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a literary magazine about heritage, culture, community, home,
hometown, neighborhood, environment anything or place
from the outside that has found its way in.
Q: ...maps for teeth?
A: everything that starts out as an external force becomes internal because were always ab-
sorbed by our surroundings, by whatever is close enough to fnd its way into our systems until
it is a part of us. and then we make art - we have conversations that will always be informed by
the stuff inside of us. its there every time our tongue hits the back of our teeth. our fngers always
know the taste, it will always marinate whatever we spit to paper. we all have maps for teeth.
thank you for baring them, and for sharing whats caught between them.
- jess rizkallah, editor
maps for teeth

all work belongs to the artists, 2014
(featured project at Lesley Universitys 2014 Community of Scholars Day: Works in
Progress)
sincerest and special thanks to literally everyone that came in contact with this
project in any sort of way at all.
mapsforteeth.com
mapsforteeth@gmail.com
facebook.com/mapsforteeth
twitter.com/mapsforteethlit
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Translation Cassandra de Alba 4
Elizabeth, New Jersey Michelle Moncayo 5
This Is What You Learned Chris Lee 6
Rule Seven Cassandra de Alba 8
The Question Everyone Asks, Tina Renee Alexander 9
This is Home, Christa Jonathan 11
Nonno, Sarah Croughwell 15
Slip Back, Shem Tane 16
Lakay Se Lakay, Perpetua Charles 17
airport observational, Brian Connolly 20
When I was a kid, Liisa DD 21
The International Poet, Jamie Uy 24
Underdeveloped, Simrik 25
Lebanon, Jovanaa 26
(the earth shakes, Jess Rizkallah 27
Recollection, Catherina Dario 28
Avenue B, Alexandra Babiak 29
torch song, Sean Patrick Mulroy 30
Landscape at -5, Juliet Degree 31
miso soup, Simrik 32
Joie De Vivre, Taylor Liljegren 33
crawled out of the sea, Izzy Lawrence 34
The forgotten words, the mumbled prayer, Cassandra de Alba 35
Why Latkes and Mole Have Never Made a Great Combination, Jonathan Mendoza 36
On The Succession of French Nobility in Upstate New York, Alex Ehrhardt 38
Giving Thanks, Alexandra Babiak 41
Pizza On Earth, Juliet Degree 42
Culture, Ryan Eagle 43
Nashi Pomegranate Blast, Ben Rosenfeld 44
roots that stretch to the east, Simrik 45
the love and the charity, Aff Moussa 46
I am not a landscape, Jeremy Orenstein 47
reaching, Izzy Lawrence 47
Springdale Park, Kieran Collier 48
I frst met my father, Andrew Hill 49
Raising a Roof, Ryan Carson 50
new yorkd, Jess Rizkallah 53
Nothing Mattress, Brian Connolly 54
Charles River at Midnight, Kieran Collier 55
10.21.13, Nathan Coney 56
basic light, Izzy Lawrence 57
The Bus, Marshall Gillson 58
high school, Sean Patrick Mulroy 59
varsity, Sean Patrick Mulroy 60
Sixteen Year Old Girl Half Digested, Marisa Glynn 61
Sestina for My Hometown, Kieran Collier 62
cover art by Juliet Degree
table of contents
4
Last night my cigarette and I looked at the moon
and betrayed ourselves, saw a man
instead of the rabbit my father always taught me
to see: ears exchanged for a dull crater eye,
body a silent, angry mouth. And I squinted
y fue un conejo, but a second later
it was a man again, leering in English,
a cosmic taunt. For years I begged my father
to tell me stories of posadas, pretended
New Hampshire was Mexico,
I was la virgen Mara
on a donkey, there was room
at this inn.
Translation
Cassandra de Alba
5
They come in swells:
Flutterings of eyelashes, Ikea blue and yellow block letters,
Gauzy clouds sheathed over the sky like charcoal tulle,
factories, and factories, and factories, and smoke;
inside she steeps her fngernails in corn making humitas for the morning crowd,
the ones who live here but not here,
who dwell in this place where smoke and fog stick to their skin like crushed
velvet,
dreaming of a place where the trees extend further than the factories,
whose frst generation children are raised to speak Spanish and not speak
Spanish,
to forget and to remember,
taught not to leave a trace of their past -
they close their eyes and begin again, and again, and again.
He works in a factory that manufactures Ecuadorian food
My grandmother swims in the community pool
carrying the Andes rivers on the spider veins of her legs
The man with the collared shirts comes in every day and sings,
table to table
picking tremolo on his guitar,
staccato notes falling sharply the way rain falls in the Amazon
remembers sitting at his fathers dirty and cracked and calloused feet
listening to him play the malaguea;
I listen for the faint trace of the way I used to speak Spanish when I was fve;
Things that barely leave a trace are hardest to fnd.
Elizabeth, New Jersey
Michelle Moncayo
6
The summer before your senior year of high school,
You ran into the Dominican kid
With whom you used to play baseball.
The last time you saw him,
You were both 11 years old and in the 5th grade.
This was before your parents divorce,
Before they both agreed to struggle their pockets
And live in the rich, white neighborhood up the road
So you could go to the predominantly white school,
Thought no way hes going to school
With the poor black kids, Dominicanos, Filipinos,
To the school where they couldnt care less
About the clothes on your back,
Let alone whether youll make it out of here alive.
When the Dominican kid asked where you ended up,
You said Northern Valley High School,
His reply, seeping bittersweet soil:
Hey, at least you got out,
Said it like a bullet
The trigger of his tongue released.
You wanted to tell him the truth.
You wanted to tell him
About the exile, the exodus,
How you punched the white kids in 7th grade
Because they stole your hat
And taunted you with it
Dangling over your chubby face,
How the principal told your mother
That they need to worry about you,
The chubby brown nerd who fought back,
How he forgot that you were raised
On a heavy diet of
Dont take no shit from no one.
You wanted to tell him about their taciturn smiles,
How whenever you tried to bring up topics like race,
They smeared masking tape over your mouth
With scribbled sharpie screaming
Everything is fne!
This was what you wanted to tell him.
You wanted to put their ignorance on display,
How they thought everyone in the country
This Is What You
Learned
Chris Lee
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Lived in three story houses
With Beamers and Benz
When they didnt know that 20 minutes down the road
There were brown and black kids
Devising new ways to escape.
This was what you wanted to tell him.
How your friends carelessly told you,
Youre white like us.
You talk white.
You dress white.
How they stripped you of your identity
So damn easily
And part of you was begging for it.
How all three of your Spanish teachers in high school
Were fair skinned and American born,
Baring no resemblance
To the grainy, dirt ridden smiles
Of your little cousins from El Campo,
And yet they spoke your native tongue
Far better than you could ever fathom.
How you learned how to talk properly,
Used SAT vocabulary they force-fed down your throat
Like Gentrifcation Adderall,
Tried so hard to evade their white-washed conditioning
Even though some days, you couldnt recognize
Your own grainy, dirt-ridden smile.
You learned never to tread in unsettled waters.
Keep your head down.
Mouth shut.
Walk fast when the sirens come,
And they did come,
And no matter what, they went after you frst.
But you didnt tell him any of this.
You were afraid it would only push him further down the hole
Of which your parents tried so hard to keep you out.
This is what you learned:
In this world,
Your mouth is a soldier,
And sharing your opinion
Is like stepping on a landmine,
So you better watch your fucking step.
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7. Contestant must be in good health and of the white race.
-1948 Miss America pageant contract
My building, 250 families and all of them Jewish
same holidays, food, language leaking
through the foorboardsI grew up
in Yiddish. My name is Bess Myerson
and I will not change it. Not for you.
The crown, this year, 1945the headlines
said Miss America, Jewish Girl right there
next to the news about Dachau. Reports
just coming in from overseas. I had girls
coming to my dressing room, numbers
on their arms plain as anything, telling me
I had to win. Show the world that we
are not ugly; that we are still worth
something. And so I did, just like that,
and I read rule seven and I cried not
for the girls they shut out, but because
I guess Im white now.
My mother, not a word of English,
they wouldnt let her come see me
get crowned. But Im white now.

