INCITEThen & Now

Inside:Escaping the Vietnam WarThe History of Pearson's PortCollege Activism: A RetrospectiveA Creative Look at Mixed-IdentityThe Death of The Music Store

Contents Memories of Escape: An Interview with Michelle Tran

Pearson’s Port

The Protest Movement of UCI: Then and Now

Thank You, I am Myself.

God Save the Music Stores

The University of California system is famous for its passionate student activism. From the Free Speech Movement of the 60s at Berkeley, to last year’s protests against new UC President Janet Napolitano at UCI, activism is indeed alive and well among millennials.

An Asian-American woman recollects vivid details of her experience evading a communist country during the Vietnam War, risking death, but making it safely to the United States.

Newport Beach built much of itself around Pearson’s Port fish market, and its owners and operators, three generations of Pearson, have made its continuity their sole priority.

A story within a story - with quotes from “Their Eyes Were Watching God” woven in - about growing up with a mixed cultural identity.

The diminished record store experience revisited, per-haps for the last time. The millennial generation might be the last to tell the story.

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Editor's Note staffVolume 7, Issue 2

EDITOR IN CHIEFCourtney Hamilton

ASSISTANT EDITORNikki Constantine

SENIOR EDITORCeline Littlejohn

CREATIVE DIRECTORKatie Ludwick

WEB EDITOR Brittany Dunn

WRITERSYesenia Carvajal Nidia K. Flores Sarah Gray Isenberg Kelly Kimball

WEB PAGEwww.incitemagazineuci.com

Our mission is to create awareness beyond our common cul-tural community in an effort to educate, unite, and transcend barriers. We aim to provide our readers with insight into the world they live in, with the hopes of inciting activism.

With big changes racking the UC system and the millennial generation at large, a retrospective-themed issue of Incite—an issue that forced us to review the “then and now” of our lived experiences—became necessary.

It was immediately clear in the drafting process that Volume 7.2 would consider the pressing concerns of young adults of the past and their modern repercussions. If you are at all familiar with the theme-determining process for Incite’s print issues, you know that the immediacy of such clarity is a rare thing. We knew we had to pursue it.

In our staff discussions, protests surrounding Janet Napolitano’s assumption of the UC presidency reminded writer Celine Littlejohn of the wave of 1960s student activism that helped define the University of California today. Discussions on the millenial mu-sic-listening and concert-going experience sparked Yesenia Carvajal’s concern about the waning intimacy of the music industry. Kelly Kimball interviewed a woman with a dramatic contrast in her personal “then and now,” having fled war-addled Laos in the 1970s to transition into life in the vastly different cultural and geographic landscape of America.

In composing this issue, we took note of the patterns that repeat themselves in our histories. Celine Littlejohn captures this concept succinctly in “The Protest Movement of UCI: Then and Now” when she says:

This must be Berkeley circa 1964, right? Clark Kerr is the UC President and things are getting to be too much to handle. The war is Vietnam that the student soldier was in. Said war is tearing families apart, right? Almost. However, this idea is nearly 50 years off. The year is 2013. The campus is UC Irvine. The soldier is an Afghanistan war veteran. The appointment of former Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano to be the new UC President is causing fear among students, stemming from a refusal to open the lines of communication.

We hope this issue provokes consideration of your own “then and now,” on a personal, societal, cultural and whatever else –al level you can think of. Let us know what you come up with.

As always, thank you for reading and for your indelible support.

Sincerely,Courtney Hamilton

Editor in Chief

Above:Using Armored Personnel Carriers for cover, U.S. Army infantry members advance on enemy forces at the Battle of Tam Ky, in South Vietnam. Photo taken by Lieutenant General John H. Hay, Jr.

Memories of Escape: An Interview with Michelle TranBy Kelly Kimball

Michelle Tran, now 49, escaped with her family of six from Laos to Amer-ica during the Vietnam War. Only nine-years-old at the time, Tran recol-lects vivid details of her experience evading a communist country, risking death, but making it safely to the United States. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.

*Names have been changed to protect sources' identities.

When does the experience begin for you? Michelle Tran: It has to be the night that we left. And that is back in 1975 in the summertime… that night, I knew that something was brewing. I was nine-years-old. And my mother woke me up and asked me to put on extra clothing. She tucked away $100 and the address of my sister [Vivian] who was already in Guam. [My mother] said, “this is a lot of money. If I should lose you along the way, you are to use this money to bribe and get to this [address]…this is where you need to get to.” [My sister] was the only one in U.S. territory at the time. When we left, there was no saying if we could stay together. There were no formal papers, nothing…The goal was, no matter what happens, we were gonna get to this ad-dress so we could all meet up if we were ever separated. That’s what my mother told me.

We lived right next to the Mekong River and…there was a boat dock. I was the first one to go to this boat dock, and next to its ramp was a big bamboo bush…so I went [there]. There wasn’t a lot of instruction form my mother, and keep in mind that [I was] nine years old, right. It was dark, and this is in the countryside. [As I stood there] a hand came out of the bamboo bush, grabbed me and pushed me down into a boat. I didn’t even know who he was. I didn’t recognize this guy, and he said, “Lie down so that no one can see you.” So I did. Within minutes, the rest of my family came in and sat down, and off we went, rowing across the Mekong River to [Bangkok] Thailand.

Once we got there, we couldn’t go through the official entryway into Thailand, because that required official documentation and things. So, instead we pulled over into this area and it had just rained. If you know Asia, then you know that when it rains it is wet. I was walking up in knee-deep mud. My brother was walking in front of me, and he was pushing through these big leaves, and all I got were these huge leaves flapping at my face…It felt like hours, but I’m sure it was only about 30 minutes.

Who was specifically with you on the boat? Michelle Tran: My whole family [was there], so my three brothers [Richard, Paul, and Robert, whose ages were 12, 17 and 27 at the time], my one sister [Rose, 36] and my parents, and then two men that took us.

Then my family went up to this guy – he’s like a government official [of Thailand] – and apparently my father had already made arrangements with him, and our luggage was there. So he [the government official] , “Go ahead and shower, and then I’ll take you to the refugee camp.” And then we showered and got our stuff together and then from there we went into a car and went to the refugee camp in Bangkok. It was a church that they kinda built out temporary housing for us to put our stuff in. When we were there, we had to be pulled into an interview…to determine whether we were able to go to the U.S. When we left [Laos], we didn’t take very much at all – we could not take very much…The only thing we took was our baptismal record, the address of my sister in Guam, and my mother – being sentimental – took the last letter sent from my sister [in Guam], because she [my mom] said that may be the last thing that I have from her.

We weren’t sure if we got the right documentation [for the inter-view]. We didn’t know what they were looking for. So we sat and watched another couple get interviewed; they talked for like an hour and I saw the woman crying because she didn’t get to go. So then we came up to the interview and they [the Thai government officials] said that “the primary reason that we will allow you to get to the U.S. is to reunite with your family. Do you have any family in the U.S.?”The one thing that saved us was the letter that my mother took. And she said, “this is the letter from my daughter.” So obviously they took it out and read it. Within a few minutes they said okay, go pack up. You’re going to the U.S. And that’s how we came here.

