devon said as he stepped up to the male,

who brushed off Devon’s action and placed a bill in her shirt. She landed

a kick in his stomach making him stagger back.

“What the…?” he growled angrily, about to lunge toward her.

Devon rushed him into the wall with blinding quickness, fists spin-

ning to a blur. The male left writhing on the ground. She stood there in

awe, “Wow, he defended me. I was worth defending.”

“Are you all right?” Devon asked.

“Yeah I’m fine,” she said softly.

“Do you have any idea what that was about?”

She shook her head. “Devon I’m a little shaken up, would you mind

if we not chill today?”

“No it’s ok, you want me to take you home?”

“I’m alright, thank you though. See you tomorrow.”

She ran away with too much shame to be around him. “I don’t

deserve him,” she thought, and got into her V6 and sped to BC café to get

ready for her night shift.

“What the hell, Neil?” she asked, “Did you tell the dub that I was

only 950?”

“No, chill, it was probably a youngster trying to fuck with you,” he

explained, “No pun intended.”

“Ha ha you’re real funny.”

117 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

“Tonight, Ambassador Inn, Room 16. $1500 tonight. So make it

worth his while,” he said with a wink.

“Whatever.”

She glanced outside to the café with its black lights shining down at

the half naked silver bikinis-wearing waitress that glowed under its light,

sitting on men’s laps, serving drinks, basses of beats from hip-hop to

trance bumping from the speakers. Business men, gangs, mafias, the

street underworld resided in here whether for drinks, just to kickback,

for the views or in her case, something a little extra. She scanned the

crowd and wondered who she had to cringe to tonight. She snapped her-

self out of such thoughts and headed toward the Ambassador Inn. She

inserted the keys to Room 16. Putting on her attire for the night, her body

was bare under a black silk robe, her hair was in an up-do with chop-

sticks. She lay on the bed, robe tastefully opened, awaiting her client for

the night. Her heart started to race as she heard keys unlocking the latch-

es. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply for the task at hand. Shock

and utter despair flushed her face as she turned to her customer.

“Devon?” His name barely escaped from her lips.

She turned away from him closing her robe, clutching her clothes

tightly to her body.

“So it’s true…” he said faintly.

Tears started to roll down her cheeks, mascara creating watery black

lines. She wiped her face in sheer loathing for herself. “How did you

know?” she asked.

“Did a background check on this Delilah? With a bit of hassle, I dis-

covered she was you. I saw the tattoo on that guy who hit you up. Dubs

kick it at BC Café. This led me to you.”

She closed her eyes, unable to bear the look of disappointment on

his face.

“Why Dru? You’re above this?”

“No I’m not,” she cried, “My body means nothing to me. I’m worth

nothing.”

“That’s not what I see…”

Devon gently wiped her tears with his lips and gently moved her

bangs behind her ear. She looked up and saw those same genuine eyes

that she fell for, the same chocolate hue, the same softness.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 118

“Beautiful,” he whispered, “Inside first, and outside. The most intel-

lectual, witty, sweet woman I know.”

“How could you still say all those things?” she cried in disbelief,

“Look at me, my body goes to the highest bidder!”

“Body yes, but your mind and soul never. No one can ever have a

claim on those. Those same things that made me fall in love with you.”

She stared at him stunned, “He loves me, the first one to ever in

my life.”

“I’m so sorry ...,” she began and wept.

“Shhh, it’s all right,” he soothed as he held her crying in his arms. He

calmed her with gentle caresses on her face and wrapped his arms

around her, holding her close as they lay down, hands never roaming

anywhere else. She felt safe with someone, the first time ever in her life.

She experienced the most sensual pleasure that no sexual act could ever

compare to: falling asleep in her loved one’s arms, knowing he’d be there

when she awoke. �

119 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Christopher Makoto Yee | Breaking Tradition

My life is open to all,

so it’s no surprise that

my home is as well.

This may sound trite

but some things do.

Come in through the doorway,

don’t take off your shoes

if you don’t want to.

She left them on the white tile entryway.

Have a seat, do you want a drink?

The refrigerator and dinette set

sit patiently in wait for use

as we walk past them.

Don’t feel compelled to greet my parents

if you don’t want to.

She pauses, then stops to say “hi.”

We’ll stay awhile;

we can talk about baseball

and high school and your new pair of jeans

as we move into the living room.

I sip a Sunkist Orange

while sitting on the old blue couch

next to you and your warm smile

and soft, flowery perfume,

with an old Frank Sinatra musical

playing on the big Sony TV before us.

She wanted to watch a Chinese drama.

Don’t forget tradition

if you don’t want to.

Just don’t leave.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 120

Christopher Makoto Yee | Lecture on a Lazy Day

The hairs on the back of my neck

stand on end

as a chilling, air conditioned breeze

brushes by me.

While I close my hands together

to blow hot breath in between,

I look out of the small classroom windows,

opened up to the energetic young sun

and cool, clean breeze

that sings a song

of the first days of Spring.

The green chalkboard,

standing proudly before me,

remembers faded, discarded words

once meant to inspire and educate,

now reduced to dust under the eraser.

I don’t remember every other word

that came out of Professor Suntree’s mouth

in the morning before lunch.

It’s 2:25 now, and,

as I sit among a circle of my peers,

a discussion of story

brings me alive

in a world of words

on this lazy day.

121 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Christopher Makoto Yee | At The Ready

The office chair spins me ‘round onceuntil it gives in to the keyboard.The keys feel like ivory under my fingertips asthe sun shines for five minutes as it peeks outfrom behind Winter’s last clouds.I’m ready, finally.Carnegie Hall would marvel at my magic fingersif they weren’t hovering overa-s-d-f, j-k-l-;.This is it, I’m ready.My glass of water waits patientlyon the desk by the mouse pad,Ko Ko is nuzzled against my feet—tired from harassing cats and mailmen—and words begin to flood my head,all forcing their way to Microsoft Wordat a comfortable 20 words per minute.To write is to be alive;to be alive is to be in love;today I am in love withthe baby blue atmosphereand the soft green grassthat come alive after rainfall andreturn their love to my lungs and sandaled feeton my way from car to class and back,wishing me well on my returnto the seat in front of my monitor.The last period rings out in one last clickbefore the printer sings loudly“I’m not surprised, but I never feel quite prepared,”sounding like Conor Oberst and Bright Eyeswith acoustic guitar, stand-up bass, and drumsover my two gray computer speakers.The sun congratulates mewith five more minutes of sunlightbefore the clouds remind me whyit’s so hard to write in Winter.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 122

Christopher Makoto Yee | Poetry

Poetry is boring.

Isn’t it?

words stacked upon words

with the occasional rhyme

(sometimes all the time)

and a usual lack

of reason

Anything can happen.

anything can, happen

like a sudden rainfall

or a premature birth

leaping into the world, like

anything, can happen

Poetry is all delusion.

Warriors who swung swords

were all phallic philanderers.

Lovers in the lush green of Spring

were all sex fiends.

All of them.

123 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Shin-Yi Chiu

Poetry is no fun.

Is it?

An expression of me

to help express you

as the

living

loving

thinking

troubled

human beings we are.

Boring?

Sometimes.

Unexpected?

Sometimes.

Delusional?

Sometimes.

Fun?

Always.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 124

Christopher Makoto Yee | Assignment

C hris was a short, broad, dark-complexioned nineteenyear old of mixed Asian descent. He wore a red polo shirt and blue

jeans, both chosen more for their comfort than style. In a world that was

always causing him difficulty, he was constantly searching for anything to

help ease it along. It was difficult for him to carry on with daily events that

he didn’t understand, especially when they weren’t working out quite

right. In general, though, things never seemed quite right to Chris. A prime

example: he completely stopped writing his English paper in the middle,

always finding a paragraph out of place or an analogy that wouldn’t work.

So he completely set it aside, as far out of his mind and out of his sight as

was possible, and that only happened to be roughly six feet away.

It was April, early in Spring. Though the days had already started to

warm, the nights were decidedly colder than they ought to be. Chris sat on

the old blue couch after putting on his usual black sweatshirt, bare feet

propped up on the coffee table that lay before it. The movie on was good

enough—“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,” another one of those

artsy Charlie Kaufman movies—but he was still moved to the point of dis-

traction. There were just too many other things going on: swallowing a sip

of water out of one of those recyclable, red-plastic cups was painful passing

through his sore throat, Steph—his sweet and sour seventeen year old sis-

ter—was in the kitchen watching some silly sitcom rerun while having a

late-night snack, and to top it all off, Herman and Ko Ko—in all their pac-

ing and nuzzling their cold, wet noses—needed to be let out to pee. I can’t

even avoid writing this paper the way I want to. Shifting uneasily on the

couch, he pulled his legs up into a cross-legged position. Maybe I could get

something done if my feet weren’t so cold. His house slippers—a pair of

fuzzy, black Isotoners one size too big—sat no more than eight feet away,

though well under the computer desk that had stood ominously against

the left wall of the room. On the blinking screen shone the bright white of

the empty, white rectangle that represented a blank page in Microsoft

Word. Though he wanted to get away from it, Chris left it up there as a

reminder that some time during the night something was going to have to

come up on there, no matter how trite or contrived it would sound.

That was the worst part, that someone—most likely everyone in the

125 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

little class—would have to read whatever he slopped onto the “four to

five pages,” and they would know how much of a fraud he was.

Fraudulency, or the semblance of it in him, was a great fear of Chris’s. It

wasn’t enough for him to have skipped English 101 or to have been pub-

lished in East Los Angeles College’s Milestone 2004, he needed constant

affirmation that his work was real, something that people would respond

to positively and praise; it was one of his many failings. Plus the Dodgers

had lost a painfully close game just an hour before. The evening showed

no signs of taking a turn for the better, not yet, at least. He took another

stinging-sip of water and moved his person onto the gray, armed com-

puter task chair, though still not facing the hulking nineteen inch moni-

tor. Would staring at the monitor help me write? No. Resolute with that

reasoning, he once again set his view toward the T.V.

The movie was over now. A wonderfully melodic song played as the

small-fonted credits rolled, indicating a channel change would be neces-

sary. However, late night television was more repulsive than the welcome

source of distraction he sought. No longer holding his interest in any

way, Chris grabbed one of the many remote controls on the coffee table

and shut off the failed attempt at procrastination. I hate this. Why me? It

was painfully obvious that no one was forcing Chris to do anything,

though the way he shifted uncomfortably within the revolving chair

would have suggested otherwise.

Drastic times had called for drastic measures, Chris thought firmly as

he pulled out his cell phone from his pocket. The silvery little phone flipped

open in his palm and he began to search through his list of phone numbers.

No, not her, it’s always weird when we talk. As the short flurry of clicking

keys continued, the kitchen TV went quiet and Steph opened up the door

to the backyard to let the dogs out to do their business. No, I haven’t talked

to him in over a year, I’m not looking for a catch-up conversation. On the

whole, phone conversations were awkward for Chris. It was their confronta-

tional nature; he wasn’t mentally equipped to counter long silences nor pre-

vent them from happening and that very prospect was usually enough to

keep him off of the phone. But again, the disparity of the situation was a

particularly motivational force. Ah, here we go, Jessica Low.