Rule Seven
Cassandra de Alba
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The Question Everyone Asks When Youre Biracial
Tina Renee Alexander
Every single day of my life, I get asked: what are you? That can encompass a lot
of different things, but I always know that people are referring to my ethnic back-
ground. It used to be a question that made me angry: why do I have to constantly
explain where I came from and why I look the way I do?
I grew up with my Korean mother and never knew my African-American father. I
went to all-Korean church; throughout my childhood, all my friends were of vary-
ing Asian backgrounds; and I hung out with all the Asian neighboring kids after
school around my house. As a child, I never thought that was weird. It was when I
entered high school that people began asking me, Why arent any of your friends
black? This was a question that never brought any attention to me because
I didnt see friendship in skin tones. I didnt care who my friends were. I never
sought out to have all Asian friends. Did I have to seek out a black friend just
because other people thought it was weird that I didnt have any?
My mother raised me the only way she knew how: as best she could. She
couldnt teach me the full spectrum of where I came from, aside from what she
knew of her family. She couldnt teach me what other people would think of me
and how I should handle it. She couldnt teach me that my hair would frizz in hu-
mid weather. She couldnt teach me that self-worth does not lie in your skin color.
She couldnt teach me about the specifc kind of racism I would experience, and
how best to react. She couldnt teach me that I wasnt ready for what I was going
to walk into just by virtue of being myself.
When I moved to San Francisco, I was excited to be in the melting pot of all rac-
es, in a mecca of diversity. But instead of being accepted and fnding my place,
I had never felt so targeted in a city full of so many different people. I began to
feel isolated and annoyed by the amount of people that would approach me and
question the validity of the background I had no say in crafting for myself. I hadnt
convinced my parents to have me, after all.
I had never felt like my looks were that interesting or different, much less to total
strangers. I was used to being in the same place for so many years. I was used to
people knowing my background. Sure, I got some slack back home, but it did not
compare to the way I felt in San Francisco.
I didnt know how to feel about who I was.
The frst time I really felt targeted against was at the Colorado Airport as I was
trying to catch my fight back home to San Francisco. The fight had landed and
I was at the baggage claim waiting for my luggage. Someone approached me
and let me know that I needed to have my bag looked at by customs. I was the
only one on that fght that got pulled. I wasnt annoyed. I get it, random back
checks, right? I headed over and as the airport employee went through my bag,
he started to ask me standard questions. Where are you going? Why are you go-
ing there? What do you do for work? Then he locked eyes with me and asked me,
Do you listen to rap music? I just stared at him for a long time.
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Are you trying to ask me if I am black? I was infuriated. I told him I was black.
He told me he thought I was something else and was just making sure.
In hindsight, maybe I shouldnt have gotten so mad. Maybe my ethnic back-
ground had nothing to do with why I got pulled. Maybe in that exact moment
he really was just curious.
I fell into a very diverse group of people over the years and was thrown off by
other peoples perspectives of me, or what they thought I should be. They were
vocal about this. The array of questions I got when people asked me my ethnic
background was astounding; I got everything from, Why do you have a white
name? to Youre not Filipina? and How come you dont talk ghetto? Can you
just say something ghetto for me? It goes on: Is your hair real? Can I touch
it? Why isnt your butt bigger? Why dont you date black guys?
I could take ignorance with a grain of salt, but I couldnt take on everyones
miseducation. I could, however, start with my own circle of friends. I will not
and am not the center of jokes or belittlement, so please ask me a question
in all seriousness and I will fully guide you. Just dont make my identity into a
joke.
Being biracial is not a joke. It is being a human being.
I found, however, that I had to learn who I was and learn to love myself before
I tackle anyone else opinions of me. They were just as confused as I was.
At the end of the day, I am a blend of a love that is lost and what remains
is my mothers eyes and nose, my fathers mouth and a mix of their skin and
heights. Everything that is inside of me is me. The way I look is not all of who I
am. And the next time you want to come up to me and ask me what I am? I will
be more than happy to answer.
I am biracial.
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This is Home
Christa Jonathan
in search of a compromise:
The word hometown fascinates me with its ability to contain such loaded mean-
ings. A town that is home. A place from which one comes, a place in which one
grew up, a place where ones roots of identity were frst planted. Sometimes I
wonder whether I wouldve been more well-adjusted, had I found this word and
lived its meaning before I turned twelve. Maybe it wouldve helped me feel like I
belonged somewhere after The Riot.
Theres a saying that I frst learned in a Civics class in primary school: Bhinneka
Tunggal Ika the national motto of Indonesia. Its English translation is Unity in
Diversity. I struggled to understand this concept as a child not because I dis-
agree with it, but because I couldnt grasp what was so diverse about a group of
children. I didnt understand why it was so important to note that some of us had
darker skin, practiced different religions and had grandparents who came from
different parts of the country. Everyone came from everywhere. Nobody cares
where you come from if you dont have an accent when you speak.
I am Chinese-Indonesian, technically. I was born and raised in Jakarta, with
great-great-grandfathers who came all the way from China hundreds of years
ago. At least thats what we think happened. My paternal grandmother always
insists that her grandfather came from a village in Southern China and her grand-
mothers family had lived in the northern shore of Java. I dont have maternal
grandparents to annoy with a million questions, and all I get from Mum is this:
Grandma and Grandpa met in Central Java; of course we are Chinese! Why
are you even asking me these questions, you silly child? There are no offcial
documents to confrm where our ancestors came from, and I grew up believ-
ing that old people didnt have migration papers, marriage certifcates, or death
certifcates. For all I know, I could be a great-great- granddaughter of an illegal
immigrant.
Despite the inundation of the words China and Chinese in my daily life, I dont
identify as Chinese. Is it possible to know that youre part of something and
neverfeel like you actually are? My family doesnt celebrate Chinese holidays.
My idea of Chinese cuisine is basically pork. All my ideas of Chinese folklore,
mythology and history are the results of my obsessive watching of Disneys Mu-
lan. When other kids came to class boasting about the money they received from
their relatives and how much fun they had playing with frecrackers on Chinese
New Year, I pondered how much I was missing out.
I asked my Dad, once, about why we never celebrate the holidays. He simply
replied, We live in Indonesia, not China, as if it answered anything. He gets an-
noyed when people mistake him for a native Indonesian, though, and so do my
Mum and sister. It is something that I constantly fnd diffcult to understand.
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the importance of learning:
I ran away from my family and my country two months before I turned eigh-
teen. Australia was a safe choice I thought that Melbourne was far enough,
so I ran off with the betterment of education as my excuse. My sister fed the
metropolitan roads of Jakarta and opted for a graduate student life in Java,
for its mountains and dirt roads and rice terraces. My parents have always be-
lieved that a better quality of life is the result of better education, so they sup-
port my sister and I wholeheartedly. My mother, however, still asks me whether
I know how lucky we are. She never got to fnish her University education. Her
father went to primary school. Her mother spent her life looking after children
she never wished to have. Her siblings all went to trade schools. My grandfa-
thers education meant that his family was somewhat respected. He lived in the
1920s, when school was a feat only for Dutch children and local royals. The
Dutch childrens parents most likely worked for the Dutch East India Company.
Spices were the objects of treasure hunts those days, and what was yet to be
called Indonesia was an archipelago full of treasures. The Dutch army colo-
nised East India for nearly 350 years, opened up modern trading of goods
and services in the area, and sowed the seeds of economic and socio-political
segregations by favouring the Chinese tradesmen above the natives.
I have heard rumours about Chinese massacres in Indonesia, but mostly
those that happened in Java in 1966 and 1974, from my older relatives and
family friends, my fathers colleagues and my mothers friends. Some of them
were Chinese-Indonesians, some werent. They never talked about the details.
They would simply say, It was horrible. Be grateful that it will never happen
again. I never felt anything about these events they felt like a paragraph that
I read in a history book and never quite sank in.
They were never actually written as part of the Indonesian history and I never
learned anything about them. It doesnt bother me, because I thought that
there was only one story worth being written into history books: the one where
my grandmother hid native Indonesian soldiers at the barn in her familys
backyard, just after the Second World War. She let them stay for about a week
and lied to the Dutch offcials that came and ask her about the soldiers where-
abouts. Grandma always tells me, They never have suspected that I was hid-
ing them. I dont look like a native, you see. She does look half Chinese, half
Dutch. Ive always been so jealous of how beautiful she is.
Sometimes I ask Grandma why she chose to give the soldiers a place to hide,
even though it means that she was risking the safety of her own family. I keep
expecting that she will answer differently, but she always replies, Because
they were just kids and we were at war. They were young boys, and I had six
sons, and I couldnt bear the thought of one of my own fghting in a war. So I
took care of those who did, and I bandaged their wounds and let them sleep
I couldnt care less whether they were natives or Chinese.
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hide and seek:
I was almost twelve on 12 May 1998. In the wake of a university student rally
that ended with six deaths and a lockdown of the city, Jakarta was full of
angry mobs who burned and looted buildings that bel onged to people of
Chinese descent. It started about ten blocks away from where our house
was, but somehow, we were safe.
I stayed in the house for almost a week. We were not allowed to turn on the
lights, so I got used to darkness and to using a torch to read under my cov-
ers. I wasnt sure what has happened we were not allowed to watch TV and
the newspaper never arrived. The day that a copy fnally did, my Dad and I
walked to the shops and found broken windows, burnt buildings, half-burnt
shops bearing the words MILIK PRIBUMI (owned by natives) on it. Eerie si-
lence followed us wherever we walked. No matter how badly I wanted to know
why, of all people, it was necessary to single out the Chinese-Indonesian
community and burn down their lives there wasnt anyone around to ask.
During and after the Riot, the clanging of telephone phones was one of the
signals the neighbourhood adopted to let each other know that things had
gotten worse. Someone would hit the poles with their palms, or a wooden
stick, or a metal ruler. My mother would come running out, panicking about
the possibility of terrible news, after whispering to my sister and I to hide. She
still gets panic attacks now when she hears anything resembling the clanging
noise.
I dont have the same reaction to these memories as she does, but I do re-
member that I sat in my bed and stayed awake all night wondering what I did
wrong, and why I wasnt wanted in this country, and why I couldnt run away
to a place where I could be safe.
I was almost eighteen arrived in Melbourne in June 2004. I had never been
overseas, and despite ten years of learning it, could barely understand a
word of English. I wanted to be terrifed, but I was excited about the fresh
start. To this city, I was just another seventeen-year-old girl whose entire life
ftted in a suitcase and lay at the grip of her hand.
fnding a way home:
My maternal grandfather spoke Indonesian with my mother and Dutch with
his friends. My maternal grandmother spoke Mandarin Chinese with all her
children and Indonesian with her husband. My paternal grandmother speaks
Javanese with her family and Indonesian with strangers; she used to think in
Dutch and still spells everything the Dutch way. My parents and sister speak
with each other and me in Indonesian, but I notice that they speak in Java-
nese with extended family members.
I have fve Indonesian friends in Melbourne we mash Indonesian and Eng-
lish in our conversations, because it is draining to communicate in one lan-
guage, when you know theres a more suitable word to convey your thoughts
in another. I speak Javanese whenever Grandma calls me, and Indonesian
whenever Mum does.
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I have an accent now, no matter which language I choose to speak. My Australian
friends tease me that my spoken-English accent is adorable, while my spoken
Indonesian is oddly lulling. My Indonesian friends tell me that my Indonesian now
sounds foreign. My sister doesnt make fun of me, though instead, she practises
her English with me while I practise speaking colloquial Indonesian with her.
My favourite Indonesian word is pulang to come home. I use it exclusively for
when my best friend is hugging me, because that is when I feel the safest. Home
is not a place, its the people you love, my sister used to say. There are some
truths in that statement, but Ive only recently realised that my search of home a
perpetual journey to fnd a place where I can feel safe has shifted from seeking
a physical space, to a group of people who make me feel like I belong, to a habit
of re-thinking my past and putting them into words. I live in a city where I can walk
the streets at 3am and still feel safe; I have a group of friends who love me like
Im a part of a family. I cant write in Indonesian anymore English has somehow
become my frst and natural language these days. It makes me feel that my life ex-
periences are re-shaping themselves into stories English words with Indonesian
memories and completely human feelings and I am home.
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Nonno
Sarah Croughwell
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Lie back on the couch, and count down from ten.
When was the last time you thought of your mother?
You stand reciting rehashed directions, in the warmth
of grandmothers den. The ivory wires from the tar covered piano
wrap around your teeth. The kitchen is stained with kerosene, and
naked potatoes. Slowly walking home you see your mothers smile glossy orange
lips unraveling at the teeth, while waving failed results of your drivers test. A
family of seven neatly stacked, with red seams stretching out of sight.
Slip Back
Shem Tane
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Lakay S Lakay: My Mothers Immigration to America
Perpetua Charles