Was the letter the only thing they looked at?Michelle Tran: That’s it. The government officials wanted to unite us with our relatives in the U.S. [The letter] was all they needed.

Had you escaped Laos in the daytime, would it have been a different experience?Michelle Tran: Well you cannot, because keep in mind that they guard the borders pretty well. So if you left during the daytime, you would have gotten shot.My cousin, in fact, just weeks before us, was spotted [escaping]. Even at night. They shot him, amd asked him to take himself back. He said it was a death sentence. He didn’t turn back, and they shot his boat. The boat sank and his mother drowned. His wife drowned. And his two daughters, well, he threw one on his back and the guy [his acquaintance] threw the other [daughter] on his back. The two girls were on these guys’ shoulders. It was only a few more strokes away, and it would have been shallow enough for his daughters to swim. That guy [my cousin’s acquaintance] said I can’t swim anymore with your daughter on my shoulders. What do you want me to do? I mean what can you do? He let her drown.

So the escape is very, very dangerous because – y’know – the bor-ders are very well guarded. They will kill you.

did he ever successfully escape Laos? Michelle Tran: No, he never made it out. And the only ones who survived in his family were him and his daughter. How horrifying it is to have the board sink and to lose your mother and your wife and ¾ of the way through, lose your daughter too. And during our escape, we couldn’t go on paved roads. We had to take the dirt paths – go around the backway – during monsoon season. It was very muddy and wet.

Let's talk more about the government official who helped you escape into Thailand. Was he breaking the law helping you? Michelle Tran: Yes. He was definitely breaking the law to help us go. I don’t know if my dad knew him, but he knew somebody who knew my dad.

What [the government official] did was he took us and at each guard station we had to go through, he said, “Oh, don’t worry, I’m taking them to a wedding.” We went through all those guard stations and into Bangkok and he dropped us off. Every meeting that you had was like a final goodbye. You knew

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that they helped you out, but that you would never see them again. As soon as we leaveThailand, it’s not like we will ever go back, right? Well, now you may think of going back. But back then, it was one of those things, it’s like going to Mars – it’s a one-way ticket. And, y’know, there’s a lot of political unrest, and you don’t know if it is possible to ever go back. Not to mention the cost. Money-wise, when we left, we had $2500 – U.S. dollars. My dad traded [our money] to get the U.S. dollars as much as we can, because that is a currency that is recognized around the world. A lot of Laotian money makes up one U.S. dollar, so it’s very bulky. My father traded on the grey market all the money he cooked up, which added up to $2500. And that’s how we left.

When you took the plane from Thailand to the United States, where in the United States did you land? Michelle Tran: We landed in Harrisburg, PA. A military base… From there we stayed for three weeks until we found a sponsor that would send us to where we needed to go. We came here the day before Halloween. After three weeks, a catholic church in Lin-coln Heights, Los Angeles sponsored us. That’s how we ended up in California. It was Sacred Heart Catholic Church.

That sponsorship allowed you to move out of PA? Michelle Tran: Correct. When they sponsor you, they give assurance to the U.S. government that they will take care of you financially until we’re on our feet. So, they sponsor our family and they help us out in terms of gathering donations, getting jobs, and things like that. My parents started working in the garment in-dustry immediately. They got a house for us. It was an apartment. Once we got there, some families [from the congregation] helped in one way, some in others. We were able to get on our feet.

What was your first experience like in the U.S.? Was it a culture shock?Michelle Tran: Oh, totally. Imagine 400 years ago [in the U.S.]: that’s how it was in Laos [when I was living there]. We didn’t have running water; we had to pump it out of the river. We had no electricity. When I came to Los Angeles – it was bright lights and big cities. There are cars and houses everywhere: high density. We went to a place that has like 3 million people back in ’75. Our town [in Laos] had less than 1,000 people, so it’s a total shock. Not to mention there’s a language barrier. English was completely foreign. And I had never seen anybody other than Asians in my life. Com-ing here, I used to think that anything you see on TV is all fake, so Klingons and blondes and brunettes – I thought they were all fake. And by George, I see people who are walking around with freckles and bright eyes and blonde hair and red hair. I thought, oh my God! They’re real! So that means Klingons and gnomes probably exist somewhere too! It was quite a shock.

When I came here [and heard English for the first time] all I heard was a bunch of sshhh sounds. Y’know? Like, shuu-sh-sh-shuu-sherr, y’know it kinda sounded like that. Gesturing is an inter-national language, so you gesture and you’re understood after a while. It was quite the shock.

To get some insight on your hometown in Laos, was there anything else about it that was very distinctive to you? Michelle Tran: It’s very rural. Because it’s such a small town, everybody always took care of each other. And over here [in the U.S.], it’s very isolating because you go into your house, you close the door and you seek privacy because it’s so crowded here. You don’t want to know everybody. Whereas in that small town…you

Above:U.S. soldiers peer into a Vietnamese Hut. Photo taken by Lawrence J. Sullivan in 1966. Image part of the National Archives.

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always look out for each other, so you go into somebody’s house and it’s accepted that you go eat with them. It’s not that unusual. Whereas here, you don’t just walk into your neighbor’s house and go have dinner with them, right? So things like that were very, very different.

Also [in Laos] you woke up to the sunlight. So you started working when the sun rose and when the sun set you kind of went back into the house just because there’s no electricity. Whereas, in the U.S., whether it’s day or night there’s electricity and things that make other things possible. You can go do things outside when it’s dark here; over there, not really. It’s a very, very different lifestyle. And growing up on a farm, in the countryside, it’s much slower-paced. Here, it’s a lot faster.

back to the boat ride along the river to Thailand. What was your nine-year-old self feeling during that whole process? What spurred those emotions?Michelle Tran: The biggest feeling was the anxiety of the unknown. My father and my eldest brother would tell us that in the U.S., you may need to work – and that we may go pick lemons or oranges or something like that for a living…I came here fully expecting that I was gonna be a laborer. That was what we heard was possible. There was no telling whether we would get an education. In Laos, you had to pay for an education yourself, even in grade school – so you just go to private school the whole time. If you have the money, you can afford an education. We didn’t realize that education was actually free [in the U.S.]. We didn’t think that was possible. So we were expecting to come over here and be farm workers.

You could feel the stress level, the wor-ry, the fear that my parents were going through. They couldn’t assure us of what was going to happen next…We had no idea what the U.S. was like. We hadn’t seen pictures. It came very suddenly. You just kinda take a step out into the darkness and see where you land.

[Even after landing in the U.S.] it was still very stressful because we were trying to speak the language…You couldn’t read the street signs. You’d get lost. You don’t know where you were going. And you have no one to turn to or ask for help. Although everybody is super nice and trying to help you, you still can’t communicate. I didn’t even know how to use a stove top! You see, we take it for granted, but I had never seen that before. I didn’t even know how

to turn it on. And I almost started a fire, because I was cooking and didn’t know how to turn it off. Literally, it was burning wild and I couldn’t turn it off. It’s that type of thing. The amenities are there, but you just don’t know how to use them. And the same thing with toilets. Because I knew how to use a flat toilet, but then over here I thought: Am I supposed to squat on this thing? Because it’s kinda tall! You have it, but it’s different. It takes a little getting used to.