Jessica Low was a petite, sweet-faced Chinese girl whom Chris had

known for some years, though only relatively recently had the two

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 126

become friends, which goes to show that proximity does not necessarily

merit a relationship of any sort. However, the conversations the two typ-

ically had was enough reason to want to talk to her: she had inspired two

pieces already, one of which was published in the aforementioned

Milestone 2004. Regardless of that fact, talking to her was still something

that wasn’t working on an essay, so it was nonetheless worthwhile.

Past all of the pleasantries, Chris’s mind began to stray into his work.

“I’ve got this thing to write, it’s got to be prose and it’s got to be long, much

longer than that thing I wrote about you.” He paused to rest his throat,

which was making its soreness well known to the rest of his awareness.

After giving a moment of thought, she replied, “Well, just don’t write

as a girl. It comes off weird when guys write as girls, like in Memoirs of

a Geisha.”

“Why on Earth would I write as a girl? Even last time I wasn’t writing

as a girl, I was writing about a girl. That’s a pretty big distinction, don’t

you think?” Chris then got up from the computer chair and headed for

the kitchen.

127 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Shin-Yi Chiu

“You’re right, but, in any event, don’t try writing as a girl. Oh, and don’t

ever talk about dark alleys. They’re so overrated and cliché.” Little bits of old

Beatles songs were noticeably coming out from behind her voice.

“Again, I agree, but why would I want to use a dark alley in anything

I write? Do I seem like the kind of person who spends very much time in

dark alleys?” Chris replied tartly as he grabbed a mug from an overhead

cupboard. He filled it with water and put it into the microwave for about

a minute.

“I suppose not. Have you given any thought to writing about the

past? Everything you write seems to stem out of what you’re doing at the

very moment you’re writing. Doesn’t it get terribly boring talking about

sitting on your computer chair typing all the time?” She pauses in wait for

a response, but her previous statement had left Chris without one. “Why

don’t you take a chill pill, homie? You’re stressing way too much over this.”

“‘Take a chill pill, homie?’ Are we back in seventh grade or something?”

“I’m a 13 year old at heart, you know,” she whispered in a low

undertone.

Chris gave out a short laugh, deeply amused by what she had said.

“Aren’t we all?” He checked the clock to find that it was well into morn-

ing. “Well, this has all been quite enlightening, but I’m going to have to

get going. Good night.”

“Hmmm. Thanks. Good night.”

And without any ado, Chris returned to the computer, ideas abound

from what the conversation had revealed to him. He sat down on the all-

too-familiar computer chair and grabbed hold of the mouse. He moved

the cursor over the “Start” button and clicked “Shut Down.” That being

done, he got up and went towards his bedroom, hot water traveling gently

down his throat. The old adage “better late than never” ran through his

mind as he picked up his alarm clock to set it. Then again, everything is

better on time than late, isn’t it? He decided that it was far too late in the

evening for comparative philosophy, setting the alarm to make an entirely

annoying sound five hours later. He would either get it done early before

class or die trying, he thought with a certain conviction. Then again, the

snooze button was only an arm’s swing away. Chris was sure of one thing,

though. The next day was likely to be something different and difficult,

and complicated, along with with an essay waiting to be written. �

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 128

Pa r t I I :

A W o r k s h o p

P o e m

�

A focused exercise is often useful to encourage the practice of a specific

craft. In this case, to help avoid generalizing about thoughts, feelings,

experiences and relying on abstract statements or commentary, I

assigned this ten-minute warm-up exercise: “Begin a poem with the line,

‘It’s a dangerous thing to forget…’. Each line, with few exceptions, must

have an image or a textural detail. Write at least forty lines.”

As a model, I read my poem, “I Hear,” after telling my students that I got

the idea for this exercise by hearing Judith Ortiz Cofer begin a poem with

the same line. This “stealing a line” technique is highly recommended as

long as you acknowledge the source you stole it from, of course.

129 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Carol Lem | I Hear

It’s a dangerous thing to forget

the climate of my birthplace,

pots and pans claiming their space

in the kitchen lined with ancient

grease, where my father leans

over the table complaining of bills,

and my mother at the sink prepares

the melon soup.

It is dangerous to forget the abacus,

the small dark beads hitting against

one another late in the evening,

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 130

John Draisey

my father counting his last hours

before sleep, before the years

siphon the air between our rooms,

and the crack he leaves in his door

says come in or don’t.

Only the cat is not confused.

It is dangerous to forget

the bowl of oranges on New Year’s

the boiling chicken for good luck,

and the firecrackers to scare off

the devil, who stays locked

in our separate closets —

father, mother, brother, daughter

four legs of mahjong

watching behind the walls

for what goes down.

I hear this is the place to come back to

once we leave the table

with small tiled images of our winnings

and enter the forgetting place

where we collect the artifacts of our trade

until the world is too much with us

and forget the way home until the sound

of falling tiles reminds me of my place

at the table next to the crack in the door,

my dying father calling me in

to rub his back, my mother telling me

to turn the flame low. Chinese soup

takes a long time to brew.

131 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Henry Armenta | It’s a Dangerous Thing toForget…

He left to be a man at the tender age of 3

Left me alone with no one to tell about the

Nails on the chalkboard sounds of “Wetback, go back to Mexico!”

When you’ve achieved success

Can’t tell Mom she has enough stress

It’s a dangerous thing to forget…

The wood and adobe houses in Tijuana

Every time I visit

Kids younger than me working for way less than minimum wage

It’s a dangerous thing to forget…

The crack house across the street from Washington Elementary that housed

Classmates’ and fiends’ withdrawal aches

Summer clothes in the winter…man it’s all they had

It’s a dangerous thing to forget…

In 4th grade when I saw Pablo sniffing that blow up his nose during recess

His watery red eyes and pink powdered nose

The way he ran around everyone but the coach

as fast as a train in P.E. class

It’s a dangerous thing to forget…

Taking off my shoes

Putting my hands over my head emptying my pockets

For a suspected knife or supposed weed sack

At Santiago Middle School

That’s a Dangerous thing to forget…but shit

I hate to remember it

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 132

Jasmine Gallegos | Reflection

It’s a dangerous thing to forget

starting this life feet first!

Indian style, to be exact,

two weeks early with a dangerous

yellow glow,

later getting my first kiss from a sixth grade boy named Leo,

who hit the fast forward button

with 360 degree turns in my mouth.

Sloppy and awkward

I stayed in bed for three days with swollen eyes,

burning as though Grandma were chopping fresh onions

on a hot summer day.

It’s a dangerous thing to forget

what dwelled in my small house:

broken windows, smashed radios,

a depressed, obsessive, compulsive woman praising the Lord,

fighting with my stepfather, not a father

but the bank supply.

I aged, we grew distant, two strangers

passing on a nameless street.

For nineteen years, four walls sheltered my nightmares

until one day I broke free like a young bird

learning to flap its wings.

133 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Ann Marie Gamez | The Sorrow of a Man and His Wife

It’s a dangerous thing to forget

the way my parents fought life

to provide nourishing lives for

their bastard children.

Between the cracks of leather

on my father’s waist belt

slashing the air and

striking the skin…

the stove was always hot.

Steam would seep its way through metal seams.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 134

Ricardo Ibarra

Leaks on the roof always

stained above our heads.

My mother’s van in the driveway

always blocked my father’s.

It was on purpose.

“Quinceanera” glows from the T.V.

my father’s favorite novela.

My mother would rather watch

“Bonanza” or “Magnum P.I.”.

There was something about

Tom Selleck and Michael Landon

that my father didn’t see.

Their petty conflicts

would determine our lives.

But I always had shorts in the summer

and pants in the winter.

We always had school supplies,

breakfast and lunch tickets.

I had brand new folklorico shoes,

my sisters always had Jordache stitch jeans.

My parents hate each other,

though they love each other.

Like business partners, always

there to save the day when

it comes down to the gas and electric bill.

A pair of victims in life,

who fight through the worst

but manage for the better.

135 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Pat Sandoval | It’s a Dangerous Thing to Forget

Forgotten dreams rotting on the forest floor

My days filled with smoke and mirrors

A lover’s face tarnished gold

Tall grass dancing in the wind

Children laughing and singing, days that come and go

Yellow birds and baskets filled with pomegranates

A sky filled with orange and purple clouds at sunset

Millions of stars that glow like tiny candles at night

The smell of marine mist and rotting fish along an endless shore

Evenings filled with the fragrance of jasmine and rosemary

Mountains with graveled roads leading as far as you can see

A pile of empty wine bottles and nowhere to go

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 136

Michael Venegas | Daily Routine

It’s a dangerous thing to forget to sleep.

As my blaring alarm woke me up

I stomped towards the snooze button,

turned around and the hay hit me.

Next thing I knew I was waking on a bed of feathers.

My blaring alarm woke up me again.

Then I stumbled my way into the hot shower.

It turned cold when my brother flushed.

Barely escaped with my life

and took the shower curtain with me.

Still I walked around like a zombie.

Finally got into my car with the screaming speakers.

Cold nails entered from the windows,

I tried to stay awake.

In class, I fell into a waking life dream.

In the dream my advisor

stinks of garbage,

is unshaven

and wears ragged clothes.

Though old, dirty and poor

he has the wisest words:

Are we sleep-walking through our waking life?

Or are we wake-walking through our dreams?

Soon after I was ripped away from my dream

someone was calling my name.

I answered with a low rumble, “here.”

I slipped back into my wake-walking state

My advisor once told me there are tests

to see what state you’re in.

If you’re wake-walking, electronics are screwy —

Lights don’t turn off,

Digital clocks never show any time at all, only red bars.

I stood up and sleep-walked into my next class.

It’s dangerous thing to forget to sleep.

137 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Christopher Makoto Yee | Being at Home

It’s a dangerous thing to forget

homes away from home,

filled with fluorescent lights

and hard, plastic desks made

cold from excess air-conditioning.

It is dangerous to forget linoleum tiles

bearing weight under feet of countless

rubber-soled shoes and slippers,

worn by book-bearing people across the years.

Gone are the school-wide intercoms—

with air-raids less likely with each passing day—

along with any casual smoking indoors,

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 138

Graciela Basulto

a memory that only a few longing professors

wish to keep alive.

The same old sun still burns hot,

keeping watch over the same verdant green plants

that arrive so suddenly, like a crisp spring breeze,

and creating life amid concrete and brick,

textbooks and lined paper, exams and speeches.

It’s a dangerous thing to forget

a place as comfortable as a library chair

in quiet solitude, still surrounded by ages worth

of paperbacks, hardcovers, encyclopedias,

all carrying a musty smell and yellowing pages,

sitting on steel shelves making friends with

fallen dust and new editions.

Can you ever forget

the place where pen met paper and words met ear

in either beige bungalow or brown building?

The new leaves on trees and the spring perennials

reflect the life budding from minds

reaching a pinnacle time of year—

the end of the semester.

Crisp blue skies and the burning sun

call out to the countless souls

sitting patiently in plastic chairs.

Will they forget the glory of learning?