Id always wanted to visit, but I never had plans to come to America
and live here, she begins. My mother, Myrtha, usually so well-kept and put
together, is laying comfortably on her king-sized bed and hugging one of her
pillows close as I conduct this interview. Shes been fghting a cold for weeks
now, and she still sounds a bit congested as she starts her tale. Her hair is
carelessly pulled back by a hair tie and shes wearing her most comfortable
lounge clothes. In 1986, during the Duvalier presidency, it became very dif-
fcult for people to live their normal lives in Haiti; there were random rapes and
killings every day. Id already had a visa, and my mother thought it was a safe
option for me to leave the country and enter the U.S. for a time. So it was in this
way that I made the decision with my other in August 1987 to come to America.
This October will make 27 years since Ive been here.

Ive heard the story of my mothers move to the United States from
Haiti several times throughout my life, whether it was through asking her, or
overhearing her telephone conversations, but the details never really stuck. I
knew she came because times in Haiti were getting tough, and I knew shed
come in October 1987; these were just a couple of facts she would use when-
ever listing off the sacrifces she made to give my brother and I a better life. As
interesting as the story was, I could never remember how it went. My mother
speaks often now of how much she misses home, and I can now relate; we
moved to Florida from Boston almost seven years ago and I miss it terribly. I
really wanted to know the reasons behind her move and a little bit more about
what she left behind, so I took this time to ask her.

On the day I was leaving the country, the mood was as somber as at
a funeral. At that point in time, mwen t nan tt famny-lan, I was at the head of
the family. I had a steady-paying paying job that allowed me to help the family
with certain needs, like school tuitions, food, and other house necessities. All
my brothers and sisters were there at the airport, as well as my mother and
father, and all of Ernsts (a close friend) aunts.

When prompted about her visa, she chuckled knowingly to herself and
shook her head. Its not good for me to tell you how I really got it. Ill just tell
you that I went to immigration and got the visa. It wasnt a surprise to me that
she had to be a little secretive about how she got her visa; most people looking
to get a visa from immigration have to go beneath the system if they want it
quickly. She bought a roundtrip ticket to the U.S., but she didnt plan on return-
ing. I was working, so I could afford it. I had to buy a roundtrip ticket. If youre
not a resident of the U.S., you cant buy a one-way ticket.

So you bought a roundtrip ticket, but you justdidnt leave? I asked
her.
Yeah, pretty much, she shrugged. I laughed in admiration and
18
continued with the interview. My mom revealed to me that she had actually been
to the United States before her permanent move in October of 87. The frst visa
I had was a three-month visa. I went to stay with my aunties husbands cousin in
Bronx, New York for three weeks. It was with this same relative, Louise, that my
mother stayed when she returned to America. I spent nine months here without
working and spent all the money Id brought over from Haiti. When family mem-
bers already living in America heard I was here, they made sure to send over
some money as well. Thats customary in Haitian tradition; o pa janm kite fanmy-
ou nan bzwen, you never leave your family wanting or needing.

After hearing about the logistics, I wanted to know what her thoughts
and experiences were upon arriving. I literally stared at the four walls surround-
ing me every day, wondering when I was going to get out of the house, she said
a small, sad laugh. I cried every day. I didnt know anyone, or the languageI
loved listening to music, reading, and praying, so that gave me something to do. I
left behind many friends. I lived a life of solitudelonelinesswhen I came here.
There was a blind man who lived with Louise, and he pulled me aside one day.
He told me that he couldnt help but hear me crying most days, and he wanted to
know why. He asked me if it was a boyfriend I missed, or if I was pregnant, and I
told him no. I just told him that the lonely days I spent in New York werent what I
was accustomed to. Those were the days before cell phones, so you couldnt just
call anyone from anywhere to hang out, you know? I was pretty much a prisoner
at Louises house. When I moved to Boston, things got a little easier because I
was with [my cousin] Nancy and there was someone to talk to.
What else did you leave behind? I asked her.
The very last job I held was at a nutritional spot called Offce Nationale
dAlphabtization et dAction Comminautaire. The name of the job slipped off
her lips, she sat up excitedly and spoke animatedly. It was a place where we
offered pre-natal care and nutritional advice. Id always wanted to be a nurse,
and when I came here, thats what I originally went to school for, but after your
brothers surgery I had to let that go. I loved being around people and giving
them health advice that would make their lives better.

When discussed her work, I thought to ask her about her job here, and
about how she was able to communicate with others.

I couldnt work in New York because every place I tried to apply for
work told me I had to be a U.S. resident, and that a visa wasnt enough. My
cousin Nancy told me that I could work in Boston as long as I had a Mass ID, so
I moved into a small apartment with her and worked my frst job at a place where
they manufactured coupon books and magazines. I packaged them.

I knew a little bit of English before I came here. In Haiti, we didnt learn
English to speak it, but just enough to get by on exams. I knew a few words, but
I couldnt hold a conversation with someone. When I had to go to the market, I
went to the dictionary, found the words I knew Id need, and stuck them together.
I had a hard time hearing and understanding native speakers when they spoke,
especially over the phone. I remember once, Nancy, who worked as a CNA at an
elderly womans home, was away from the phone and the woman called. I didnt
19
understand a word she said! She said good morning, and I did too, and then
all I heard was, Blah, blah, blah, blah. I quickly hissed to Nancy, Come get the
phone!

My mother shared more funny stories like these throughout the inter-
view, and we laughed plenty. When it was time to talk about her expectations of
America before and upon arriving, our conversation took a more serious turn.
[It wasnt what I expected.] You always have a grander idea of what
Americas going to be like, and then when people come here they see what its
really like. When someone leaves America and goes to Haiti, a Haitian sees
theyre wearing nice clothes and thinks they have a lot of money, but they never
hear about all that person went through to get the nice clothes and other nice
things. When the Haitian comes here himself, he experiences frsthand all the
struggles required to make a living.