Did you ever see your sister from Guam?Michelle Tran: Yes! We did. We actually met up with her the minute we came to the U.S. We met up with her and we all congregated here in Los Angeles. She lives in Redondo Beach right now.

Do you have anything else to say about the experience?Michelle Tran: Seeing for the first time the many hair colors and freckles and light colored eyes, I was so fas-cinated. I always thought that if my brown eyes could see a certain color, then your blue eyes would see a differ-ent color...So if I see a color, I always was fascinated to see what color they see. I had no idea that they actually see the same thing.

The other thing that fascinated me was freckles. And hair. You’ve seen [my son] Jacob and me; we have like no hair on our bodies except our heads. If I sat next to a man, and he had hair on his arms, I could not help but touch it. I was just fascinated with that. The other thing was sitting at church. I always wanted to sit behind a col-ored-hair person with long hair, be-cause I wanted to feel if my black hair and someone’s blonde hair was the same texture. So I’d always feel their hair and mine, and then it’s like by George, it’s the same thing! [Laughs]. It’s things like that I was fascinated by.

And y’know, nowadays, I feel like I’m color blind, in a sense that I don’t notice if anyone is different from me or something else. But back then I would ask: Is that banana yellow to you? Or do you see something else?

Also freckles. I was dying to see somebody with freckles because I just thought that was so different. In elementary school, that was the biggest revelation for me – that their skin is like my skin, but just different pigmentation, and their hair is like my hair, but dif-ferent colors, and that the blue-eyed people actually don’t see any different colors than my brown eyes.

“a hand came out of the bamboo

bush, grabbed me and pushed me

down into a boat. I didn’t even know

who he was. I didn’t recognize this guy, and he

said ‘Lie down so that no one can see

you.’ So I did.”

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The knife enters at the salmon’s gills, cutting down an inch into the middle of the meat. It moves laterally, tug by pulsing tug, slic-ing straight and evenly from the superior half of the fish to the in-ferior, exiting at the tail. The fillet knife moves distally, away from the heart, tracing the path of the spine. Even in this grotesque mo-ment, the fish retains its sleekness: ebony posterior fading down to a charcoal shade and then to heather grey. Its pupils glint the same as they did before it met its untimely end in some Scottish sea. You cannot avert its gaze. The fisherman’s gloved hands push against the fish’s stock, holding it in place as if it still has enough fight in it to wriggle away. The fisherman flips the half onto its back, reveal-ing the fleshy coral tones of the salmon innards. The 9-pounder should yield some beautiful fillets. Next the fisherman takes his butcher knife and miniature sledge and drives the knife through the half at 3-inch intervals so it will fold up into his bucket; meat on the bone keeps the body fresher. He drops it, and the segments collapse on top of each other. His worktop is then pressure-hosed and the remaining half is rinsed. The hiss is accompanied by the 59 degree gurgling of the animals’ aeration. But both are drowned out by Jason Mraz and Carly Rae Jepsen on 104.3 MyFM. The fisherman pulls the salmon closer to him, and runs his fillet knife ventrally, slicing off fatty portions, focusing on the belly. He takes the waste and tosses it into his bucket, then packs sushi-grade salmon on ice by the propped door. The fisherman walks over to the receptacles holding California Spiny Lobsters and grabs four one-and-a-half pound disquieted crustaceans. They quarrel, one on top of another, throwing them-selves violently into the curves of the bucket. One and one-and-a-half pounds in size, with an unusual five-pound lobster hanging in the corner of his tank. Chefs from Golden Truffle and Bear Flag come buy their lobsters from Pearson’s on occasion. The fisherman attaches a plastic bag to its edges then flips it over so the lobsters tumble into the bag that he then knots it to place it on a scale, the total roughly $75 at $19.99 a pound. He dumps them out and pins one to the worktop and whacks off the antennae so the barbs don’t whip around and scratch him. He gives the bony plate proximal to

the lobster’s head, an area analogous to a human’s temples, a tight squeeze to settle the crustacean down. He takes a large cutlery knife, aligns it dorsally and assumes in his right hand the sledge that pounds the knife with 6 blows to split the lobster clean in half along its midline. It hits the brain first to put it out instant-ly—lobsters lack a lot of pain receptors and any nervous system. He separates the parts and pushes them to the corner, each limb, feeler, eye, claw stirring posthumously. “After so long, I could do this in my sleep, I swear,” he laughs. He takes his needle nose pliers and half of the lobster and cut out its crusher, the bony plates that grind its food. He tosses the waste aside and picks out the stomach and testicles, an elongated white mass with a bulge at one end. He leaves in the tamale upon request, the piquant liver. He disembodies and cleans the remaining seven, his hands moving like pre-programmed machines. The ocean exhalation pushes the tides outwards and high up on the shore bordering the parking lot. The convalescent dock rocks in the wake of the Radon’s waves. Water inches slowly higher onto the beach to wipe it clean of debris. Old sea and tar from the roadways above ruminate on the one o’ clock breeze. The caddy shack market sits 30 feet below the East Coast Highway overpass which opened in 1981, replacing the long-standing wood bridge that Tommy Pearson, the owner, remembers shimmying across to get ice cream on the other bank.Chuck’s wrinkles are reminders of 38 years spent as a Fender logistics man in the corporate race and his retirement years spent in the bay sun. “I got people that come in here all of the time that say, ‘Oh, I remember your mother back 20 years ago!” he says and laughs. One step on the dock and the backdrop of modern life fades into the bay. “People will call me up and ask if I felt the earthquake, and I always say, ‘Nope! I’m on the water. We don’t feel a thing.’ Except when the tsunami hit, the tide went up and down 3 times in 6 hours. You could feel the energy rushing beneath us, it was going

Pearson’s PortStory and Photos by Sarah Gray Isenberg

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at a good 20 knots. But when the wedge is 20 foot, we don’t see it. We’re back pretty far from the ocean. We’re back a good half hour, you can only go 5 miles an hour—we’re back a good half hour from the outer harbor; what we like to call, ‘the outside.’

Sea Bass Haley, third-generation Pearson, digs the sea bass out of the ice with a hook and puts it down in front of Terese, Tommy’s wife. Tommy and Terese grew up three doors down from one another, and since ages three and five, have occupied each other’s lives. Neither has ever left Huntington, growing up on Cynthia Drive but never leaving the area; even now, the family house is in Hun-tington. SoCal blood courses through these fishmongers’ veins. Tommy and Terese’s stories are synonymous; there are no separate stories. Tommy was the fifth out of six children, and Terese was best friends with his sister younger sister Christy. Terese had a brother Tommy’s age, so they all formed a cohesive unit.“It was weird,” Terese laughs. “Crazy how it all happened, how all worked out. Ha!” Terese chortles that it took until she was 23 to start dating Tommy. “He always had his girlfriends, so we both lived our lives. Once we got all that out of our system, we got together. Ha ha!” Terese has since had her hand in managing the now 12 boats that the family patrols up and down the California coast. She has spent a large amount of time in Dana Point; Tommy and she have found Dana to be the most successful area to pull up fish for the