No, it would be too dangerous.

139 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Pa r t I I I :

W r i t i n g a b o u t

L i t e r a t u r e

�

Since college composition focuses on writing essays about what we read,

students often find it helpful to read how other students, not just profes-

sional writers, write about text. Like many instructors, I encourage

students to provide a context for their subject—either personal or cul-

tural/historical, etc.—to give scope to their close reading analysis.

The essays must also display the expected skills of establishing a thesis,

organizing content, providing evidence from the text by paraphrasing

and incorporating quotes; and, if research is required, citing outside

sources.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 140

Monique C Alvarado | Sensibility in the Victorian Era

There was once a time in literature where a story wassimply a story. Societal criticisms were subtly drawn in delightful

dialogue and wit. There was simplicity in literature that was not wrought

with the frightening passions of the Romantic Era or with the strange

mental utterances of the Modern Era. This is what draws me into the

Victorian Era. Marriage and one’s place in society were very important

centers at the time. In today’s image-obsessed world you see the same

thing. Women’s magazines preach new ways to climb the corporate lad-

der. Movies and television show and criticize methods of attracting a

man. They are the same time-tested social concerns that Jane Austen

wrote about in the early 19th Century. As a writer, her work is relevant

in modern society because we can relate. Her novels have been adapted

into popular and award winning movies and TV series. It is the stuff of

soap operas. Jane Austen’s novel Sense and Sensibility deals with the

coming of age of two women in Regency Era, England. Through the con-

trasting characters of quiet, pensive Elinor Dashwood and emotional,

passionate Marianne Dashwood Austen documents their respective

changes towards common sense and sensibility in their lives and roman-

tic relationships.

Jane Austen’s work came at a time between two movements in liter-

ature (Reinstein 269). As one of her earliest pieces, it lacks some of the

maturity she is known for in her later novels. The main action of the

novel follows the romantic pursuits of the sisters, Marianne and Elinor

Dashwood. Upon the death of Henry Dashwood, who is the family patri-

arch, the Dashwood estate of Norland is bequeathed to his only son. This

action leaves the Dashwood women to move to a substantially smaller

residence at Barton Cottage in the country. The eldest girls, who are of

marriageable age, are left without a proper dowry or social status to

secure a marriage. Marianne becomes quite popular in gaining the atten-

tions of a Colonel Brandon, a man who is eighteen years her senior.

Spurning Brandon, the passionate Marianne ends up having a whirlwind

romantic courtship with a man by the name of Willoughby. At the same

time, Elinor has a silent, more subdued courtship with Edward Ferrars.

141 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Society and moral obligation catches up with the girls as each one is dis-

rupted in their romantic endeavors. With an unexpected engagement

and an abrupt end to the courtship, both girls are required to leave their

pursuits and change their sensibilities to achieve what they finally want

(Maupin 28).

Austen portrays Elinor and Marianne as two very different girls in

respect to personality. The older daughter, Elinor, is nineteen years old

and a confidante of her mother. Mrs. Dashwood describes Elinor as “pos-

sessed with a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgement…

her) feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them” (Austen 11).

This provides a nice opposite to her younger sister of sixteen, Marianne,

who is mentioned in the same paragraph as “sensible [intelligent] and

clever, but eager in everything, her sorrows, her joys, could have no mod-

eration, she was everything but prudent,” (Austen 11). This contrast of

personalities is what makes the novel captivating. Elinor represents every-

thing that her society wanted a girl to be, quiet, demure, and gentle in

manner. On the other hand, Marianne is a shadow of a chauvinistic view

held of young girls at the time. She is a fragile, unstable creature with no

regard to restraint. The girls nonetheless love each other with no friction.

Neither of the girls are a strict portrait of sense or sensibility (Reinstein

270). They are what society buffs them to be.

Elinor and Marianne are two halves of the female psyche: Elinor rep-

resents the poise and “pulled together” restraint of propriety while

Marianne is the inner romantic screaming out for release. Like with many

young women today, society dictates that they should be one or the other.

It is a self-imposed prison that each girl puts on herself. It is a standard

which they strive for in their everyday affairs (Reinstein 269). Elinor is

determined to be the picture of common sense and stability while

Marianne rapturously deigns to be emotional and passionate. They don’t

seem very eager to leave their state of being. They are both stuck and stub-

born in their ways (Heath 127). In discussing the attributes of Elinor’s

suitor, Edward Ferrars, Marianne declares in a dramatic display, “But it

would’ve broke my heart had I loved him, and to hear him read with so

little sensibility” (Austen 17). It echoes to mind that small voice in a

woman’s head that complains about a man having no passion for any-

thing. Her dramatic reaction to his reading is just a scratch on the surface

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 142

of what this girl holds as dear. To Marianne, it’s her way or the highway,

but Elinor will gladly and wisely compromise where she feels best.

The large obstacle of social status comes in the growing relationship

of Elinor and Edward. It is likely that Jane Austen did this as a cruel trick

to the reader. Elinor’s careful and quiet personality is almost devastated

by the issue of money. Reduced to the status of a visitor in her own

home, Elinor finds refuge in the company of her sister-in-law’s brother,

Edward Ferrars (Spark Notes). Being the first-born son, he is entitled to

all the privileges of a wealthy upbringing. With privilege comes respon-

sibility. Elinor and Edward are polite with their courtship. They are pub-

lic with everything and exude propriety in every possible way. Mrs.

Fanny Dashwood, Edward’s sister and watchdog, makes no hesitation to

quash the relationship. On one such occasion she tells Mrs. Dashwood,

“I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there

would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a

woman who had not either a great fortune or a high rank,” (Austen 19).

On the issue of Edward’s marriage prospects she makes not one effort to

hide, “Mrs. Ferrars’ resolution that both her sons should marry well,”

(Austen 19). The only person who makes an issue of their courtship is

indeed his sister.

The contrast between Elinor’s relationship with Edward and that of

Marianne and Willoughby clashes their differing ideas of moral and self-

obligation. In Willoughby, Marianne finds her equal, “Their taste was

strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by

each,” (Austen 34). Their love is selfish. They absorb themselves in the

world of each other. Where Marianne and Willoughby pride themselves

on being the most sensitive, the most superior in taste and culture, Elinor

and Edward are more outward with their friendship (Heath 26).

Marianne has much more care to cater to her wants as the noblest ideal.

So the obligation to self is her main priority. The best example of Elinor’s

sense of moral obligation comes when Edward is disinherited. Even

when Elinor is spited and hurt by Edward’s engagement, she still finds

the strength to deliver him the news of a parsonage for him and his

fiancé which she helped procure. Her hesitation is indicated with, “Truth

obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was

at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward

143 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

that she acknowledged it without hesitation” (Austen 169). Since above

all she considers herself to be Edward’s friend, she forgoes her heart and

selflessly tries to help him out.

The selfishness and stubbornness of Marianne is reflected in her

reactions to and with Willoughby. Her relationship with him is a product

of her obsessively emotional nature. Unlike Elinor, who has the ability to

detach herself from Edward when society calls for it, Marianne clings to

Willoughby, “When he was present she had no eyes for anyone else.

Everything he did was right. Everything he said was clever” (Austen 38).

This obsessive quality is one of her underlying faults. The devastation

wrought on by his cruel and cold treatment of her further indicates her

initially selfish nature drawing inward and shutting out Elinor. In an

emotional outbreak to Elinor, Marianne laments her solitude with,

“Leave me. Leave me if I distress you…Oh how easy for those who have

no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, You can-

not have an idea what I suffer” (Austen 111). It is through this experience

that she begins to eat her pride. Willoughby represents every part of her

naiveté. If she is to survive, it is crucial that she learns some common

sense. It is only when she is free of him that she finally begins to let go of

her romantic fancy and mature.

In an argument with Marianne, Elinor sees the dawn of her own

sensibility. She almost cracks her cool demeanor when confronted coldly

by Marianne. At this point of the novel, Elinor has concealed knowledge

of Edward’s engagement for months. The only reason for her conceal-

ment is because of a promise. All of her actions are driven by duty and it

starts to show that she is sick of it. She has kept in a secret and is ready

to break. She responds to Marianne’s outburst with, “Do you call me

happy, Marianne? Ah! If you knew!” (Austen 111). This becomes a piv-

otal point in the novel because it is when Elinor first begins to come to

terms with her emotions. In this scene, Austen contrasts Elinor’s long

suffering unselfish control with Marianne’s self-centered emotionalism

(Reinstein 280). In sharing Marianne’s sorrow, she cracks the fragile shell

that is her overwhelming need for stability in all areas of her life.

Marianne’s near death experience is her push to maturity. In her

convalescence Marianne is given a chance to think. One day, after much

reflection, Marianne has an epiphany where she tells Elinor, “I was per-

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 144

fectly able to reflect. I saw in my own behavior but a series of imprudence

in myself and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had

prepared my sufferings and that my want of fortitude under them had

almost led me to the grave” (Austen 202). Her confession to Elinor is the

completion of her change. That “want of kindness to others” is a refer-

ence to her older suitor Colonel Brandon and her cruel, girlish treatment

of him. Marianne was once regarded as not being able to love more than

once in a lifetime. Through her gained maturity she is able to

accept the older Brandon as a sensible choice of husband. It is almost

sad to see the girlish raptures of her personality conform to accepted

“adult” behavior. Marianne is still sensitive and emotional, except that it

is no longer unstable and erratic. Although Marianne becomes more

composed and demure, her emotional nature will keep her from repress-

ing her emotional needs for the sake of propriety like Elinor.

In the scene where Edward Ferrars professes his broken engagement

to Elinor, we see the full consummation of her sensitivity. Being left

alone, Elinor is no longer sure and in the upper hand. This is a noticeable

difference to the composed and calm Elinor at the beginning of the novel

and the unsure Elinor as seen in this passage: “Elinor resolving to exert

herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice now said, ‘Is Mrs.

Ferrars at Longstaple?’” (Austen 210) This is the final stronghold of her

calm demeanor. The final shred of common sense she has is shattered

when she hears the news that Edward is not married. Her reaction is eeri-

ly similar to that of the old Marianne, “Elinor could sit no longer… as

soon as the door was closed she burst into tears of joy, which at first she

thought would never cease” (Austen 210). Her cathartic release is the

reward for all the silent suffering she endured. Edward is her mental

equal and are perfectly complimented to each other. There is a remark-

able difference in her character after this breaking scene. Elinor becomes

much more receptive and open about her feelings. However, she does it

much more healthily than the old Marianne ever did.

The irony of Sense and Sensibility is the reversal of Marianne and

Elinor’s roles. It is ironic that Elinor, despite all her cautious and

thoughtful reservations, ultimately ends up with her first love. That was

the dream of the young and girlish Marianne who has resigned, sensibly,

to marrying the man she had once thought “infirm” (Maupin 28). It was

145 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

never Austen’s intention to highlight their departure from their inherent

natures; rather, it was to show the need for them to learn something from

each other. The happy part is that they both change for the better. There

are no losers from the perspective of change.