When I had to stay here, I realized what I was in for. There are people
who come from Haiti and end up making America their frst priority, but Ill never
be like that. Lakay s lakay, home is home. Even if I was making millions here,
Ill never be as comfortable in America as I was in Haiti. Here youre a slave to
your job, and to money, but its not like that in Haiti. When youre sick, you cant
just stay home and rest. For example, if you suffer a loss in your family, the only
time you have to mourn in America is when you enter the church. In Haiti, you
can sit in a chair and cry for days while the community around you takes care of
everything. America will never be top priority for me. I prefer Haiti over America.
I came here because my parents encouraged me, and I believed Id fnd better
opportunities for myself and my life. But look how long your father and I have
been here, working. Whats it come to? Nothing!

As my mother said, she originally had plans to become a nurse. When
my brother was 11 months old, he underwent a massive surgery and she had to
leave school to take care of him. As much as she missed home, she knew that
her childrens best chances at a good future were here in America, though hers
may have passedso she stayed. She and my father have put in many years
of time and effort into their jobs and their family, only to just make it by. People
should give foreigners more respect, because they make so many efforts to in-
tegrate in a new country, my mother said. And I agree. I recognize all sacrifces
my mother has made to make a better life for my brother and I, and Im proud of
all that shes accomplished in the 26 years shes been here.
20
airport observational
Brian Connolly
21
When I was a kid

Liisa DD
When I was a kid, visiting the grandparents was a big, exciting event.
First, Ive always lived in French Canada, and driving across the border
with Ontario made the street signs go to English, just like in all the American
movies my three siblings and I watched at home. People talked slow, and
strangers all spoke English in the stores and on buses. This baffed me. But
then we would stay with my aunt and my cousins for weeks, and wed only
see the grandparents a few times. You kidsll tucker em out,Mom warned.
She didnt get that it was grandpa who was always ready to catapult us up
in the air for unlimited rides when we went to the pool. Maybe Mom didnt
notice they always won at Scrabble and they didnt get tired like normal
adults. I was an observant, wide-eyed little blond kid, and I knew my grand-
parents were special. I wanted to know everything about them.

As a precocious kid, I knew everyones stories. I reveled in listening to sto-
ries from every angle I could get out of people. But, unlike normal people,
my grandparents were elusive. Id ask my grandma what life was like as a
little girl, and shed say something like action-packed, and then winked at
grandpa, and theyd laugh, like they were in on a secret. There was a layer
of defection and humour that was lacquered and airtight. It wasnt until I
was an adult that I stood in front of the one-room apartment in Pori, Finland
where my grandmother, her sisters, and parents lived in while she grew up.
The Finland I knew about was the current picture: a rich country, known for
revolutionary education reform, and the stories I knew about my grandpar-
ents were the
easy, fun ones we lived together, not the darker abuse I heard whispered
about later on.

What I did know was that my grandparents had met working in a cafe in
Stockholm; that my grandpa had come off like a jokester, working as a
busboy, and my grandma had bounced him while he wrote her poetry until
eventually he charmed her over, and that theyd taken a boat to Canada to
start over. For adventure, theyd say slyly. Picking a place on a lark and
starting fresh from there sounded like a magical concept to me. Welcome to
the free world.

I was born in a small fshing town called Gasp, which everyone in Quebec
can point to because its where the coast lip on the map meets the big, salty
body of water that meets the Atlantic. My dad was the pastor of a rare Pen-
tecostal church in a province that was mostly Roman Catholic (and much
less for religion at all, after the violence of the Quiet Revolution, in the 60s).
What this meant in practice is that any church my dad pastored was going
22
to be small - less than ffty people. Our parish apartment was a few locked-
off rooms at the back of the church.
We moved to a town far inland (about 45 minutes north of Vermont) for my
dads next church job, and from toddlerdom on, I grew up there - Lennoxville
(a place people have only heard of if theyve been to the university). There
are two main streets that cross at our towns only proper intersection. Our
home here was a full ten minutes walk from the church, which was halfway
across the town, and curiously, the town was surrounded by farmers de-
scended from English and Scottish ancestors, making the place functionally
50% anglophone (though French was still the polite language to use with any
stranger).
My mom had certain phrases and expressions that shed say in Finnish, and
I guess I was the one of the four of us kids that answered back. More than
it was like I knew the language, I just knew my mom. With anyone you know
well, there are conversations that circle around and use the same words, over
and over, and between us, before I was old enough for school and while my
little brother napped, our conversations just happened to be in a language
just for the two of us. It was another game we played while she baked. She
would hand me green cardamom pods wrapped in a cloth, and a hammer in
the other hand, and Id separate the black seeds from the brown-ish, not-yet
ripe ones, and crush the good ones inside the cloth for her recipes. By the
time I reached high school, I could make different Finnish breads without
help, but the level of Finnish my mother and I used together was about the
same as when Id been three, so we started to take informal Finnish conver-
sation lessons the Saturdays we could with a friend of my mothers: a very
sweet, apologetic Finnish-speaking Swede named Minna, who taught us
around her kitchen table. The Finnish responses I learned let my mother know
she wasnt alone.
As a 23-year-old, I traveled to Finland to work for my great aunt, Liisa, in her
bed & breakfast. This is when I realized that my picture of the Finnish lan-
guage and the Finland that my grandparents would have come from, were
small, framed postcards of the past. For the frst time, sitting on a bus or a
train, I ft into the crowd around me, but the culture and the language were
entirely fuid and bounced past me. Aunt Liisa, my grandfathers sister, had
felt abandoned by her brother leaving, years ago, and tried to prove that
Finland was now the best country and he would have been happier had he
stayed. She showed me love: she showed me how to work the sauna, and
she taught me swear words as exercises on rolling my Rs, but as my Finn-
ish improved, I would catch snide comments between her and her husband
about how long it was taking me. (Wasnt I Finnish at all?)
In Canada, South Americans had often ribbed me about how cold Canadas
people are, and how hard to get to know, but coming from Canada to a coun-
23
try where everyone feels they need about fve friends in life, I was starved for
attention. I would bike into Alavus, the town near the bed & breakfast, and buy
a pack of gum, simply to exchange a few sentences with the store clerk.
Buoyed on by my memories of South Americans in Canada,
I took to wearing the smallest, brightest-coloured bikini tops and short shorts
as I biked to the beach to practice my Finnish by myself. There would be other
people all around, but no one would interact with you beyond answering an
asked question.
What crept up on me when I felt most homesick was the deepest yearning to
have a conversation in French that I had ever felt. I was separated from my
language and my people in trying to better discover my language, my roots,
and my people. Luckily, I got to visit with cousins my own age when there was
down time at the bed & breakfast, and there was real connection with the fam-
ily Id wanted the chance to know. One cousin, Suvi, even worked at the bed &
breakfast for a while, and we tried to help each other with language.
One day Suvi taught me the words humshupta (which is a word just in the
family: when youve been slumming it, and now youre cleaning yourself up
and doing a trip into town) and humaltua (to get wasted), and I came back at
her later in the day and told her I was gonna humaltua with her grandmother.
The next day we were cleaning dishes after a wedding feast and Suvi asked,
Can youpass me that scrub brush from the shelf way above your head? and
then sighed. When I handed it to her, she said, Thank you. Sometimes you
have to be high to do this job.
At the end of my trip, I took off backpacking for a couple weeks. I travelled by
ferry through land - one small island after the next, through eerily placid wa-
ters, picking wild blueberries and camping in the cold during the night. I met
Swedish-speaking Finns that were absolute sweethearts to me, including one
who drove me from the last ferry trip, back on the mainland, to where I could
catch a bus into Helsinki. In Helsinki, I met up with the most lovely Iranian mu-
sicians with giant stories and bigger hearts, and immediately made a group of
friends through their friends.
In the end, I answered some of the questions I had asked myself about my
grandparents roots (what I could fnd, in bits of record), and I did love meet-
ing relatives, but what traveling home to me proved the deepest is that my
roots are not in one set place. My people are ones that are usually caught
between many stories. Theyll be the ones hashing out what we want to hug
to ourselves and bring into the future, and what we want to create, all new.
24
fngers fy like chopsticks in a ramen noodle shop
her father closes the door on her bedroom, sighs, leaves to the study.
her writing is cranking out like a printer on caffeine:
consistent, black-white abstractness and juxtaposition.
the rat-a-tat of the keyboard fractures the mirrors,
the dog-eared jane austen novels and japanese mangas
rustle from the force of seasoned A+ ambition.
her lithe hands are deftly snatching words and entire phrases from that little
nook in your mental vocabulary and painting them
the vivid tsunami/mt fuji browns and blues mr. hagikochi used.
shes calligraphic, shes art and east/west angst and
when you peer in her frosted window by the balcony, second foor,
youd think shes a green tea geisha blossom, TWG edition,
or a tiger lily like the ones on her desk.
her words deliver karate punches to the groin, third cardiovascular tube,
and amygdala all at once.
her almond eyes read, read, read, and drink in the sweet
barley water of the mother tongue her parents cant speak.
the page is porcelain china, her words antique.
the international poet
Jamie Uy
25
and i would write
of railway stations.
but the one
thats hers,
the only one,
wallows
in young rust
and obsoleteness.
her land peels
away
like peanut skin,
daughters fow
under the boulder,
faces veiled
in happy shades.
there are
beasts
anticipating,
to the south.
in the deserts
over the seas,
the sweat
of her sons
evaporate,
they write
on the back
of their riyals:
the sand
is salty.
there are coffns
at the
airport
every year.
and i would write
of railway stations.
her children
in the northwest
chase four-wheelers,
stop.
a helicopter
rains rice grains.
its the
sweetest shower
in
years.