market. Now the two are wed in marriage and business, Terese being the right hand woman for the port. Pulling and setting lobster traps, baiting the ocean’s creatures, casting lines, setting poles, fixing harpoons, icing fish, all set their matrimony apart from the gender roles of a traditional household. Terese’s marriage is a rod, lobster pot, three dogs, crab traps, a radon, two hands, a Ford F150, and a wedding ring. The men, Tommy and Chuck, relay any customer questions relevant to fish to Terese who has become Newport’s walking encyclopedia of piscine anatomy. Now her daughters, Carley, the youngest, who started working for the business at age seven, and Haley, are her apprentices at the market, learning the ins and outs of fish, marine life, and the ocean from the modern mermaid herself. Terese takes her instrument, one that looks like a cookie cutter, and runs it backwards along the scales’ natural overlay. She uses the tool in abbreviated strokes along the three-and-a-half foot length until the bass lays vulnerable without a sheath. She tames the nap. Shaved scales fall into a heap by the body. She repeats on the reverse. Terese works her way through the tail easily with her fillet knife and directs the knife down the spine, pushing deep into the mass. In the first crease she drew at the tail, her knife slices me-dially to split the bass in half short-ways. She turns it on her side and continues the strokes. Once the bass detaches, she removes shallow slices of waste from the body, now a pale, opaque mass interspersed with flecks of deep maroon. Her knife penetrates two-thirds down the way of the body, the first step to removing

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the belly fat for a customer. Unable to readjust to the rules of fillet, insisting that there is a particular way to cut the fish, the Japanese customer says, “You can’t cut fish like that.” Motioning, he shows Terese she can’t cut the fish laterally, it has to go distally, long-ways away from the head. She retorts, “I’m getting you the belly fat piece you want.” The sea bass is lean, in comparison to the fatty opa. Her strokes don’t reverberate in the fish and her knife isn’t caught in the flesh like the opa that waits beside her on the worktop. The sea bass cuts are clean and the customer requests the skin to be left on to sear the little bit of fat between the meat and scales when he gets home to cook it. The market leads a languishing existence. Set in its splintered wood and mercantile values, it appears to tread the line just above tangible enterprise. It is the last floating fish market in California where its 4 workers “don’t fish to live, but live to fish.” Old posts and chains hang nostalgically, rusted and oxidized. An American Express and Visa sign leans on the inside of the window. Pearson’s Port never found its niche in Newport, Back Bay and Newport Ridge built themselves around Pearson’s some 42 years ago. Its live-lihood opposes that of the neighboring modernity, and it has always looked more like a relic of the previous generation. “$20 for swordfish and fillets of sole right off the ocean are what keep us coming back,” and “I drove from Lake Elsinore to come get some lobster. Been comin’ to you guys for 40 years now,” explain frequent customers. Nestled just below the Chevron, Maserati, and Lamborghini super-stores, it is a figment of a memory replaced by consumerism. Its values are abandoned ideas, re-placed by machinery and efficacy. Bits of the past that have washed up on its shores now cling to the shack walls: torn hand-fishing nets, halves of collected abalone shells, a glass case of international currency, a picture of Tommy Pearson and his father with a huge bass, feature and restaurant articles. Roy and Vi Pearson, Tommy’s parents, built the shack during their retirement. Roy was a part-time fisherman who worked in aerospace, so they decided to do something different with their lives. Over the years the market has taken on new forms. Originally, it was just a barge sustained by floats ebbing in the water with its receptacles hang-ing over the dock’s edges. It was built in a spot where there was a launch ramp and fuel dock and because Roy knew the marina’s owners. The shack came later, built ground-up by Roy. In 1983, Harbor Department notified the Pearsons that their barge had bro-ken off in a storm and was doing donuts in the turning basin. The department towed it over to the bay and left it, and the basket of limes placed on the freezer the day before had not moved. Some-how, the barge had cleared the concrete bridge when it should have been splinters. No one understood how the long wood dock could have squeezed through the bridge posts without breaking into to pieces. During Tommy’s daughter’s fifth grade promotion dinner at Out-back Steakhouse, they got word that the power had gone out in the shack that powers the tank’s aeration systems and the water supply

that feeds into the basins. Dressed in formal gowns and bare feet in darkness, they transferred their crustaceans from their receptacles to bins to keep them from dying. The barge holds the line between the Old Sea and the shore, positioned below the industrialization of the new era. Its grainy taupe roof has been battered by half-a century of bad weather, incessant coastal drizzle of the harbor’s indecisive climate. “We’re a glitch in time, we really are. We’ve made our own world. It sucks we have to live in the 21st century.” The dingy rests on the shore edge, clasping a tether tied to the dock. Barbed wire stares over the chain link archway, but extends no further than the entrance. This leaves the left and right parts of the port edge open to any trespassers brazen enough to wade the 5 inches of water bordering the shack: a manufacturer’s default or the intention its hospitable owner; depends who you ask. Ambu-lances wail. Oarsmen and stand-up paddle boarders row under the overpass where the sirens echo their immediacy. Their tribulation is not heard, nor understood. The port’s life is a deaf bubble.When business slows down around 2 as citizens busy themselves in

the corporate world, Chuck slips around back and drops a line. He side casts his line strongly to the right,

so the current will carry the lure downstream, drawing the attention of the spotted bass.

“All you need for fishing is a line, the right color lure, and a current.”

An awakened breeze draws locals to the harbor side, and pelicans dive into the emerald shallows to chase evasive flying mullet. As a vegetar-ian, bottom-dwelling fish, a mullet is a prized find and mostly used for rooster fishing in the trop-ics. An opportunistic fish, bits of debris and bait pieces coax it to the

surface, and it launches itself into the air to retrieve them. A bottom

boy, who dives under ships to clean their bellies, passes our dock, cloaked in

full wetsuit, one hand on the rudder, ciga-rette in mouth.

“I’m a strictly catch-and-release kind of guy, when it comes to the harbor,” Chuck says while hosing. “I mean,

think about it, if this is where the fish come to grow and if you har-vest them when they’re young, you’re just harming yourself, there’ll be no fish left. So I just throw ‘em back. Costa Rica’s awfully good for fishing. There’s more numbers there, less being taken commer-cially than the other Third World areas. Sometimes they sell their resource to overseas fishermen who come in with their nets and take it all. Happened a lot in the Sea of Cortez. My philosophy is, ‘local fish for local people:’ As far as the huge factory ships wiping it clean, every fisherman’s against that. Unless you happen to be a big factory ship owner, then you’ll be motivated by your profits and that’ll be your guide. But, again, off the record, I try to stay away from negative, my glass is always half full. In my opinion there’s too much attention to negativity. It’s so easy to be angry—there are a lot of success stories, this place being one of them. It’s harder to find the silver lining than to be negative. Just the fact that this place can exist lets you know there are a lot of fish left. If they’re harvested responsibly and kept here for local people to buy, it’s a perpetual resource for generations to come.”

“We’re a glitch in

time, we really are. We’ve made our own

world. It sucks we have to live in the

21st century.”