Marianne and Elinor are two girls attempting to find themselves in

a society that stifles their very existence. In finding their weaknesses, they

confront those qualities which they both selfishly hold dear to their per-

sonalities. Their journey together is captivating because they essentially

take from each other those character traits which they need to be com-

plete. Marianne must possess more sense and Elinor should be a bit

more sensible. The women never lacked those qualities all together. They

just needed a little push in the right direction.

This novel gives so much insight into how the female mind works.

The story of two sisters growing together and experiencing the same

journey has a timeless appeal, for the world of Jane Austen’s England is

not unlike our own. Women today still fuss about who they are and

where they are going. We still worry about who our future husband may

be or not at all. Sense and Sensibility carries a timeless reminder that

there is virtue in being both sensible and emotional. I know now that

there is a distinct balance between the two. Sense is what balances emo-

tions when needed whereas sensibility is what gives purpose to sense.

Without either a person is apt to go crazy. Jane Austen’s appeal as an

author comes with her ability to illustrate her world to the reader. Her

works do not need to be set in far-off exotic locales, nor do they need to

be overly complicated to be enjoyed. The simplicity and crispness of her

writing adds to this lasting appeal. �

Works CitedAusten, Jane. Sense and Sensibility. New York: Penguin, 1983.Heath, William. “Sense and Sensibility: Overview.” Reference Guide to English Literature. 2nd ed. Ed. D.L Kirkpatrick, New York: St. James Press, 1991 126-128.Maupin, Amy. “Sense and Sensibility.” Writers for Young Adults Ed. Ted Hipple.New York: Charles Scribners Sons, 2000 27-30.Reinstein, Gila P. “Moral Priorities in Sense and Sensibility.” Renascence 35.4

(Summer 1983) 269-283.Sense and Sensibility Study Guide. Spark Notes. 1 June 2005

<http://www.sparknotes.com/literature/senseandsensibility>.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 146

Jose Del Real | Finding My Other Self

It took me twenty-one years and moving twice before Irealized that I grew up without having a man in my life that I could

look up to. “Para Mi Mejor Amigo…, Feliz Dia del Padre…, Feliz

Cumpleaños…” These are the phrases that celebrate a dad for being your

best friend, who acknowledges him as a father, and who celebrates his

life. These are the greeting cards that were left blank, that never made it

to its destination, and the phrases that never left my mouth. I came

across them while I was packing for the second time; they were in one of

my drawers, thirty-five to be exact, one for each time he celebrated his

birthday, Christmas, and Father’s Day after I turned nine. The separation

process between my dad and me began when I turned nine. He couldn’t

make it to my baseball games, wouldn’t go to back-to-school night; dur-

ing my birthday parties he left early because he had to go to work, and

then when I started shaving he didn’t notice or care to show me. I felt no

reassurance from the man who gave me life. At eighteen my initiation

into “manhood” had two phases: the first was drinking a beer with my

friend Juan and the second was going to the strip club with the “boys.” I

have tried to become the “actualized man,” but the image of my dad as

an example has made me run away not wanting to return. Robert Bly

analyzes the process of becoming the “actualized man” in “Iron John,” a

fairy tale, which takes the reader into their own psyche, searching for

their other self.

The fairy tale is set far away into the forest near the king’s castle.

Something unusual is happening, where hunters go into this area and

never come back. Soon after realizing what is going on everyone decides

not to go there anymore, until one day an unknown hunter shows up at

the king’s castle expressing his willingness to take on a challenge. The

king suggests that he go into the forest and warns him that the people

who go out there don’t come back. Surprisingly enough, the young

hunter fearlessly takes the challenge. So he starts towards the forest tak-

ing his dog as his only companion. In the evilness of the forest, not sure

of their surroundings, the young hunter and his dog wander to a pond;

suddenly out of the pond a hand comes out, grabs the dog, and pulls him

down. Simultaneously without delay, the hunter is back in the castle,

147 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

rounds up three more men with buckets, and returns to the pond and

starts bucketing out the water.

After the tedious process of bucketing out the water, at the bottom

of the pond lies a primitive like creature with reddish hair and rusty iron

features. The men take him back to the castle and imprison him. The

king puts him in an iron cage in the courtyard and calls him “Iron John”;

the king then gives the key into the keeping of the queen. One day after

the king’s eight-year-old son is playing in the courtyard he sees his gold-

en ball rolling towards the iron cage; hesitant to approach the iron cage

to confront the wild man and get his ball back he walks away. He returns

to ask for his ball, the wild man agrees to give him back his ball only after

he opens the cage. The fearful boy goes into his mother’s room, grabs the

key from under her pillow, and returns to the courtyard to free the wild

man. Being free the wild man provokes the boy into going back with him

into the forest and the boy decides to accept.

Being grabbed and pulled down into the pond is frightening because

it can be as shallow as a pool or as deep as the sea itself. “When a con-

temporary man looks down into his psyche, he may, if conditions are

right, find under the water of his soul, lying in an area no one has visited

for a long time, an ancient hairy man” (96). In other words, a man has to

be aware he’s drowning and that he needs to come up for air. For the past

twelve years I have been in a pond where the primitive creature I made

up of my resentment, my ideas, and the lost love for the man who

brought me into this world is drowning. I realize that the pond where I

have been drowning myself is only as deep as I make it and bucketing out

the water is set off by my father.

Bucketing out the water from the pond is “very slow work.” This task

cannot be assimilated by alcohol or drug consumption, it’s not as easy as

that. Bucketing out my resentment, my ideas, and the lost love for my

father makes me conscious that for the first time in my life I have made a

connection with this man. It happened on New Years Eve 2005. I was on

the couch watching the spirited parties that were taking place all around

the world; as usual it was past one-o’clock in the morning and my dad was

just getting home after a long working day at Spagos in Beverly Hills. He

carried a case of beer in his hand, typical for the occasion since it was time

to toast the New Year, but this year was set to be different.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 148

He sat right in front of me and offered me a beer; I shook my head

saying no, and he then continued to start drinking. All of a sudden the

day grew younger, my dad went on and on about his stories, about how

he immigrated to this country, and I thought they would never end, but

I wasn’t sleepy nor fatigued, I felt I needed to listen to his stories over and

over again. With words pouring out of his drunken breath he mumbled,

“Mi hijo aunque no te e dado todo lo que has querido tu sabes que te

qiero mucho… nunca dejes que nadie te humille y siempre manten tu

frente en alto,” my dad was weeping. I was confused by his actions but

today I found out he cares, he really does, and I recognized that he had

started the bucketing process for both of us, and we have both come in

contact with our “wild man.”

The separation process between my dad and me began when I

turned nine. I lost my golden ball; it fell out of my hands. The golden ball

represents “that unity of personality we had as children, a kind of radi-

ance, or wholeness, before we split into the male and female, rich and

poor, bad or good” (97). For me it represents growth, growth between a

father and his child, a nurturing stage for both the young and the old.

But I lost it when I couldn’t see this man as someone who would protect

me, as someone who could make me a man, or as someone that could

simply show me the way. I couldn’t grow because there was no expecta-

tion to go after.

The key, together with the pillow, becomes the source in recovering

the “golden ball,” therefore ensuring the “wild man” will be set free.

Together they symbolize the mother’s expectations towards their kids.

My mother has always been in the position of handing me the key, she’s

even given it to me several times but I knew I wasn’t ready to approach

the “wild man,” let alone free him. This time though the key wasn’t need-

ed because the wild men found each other, making of this encounter the

beginning of exploring the endless boundaries of a father and son rela-

tionship. My resentment, my egoistic ideas, and the lost love for my

father is my experience of the macho energy. This is a characteristic

found in each man and, as for each man, it holds a different meaning in

the process of becoming the “actualized man.” In my case, the resentment

I had built towards my dad was getting bigger, it was creating an

unhealthy environment for our family to be in; my egoistic ideas each

149 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

day made less sense than the day before, but I knew they had to represent

something, which explained why the love for my father kept being

absent. On the contrary, the “wild man” personality for me has been a

mentor type figure that until New Years Eve 2005 I kept wanting to find

but I kept pushing away from it, letting my macho energy take control of

my relationship with the “wild man,” my father.

Getting pulled down to the bottom of the pond is the beginning of

the realization that I must bucket out the water, for at the end if and

when I find my golden ball and I decide to take the key to let the “wild

man” out, the process will have no meaning if at first I don’t bucket. Here

before you writes a man who has regained his “golden ball,” opened the

cage to let his “wild man” into his life and who continues the bucketing

process, because bucketing out the water from the pond is “very slow

work.” I have started by saying “Te quiero, papa.” �

Work CitedBly, Robert. “Iron John.” Rites of Passage. Ed. Judie Rae and Catherine Fraga. Boston:Thomson/Heinle, 2002. 93-102.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 150

Alexander Martinez | Journey into the Heart of Darkness

It is an almost universally acknowledged fact that one’s environment, the chaos or peace to which one is exposed to

during one’s life, shapes the perceptions and opinions he or she holds

about the world. For Marlow and Kurtz, the two primary characters in

Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, the African Congo leaves an imprint

upon their minds, and consequently changes their behavior. This phe-

nomenon of modern humanity is what continues to give credence to

Conrad’s novel over one hundred years after it was first published. Its

portrayal of the nature of man and the changes that occur in him while

experiencing the decadence of a primitive nature that occurs when he is

placed in certain environments and under certain circumstances is what

motivates people to continue studying this classic tale. More important-

ly, however, it is this primary aspect of the novel that gives it much of its

tenacity and strength, its dominating theme dexterously portrayed

through these two characters, Marlow and Kurtz.

The story is centered around Charlie Marlow, the primary narrator,

as he sits on board the Nellie and tells his fellow passengers about his

voyage as a fresh water sailor down the African Congo, which he found

himself on originally due to a long-standing curiosity, only to be

employed later as an agent sent to retrieve Kurtz, an important official of

a trading company. Aside from vividly describing the superficial aspects

of the voyage (what the surroundings looked like, how long each individ-

ual trip took, what his objective was), he tells of the effects that living in

such an atmosphere can do to a man. To be forced to face the savagery,

the cruelty, to have to witness before one’s very eyes the perpetual injus-

tices that go on in that part of the world (perpetuated by the Europeans),

changes people. Marlow addresses phenomenon near the very beginning

of his tale, as he poignantly explains to his listeners that when a man is

forced to “Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some

inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him—

all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jun-

gles, in the hearts of wild men” (34), he becomes a different person. In

order to allow his listeners a more pristine view of what exactly he

151 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

means, Marlow urges them to “imagine the growing regrets, the longing

to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate” (34). These

things brew inside the minds and souls of the foreigners who land in this

environment and are forced to adapt. These negative emotions callous

them, to forge them into the type of human beings who would go so far

as to chain together other human beings under the pretense that they do

so under some divine commandment and exploit them. These are the

hearts the darkness creates.