underdeveloped
Simrik
26
Lebanon. does this road have
an ending or not?
Jovanaa
27
A small piece of many somethings put together to make one something, it falls out of my
ear from where it hung out in my head, like christmas lights i never took down but i shake
my head so much i just made a glowing lump in the throat in my brain that clears itself
every time i think too hard about impermanence and leaving the moon behind
like a lost ball bearing from a thing that needs a ball bearing and i should be looking for it
but im still trying to fgure out which thing i own that even uses a ball bearing --
anything to avoid looking at my fngers
counting on them the trips ill make back to Here
in my entire life, probably. i still have my fngers though
there are children losing fngers in Tripoli while the cedars sleep on keyrings, in wallets,
under skin, inside eviscerated metaphor spitting holy water like sap.
they are losing other things too. like puppies and bowls of lentil and parents and living
rooms and jasmine trees dropping their scent like stories for when storybooks sleep on
chests not faces. everything falls to their chests like lost cause they dont believe they are
the world is shark eyes boring into doll faces. dolls. they are dolls losing dolls.
so, losing themselves. and also their lives. they are losing
their lives. they curl into hammerhead cavities, losing feeling in their toes
i avoid counting their losses on my fngers
i avoid counting losses
i avoid talking about losses out loud,
ones that havent happened yet--
if i avoid loss maybe it will avoid me
but thats not How It Works
and anyway, what do i really know? about loss that compares
to ball bearings like space rocks falling onto cities
into villages over borders, i dont know shit
but i feel it in my throat when i cant swallow
good night. i love you,
see you tomorrow
or the creak of jido and tetas swing chair when it flls the mixing bowl between
Lchwelit and Deirdourit -- all extended gunshot the wind will pare into staccato
for the wolves when it thinks we are not losing sleep.
i stare into the face of the ball bearing hanging itself
like christmas in the sky, dropping light like jasmine.
i think too hard about impermanence and leaving the moon behind -- even if i tried, i know
i never could. itll wait until it loses us many half centuries from now before it breaks the
earths kiss, taking the tides tongue with it
long after more than Tripoli is swallowed by spit,
lost cause in the sea,
an Atlantis too sandy for the history books.
(the earth shakes to clear us from its throat, it has realized we are Here)
Jess Rizkallah
28


I
Tell me what to love: this land or what is forgotten. The ships
that surged from gold-green swells of water; the promise
of ivory, bocasine, and glass. They said: We are strangers, but
we mean no harm. Here is a comb to brush your hair.
Here is a necklace for your wife. What did we have to offer? Good men
lived beyond the island. They did not drink uraca,
only the sacred blood of God. Our tongues lapped at fragrant oranges,
palm wine seeped from our skin. We wished to be cleansed
of these sins. We crushed white coral and built them a city, fell
to our knees and prayed; memorized: javelins are evil, the
creature in the forest is none but a boar; bury the body of mother.
II
What did we become when we washed their bodies with bean-seed oil;
dressed them in red silks, yellow silks; crisp, white cotton? This is how
forgetting started: we let the gods drink from our mothers breasts; the
sweet milk dribbled from their lips.
III
I could walk slowly in this bamboo thicket; tread on blackening leaves
below the thick, almost-ripe canopy. There is light, but I disremember
the bones that once lay in heaps. Before, we spoke in a language ghosts
could understand, and we lived by a seascape that knew not of sin. Only
perdition will save us, so we scraped the paint from our skin. Black
bodies are because we feasted on roasted fgs and licked the juices
on our fngers. Mactan, Mactan, do not forget the ruby waters,
and the man who stood thigh-deep in the repentance of a dying god.
When the mortars discharged, there was only the wrinkle of the river;
the departing balanghai. The fres overhead surged. I am far away.
Recollection
Catherina Dario
29
The horses had hinges
in their mouths so
we grabbed their
jaws
clasping until they
made noise;
disapproval.
We walk the same
streets for one simple
drink.
Flush our bodies towards
the Hudson
this masterpiece took
one day.
but you live on the east
river, hed say.
Stuy-town projects
sending flthy
saxophones played for
his dead mother, brother,
father.
An army of bulldogs
invading the road.
My route intersected.
Motorcycle for me
and I changed my
boots.
The only way I could prevent
my death or
some psychosis theyre
sheathing from
me beneath
the desk in a
vat of all our
spit-fowing, falling
free.
Because when you
laugh your saliva
spits on all our
souls.
For the low, low
price of 99 cents,
It says so on
the little sign on the
tin can.
Avenue B:
Alexandra Babiak
30
It was summer.
Short sleeves as I raked my arm against a rusty fnger of barbed wire
sliding through the hole in the back fence,
a way that only I knew.
We stood at the edge of the tree line and looked out at the barn,
a distant crumbling horse that slumped against the nights horizon.
Troy wanted to see it one more time
before they tore it down,
and so we ran across the feld in silence,
hoping nobody would catch us as we dashed
into the black and hollow mouth of it.
Feeling for the ladder to the hayloft in the dark, we climbed
and waited
for the dust to settle inside us.
It was here I held him for the frst time.
It was summer then, too.
Cotton sheets that gripped us in our sweat, a musty bed of straw.
and how we curled against each other.
I had never slept next to a boy before.
Dirt lingered in the air like smoke. or breath.
He showed me where to place my arms
so that the blood would not become trapped
underneath his body while his boyfriend,
watched us from across the loft, his face just visible in dull red fashes,
as he drew on a cigarette, seething
with the jealousy of gods and Troy
would use me, just like this, for years.
Whole cities have fallen to men moving inside wooden animals,
faces lit by torches that they carry.
torch song
Sean Patrick Mulroy
31
Landscape at -5
Juliet Degree
32
the fragility of the stockings my mum bought in Japan
reminds me of the bougainvilleas that sprawl
from the railings in my house.
dandelions are just rare here.
from the iron, bricks the color of dawn.
unworn, unopened, untouched.
i dont know if its just their age or the way my
legs dont seem to have been built to ft into them.
Hiroshima, Fukuoka, Osaka.
she has them locked in the moles on her neck.
they dont come whispering to her ears.
Gifu, Kyoto, Nagoya, Tokyo.
i can tell by the way she packs my food,
hands me the pearls before every party.
my wardrobe is half-full of the
sweaters, cardigans, bags and flm cameras
that forgot how to function, whose receipts
she saved in the moles on her neck
and half-empty of other souvenirs
she left probably in a suitcase, in the
house she was tied to by the
ghost of her dead husband.
lived slow, died young.
her matted albums tell me she had
better dressing sense in her thirties
than i do now at half her age,
but not that it should matter.