8

Giant posters feature bold letters in black ink. The letters, all capitalized, demand the removal of a university leader. It is a cold October morning and a group of about thirty college students gather underneath a pop-up tent in front of the university’s admin-istration building, discussing tactics for their attack as raindrops dampen the top of the canopy. A poster with a red and white striped sweater and cap, mimicking “Where’s Waldo?,” mocks the new University of California President, Janet Napolitano, as the growing crowd becomes enraged at the thought of her. Students hand out posters and flyers. A student body official runs towards the students gathering noisemakers and offensive posters together as they prepare for battle. “They know the location!” the student body leader yells at the crowd. The students begin to chant, shout, and march. With signs in hand and a batch of flyers ready to be passed out to any living soul that may walk by, the crowd moves together towards the administration building. Signs that call for the removal of Napolitano close off adminis-trative buildings, and a high-ranking university official nowhere to be found. This must be 1960’s UC Berkeley with protesters trying to get into Sproul Hall, right? No. What seems like a scene yanked right out of the university archives of UC Berkeley’s Free Speech movement of 1964-1965 is actually a protest that is taking place at UC Irvine in October 2013. While nearly 50 years ago students wanted to rehire UC President Clark Kerr, who had sympathized with the protesters and could relate to their needs, the next genera-tion of student protesters wished to rest former Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano from her new role as UC president. While the times may have changed, there has been a consistent search to make sure that the best person for the job serves as the president of the UC system, a system of ten campuses that are considered “The Public Ivies.”

The protesters plan to march to the administrative building at Al-drich Hall and speak out against the selection of Janet Napolitano. She, they feel, is not a fit. Can they get in? No. There are police of-ficers everywhere. What about the back entrance? No. What if you aren’t even involved and you have legitimate university business to take care of? Not even then. The consensus among the protesters is that things are getting out of hand with the amount of security present. This is supposed to be a peaceful demonstration. Nothing is going to happen. This is not Berkeley. Berkeley was the center of great change in America, especially during counterculture revolutions of the 1960s. Many consider the 60s to be one of the most turbulent and revolutionary times of the modern era. From the dawn of the Vietnam War, to the heightened use of recreational drugs, to the civil rights movement, free love and the sexual revolution, new-wave feminism, and of course, protests, the 60’s have left a mark on the world with consequences still being felt to this day. Having been only two decades removed from World War II, America’s conflict in Vietnam soon developed further. With the draft young men, eighteen years old and up, were slowly disappearing from their neighborhoods and going to battle in the swampy jungles of Vietnam. While this was happening, it became apparent that students in colleges were not going to sit back and remain silent about what was going on. During the 1964-1965 academic school year, students at UC Berkeley would form political clubs, groups, and organizations on campus, only to have the university adminis-trations shut down these events to quiet down such movements. Protests blossomed and students began to fight for their right to both academic freedom and free speech. A student supporting the Congress for Racial Equality was arrested for not giving his name to police officers. Some 4,000 students gathered at the campus’ administration building, Sproul

The Protest Movement of UCI: Then and nowStory and Photos by Celine Littlejohn

Melissa Gamble, ASUCI Executive VP, addresses a crowd of student protestors at a demonstration against the appointment of Janet Napolitano on Oct. 28, 2013.

9

Hall in a desperate attempt to have their voices heard. A mass sit-in followed where close to 800 students were arrested. Then came a protest that nearly shut the entire university down. The Free Speech Movement, originating in Berkeley, soon made its way down to some of the other UC campuses, including UCLA. The UC president at the time was a man by the name of Clark Kerr.During his tenure, campuses in San Diego, Santa Cruz, and Irvine were opened to accommodate the increase in college students living in California. Kerr developed California’s system for higher education in which the top-tier research oriented schools were the UCs, followed by the schools in the California State University system and the local community colleges. Most importantly, he felt an affinity for the students. He was reluctant to expel students who took part in the major sit-in at UC Berkeley during the Free Speech Movement. He had protected 600 students from armed police at Berkeley, relating with them on a level that no other authoritative figure could. Even when students would set up tables in front of administrative buildings, openly defying police, Kerr hesitated to take any action against them. He was on the students’ side, and it soon developed into a war pitting Kerr and the students against the UC Regents and Governor Ron-ald Reagan. By 1966, Kerr was involved in a heated feud with Governor Reagan. Reagan wanted to raise fees for tuition and opposed mass protests. Reagan believed that Kerr was too soft on the protesting students, especially on the ones at Berkeley. They were the adults and they were letting a bunch of late teens and early twenty-some-thing Baby Boomers challenge them. Matters eventually came to a head when Kerr was fired in Janu-ary 1967. The response was instant. On Jan. 23, 1967, Berkeley’s student newspaper, The Daily Cali-fornian, published an article about how upset the student body was over the firing of Kerr. They discussed whether or not there would be protests at other campuses, including the infant UC Irvine cam-pus. As of press time there was no word. Later that afternoon, 1500 students gathered at what is today’s Gateway Plaza at UC Irvine. With only a few thousand students in attendance at UCI, a large chunk of the student body was present at the protest. It would go down in history as the first protest to take place on the UC Irvine campus. Founding dean of the School of Humanities, Sam McCulloch, spoke in support of Kerr. While the protest was not as big as the Free Speech Movement that took place at Berkeley, it helped in spreading the countercul-ture protest movement throughout the state and the entire UC system. November 1969 marked another major date for the protest culture at UC Irvine. UCI administration fired three Humanities professors. Many believed that they were fired due to their person-al and political beliefs, and more resentment filled the veins of UCI students against the UC Regents and the government. This sparked what became known as the KBS movement. The movement was named for the professors fired: Kent, Brannan and Shapiro. The Students for a Democratic Society soon had a chapter at UC Irvine as well. Protests featured students marching to the office of Chan-cellor Aldrich, similar to the way students of 2013 marched toward Aldrich Hall. In both cases, the students were simply looking for answers. The office of the UC President continues to trouble UC students. November 2009 saw a return to massive protests when the UC Regents approved a 32% fee increase for student tuition. While the

number of protesters was in the dozens as opposed to hundreds of thousands, activism is not dead on college campuses in the 21st century, especially that of any UC school. Student media and magazines at UCI, such as the campus news-paper, The New University, have eloquently documented the trans-