For Marlow, the influences which sailing down the Congo; namely,

having to endure the notion that he was miles away from civilization, the

knowledge of the atrocious enslavement conferred upon the natives by

the whites, and the general monotony of the atmosphere he was in man-

ifest themselves in different ways. Marlow passes the time sailing down

the Congo river by intensely watching for any dangers that he and his

crew might encounter during their voyage. He watches for snags, he

studies the depth of the ocean, looks out for natives. He does these things

with great care because he is afraid to lose himself in the mental effects

that his voyage were to have on him if he were to just sit and pay atten-

tion to the surroundings. He describes the sensation as being “cut off for

ever from everything you had known once—somewhere—far away—in

another existence perhaps” (61). But he could not save himself from hav-

ing bad thoughts, bad memories, as when he finds himself looking back

on sailing accidents he’s had. He generalizes such experiences and

describes the effect of having ingrained into one’s psyche, saying that

“You remember it, you dream of it, you wake up at night and think of

it—years after—and go hot and cold all over” (61). Here, Marlow is

describing a common symptom of Post Traumatic Stress disorder, a con-

dition brought on by an experience of intense trauma in one’s life. The

effect of sailing through the Congo, with its unexplored and monoto-

nous yet nearly living surroundings, brings forth such events from

Marlow’s memory, further doing him mental and spiritual harm.

The effect that being in Africa has on another central character,

Kurtz, is more impacting. Before the reader ever meets Kurtz, he exists as

sort of idea for Marlow, who has heard bits and pieces of this man and

linked together. One gathers from these vague, secondhand accounts told

to Marlow of who Kurtz is that Kurtz is an extraordinary individual.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 152

Marlow learns of how Kurtz has the ability to charm people, how his use

of language makes him an easy person to follow. At one point he is even

described to Marlow as a poet and a man who can speak of love like few

others. It is due to his extended stay in the Congo, among the natives and

ivory, that the beast within him (unleashed by the environment) emerges.

In short, Kurtz goes insane. The man becomes horrific, adorning the

perimeter of his main headquarters with the shrunken heads of natives

stuck on wooden poles. After finding Kurtz, Marlow is made to keep

guard on the man in the night only to be awakened from his sleep to find

Kurtz has escaped. Upon following the man’s trail and finding him on the

floor in the nearby woods, Marlow theorizes on what it was that could

have motivated the man to run away, back into the wilderness, and con-

cludes that Kurtz returns because he was led by the same force that had

motivated him to stick the shrunken heads up on posts, this being that

“his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within

itself, and, by heavens! I tell you, it had gone mad” (94). Being in the envi-

ronment, having his head filled with the imprints of whatever horrors

Kurtz must have experienced on the continent, has made him this way.

They serve to cloud his mind and unleash from within him the savagery

of which human beings are capable of under certain circumstances.

At the end of the work, Marlow returns to London with a disdain for

everybody he sees on the streets. He returns from his trip to Africa feel-

ing that he has experienced horrors no man should have to experience

and frowns upon the petty goals and enterprises in which the townspeo-

ple engage themselves. In telling his narrative, Marlow states to his fellow

passengers that he is not proud of having held this rancor, but admits

that he did so. He carries it because it is the residue, so to speak, that his

experience served to leave upon him. They influence him in this way,

make him just slightly savage, change him. They instill in him a sort of

mild hatred for these people, and for no legitimate reason.

Near the end of the work, Marlow witnesses Kurtz’s death, and this

occurrence severely flusters Marlow’s mental equilibrium and helps to

redefine his views of life and death. In the philosophical discourse that

follows Marlow’s account of the demise, he describes his own experience

of being in eye-contact with death, but assures the listeners that he does

not remember his as well as he remembers Kurtz’s. He describes to them

153 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

the state of the man upon uttering his last words, how he seemed to have

come to a greater understanding and knowledge of things, indeed seen

the greatest knowledge, at the moment just before death. Marlow pon-

ders at how “perhaps all wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just

compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step

over the threshold of the invisible. Perhaps!” (99). This is evidence of just

how different a person Marlow was when he emerged from the Congo as

when he went in. Aside from the mental and emotional scars with which

it also endows him, the experience serves to provide a significant shift in

the manner in which Marlow perceives the very nature of existence.

Further evidence that Marlow’s experiences in Africa change him

mentally and spiritually can be found when he goes see Kurtz’s bereaved

female friend. Upon entering her estate, Marlow becomes very nervous.

He describes how he stepped into the abode, “And the memory of what

[he] had heard him say afar there…within the patient woods, those bro-

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 154

Graciela Basulto

ken phrases…were heard again in their ominous and terrifying simplic-

ity…his abject pleading, his abject threats, the colossal scale of his vile

desires, the meanness, the torment, the tempestuous anguish of his soul”

(101). The impact his encounters with Kurtz have on Marlow is undeni-

able, and so strong that their remembrance brings him into a state of

uneasy reverie, to the point where it is difficult for him to move unhin-

dered in his affairs. Finally, Marlow begins to hallucinate when he speaks

to Kurtz’s bereaved friend. As she stands there before him, distraught and

desolate, he actually sees Kurtz, and recounts to the men on board the

Nellie with him that “I saw him clearly enough then. I shall see this elo-

quent phantom as long as I live” (104). Marlow was affected by his expe-

riences in the Congo with Kurtz to such a degree that he feels as though

he will be haunted by the specter of the man for the rest of his life, he will

never be the same. Such is the power of darkness.

When human beings are put through traumatic and horrifying expe-

riences, they will be changed in a negative way. This is the most important

reminder about the nature of our lives that I took away from this text. I

deem it to be a statement of undeniable truth. People’s minds will be

clouded, polluted with the influences of the trauma and become beacons,

as it were, of similar horrors. One’s life, one’s experiences, never leave the

psyche but often remain secret. The secret pains are the source of the dys-

functional mind, the reason behind why good people suddenly and inex-

plicably do vile things. School shootings, office murders, rapes, all of them

are resultants of the perpetrator’s own journey to the heart of darkness. It

is the environment that traps the soul, the jungle, or streets, or war-zone,

or any ambiance full of pain that has the ability to expose the savagery of

man. This truth, told in an astoundingly poetic and eloquent (and per-

ceived by many readers—including myself—as difficult) manner through

the turmoil suffered by two men is the reason why I think the novel is still

studied today. Any work that can show us the dark side through charac-

ters and situations serving to remind us of the often denied, and often

horrible truth of our nature, deserves to endure. �

Work Cited

Conrad, Joseph. The Heart of Darkness and Other Stories. Hertfordshire, England:

Wordsworth Editions Limited, 1995.

155 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Nancy Perez | Everybody Plays the Fool Sometimes

In Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, the desirefor truth is evident throughout the novel. The recurring line: “What

does it mean?” is indicative of the characters’ desire to decode the impli-

cations of each other’s actions and / or words. Though judgment is com-

plex, the characters use it to form both their prides and prejudices yet are

not mindful of the source of their conclusions, judgment: In the novel,

judgment is what sets the characters up for deception. They ignore the

fact that human judgment is fallible, making them think their assump-

tions about others are correct; pride in their own judgments is what

makes prideful characters such as Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy prone

to deceit.

Elizabeth’s ability to see through people and her down-to-earth per-

sonality is what leads both Elizabeth and the reader to believe she is an

excellent judge of character that cannot be fooled. After becoming

acquainted with the Bingleys at a Hertfordshire Village ball, Miss Bingley

and her married sister, Mrs. Hurst, pay a visit to the Bennets at their

estate, Longbourn, where they are greeted with much attention by Jane,

Elizabeth’s eldest sister. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst are wealthy women

who are well- recognized among most of the characters in the story, and

only the reader and one of the characters are able to see the two women

for what they really are at the beginning of the novel: elitist, pompous

creatures, typical of their time and age: “By Jane this attention was

received with the greatest pleasure; but Elizabeth still saw supercilious-

ness in their treatment of everybody…and could not like them” (13).

Jane’s gentle and sweet nature does not enable her to see the haughtiness

of the two women; Jane is quickly seen as one who is easily manipulated.

But in contrast to Jane, Elizabeth is portrayed as a perceptive character;

she can see the hidden malice behind the two women’s words and

actions; she can read them like poetry. While Jane’s good opinion is

gained by the two women, Elizabeth thinks ill of them; this makes the

reader admire and rely on Elizabeth’s vision for its honest ability, but this

also sets Elizabeth up for what’s to come.

Elizabeth takes pride in being a good judge of character, but it is pre-

cisely this pride that blinds her, by allowing her to believe that she cannot

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 156

be wrong in what she sees in others, which makes her vulnerable to other

ways of deception, those by appearance. After her acquaintance with a

young officer from the militia who is newly stationed in Hertfordshire,

Wickham, and Elizabeth’s aunt decides to throw a ball at her home,

Wickham and Elizabeth reunite and become engaged in conversation.

Wickham’s handsome face, gentle, respectful manners and charm, make

Elizabeth think he is the most “agreeable man” she ever saw (99). Wickham

has all the appearance of being good, and though it is not Elizabeth’s duty

to know what truly goes on inside another’s mind, she firmly believes she

can decode people; and judging by what she sees, she deems Wickham to

be a good man. It does not cross her mind at this moment that Wickham

may act like a good man but not actually be a good man because she

believes so much in her judgment at this point that it makes her arrogant.

Elizabeth has faith in her own judgment but her judgment is misled by

Wickham’s “good” appearance and, as a result, Elizabeth is fooled into

believing in a man who says all the right things yet is a spendthrift, gam-

bler, avaricious person after women’s dowries. Her judgments are ground-

ed on appearances even though appearances can be deceiving.

Another victim of his own judgment is Mr. Darcy, a moralist, who

prides himself in judging what is right, and as a result believes he is always

doing the right thing. Mr. Darcy looks at people and analyzes their actions

in order to conclude whether or not those people are good. One night in Mr.

Bingley’s library, after Elizabeth implies that Mr. Darcy thinks of himself as

flawless, Mr. Darcy says, “Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has

been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a

strong understanding to ridicule” (39). Even though Mr. Darcy admits that

no one is an exception to error, his saying that he avoids weakness or that he

knows how to hide it from exposure implies that he does think of himself as

great or perfect for knowing how to do so. He is being ironic in saying that

he has weaknesses but knows how to avoid them because, then, what he is

really doing is not fully admitting that he has flaws; his “knowing how to

avoid” his weaknesses from exposure redeems him from having them; it

excuses him for such weaknesses, and he does not need to correct his char-

acter because his good principles will tell him what to do.

But just because one has good ideals, this does not lead a person to

be good. Mr. Darcy is deceived into thinking that good ideals lead to actu-

157 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

al good behavior; his pride in self-righteousness blinds him to the elitist

reality of his actions. On one occasion, for example, Elizabeth decides to

visit her friend Charlotte and her husband, Mr. Collins, at Rosings where

they live about thirty miles from Hertfordshire. Mr. Darcy later arrives to

visit his aunt whose estate is not far from Charlotte’s home and who is

acquainted with the Collinses. One day Mr. and Mrs. Collins decide to eat

with Mr. Darcy’s aunt at her estate but Elizabeth decides to stay in her

friend’s home. Mr. Darcy then decides to pay her a surprise visit to confess

how much he loves her, yet Mr. Darcy’s proposal does not lose his charac-

ter at the time: “ ‘In vain have I struggled…my feelings will not be

repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love

you’…He spoke well, but there were feelings besides those of the heart to

be detailed…His sense of her inferiority-of its being a degradation-of the

family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to inclination, were

dwelt on with a warmth” (129). Mr. Darcy thinks ill of Elizabeth’s family

since they don’t have good connections and their behavior is in want of

propriety, so he feels he is doing Elizabeth a favor by his being interested

in her. He seems to think it speaks highly of his feelings for her when he

tells her that he loves her despite her inferiority; but he just doesn’t see the

elitism and prejudice his proposal carries: he is telling her that there is

something that he dislikes in her that puts her so beneath him, her con-

nections, but that he still loves her. How could any self-respecting person

accept such a proposal?! He really undervalues her and calls it love! In

other words, he insults her with “warmth” and expects her to accept him

since he thinks it is to her advantage. His ideals don’t match his reality

and, as a result, his actions toward Elizabeth are not as good as he thinks,

for they step all over Elizabeth by lowering her value as a human being.