miso soup
Simrik
33
Here is an undeniable truth:
I would not be here if it was not for my great-grandmothers rape.
Just as I am her long, thin fngers,
Her bright cheeks colorized in photographs
I am his spill.
His knee propped on her belly,
His unfinching heart.
There is some part of me
Maybe the red scratch of skin behind my ear,
The threatening freckle on my palm
That is that night
Where his breath blistered the fesh of her neck
And her breath froze solid in front of the O shape of her mouth.
And today,
Though in dreams Ive stopped him
Opened him with a dull knife from behind
I cant deny my want to live as I watch her run ripped
Slip to the light of the main road.
Joie De Vivre
Taylor Liljegren
34
crawled out of the sea
Izzy Lawrence
35
When my mother dies, I will not know how to mourn.
I have never seen it done. I know I will need to sit,
tear my clothes, cover the mirrors. I will not know
the right words. I will mumble in Hebrew what turns out
to be the blessing for the Hannukah candles, the words
all bleeding into each other. The neighbors are not Jewish;
they will not come with food. My mother once told me
the story of her friend who told his parents he was gay
they sat shiva, as if he had died and the body been lost.
I do not know mourning as a selfess act, incorruptible.
I do not know past baruch atah adonai. These stones
in my pocket, they will have to be enough.
The forgotten words, the mumbled prayer
Cassandra de Alba
36
The thing about being half-Mexican and all Jewish
is that you will never know which of the enchiladas are Kosher.
The thing about being half-Mexican and all Jewish
is that on Passover you will often forget that tortillas do not qualify
as rolled-up Matzah to-go.
The thing about being half-Mexican and all Jewish
is that getting drunk will always require the impossible decision
between Schnapps and Tequila.
Being of more than one race has never just meant having to check off
more than one box.
It is often diffcult to know where you belong
when for most your life you felt like your identity were split in two.
Still, I always found that elementary school cafeterias
had a way of telling you exactly where you didnt belong.
When tan-skinned tables dont talk to gringos,
and white-washed chairs always seem to be taken,
you will often fnd yourself alone in the middle,
slamming down Go-Gurts til the principal says, last call.
In times like those you will imagine a place
full of people like you
somewhere in the Gulf
where the Mexijews live
where the Jewcanos reside
where around every corner they serve bagels con chile
where friends on opposite sidewalks shout Shalom ese!
and go home to watch perfectly translated Seinfeld re-runs.
But your fantasy will dismantle as soon as reality sets in. See
the thing is that some people will examine you like a dog.
Why Latkes and Mole Have Never
Made a Great Combination
Jonathan Mendoza
37
When you speak to them,
they will smirk at your unrolled Rs
making rice sound like arrows
making arroz sound like arrows.
When you speak to them
they will not look you in the eyes but at them,
at your lost green irises on Latino skin.
They will try to put magnifying glass to your forearm
and take your pigmentation to the color swatches in Home Depot.
They will want to line you side by side
between those you call Dad and Stepmom
and squish you in the middle
only to see the worlds most fucked up gradient.
The thing about being half this and half that,
three quarters this and one quarter that
two-ffths this, two-ffths that and one-ffth God-knows what
is that your world will sometimes make you feel like you are
ten-tenths nothing,
like you are one whole alone.
But see the thing about being multi-race, multi-religion,
multi-culture, multi-anything
is that we often forget how intrinsically human it is.
And the thing about being human is that
it is the very foundation that makes this one and only you.
And the thing about being you is
well, its just that.
Its just
you.
38
My father meets me at the airport, and tells me that we wont get back to Ithaca
until the next Monday. Our destination is going to be a surprise. Great. I try not
to do the petulance-in-the-face-of-parental-kindness thing, but Im not at my best
here. Between the Tuscan sun and some questionable ham, Ive spent the last
few days of my overseas study too sick to enjoy pretty much any place that isnt a
comfortable, familiar bed.
Funny how things work out. About two hours out from JFK, I recognize that were
heading to the Catskill Mountains, and some time after that, were pulling into the
parking lot of a place I was pretty sure didnt exist anymore. I drowsily pull my
rolly-luggage into the ramshackle bed and breakfast that was my birthday home
for most of my childhood. Its called La Duchesse Anne, and against all evidence
that this cannot happen, I open the door to our usual room.
It had been a family tradition since before I was born to head up and hike the
Catskills during the Columbus Day weekend, just as the fall leaves were at peak.
When I was born, celebrating my October 14th birthday got folded into the mix.
It occurs to me now that this may have been premeditatedaccording to my
mother, I was born exactly when the doctors said I would be. And for all that
time, La Duchesse was where the weary hikers came to get rested and fed. If
they understood the appeal, that was.
- - -
My father always held it a point of pride that he liked the place. It got complaints
about slow wait service, sulfurous well-water, and distinctly pre-modern, pre-
luxury rooms. Mom would chuckle when she told me the new building didnt have
the Victorian-orphanage charm of the burnt-down original. This was a question of
values, as far as they were concerned. Dinner is a way to spend the evening, let it
last a couple or three hours! If you want the indoors to be nice enough to stay in
all day, then you dont understand what going to the country is about!
For me, the question of whether or not a birthday here was my idea of fun was
somewhat beside the point. There was a weekend that happened here every
October. I was game (within the limits of what can be expected of a grade school
birthday boy) about going on hikes when it was Dads turn to do his thing, or sit
in the corner of an antique shop with a book when it was Moms to do hers. And
besides, I was allowed to drink Gatorade on the trail, have wood-oven pizza for
dinner and big stacks of fruity pancakes for breakfast. It goes without saying I
didnt have the palate for the French stuff when Mom and Dad ate. That this was
lost on me was itself lost on me; its the sort of thought a worried parent has, or a
twenty-year old facing down his last year in college.
---
When I plop my back, still stinging and peeling, onto the same bed as last time,
On The Succession of French Nobility
in Upstate New York
Alex Ehrhardt
39
I dont have the luxury of that same wet-clay receptiveness. See, nows when I
have to think about the man Ive allegedly become. My frst year going to col-
lege in rural Ohio, Dad told me You grew up in liberal academia and Wood-
stock and little pockets of continental Europe. We didnt prepare you to live in
the United States of America. And boy oh boy, am I ever feeling like an entitled
brat for having enjoyed the copy of Pokmon Yellow Id brought more than the
three-and a half-mile walk to Huckleberry Point, back in whatever year it was.
Ah, American materialism, what a monster you made of me! Im just staring at
the wallpaper full of pain and Thoreauvian vigor, cursing my still gun-shy intes-
tines and time-zone addled consciousness for keeping me from enjoying myself
the right way this time round. Act three of Our Town had nothing on this, man .
At dinner, I play it safe with vegetarian Moms old standardgrilled veggies and
goat cheese. I even skip dessert, and its not to spite the little kid whose sweet
tooth got him out of bed at the end of the evening after he missed the cool stuff
for the grownup tongues. Im leering at the descriptions of stewed rabbit and
cream sauces like a broke magpie in the showroom where Mr. De Beers buys
his diamond rings. The new chef, mile has replaced Louises old standards
with new excitement, and I have to wait till I feel better! The irony of bemoaning
my own childhood impatience is not lost on me.
---
The frst time I ate real food at La Duchesse, it was all about trying to be cool.
I was ten, sat down with Philip Pullman dutifully placed between the chair and
my ass, while I talked with my parents, and I saw something weird enough to
catch my eye: escargot. If I missed the chance to tell all my friends that I had
eaten snails, it would be unforgivable. So I ordered. Hopefully, my young age
made ordering a dish specifcally to gawk at it more endearing than obnoxious
to our waiter. Or maybe he cut me slack because Mom and Dad had passed
Louises ten-year hazing ritual of Gallic indifference. Intentions aside, turned out
this story really did end with me loving the stuff. My display of pre-pubescent
machismo turned into something of a revelation. This was a wonderful food!
According to my dad, the butter-and-garlic sauce the escargot were in could
have made slices of cork taste good, but whatever the secret of the dish was, it
won La Duchesses food my respect. Or at least aspiration toward respect.
Four short years of pursuing a mature appreciation of this piece of Mom and
Dads grown-up world, and that was that. We werent going to be going back.
Louise and her husband were getting old, and like old folks do, they retired.
Whatever became of the building, or the name, this was the end. The Duchess
was dead. It made sense to me. So much so that, now, I couldnt say what age
I was, or what year it was, that I frst spent an October entirely without a visit to
La Duchesse. For a couple years there, it was simply a static fact that the world
was going, or had secretly always been, crazy.
Things piled up between 2003 and 2005. My mother had open-heart surgery,
while my father had his suddenly cancerous prostate removed. The family
moved from our old house downtown, near my friends, to a place up on the hill
that we hubristically assumed we could rehabilitate from the neglect of the fve-
dog, two-cat, one-alcoholic, two-chain-smoker, one-messy divorce family that
previously inhabited it. Two old relatives and one too-young family friend died.
40
Bush got re-elected. I was still getting in fghts with bullies way better at violence
than I at school. And, oh yeah, puberty. Cant forget puberty. Losing an uncom-
plicatedly celebratory space for our family made emotional sense, and losing a
pocket of sane, French values made political sense. Far as I saw it, things were
not going to get better.
Wed lost La Duchesse once before. The old building burned down when I was
four, and I have just two distinct memories of family visits there. One is that I
woke up one morning to see geese and chickens outside my window. The other
is that, at some point during one of our visits, I wore pajamas with trains on them.
My parents tell stories of me toddling down the stairs in those pajamas to meet
them at their table during dinner. If they say so. My brain held onto the really
important memories. At that age, bothering my parents for attention was routine,
but train pajamas and farm animals were special.
Louise didnt replace old buildings crepe stove until about two years before she
retired. So I know what I missed in that case. My parents tell me the La Duch-
esse I got was not the genuine articleit was dolled-up, assimilated, sold-out,
whatever you want to call it. On the other hand, the genuine article was the sort
of building that could be destroyed by a kitchen fre. Maybe thats the point.
Home is whatever you preserve of the fragile, worthy things. Things like the
health of aging people, the values that we pursue together, a person you were
before you grew.
---
We spend the next morning, my health mostly recovered, talking with Emile over
coffee and pastries. Its just him, his wife Rose, his son and us. Two families. Im
wearing the one clean set of clothes I have access to right now. Im skinnier than
when I left, and I keep hiking up my pants. Emiles son recently learned to walk.
His legs are his new favorite toy and he is playing with them nonstop, running
across any open foor space to be found. Were talking about active play, why
American kids do it less. After that were on the porch, waiting for Mom to drive
up. Hes doing the crossword, Im reading his Greil Marcus book on Van Mor-
rison. Well be back again, later in 2011. The duchess is dead. Long live the
duchess.
41
This season
Were barreling out of
Old-time carriers,
Like the couriers of
Adelaide Street West.
Those couriers arguing,
Stomping through pigeon-shit,
Like my brother and I argue
Over the phonebook
During a New Jersey snow storm.
But who of us ever really defeats
The gnawing feeling
That weve missed something?
Things we should have said,
I want something else,
Than this moldy city,
One error after another
And Im left feeling
Without another body I cant
Get to sleep.
Ever if I drink black tea,
If hes there Im blacked out.
Everyones been cheating on each other
This year.
Either that,
This,
Or getting married.
Domestication the bad disease
I fear to catch.
That boredom could be contagious.
Whiteout rooms with dim
Glowing lights
Moving bodies and
Fluid on fabric.
Knock on the door from
Quivering mental states
And the vibration of the party
Coursing from room to room.
Vitamin C will bring anyone down.
Her boyfriend pressing against a girl in
Another room,
A tall man topples on someones
Bed and
Punches a hole through
The door window.
Its small,
To be covered in cardboard,
But Montreal winter air is frigid
And must be avoided.
Morning will show truths
And real messes,
But the evening was the
Time for blank.
Giving Thanks:
Alexandra Babiak
42
Pizza On Earth
Juliet Degree
43
Theres always been some manner of debate over my heritage. I get the
question what are you? pretty frequently. With a name like Eagle, its
natural to assume I must be Native American. As far as I know, though,
Im not. Nonetheless, that didnt stop my peers from putting their hands
to their mouths and doing the best war cry they could. It used to really
bother me, but then I realized that they just looked like idiots for picking
on a part of me that doesnt exist.
My mom is British and German. My grandmothers ancestors came to
America on the Mayfower, while I remember someone at some point
saying that my grandfather probably fought some of his relatives in
World War II.
My dad is Irish and Welsh, but we dont know anything more than that.
I get my looks from his side of the family dark hair, dark eyes, and
somewhat tan skin. Ive asked him dozens of times why we dont look
like what I imagine a typical Welshman or Irishmen look like, but hes just
as unsure as I am. I used to be convinced we were Portuguese and my
dad once convinced me we were Black Irish, but a friend who is Black
Irish blew that theory out of the water.
Sometimes its really depressing to not truly know where you came from.
I really envy my friends and other people I know who have a rich cultural
heritage and can speak multiple languages because thats just who they
are and how they were raised. My family doesnt have anything like that.
We arent religious in any way, but we celebrate Christmas and Easter.
We dont go to church or temple or anything, and instead watch a lot
of TV and movies. There isnt very much that makes us stick out from
our neighbors, aside from our names and the number of cars parked
outside when our family gets together. Sometimes my dad forces me to
play catch with him, and sometimes I force him to play video games with
me. My mom works at the local library and is the sweetest lady you will
ever meet. I have fve older half-siblings, two nephews, and a niece, all
of whom I would die for. We dont all get together very often, but when
we do, its a good time.
I want to know where I come from, but for now, Im happy where I am.
Culture
Ryan Eagle
44
Blended fruit is not much
like fruit at all.
The texture is completely different.
It slides into cups when real fruit
tumbles. I like to watch strawberries tumble.
It is compelling to me
that chopping a strawberry up
really small
can make a solid act like a liquid.
I think this is because
I dont understand states of matter.
Nashi Pomegranate Blast
Ben Rosenfeld
45
sometimes, i dont even know.
my blood is an amalgamation
of the blood of soldiers and coppersmiths,
but neither have i found the
spine of soldiers in mine,
and nor have i found the ability
to shape something in my hands into
something beautiful,
something useful,
or even hold it long enough.
theres so much room for me to grow, still.
and i dont know if i want it flled with
fesh and blood or
guts and skills or
wisdom and composure.
the only city ive known well enough is the
one im growing up at, and it cant even help but
fall asleep at night.
the valley turns into a sea when it does.
i cant number the empty apartment buildings,
but theyre lighthouses for the ones the city
hasnt come to embrace, still.
as for me, i am a boat foating among the ships,
looking up at the lighthouses
when the tides get a little too high.
but the moonlight shows my
grandfathers staring down at me,
from the monochrome,
from the carved out silver, the glass,
at the stairway that leads to my terrace.
some mornings, the frst thing i feel
is the blood rushing in my veins.
roots that stretch to the east
Simrik
46
you ask me for a poem. im too sick. im feeling sick, but im trying
to feel better. im trying to be better. im trying to be. and here it is,
what we should be, i think:
the basalm to the serpents poison
as sweet as anothers bitterness. as their burnt.
dont ask for any rewards for your charity.
what reward does the rain wait for when it quenches the Earth?
who reimburses the Flower when she perfumes your ankles?
who says thank you, Swallow to the Swallow
when he sings instead of swallowing
and thank you, to the Butterfy
stroking the atmosphere into color?
and thank you thank you thank you
to each breath from the wind
and brook and Sun?
i think,
nobody.
we need to take a lesson in Love from them.
the love. the charity.
the greatest parts of life.
the love and the charity
Aff Moussa
47
I am not a landscape
But a civilization
Of roots and ecosystems
Water cycles
4.5 billion years of evolution
Not fesh and blood
But roots which extend much deeper
Than a man playing klezmer
With an inherited fddle
One of the roots destined to be refected
In one of my branches
For a tree is an abstract painting of its roots
I am not a landscape
Jeremy Orenstein
reaching
Izzy Lawrence
48
When I was younger
I was a little league slugger,
just ask my dad.
Hell tell you all about the one time
my team got to play in Springdale Park at night time
and they turned the lights on
and we had an actual scoreboard.
I think that was the night I tried pitching,
but Im not sure.
Most nights I sat in left feld
and played with the grass.
Every season was just one big blur
of strike outs and missed catches
where my teammates and coaches changed
but my inability to get on base did not.
That night at Springdale I wore my baseball cap backwards
and spat Big League Chew like the big boys
and those famous baseball players who spit something else
that my dad wont tell me about.
That night I got so nervous
that I didnt swing at any of the pitches
until one hit me on my arm and I had to hold back tears
as my coach told me to walk to frst base.
The next kid at bat struck out
and I didnt get to run.
After it was all over I was still in my uniform
and my dad took me to the ice cream shop to celebrate.
I dont remember if we won or not,
but that was never what we celebrated anyway.
Over our dessert he told me all about
how good I looked while I was up at bat
and how he thought I was so attentive
in left feld.
I tell him that Bernie Williams,
the Yankees outfelder,
has the same birthday as me.
He looks at me and tells me
how proud I make him.