formation of the protest culture. Like Vietnam in the 60s, students are protesting the War on Terror. There are some newer issues that have risen as well. In February 2010, students from the Muslim Student Union (MSU) on campus interrupted a speech by Michael Oren, who was the Israeli ambassador to the United Nations. The students involved became known as the Irvine 11 and the outburst gave UC Irvine national attention. A little over a year prior to Oren’s visit to UC Irvine, Israel’s mas-sacre in the Gaza Strip showcased horrid violence. The MSU was upset with Oren speaking because, as the Israeli Ambassador to the United States, he would not acknowledge such crimes and the violation of humanitarian law. During the first half of the speech, one MSU student rose up, and shouted his dissatisfaction with Oren’s way of handling things: “Michael Oren, propagating murder is not an expression of free speech!” A police officer approached the demonstrator and, with no resis-tance, the MSU member peacefully abided by the officer’s orders and proceeded to deal with the consequences. Nine more MSU members did the same. Towards the end of the speech, a portion of the students chanted and marched in solidarity with the MSU in support of Palestine. While the MSU members were practicing their first Amendment rights of freedom of speech, they were still faced with suspension and expulsion for disruptive behavior. In recent years tuition rates have increased dramatically, but this was not the sole reason for the Oct. 2013 protests at UCI. Many students were up in arms over the appointment of former Secre-tary of Homeland Security Janet Napolitano as the new president of the UC system. After gathering at the front of the school to put together a protest calling for the removal of Napolitano from of-fice, the students marched towards Aldrich Hall, which was locked by police. A middle-aged man, dressed in a shirt and tie with a long, brown raincoat towers over the students. He tells a few questioning pro-testers that he is an administrative dean making certain that things do not get out of hand and become violent. The last thing needed is to have a major disorderly protest like the ones that had been happening at UCLA and UC Berkeley. As recent as Nov. 2011, a protest at UC Davis got out of hand. When peaceful demonstrators had refused to leave a paved path they were sitting on, UC Davis police pepper-sprayed the peaceful protesters, provoking contro-versy as to why such a high level of force was used. The students at Irvine, clutching their signs, noisemakers, bull horns, flyers and pamphlets begin to march and chant about their mission to rid Napolitano from office. Nothing is going to stop them from making their way to the administrative building. Their agenda is clear as energetic protesters hand out flyers and pam-phlets, ignoring the police’s announcement that flyer distribution will not be permitted. Tape that sign on a window glass? Expect it to be ripped off immediately. As the students march towards where Napolitano is supposed to be, the cops’ glares generates a sense of uneasiness amongst the peaceful, yet defiant crowd. Aldrich Hall, for example, advertises itself as being open to the student body. The higher-ups claim that they welcome student discussion with open arms. This is not evi-

10

dent with the scene unraveling at the admin’s office building. As the marchers arrive at Aldrich Hall along the way, the student body leader yanks the handle of the entrance’s door. The door does not budge. Locked. The annoyed protesters begin shouting and banging on the glass, taping the mocking flyers of Napolitano as Waldo on the main window of the building. As cops gather close by, the banging subsides but the chants pick up. At this point, time is wasting away. It’s time to proceed to the target. The march progresses along the campus walkway known as Ring Road. Humanities, art and engineering students grab fliers, their faces transforming from contently thinking about their own lives (perhaps a midterm or two) to being disgusted at what Napolitano has been accused of doing, including her stance on immigration and being from a US government position. Some students cite that her experience with the government does not give her the proper credentials to be the president of a massive university system. They complain that someone with a government background cannot relate to college students in the best possible manner, especially during such dire times for the university. Naplitano also holds the record for the highest amount of vetoes completed, especially when she was governor of Arizona. In 2005 alone, Napolitano vetoed 58 laws. Some students fear that this may happen with the UC system. Napolitano made headlines in 2010 with her Secure Commu-nities program, otherwise known as S-COMM. It deported about 1.5 million undocumented immigrants, becoming the biggest and most successful factor in controlling illegal immigration. However, demonstrators are upset with the fact that this is causing families to be torn apart. Many students are upset with the way Napolitano cracked down on immigration. While some aspects can be seen as positive, such as maintaining intense pressure on border criminals in Jan. 2009, some demonstrators were offended that she wanted to stop employers from hiring illegal immigrants. There is also offense at the idea of deporting students who are here to make a better life for themselves, only for it to be taken away. One protester could be heard arguing that there was no other way that such people can provide for their families. She claimed that only people who have lived through it can sympathize with the empty feeling of coming home and telling loved ones how much of a struggle it is to pay the bills on time. Along the way, students who have just finished classes start following close behind. Soon, the protesters reach Donald Bren Hall. There is an even greater police presence. The marchers barge through the doors and meet police officers that are standing in the way of the elevators. Since they are all enclosed in a glass entranceway, people casually passing by can get a front row view of the incident. Apparently the UC President is in a meeting on the sixth floor and all of the stairwells are blocked. The area is soon packed with protesters. Gone are the days of having to call everyone to see who’s going to be there. Many of the students in the protest found out about the day’s event from the use of social media. Facebook event invitations, students chang-ing their profile picture to one of a poster for the demonstration, tweets, Tumblr blog posts, etc. But the majority of the students in this particular protest found out about the event at a Workers Solidarity meeting. There is also tension between the UC system and the UC work-ers. The UC workers experience excessively harsh conditions at their job, and with such little pay, they are suffering at great levels,

going as far as striking Nov. 20, 2013. If there are three custodians cleaning the bathrooms at the Mesa Court freshman residence halls and two of them are sick, then the last worker must take on the burden of doing the jobs of two more people. At the UCI Medical Center, there are more patients to care for than the medical professionals can keep up with, making things not only difficult for the workers, but a health risk to both the workers and the patients alike.

No one can get into his or her classrooms due to the protests and police blockage. Students wander outside Donald Bren Hall aim-lessly, wondering whether or not they should go into their Writing 39 class or use this as an excuse for a free day. The chants begin to quiet down as individual students discuss their personal stories and their reasoning for being so enraged at this new figure. Many protesters disapprove of the way Napolitano goes about handing such an issue, and would rather not have her in office in fear of their friends or family members getting deported. The chatter amongst the protesters is that Napolitano does not want to listen to the student voice, even though this has not been an issue at other universities. While she talked to students at UCLA and UC Santa Cruz, she has not made time for such a discussion in her UC Ir-vine visit. This stems from the fact that she is in a sixth floor office meeting as opposed to discussing serious issues with the students. The crowd is getting larger and larger as students become more aware of what the protesters are fighting for. A man who appears to be a grad student in his early 30s slows down as he walks past the protesters, taking in everything that they say. He approaches a young woman who is asking how illegal immigrants are sup-posed to provide for their families if they can’t even get hired. They would just get deported, tearing families apart. This is even more apparent with the idea that children born here are American citi-zens whereas their parents are not. He shakes his head in disgust as he retorts that the immigrants are breaking the law to begin with by being here in the first place. If they wanted to have freedoms so bad, why couldn’t they fix how things were in their home country? Other protesters joined in support of their comrade, while a few others seemed to agree with the man’s ideas. Student activism was achieving its goal of making discussions happen. Some more passionate protesters soon break down into tears, horrified over the state of their future as a student at the University of California. Will she encourage students to be more outspoken or will she silence them? Then things take a controversial turn. Wanting to be peaceful, yet becoming more and more frustrated with the military-esque way that police are treating the students, a few of the protesters push back against the cops, trying to squeeze through. The police officers return the aggression, shoving the students. As the crowd gasps, some students leave, their voices never heard. “I’m not about to get beat too. It’s not worth it!” one student declares, running out of the building, watching the action unfold from the sidelines. Some students standing outside try to run around to the back to see if they can enter there. They cannot. About a dozen more cops appear. “Are you afraid to use your baton, officer? Why do you need that here? It doesn’t look like your partner over there is too worried about exposing his baton out in the open like that!” one young

Evil has arrived. Her name is Janet Napolitano. Protest sign used in student demonstration on Oct. 28, 2013.