Though both characters are victims of their own prideful features,

their fall eventually comes and hits them both hard. But it is not wrong to

be wrong; it is not wrong to subconsciously make mistakes. It is true that

we can’t read each other’s minds but maybe we’re not supposed to, and

when our judgments fail we might feel stupid but it is more stupid to blame

oneself for being fallible, for being prone to deceit, for being human. �

Work Cited

Austen, Jane. Pride and Prejudice. New York: Dover, 1995.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 158

Pa r t I V :

L i v e R e a d i n g

R e p o r t

�

For the first time in Milestone, I decided to include a sampling of reports

my students wrote in response to seeing, being in the presence of writers

reading their own work. My decision was prompted by the pleasure I

always receive in reading these personal reflections that tend to be more

honest and less self-conscious since they’re not graded as “essays” or “cre-

ative writing” pieces written according to a set of guidelines. An extra

bolt of pleasure comes when they acknowledge moments of inspiration

or the fact that this was the first time they attended a live reading but

plan to do more of it.

159 E a s t L o s A n g e l e s C o l l e g e

Henry Armenta | Live Reading Report

The ride on the bus was a perfect imperfection to theoutside 80 degree weather. The air conditioner spat cold refreshing

air at my face. I stared out the window tired as I clenched the Red Bullcan toward my mouth, drinking the needed boost of energy. I was head-ing early to a class I was thinking about dropping, to a reading of poemsI don’t care for anyway. Poems are a poor excuse for writing I thoughtto myself; they rarely have meaning, they just rhyme corny greeting cardclichés in different ways. I needed to get past the writer’s block thatstruck me for the past two months though.

The class made me want to quit writing rather than write more. Itwas full of creative minds, which were in a zone I only visited a shorttime ago in English 101. They gushed of similes and metaphors I adoredand wished bore my name like a son. My writer’s block though grew asI listened to their journal assignments; I grew envious of some becausetheir use of words creatively came so naturally. My writer’s mind was soshocked by what it heard and couldn’t do it had a heart attack and died,came back to life and envy was born. Arthur, a classmate, seemed sounsure of his magnificent talent as he read. It was that or a front, howcan he be unsure of something which was that good; he read what he hadin his journal. It was damn good, a simple description of an old house,but he described it being old and evil-like so beautifully. He made abloody scene or a horror script come out so graphically. He was one ofthe reasons I thought I should drop the class, how was I going to competewith him? His ideas were so original, he described his vision so perfect-ly---every word belonged, while the words fell from my paper as did myhead. His only problem was he didn’t believe in his craft like a teenageboy hitting puberty.

In the class, the creativity bled through the walls daily, someonealways took the simple assignment “there” while I looked back down onmy paper with a frown of disappointment. We read a story, “SisterGodzilla,” boring. While everyone made good papers out of the exercisesthe story inspired, I was just bored and my writer’s block grew strong.

Then came the Milestone 2004 Publication Party Reading at theArt Gallery. It was full of art: paintings, drawings sculptures all hanging orstanding proudly for their creator. Luckily right on time for the reading, Istood against the wall, tired from the walk from the bus stop, next to a

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 160

classmate, Michael, a very interesting guy who wrote in abstract comparedto everyone else; his pieces always threw you for an unexpected loop at theend. They were very fictional at times, sometimes playful. But the letterto his father, a published piece that he didn’t want to read at the event, heread afterwards to our intimate group in class; he had me fighting backtears. Yes, I fought them well, he touched a nerve, hit home. Speaking tohis dad, he reminisced about their shared moments; it was different thanhis other pieces, but it was a great ending to the day. He shared with theclass a real feeling that many would ever come close to sharing. He foughtback expected tears, but we felt him, he broke the ice. I no longer looked athim or any of the writers as competition but as inspiration.

After the reading I noticed Arthur wandering around, and henoticed me. We discussed the class, I shared my difficulties and writer’sblock. And, to my surprise, he shot back with, “That story about that guyrobbing the store…I liked that, it was raw, but it was good.” I stood inshock, this guy heard my shitty story, I mean I developed that story care-fully and loved it because it was the first cool idea I went with in months,but this guy’s first lines in his description from a journal really had mystory with its tail between the legs. “Naaw man, you trippin”!...All yourpieces have had me ready to sign those drop sheets!” I spurted out in dis-belief. He looked at me shocked, “Me? What about that girl Ann Marie?She is like the best from our class, she is a great writer, always has some-thing.” I agreed. Ann Marie, without a doubt, gave the class much need-ed direction; she read her papers first and set the bar high. But therewere many great writers in the class, all of them I would trade places within a second, I thought. “Benito, that guy has some great poems, yeahthey’re songs, but they are some good-ass songs, real Rock and Roll shit,not that radio simple sing-along shit I’ve been hearing.” Arthur agreed,and we chatted after the reading on the way to class. He told me, “Man,I think I’m going to drop the class because of Ann Marie, seriously.”Thinking for something to say to give him back another comment with-out it sounding gay, I said like “Yo’ trust me, your style is tight I’m tellingyou, give it some time…”

Suddenly, the class was different, especially after Michael’s letter, theclass soon had no more boundaries or insecurities. It was a workshopwhere we gave helpful opinions and built each other up and not down.My writer’s block grew smaller as I kept up with the assignments andsomeday would disappear through a drain like a kidney stone. �

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 161

Arthur Marines | At a Milestone Reading: Chris, Claudia, Nancy, and Henry

I ’m lost. I have directions and still can’t find theVincent Price Gallery. I scope out the students sitting at the study

tables inside building F5. I search for kids who appear non-threatening

and not too involved in their learning. I pace the large study area then

wander down the hall to the English office and poke my head in. I’m

hoping to find my teacher Carol Lem or my English 101 instructor

Oropesa so I can ask them for directions, but they’re not at their desks. I

turn and walk back to the study area while rehearsing my interruption,

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you but I’m looking for the Vincent

Price Gallery.” Oh no, I can never say all that: the E’s, B’s, and V’s are like

splinters in my mouth, I’ll stutter all over the place. Maybe I could attend

that other reading Ms. Lem was talking about in class, the one at the

Central Library downtown. No! This is ridiculous, I need to ask someone

right now where this place is; I’m going to ask the next person or persons

that I come across. But not them because they’re speaking Chinese and

I’ll never understand their English and not them either because they’re

jabbering away in Spanish and will trip on me when they discover that I

don’t speak it. And everybody else is just too involved in their work. Who

am I to interrupt them? Man, this place is quiet. At last, I hear a loud

slightly obnoxious, and happy American white-washed voice like my

own. “You suck, bro!” It’s a thorny haired Asian teenager playing that

card game with the monsters and robots with a couple of Chicano kids.

“Hey bro, you know where the Art Gallery is?”

“Yeah bro, it’s right there.”

“Thanks, man.”

“For shizzle.”

* * *

Man, this place is really starting to fill up now. I hope no one sits

next to me. Hey, there’s Chris Yee, shit he’s nervous. I’ve never seen him

show emotions like that on his face; I thought he put those kinds of feel-

ings in his poetry and left them there.

He always appears so rock hard, standing straight and tall with his arms

wide open to all and life like a granite saint perched high above everyone

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 162

in a church, someone who doesn’t choose prejudice as a function, or

taunt and point fingers at the weak, someone like Scott from The X men

or a young Obi Wan Kenobi, I wish I could be like Chris.

Claudia is here, I knew she had something to do with Carol Lem

because she and that other girl are always poking their heads through the

open windows of our classroom and smiling at us. I’m sure she recog-

nizes me but she won’t say hello unless I say it first and if I do, but I’m

not, but if I were to say hello she’d respond with a big porcelain grin and

say, “Hi, how are you!” Then I would want to say, “Fine, thank you, and

how are you, Claudia?” But any word starting with the letter F is hard to

say sometimes, so I would be stuck saying something like “Ok” or “Cool”

or some other response that I didn’t want to say but was stuck with. It’s

the same way in Lem’s class; she’ll ask for my thoughts on a piece and

though I have massive stuff to say, I just shrug my shoulders and look

down. You know, Claudia and I used to talk a lot before I had to avoid

her because of my tongue and mouth defect, the next time we pass each

other in the hall at work I’m going to say, “Hey, that poem you read from

Milestone was really nice.” Even if it sucks I’ll lie.

* * *

Something’s happening on stage, I think they’re having trouble

turning the PA system on. I can see Carol Lem getting frustrated now, no

doubt expecting the power to be on, everything adjusted and ready to go.

After about a minute or so they get it working and Carol Lem sets up the

show for everyone in the audience then the poets follow. I really like the

two older women, one of them is Claudia’s sister. Claudia isn’t reading

after all, guess she’s not in this issue.

Chris Yee is great, of course. I wish he weren’t so nervous though,

but who could blame him? Shit, if I was up there I would be like Da- Da-

D-D. So anyway I keep an open ear and I see mini-movies with the good

poems and yawn through the others. Then comes Nancy Perez, she’s

showing a lot of nervous anxiety like me. I look up at her and see that her

eyes are all around the room, not fixing on anybody. She grips the micro-

phone tight and starts to spew out a well-rehearsed lead into her poetry,

but her mind fools her like mine does and it’s coming out all wrong so

she stops and just says, “I must have swallowed little worms.”

I’m numb, warm with confusion. My heart sprouts thick fibrous

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 163

roots that tear through my stomach past my guts and into my legs

through my feet and out through the bottom of my shoes where they

anchor me to the blobby, salty Jell-O floor that waves beneath me. A swell

of seawater rolls through the room floating everyone to the ceiling then

setting them gently down where they had been sitting. Myself being

anchored to the floor swallow yards of seawater as the swell rolls over me,

but I don’t care; drown if I must, just don’t stop talking. She puts the

microphone down then floats back to her chair.

It takes the rest of the reading for the seawater to drain from the

room and when the last drops empty out the side doors everyone vacates

for cake and soda. It takes a while for my breathing to return to normal,

but when it does I stand by my seat and shear the roots off my feet and

head for the door, dripping wet with seaweed trailing from my ankles

and neck. I have to go outside, I have to find her, I have to tell her that I

love her and that we are brother and sister separated at birth, and we

could run off together like Jesus and Mary Magdalene after the crucifix-

ion. We could go to some far off abandoned planet like maybe Krypton

where she could speak her poetry and I could listen. But someone blocks

me hard and in the way, and I fall victim to the unknown sensation of

praise, “Hey, Arthur, I thought you were going to read.”