Springdale Park
Kieran Collier
49
i frst met my father
when i was nine. he took
me to a ballgame.
i could not
sleep the night before,
i lay awake with my mitt on snug (i was
a leftie like him). he bought
me a coke. and a
giant red fnger. Go on! he yelled.
I would yell this too
but I wasnt certain why
I wasnt certain why he didnt live with us.
i wasnt certain why my mother cried.
i was only nine.
i frst met my father
Andrew Hill
50
As usual, Im sitting in the kitchen of my flthy apartment where I write all of the
poems that I write while at home. Home is a funny distinction we make against
all of the other space one may inhabit. When I was an adolescent (am I still
one?) I really loved Zack Braffs flm Garden State. In it, a character recounts
that as you get older you dont feel a sense of home anymore. I get that. Even-
tually though, you try to recreate that feeling of home. Im trying very hard to
do that now in a home flled to the brim with incredibly talented artists. My ad-
dress, or home if you will, is often thought of as a place of love by those who
dont live in it. We make a lot of art here. We all show our love for one another
on a daily basis. This is the space that my friends and I have made to recre-
ate a feeling of home that was missing. Nonetheless, I refer to Massachusetts
as my home while in Brooklyn. While in the confnes of the commonwealth, I
refer to Brooklyn as the same.
Everyone who lives here, this place I write from, loves punk music. And how
can we not? As politically aware people, punk and hip hop gave us a home
outside of contemporary mainstream culture. We try to have our house, our
existence, emulate this lifestyle. But I can only occupy this space because
of my parents who help me afford living in one of the most expensive cities in
the world, New York CIty, while I fnish my degree. Everyone in the house also
shares an affnity for the song Straight to Hell by the Clash, and by exten-
sion, the Clash in general.
Straight to Hell is the frst song I can remember that made me openly weep
upon frst hearing it. Cold winters day. One of my feet was wet, which is a per-
sonal scourge of my existence. My nice warm foot was calling out and waving
its comfort to my soaked and squishy sock. I hate this. Mostly because it is a
metaphor. I dont hate metaphor. I hate this metaphor because it is a meta-
phor to how I could feel at any time. While I struggle with depression, with a
high amount of debt, I still feel as though my existence is one that waves at
the less privileged around me and the world. I spend a lot of my time advo-
cating for the under-privileged with multiple organizations. I feel a lot of guilt
that I come from so much privilege. Im white. Im straight. Im middle-class.
I hate capitalism much like Joe Strummer did. But both of us exist within it. I
never want to exist in an ivory tower. I prefer direct action.
But frst, let me get to the frst time I heard this song. Before my father had
gone to fght in the War on Terror, he gave me a copy of the Clashs greatest
hits. This was because as an adolescent he was a punk. He argued that any
Raising a Roof
Ryan Carson
51
kid about to go into adolescence was going to need the Clash. He would be
gone for a year. He was right. By the time he returned I knew all the words to
the entire LP.
I listened to Straight to Hell while hiking in the snow covered woods. I deal
with a lot of memory suppression from that time in my life. A lot of the snap-
shots that exist are like fash fction. Also like rubber cement. I have a realiza-
tion, dip into it, and get stuck on one shred of a memory. Its like watching a
really dark sitcoms clip show in fast forward. This particularly snowy memory
I have all the way through-- though it is only a scene, really.
So Im walking in the woods, one wet foot. And that guitar comes on. If youve
heard it you know. And if it doesnt feel like a feather scratching your spine,
I dont know what music feels like when its in your body. I like headphones.
It feels like your ears are corked. Like the music is inside you, stuck there.
Each of my vertebrae is lighting up. When I get really fustered, a frosted
breath runs through my arteries and I give a little shiver. So thats happening.
I sit down, on a bench which is by a neighbor of mines grave.
Straight to Hell is about the disenfranchisement of children that were born
as product of American soldiers impregnating Vietnamese woman. It depicts
the feeling of not being able to fall back on a culture. Im not one of those
children specifcally. But this was the frst piece of art I came into contact with
that allowed me to point to it and say, thats me. Even if it explicitly wasnt.
As a child on the verge of being a teenager, I was stunned by how eloquently
another was able to speak for me, nearly about me. I was disenfranchised by
a country. I did not agree with a war. I had no power. I was a child. My voice
didnt count. I screamed for months and no one would listen. When I started
showing physical signs of mental distress, people were concerned but it
did not legitimize anything I was feeling. It merely legitimized the pain I was
feeling. That warbling guitar, even more so then the lyrics, told me everything
I already knew about myself. I had a father, but I realized that my father was
a disposable thing to a country that wasnt interested in what I had to say. I
was a punk and I didnt know it until then. I started reading ex-pat lit. I felt like
an ex-pat in America. I didnt qualify, but as a kid, that was fne.
As I was writing this, a song by one of my favorite current punk bands was
released. Its called Im Not a Part of Me, by Cloud Nothings. In the song,
if Im hearing the lyrics correctly, a line is Youre not me and youre a part of
me. Whether this is the lyric or not is irrelevant. We hear what we need to
hear in a lot of art, whether it is present or not. Last night, I was talking with
my frequent collaborator and close friend, David Yanofsky. I mentioned to
him that this is essentially how I felt about my father. My father and I couldnt
be more different in the traditional senses of politics and that idea of morality.
Yet, we are essentially the same in a lot of respects. We are both jovial, quick
to an exchange of words, very set in ideals. We share a rapid passion for
sports and each other. Were not so different him and I.
52
Recently though, my ideas on America changed. I dont hate America. In fact,
I love it. I hate the political system, or rather the corporate sector(they are of
course entirely the same). But America is not that. America are those that ex-
ist within it. For a long time I wanted to leave. I felt guilt for merely beneftting
off of the disgusting and disquieting moves of my fellow citizens. Because in
my view, by existing within the country, I was in one way beneftting from the
corporate and colonial greed of those that were funneling their successes into
a shared economy. Therefore, I was endorsing it. But nonetheless this place
is my home. I realized that to be truly punk was not to leave. That would be to
quit. That would be allowing something evil to make me pack my bags and
surrender my home. My idols in poetry and music(I dont think there is a dis-
tinction between the two personally, but many others for whatever reason draw
a seemingly arbitrary line) are political dissidents. Oppen, Lorca, Strummer,
etc. I want to change. There is graffti in Palestine that shouts, to exist is to re-
sist. Ive never felt more at home than in Zuccotti Park; in Oakland; in Boston.
My existence will bring with it change. The artists I live with and collaborate
with are political dissidents working to make a better world possible. Because
it is. Home is made of people, not a geographical location.
Isnt it true that we are at our most political when we are not supposed to be?
Recently, while home for the holidays, my mother confessed that she was
afraid that I was going to get myself hurt in political action. I raised my eye-
brows at her. I reminded her of both of our sleepless nights while my father
was away fghting for what he believed in. I responded I am my fathers son.
My father fought for me, even if I wish he hadnt. My father gave me a home,
he believed that he defended it. Now Im fghting for him. And I wont stop.
53
new yorkd
Jess Rizkallah
54
Nothing Mattress
Brian Connolly
55
Its cold, but you expected that. You expected that your
nipples would stand erect with the rest of the goose bumps
on your pale skin, your body shining through the darkness.
You expected that only your gym shorts might leave a little
something to be desired, that something mainly being
the comfort provided by a warm bed and sweatshirts. You
expected that drunk people would stumble through the Esplanade,
seeing the white light of exposed skin and fying towards it like fies,
examining your pupils and doubting your sobriety as you smelled
cigar smoke dissipate off of their tongues. You expected that
touching the water beforehand would be a terrible idea,
but you did it anyway. Tonight is not about expectations.
Tonight is about telling Rachel on the way over that you cant
wait to write a poem about all of this and her giving you that look
everyone gives you when you talk about your fancy metaphors.
Tonight is about doing the most college thing youve done
since you got hospitalized back in September, its about
waiting until midnight so Maggie can get back from Rochester,
its about Shawn stripping down to his makeshift bathing suit,
even though hes sick, with the promise of Vitamin C supplements
when he returns, its about Nick already having done it before but
taking his shirt off anyways, its about Victoria telling you and Ashley
not to run around beforehand because youll get your body temperature
too high and the sharp sting of the Charles will linger that much longer.