11

man chides a pair of officers, who sigh and roll their eyes at him. Protesters remain at the entrance of the building, still upset that Napolitano is not coming out to communicate with them. Around the corner, clueless students are slowly being educated about this injustice. Instead of being worried about whether or not their class will be held today, they grow concerned with the issues at hand. This must be Berkeley circa 1964, right? Clark Kerr is the UC President and things are getting to be too much to handle. The war is Vietnam that the student soldier was in. Said war is tearing families apart, right? Almost. However, this idea is nearly 50 years off. The year is 2013. The campus is UC Irvine. The soldier is an Afghanistan war veteran. The appointment of former Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano to be the new UC President is causing fear among students, stemming from a refusal to open the lines of communication. To make matters even worse, Napolitano sends a letter to UC students downplaying any turmoil and claiming that she is happy to be the new UC President. The absence of discussion of the drama that had occurred merely hours earlier was apparent. Such presentation of facts on the administration’s part causes both fear and worry among the students. A lot has changed since the times of Clark Kerr and the Free Speech Movement. Though not as ram-pant and violent as the protests in the 60s at UC Berkeley, the 2013 activism incidents at UC Irvine are still enough to rustle some feathers and let the public know that the UC system always has a place for activism. People complain that Irvine is a quiet suburbia

filled with track homes and run by the Irvine Company. That may be true, but there is passion that hides beneath the façade of the innocent cries of $2 boba along Ring Road. Irvine is surrounded by so much to do in nearby Los Angeles and San Diego, and it is able to develop its own exciting and unique voice and attitude. This applies to all of the UCs, but especially UCI, which had the biggest protest against Janet Napolitano since her appointment and still has lingering issues such as those involving proper treatment of workers and the ever-so-dreadful tuition fee increases. The office of the UC President is powerful. In the 60s, when students supported the UC President and became more active with protests, a counterculture erupted and a generation managed to change the face of the nation forever. It starts small, but these things are ever so possible. Not all Anteaters sit at home and play League of Legends, ignoring the legacy their ancestors created on such great campuses. Many of them are grabbing bullhorns, raising posters, passing flyers, joining sit-ins, retorting to naysayers, and letting their voice be heard. The years may have changed, but many of the issues are still there. They must be addressed, solved. There must be positive change. Open communication and the best relations possible between students and authoritative figures. With activism being alive and well, the future does indeed look bright. There is always hope and every advancement is a victory for the student voice. The students will not be silenced. Especially that of the current UC generation.

Evil has arrived. Her name is Janet Napolitano. Protest sign used in student demonstration on Oct. 28, 2013.

12

Like the good college student that I am, I got distracted during our class discussion of “Their Eyes Were Watching God” by Zora Neale Hurston. The class focused on the second chapter and I could not help but to re-read these lines:

Janie saw her life like a great tree in leaf with the things suffered, things enjoyed, things done and undone. Dawn and doom was on

the branches.

As the class read the chapter my mind drifted to my first days of college. A 5’2’’ moon eyed girl. First day of college. Unlimited freedom. It’s happening: I am in college. So many thoughts rush through my mind. I keep thinking about what my life is going to be like in college. I always envisioned a strong and confident version of myself with a newly found independence, like the movie posters you see with the girl with long flowing hair in the wind and a strong, confident pose. I remember clearly the many times in high school and middle school where substitute teachers or regular teachers would come into my class and encourage all the boys and girls to learn how to be a manicurist or a mechanic, looking at us with a reassuring gaze. Every. One. Of. Us. Would this happen again?

Ah was wid dem white chillum so much till ah didn’t know ah wuzn’t white till ah was round six years old. Wouldn’t have found it out then, but a man come long takin’ pictures and without askin’ anybody, Shel-by, dat was de oldest boy, he told him to take us. Round a week later de man brought de picture for Mis’ Washburn to see and pay him which

she did, then give us all a good lickin’

Throughout my life, I never felt like race was really important to consider. I always found myself being flattered by my friends when they thought I was from different countries. I always comically

thought to my self, “I’m a child of the world!” My racial ambiguity allowed me to wonder about my family’s unknown history. When I was told I was not “Hispanic enough” because of my taste in classic rock, I was thoroughly confused. I was instantly reminded of the first time I went to my parents’ home country, El Salvador, and my cousins kept introducing me as their “cousin from America.” There was nothing wrong with the introduction, but it made wonder, am I American or Salvadorian? Everyone remembers their first day of work: it’s exciting, and it makes you feel like you are becoming an adult. On my first day of work, I was excited to see that my co-workers were predomi-nantly Hispanic, as I was still getting used to all the diversity in school. I thought, “Okay, I can fit into this group.” No. During my first lunch break I ate amongst my new co-workers and—apart from one co-worker that was kindly training me—not one single person said a word to me. I began to play with my phone to avoid the awkwardness, just to hear someone say in Spanish: “Oh look at the little white girl playing with her phone. How pretentious.” At that moment I had a choice. I could speak up and say something or just smile as if I did not understand. I decided to smile and keep playing with my phone. That day I remember telling my parents, “I have been betrayed by my own people!” So I did something. I thought, “They think I’m a ‘pretentious white girl’? Fine. Okay.” I avoided speaking Spanish for months, just so I could one day teach that small group a lesson. It began when one of the chefs asked me if I wanted to try a new dip he was working on. Now I knew that this was an extremely spicy, traditional Mexican sauce that the chef used to prank other co-workers. I had been warned about this on the first day. The chef asked, “Nidia, would you try some? There’s a spoon there!” I an-swered: “You want me to take a spoonful?” Yes, of course he did. I took the spoonful and said, “Hmm not that bad,” and walked away. The chef looked at me with astonishment. I, meanwhile, stayed as

Thank you, I am myself.

By Nidia K. Flores

13

calm as I could, and in the privacy of my own station, ate as many cookies to get rid of the sting. A few weeks after that, I decided I would start speaking in Spanish because I thought it was pretty stupid of me to hide a part of myself simply out of revenge. I asked for some saran wrap in Spanish, and my co-worker immediately became flustered and pale. “You… you speak Spanish?” she asked. “Fluently,” I ended as I walked away. It was satisfying. I decided that just because a group of individuals decided to shut me out, I was not going to hide myself, even if it was for my own vendetta.