“Hey, Henry, … what’d you say?”

“Yeah, we thought you were going to read.”

“Oh …, no, I think this is for last year’s class. Maybe, we’ll be in the

next issue.”

“Man, that one you read in class the other day was bad, man!

“Thanks man, I wonder what everyone is doing outside.”

“How do you think of stuff like that?”

“Like what?

“You know like that one you read in class about that chair coming to

life and kicking you and shit. Man, after you read that, I felt like dropping

the class.”

“Ah come on man, what about you, what do you want to write?”

“Me, I want to write screenplays.” �

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Adriana Michel | In the Presence of Luis J. Rodriguez

Iwas fortunate to be in the presence of Luis Rodriguezat East Los Angeles College for the second time, which made an impact

on my life. He read poems that were filled with images and techniques

that I was able to understand after taking the poetry class with Ms. Lem.

I was able to follow the metaphoric patterns and transitions. But it was

the time after his reading that made my life more focused. After he read

he opened the floor for questions. I asked about his poetry and then about

life. He told me to be strong and focused on what I wanted.

Rodriguez told me that my heritage would not limit me in life but

help. He said not to forget about who I am and who my family is. I loved

the way he told me to love myself and my family in life. He said that the

world is looking for Latin talent. He said I would make it in life because

of a cultural characteristic I have within myself to succeed. I feel like I

will succeed because I have no hang-ups.

I bought his book, introduced him to my family, and told him I was

proud of who I am and where I come from. But I know that my talent and

heritage will not take me to my future, so I expressed to Rodriguez my

college plans for which he gave me wishes of success and achievement.

In the presence of Luis Rodriguez I was inspired. I know now that I

am going to make it because I have people believing in me. I enjoyed this

reading because it helped me to get excited about my future and my life.

It was a learning lesson as well as a spiritual connection. I relate to his

writing and character, but I loved the love he gave to a kid at a college and

the way he hoped for me to succeed. Thank you, Ms. Lem, for making

this experience happen. �

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Pat Sandoval | Flor y Canto

On May 20, 2005 I attended a live poetry reading called“Flor Y Canto” at East Los Angeles Community College. Winners of

the “Flor Y Canto” poetry competition read from their work. They came

from four high schools in Los Angeles: Garfield, Monterey, Vail, and

Wilson. They were selected as a result of a poetry competition organized

by the Bienvenidos Family Services in an effort to encourage creative

writing and to develop positive voices of the youth in the community.

What was particularly inspiring to me was the support these high school

students were getting from the organizers of the event and the commu-

nity. The title of the event reveals the importance of poetry in our indige-

nous society, which was eloquently stated in their brochure:

The term “Flor y canto” (flower and song) dates back to

pre-Columbian times. The poets in ancient Aztec cul-

tures, like the Greeks, gave voice to the great problems of

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Graciela Basulto

human existence. The Aztecs called this Xochitl in

Cuicatl, or flor y canto, an idea that celebrated poetry

“as the only truth on Earth.” Playwright Luis Valdez and

poet Alurista were among the first writers to link revolu-

tionary literature to these ancient roots, and the idea of

“flower and song” lives on today as a poetic expression

of reverence for life and justice.

Courageously, many of the high school students or their proxies

came up and recited their original work. The themes were typical for

people their age and spoke of broken hearts, loneliness, gangs, racial

tension, families, and love. However, there was a poem by a young

African American that caught my attention. I have selected a stanza

from this poem to draw attention to the way this young artist uses

visual imagery and textural detail to convey an internal conflict.

Beyond Scrollingby Jeremy White

As I frantically clutched the cracks of a creaking chair,

I thought of what was beyond the door to the secret room;

Refusing to become what I saw,

I forced myself off the floor and pushed forward;

Past the broken stained glass window,

Then finally past the demons and creatures;

What I then saw made me cry more than the horrific image,

I saw past the door to the secret room;

No matter how terrified I became,

There was no turning back.

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Contributors’ Notes

Monique AlvaradoI was raised in Alhambra, California with my mother, stepfather and my sister

Elizabeth. My mother has given me a lot of the history and inspiration for my

writings, along with the tools and spark to need to write. My multi-ethnic back-

ground of being Mexican, Cuban and Puerto Rican inspired my poem "I Am.” It

celebrates the origins of who I am culturally. My personal narratives both come

from the beginning chapters of my autobiography: “Generations Lost” is inspired

from the flawed fabric of Puerto Rican/Cuban culture I was raised with. “Of

Rainbows and Goodyear Blimps” is based on my first home which represented

more innocent and idyllic times. The loss and confusion of childhood bears its

mark on both pieces. Finally, “September the 21st” was written in response to

abortions that have happened in my family. It is a painful experience which has

feelings on both sides. Although a bit macabre, it comes from real feelings and

hurt associated with the process. It is the description of a real abortion that hap-

pened this past year. Elena was named by her mother in memoriam.

Henry ArmentaIf there is one thing I’ve learned in Lem’s English 127 is the power of metaphor,

images in my life I can share with others. I don’t write now just to write, I share

my mind. These selections, my reflections on being a boy, teenager, young man

(“Cars,” "It’s a Dangerous Thing to Forget...”), come from memories of child-

hood and high school. Not too many of my male family members get to reach

my age of twenty-one, maturity, or go to college, not in my living conditions

(“Dying To Live,” “Pleasure Towers”), which caused me to have a good sense of

humor or, at least, understanding and to grow from situations I got myself into

(“My Two Girls,” “Russian Roulette”). Drugs and girls that for me went hand in

hand are looked at as immature and a farewell before I grew addicted, or worse,

in love. "Russian Roulette" is something I felt after a very stressful day; suicide is

not too prominent where I come from, but dying is very much thought about

and welcomed, and I embraced that feeling. This poem is my most emotional

and metaphorical piece. In "Live Reading Report,” I reflect on myself as a writer,

my insecurities, by witnessing others’ writing talent at last year’s reading for this

publication. These have been my feelings throughout life: some are dark and

edgy, some are comedic and ironic, some I wish would not exist, but they are my

truth. To get what I want in life, without making a deal with the Devil, I must deal

with my own inner-demons, so here they are.

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Jose Del RealI was born Jose Reyes Del Real Jr. on July 16, 1983 in Jerez Zacatecas, Mexico. I emi-

grated to the United States with my mom when I was two. I grew up in Hollywood

and was placed in sheltered classes all through middle school. After high school I

took a break for three years and lost track of writing but enjoyed being an assistant

football coach at Hollywood High. I also did some traveling around the country,

which taught me about life and how to live without fear. After my three year break

I was encouraged to go back to school by my ex-girlfriend. I rediscovered the pas-

sion for reading and writing in the Puente Project with Carol Lem. The source of

my writing comes from life itself, my surroundings and experiences. I didn’t real-

ize how well the pen and I connected until I was encouraged by my peers and

Carol to write. The essay, “Finding My Other Self,” was triggered by a class assign-

ment that allowed me to focus on the relationship with my father, which is almost

non-existent; I’ve always felt that my mother has been my father. The poem,

“You,” was inspired by a night when I looked up at the stars. I believe poetry is in

everyone, you just have to pick up a pen and write your story.

Jasmine GallegosAt twenty-two, writing has been a therapeutic way to express myself, actually

the only way I have been able to heal old wounds. This past semester I took my

first creative writing class, which really helped me to develop as a writer. It

helped me to find my core story, a story reflected in the three pieces represent-

ed in this issue. I have discovered that writing personal narratives about myself

and my family is easier than writing fiction.

Ann Marie GamezI’m another student on the “eight year plan” at ELAC. It’s taken effort throughout

but, nonetheless, I’m finally moving on. Storytelling and writing has always been

an outlet for my emotion. It has been a passion and an exercise for the imagina-

tion, and I always end up writing about issues which affect me culturally, socially

and emotionally. Having been a Theater Arts major my first years here, I had the

opportunity to express a consciousness on stage. Writing it down on paper is

practically the same thing. You’re still expressing any emotion or thought or

opinion, only the writer has control of what is said directly. Literary Arts is what

comes from within…a voice. This fall of 2006 I will be graduating and transfer-

ring to a university with a double major in Theatre Arts and English. It makes me

proud to be part of the graduating and transferring percentage from East Los

Angeles College.

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Travis JoeIn the Fall 2004 session of Carol Lem’s World Literature I, we were assigned to

read a collection of Chinese poets. For a close reading/imitation assignment I was

inspired to write my poem after reading Li Po’s poem, “Bring in the Wine.”

Sometimes in life, you just need to chill out and have a drink. So drink it up.

Louise LeftoffLouise Leftoff, born in Alhambra and raised in Los Angeles, is a third-generation

California native who believes there is much to be gained from the diversity of

living in a multi-cultural location. Her love of reading from a very early age and

some encouragement from her English teacher, Carol Lem, led her to discover

the joys and frustrations of writing. She now finds herself mature enough to bet-

ter appreciate the life lessons learned from her grandmother and mother, and she

makes every effort to pass them along to her grandchildren. She has found that

writing poetry helps her to express and better understand her relationships with

her family and appreciate the fact that her granddaughters seem to enjoy her

poetry, particularly when they see themselves in the results. She earned her

Certified Legal Assistant certificate at California State University at Los Angeles

and works as a paralegal at a law firm in downtown Los Angeles.

Carol Lem Carol Lem has recently published poems in The Chrysalis Reader Rattle, Red Rock

Review, and Runes. A reading of selected poems from her current book, Shadow

of the Plum, may be heard on her CD, Shadow of the Bamboo, with music by

Masakazu Yoshizawa. Lem says, “Poetry reflects an interior landscape shaped by

the influences on my life: growing up Chinese American, the 1960s, playing the

shakuhachi, a Japanese bamboo flute; teaching and writing. The transforming

power of poetry creates order out of chaos, acceptance out of grief and loss.

Poetry is a redemptive process.” Ms. Lem has been an instructor in the English

Department since 1977. Her website is www.carollem.com.

Ruben LopezI was born and raised in East Los Angeles. I write for enjoyment and as a way to

say things I am unable to talk about. I laugh and call this the poor man’s therapy

and the page is my therapist. It will never condemn or judge me. It is there to help

me vent my troubles, but most importantly it will never write anything down

and say, “interesting”. I write volumes of short stories, poems and prose pieces

but have lacked the courage to show them to anyone…until Milestone. I have

been fortunate to be a contributor since 2003. Those early pieces are about my

life, love, and the closeness I have with my family. The positive responses I

received gave me the courage to write more and enter again in 2004. Those pieces

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 170

take a deeper look into who I am. Now, in Milestone 2005, I am looking at the

inevitable. “The Ride of Your Life” is a prose poem about when all is said and

done you want to be able to look back and truly say it. “Days End” is a metaphor-

ical poem narrated by the man sitting in the blue lawn chair. However, “The

Adventures of Bushman and Johnny” was written for fun. It is a bizarre replay of

the old Batman episodes starring characters from the Bush-Kerry presidential

race. It is my first attempt to write in a totally different style. Tell me what you

think at rlopez121@yahoo.com.

Arthur MarinesIf I could cut up English 127 into triangles or maybe circles then eat it, I mean

really take it apart and taste the rusted bloody nails and take the time to properly

salivate over each and every succulent bite of ripe plum; if I sear my eyelids tight-

ly closed with a glowing orange cigarette or staple gun and try not to think about

the arithmetic in the number 127, I then, perhaps, can understand and carefully

un-sew the reflective yellow painted stitching that travels down the center of two

distinctively separate roads, mistakenly tying together the craft of English with

the art of writing if there is such a thing. If you are the “write” kind of person and

can hold your breath longer than a big fat bloated purple man with black lips; or

if you can simply manage to control your breathing while your instructor swan

dives into your body via the half-inch intercostal space between rib number

seven and eight, carefully squeezing and twisting her body so as not to snap or

crack your oily bones, then you are ready for her. She is wicked at recollection, a

true master of the undead. Beware that 127 is a combat booted low kick to a shirt-

less pop-belly. It is three or possibly four superb licks off of Grandma’s cold sum-

mer strawberry ice cream sugar cone before your father smacks it to the floor

from your hands. It is a refreshing glass of lemonade flavored with sharp metal

ice cubes and strychnine, poisoned down to the last drop.

Alexander MartinezI will be attending UC Santa Cruz this fall. In the Spring 2005 English Literature

II class with Carol Lem I was instructed to write an essay on Joseph Conrad’s

novel, The Heart of Darkness. My classmates and I were given a prompt that

allowed us the freedom to speculate on the theme of darkness as a journey. My

reading of this classic tale of a man confronting his own darkness in the heart of

Africa reminded me of the universal darkness in all of us. The experience of the

narrator, Marlow, inspired my analysis of the text.

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Adriana MichelI am a twenty-two year old young woman, who is very glad to have Ms. Lem in

my life. The work published in this issue was all created in English 212: Poetry

with Ms. Lem. In her class I reached into my soul and was able to write poems

that I never thought I would feel capable of writing. I used techniques that Ms.

Lem taught me in order to write poetry that is skillful and touching. I also wrote

about the reading Luis Rodriguez gave on this campus because I felt his words

were not only for me to hear but for everyone at East Los Angeles College. His

words have given me confidence in myself and my culture. I would like to take

this opportunity to thank Ms. Lem for her wisdom and her support. She has

made me believe that I can do whatever I put my mind to. Thank you, Ms.Lem.

John MongeThe poem “Henry” was inspired by my father, who died in 1996. I work in the

Photography Department on campus as an Instructional Assistant and have

always had an interest in creative writing.

Joe MoralesI write because it helps me gain perspective on things by having the chance to be

someone else, to see through a different vantage point and hopefully come away

with a better understanding of who I am, what beliefs I accept and why. As an

aspiring writer, I strive not only to tap this consciousness but to utilize it to cap-

ture a moment in time, an image, a scene or character and place it onto paper.

What then hopefully happens is a rough idea for a stanza or narrative. It either

yields a poem / story or is put away as a perpetual work in progress.

During the course of Professor Lem’s creative writing class, each student was

assigned to write a piece on a vivid moment of recollection "which brings back a

dominant emotion." The catch was the emotion had to be conveyed without say-

ing it outright. I can’t say for sure that I pulled this off. What I do hope is that

“Freddie’s Words” reads as a somewhat interesting reminiscence of pre-conceived

notions. “Citizenship” and “Body of Water” also encompass this idea.

Rudi Ramos OropezaI wrote “The Baseball” because it’s a part of my life that I will always remember.

I don’t know how many kids get hit with a baseball, but when I think about it, it

makes me laugh for the most part. It is true, what doesn’t kill you only makes you

stronger. My essay was modeled after Richard Selzer’s “The Knife,” which I liked

because he focused on one object and really followed it through to see what he

could discover.

M i l e s t o n e 2 0 0 5 172

Nancy PerezHuman elasticity: the fact that nothing’s for sure, that a perceptive, down-to-earth

character such as Elizabeth Bennet can mutate into a fool or that an arrogant man

such as Mr. Darcy can be brought to his knees, is what inspired my essay on Jane

Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Everyone can be stupid, everyone! But from stupid-

ity, from ignorance, truth and wisdom can be obtained. We can’t read each other’s

minds nor have all the answers, but maybe we’re not supposed to. I’m not looking

for a universal truth, I’m just in search of my meaning; I want to live my meaning

because I’ve learned that the ocean is not blue, nor is the bed where sky and earth

meet, but both. And it is a mistake to let someone else tell you what it is; let’s go

find out ourselves. This is what the speaker in “Logs On Fire” should have done!

The speaker has a vision, what Nietzsche calls “Being Alive,” but the speaker ulti-

mately lets someone else’s definition of what is “real” or “appropriate” kill what

that vision is. To me, the ocean is the point where heaven and earth become one,

transform into each other; to you, the ocean might be a blue puddle or something

else; these are both true! I never want to let a judgmental, slave-like mind tell me

that the ocean is just an ocean everywhere. Water is shapeless for a reason, go fig-

ure it out and never conform to somebody else’s eyesight!

Louie A. RodriguezMy poem is a tribute to my late-grandfather, who was more of a father to me

than my actual father. That seems to be a tradition on the Rodriguez side of my

family. I recited this piece at his wake in St. Lucy’s Catholic Church in City

Terrace, East Los. The Padre leaned over so I could say a few words into his

microphone. I told him that he was better off taking it off, because it could be a

while. Everyone there expressed their delight with the poem, but I was more

nervous up there than I have ever been in front of absolute strangers at open mic

battles and freestyle sessions.

To elaborate a bit, in my ‘hood there is a liquor store on every block. On the

same street there is a Protestant Church. That exists on just about every block

from City Terrace to Boyle Heights through Wabash. Alcoholic consumption is

in the Mexican culture. It helps some people deal with and forget about their

problems. Liquor stores are usually closer and more common than churches.

When booze doesn’t work, a little further down the street there’s a church. It’s sad

that those are the only two options for some sort of salvation, whether it is spir-

itual or mental.

My life goal is to reopen “The Gallery” that was on City Terrace Drive and set

it up as a Multicultural Arts/Music Education Center. I want to give the kids a

place to grow, learn about their roots and other cultures, and surround them

with the divine vibrations of music.

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Pat SandovalI was born in Los Angeles, California in 1953 and grew up with my grandparents

in Fillmore, CA. After I graduated from Fillmore High School in 1972, I spent

several months in Mexico. When I returned to the United States I moved to San

Diego. For the next seven years I worked for a cooperative food store and even-

tually established my own business distributing natural foods. In 1979 I attended

Palomar College in San Marcos, CA and began working for the California mini-

corps. I was sent to several agricultural communities and worked with migrant

farm workers. I graduated from The University of California at Santa Barbara in

1984 with a BA in Liberal Studies. In 1986 I began teaching for Los Angeles

Unified School District and taught Bilingual Education. It was there at Eastman

Avenue that I met my wife and eventually got married. After my first son was

born in1989 we moved to Chula Vista, California. I was working for San Diego

Unified School District when my second son Benjamin was born. I returned to

Los Angeles in 2003 and am currently teaching adult education for the Los

Angeles Unified School District.

Benito Solis I am 6’4” tall and I like skateboarding and jumping my bicycle over cement gaps

at local skate parks. I am a musician, and I work in music, but really, I don’t cat-

egorize myself as anything other than creative. For me, life is about expression of

life experiences, be it brutally honest or beautifully innocent. As far as my influ-

ences are concerned, songwriters and filmmakers inspire me more than authors.

Specifically, Neil Young and Brian Wilson are far more important to me than the

entire Beatles catalogue. My writing is sometimes a collage of biographies, writ-

ten in an autobiographical way. Right now, or at least when these Milestone

pieces were written, I was in a reflective state. I was also listening to a lot of Neil

Young. I respect the rawness in these pieces; they’re nothing fancy. I use slang in

the hopes that the true voice is conveyed through the work. Breaking the rules of

language is perhaps an attempt to reach some artistic core. The beauty is not in

the eloquence of the language, but the honest simplicity of the words. For me, it’s

like singing out of key; sometimes the broken notes convey the real emotion of

the work.

Debra UrteagaIn the Spring 2004 Creative Writing class, Carol Lem assigned us to write a poem

focusing on imagery. So I thought of something that affected all my five senses

profoundly, and this is it. The poem is called “The Week-End” because I wanted

to emphasize that this was a habitual thing, a weekend ritual. There’s also a pun

on “end” but I don’t feel like going into it. Also, the poem is about heroin with-

drawal. At the end, I’m the one who overcomes it, for I find pleasure in the pin-

prick (not heroin though, of course).

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Michael VenegasI am twenty-three years old and following my dream to become a writer.

Growing up in East L.A. my pieces are about my fears and how I’ve conquered

them. Each piece accepted for this issue was written by a different prompt in

English 127, Creative Writing.

“The Riddle of St. Ives” came about when I had to write a poem about journey.

The images from the nursery rhymes of Mother Goose came about because on

the night I wrote the poem I was reading Mother Goose rhymes to my little

cousins. In this piece the images are meticulously placed and the poem does

indeed have a double meaning.

In “Sacrifice” we were supposed to recall a vivid moment in our lives.

“Fairy Tales Are More Than True” started as a rant on my online journal. On

the suggestion of my workshop group I submitted the piece to Milestone. The

rant itself came about after talking with someone, who was trying to prove to me

that fiction can not have the same power that non-fiction has. Nevertheless, I like

writing fiction above all of the writing genres.

Dianna VirataAll my work, whether it be novella or poetry, I explore the forbidden “taboo” of

human life, the dark taboos that are very much existent in the world but most do

not like to acknowledge. In my story “A Great and Terrible Beauty” I went into

the mind of a woman with a shady past leading her to resort to prostitution and

drugs. She’s more than her profession; she’s a woman, a human being dealing

with conflicts like everyone else, conflicts such as isolation dealing with self-

image and trust, bi-racial relationships, and doing whatever it takes to make ends

meet. What I wish for is to have my art touch the reader in some way, to have the

reader feel connection, to understand. To have made a difference makes my

dream of being a writer still worth striving for.

Christopher Makoto YeeIn my writing, I try to hook readers with self-deprecating wit and neurotic

charm, all the while sincerely trying to please anyone who will give my work a

passing glance. Coming from a unique background of being a fourth-generation

Japanese/Chinese from Monterey Park, my writing is less focused on my own

identity—though it is speckled with bits and pieces of my heritage—and more

on where I am and what I am doing at the present time. I have spent the last two

years at East Los Angeles College, making the transition from being a Mechanical

Engineering major to an English major after the first of the two. Thanks to the

excellent English program at ELAC, I have chosen to study at Cal State L.A. to

become an English teacher, perhaps even a professor at his transfer-alma mater.

Comments or greetings of any sort are welcomed at klcsy@hotmail.com.

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