So when I looked at de picture, even Mr. Washburn. Miss Nellie, de Mama of the chillum who come back home after her husband dead, she pointed to de dark one and said, “dat’s you, Alphabet, don’t you know yo’ ownself?”…”Aw, Aw! Ah’m colored!”…Den dey all laughed real hard. But before Ah seen de picture Ah thought Ah wuz just like

de rest. Though both my parents were immigrants, I grew up listening to Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Guns and Roses, Bon Jovi, and Judy Garland. It was not because my parents were trying to assimilate to American culture; it was the music they enjoyed. Naturally, I grew up loving the same music. As I mentioned previously, I suffered some backhanded com-ments from an old friend. What was so surprising about these comments was that she too was Hispanic and a friend so I had this expectation that our friendship would be relatively easy because we both grew up in the same area. According to her I was not Hispanic enough, I was too “white.” Throughout my school career I felt as if I was American, because the history that was taught in school was taught as my history. How I could walk around and say I am not American? Still, I was different, though I never felt different. I do admit to some confu-sion because the family from Boy Meets World would open their

presents on Christmas morning while my family would stay up all night on Christmas Eve and open presents at midnight. I was confused because I grew up eating Pupusas, Arroz, Queso, Frijoles. “It’s because you didn’t fit the part, Nidia. You didn’t fit her expectations,” said my roommate when I asked her why our old friend’s word hurt me so much. I didn’t fit the part, ey? Well, what exactly does the part entail? Am I supposed to play to a stereotype, play to another person’s ideals? What is it? I always thought that being myself was a good thing and a re-deeming factor in the eyes of my peers. I like Broadway Musicals. I also like Spanish Rock. I like watching shows on TLC, but I also

like watching “Mujeres Asesinas.” Why do I have to choose? Then it hit me. People are uncomfortable. Some part of the population expects me to be American because everyone else is a strange invader. Another part of the population expects me to stay Salvadorian, because America is the enemy. In my eyes both cultures are flawed, but ultimately great. My parents always tell me how proud and happy they are that they came to the U.S. My Dad always says, “Man, if I could have grown up here, I could have gone to college. You are lucky to be studying at such a beautiful school. The Universities in El Salvador are boring buildings and fi-nancial aid does not exist there.” On the other hand, I hear: “I miss home because everyone knows each other; festivals are communal and just plain beautiful.” And as I finished reading the last lines of the page I realized, I am like the tree Janie thought of in the book, “with the things suffered, things enjoyed, things done and undone. Dawn and doom was on the branches.” However people want to see me, I refuse to play any racial or cultural role that anyone may want me to play. Sure, I’m a drama major, but portraying another person is emotionally exhausting. On my free time I would just like to be myself, instead of pleasing someone else.

“With the things suffered, things enjoyed, things done and undone.

Dawn and doom was on the branches.”

Story and Photos by Yesenia Carvajal

Do you ever find yourself driving more than 30 minutes to find a music shop? One Sunday evening I felt the urge to delve into new music. I picked up an iPad, clicked on the iTunes app, and was utterly disappointed to find very little from independent and underground bands that I grew up listening to. Since I had very little planned that day, I drove fifteen minutes away to the nearest Best Buy. As I looked through the aisles, the racks were filled with the same stuff they play on the radio and they were also filled with albums of timeless music. The nearest Target surprisingly did not have the latest Young the Giant album. The record store culture is coming to a halt. Little by little, record stores are hanging up their “closed” sign for the last time. At this point, I figured a 40 minute (or 25 minute without ridic-ulous Los Angeles traffic) drive to the nearest Amoeba Records on Sunset Blvd. in Hollywood was not a bad idea. After scavenging two corporate giants, I was intrigued to venture the modern world for record shops and the music industry. Buying an album or CD seems like a day trip to another land. While you find stores in the malls selling the same clothes and shoes, running into a store offering a variety of music genres seems nearly impossible in today’s technology driven society. While major chain stores like Best Buy and Target carry minimal options for music lovers including mainstream genres and bill-board hits, endless underappreciated artists only receive exposure

via social media or other online vendors. The rise of digital media has expanded the music industry at the expense of the personal music shopping and concert going experience. We have the ability to download an album at the click of a button. The instant gratification may save a trip to the record store. However, we have lost the artistic touch behind the visual art of music. Music stores are rapidly declining and the music fans are contrib-uting to every step. Let’s take a stroll down memory lane from the days record shops hit the United States until the modern era. In the late 1950s until the 1970s, record stores were usually privately or independently owned. The genre of records and prices varied from store to store but it was fairly simple to find the right place within a reasonable distance. During this era, record stores sold vinyl and later audiocassettes and compact discs. One could spend hours roaming each cor-ner of the store searching for the perfect vinyl. The vinyl offered music and art. While the album itself unraveled music, the casing expressed the mood or inspiration for the sounds. Considering the large frame of a vinyl, audio cassettes offered a portable alternative.It was not until the 1980’s that the audio cassette gained main-stream attention alongside the Walkman. Music became accessible to the masses including and most importantly to the youth. Record stores gained popularity as a hangout for teens. It was a place where adolescents could meet people who shared the same music interests or introduced them to new tunes.

GOD SAVE THE MUSIC STORES

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Record stores and the music industry hit its first and highest financial peak with the invention of the compact disc, better known as the CD. Major record stores like Tower Records, Virgin, and Sam Goody hit every mall in the United States. I recall walking in to any of the shops and finding a variety of genres and independent artists. CDs brought back the art that came with a vinyl in the 50s. A CD usually came with a booklet filled with lyrics, art, or a personal message from the artist. Some artists kindly took the extra mile; they would perform and have autograph signings for dedicated fans. Nowadays most artists just release an album or EP at mid-night through iTunes or sometimes the album is leaked online for millions of fans to download for free. When releasing an album was a genuine experience, artists held release concerts and signings in small record stores. It was a more personal experience, considering Meet & Greet passes to talk with an artist today are so expensive and a lot of fans depend on social media to interact, even with a simple “RT” or “like.” In every music shop, a TicketMaster desk occupied some far corner. The sales of concert tickets moved from the venue box office and into the record stores, bringing thousands of dollars worth of sales. In my early teen years, I recall accompanying my older broth-er, Joe, to get in line outside of the nearest music warehouse before sunrise. Fans lined up around the corner of the mall waiting to buy front-row tickets for a concert. People shared the same passion for music and the freezing wind all together. These treasured memories seem long gone as the music industry has changed dramatically in the past two decades. The decline of the record store hit with the rise of the Internet and technology. In the 2000s, the Internet gave way to websites like Napster and Kazaa to popularize illegal sharing of music. While many fans jumped on the bandwagon to what seemed like a good idea, slowly every contributor to the art of making music and the

record stores felt the economic impact of music sharing. The record shops barely survived the first blow. Coinciding with the boom of file sharing websites, record sales dropped from $38 billion in 1999 to $32 billion in 2003. Not only did the record stores lose revenue, sadly the artist, the creators who put hours into a three-minute song, became victims of virtual theft. The music industry as a whole strug-gled to compete with free downloads. As if that wasn’t enough, more bummer times were ahead for the surviving record shops. A decade later, digital sales of music through iTunes and Amazon completely blew record stores off the radar. The re-cord stores in the mall once crowded with adults and adoles-cents declared bankruptcy due to lack of profitable sales. Major corporations offered cheaper prices for top Billboard albums with little variety for the underground music fan. TicketMas-ter was no longer a place where one waited in line for concert tickets, but just a website. In the process of brainstorming this article, I decided to explore several record stores in the general Los Angeles area. I took the time to get to know the people keeping the music stores alive by purchasing albums in vinyl, CD, or cassette.Avid music enthusiast and Los Angeles native, Daisy Salazar tells, “There’s nothing like having the CD in your hands and knowing that you supported one of your favorite bands or mu-sicians. I honestly believe I will not stop buying CDs because there’s something unique about having the CD instead of the downloaded album.” Several record shops across the United States have hung the “closed” sign for the last time. A blooming culture of fans spending a day searching for the right record, the one whose art and music sample came alive, has been driven out of the mainstream radar perhaps indefinitely.16

Generation Progress

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