Its about all of you sitting on the dock, feet dangling over the edge,
counting down from fve, and plunging into water as cold as
you expected it to be. This fact does not make it easier to resurface.
For a moment you forget how to swim but it all comes back to you
the second your head breaks water for the frst time, like youve
just been baptized and this is your rebirth. You wait for some
divine metaphor to come from all this, the way you do every time
you leave your comfort zone, but maybe all this was just that
simply leaving your comfort zone, stretching your legs even though
the icy water would not allow it. This is what youve been trying
to feel all this time. This is what youve been hoping would happen
when you went on the expedition in the frst place: a sense of belonging
among friends.
Charles River at Midnight
Kieran Collier
56
The Cambridge sky lacks to me,
a curtain of dirtied sky refects the artifcial light.
Stars, unable to poke on through the aether.
It leaves nothing to myself but to yearn for the mountains,
for the unbridled wilderness, unhindered stars.
These speak more to my soul than any professor can-
a syllabus found amongst aspens,
among sagebrush, elk, wildfowers, and wind.
These, through the lack of words, lecture
wiser than any Powerpoint I know of.
Right now, these images fourish
populating themself within my wistfulness
Some ideas are necessary to my sanity
and the very thing that stretches it as well
10.21.13
Nathan Coney
57
basic light
Izzy Lawrence
58
The bus at the top of my street
the Number One
ran straight up Broad
and into the hub Downtown.
It crossed the citys south side,
fanked by mini-marts and bodegas,
brick buildings breaking, crumbling,
so many people roving
and laughing and shouting.
Sometimes I would hop the bus
there to meet other writers.
Men all, they smelled
just as earthy and bitter
as the clubs we met in.
They told me to wait
in their living rooms, their studios
while they smoked joints
and fucked their girlfriends.
If you stayed on the bus
through the hub Downtown
and sometimes I did,
taking it to the school maybe
it turned into the Forty-Two,
went into the tunnel
and up to the top of the hill,
where the graffti
was trendy and cosmetic.
People there were so loud
laughing and shouting.
They swayed from the ankles
when they moved, different posture.
They walked to impregnate the ground,
burst into upscale burger joints
like the doors were inconvenient.
The world was a word problem
they wanted to teach you to solve.
They taught me a thing or two.
I know how to walk this way
now.
THE BUS
Marshall Gillson
59
Take me back into your arms,
O sweet hormonal palace.
This time, I will lift my head, and look
you in the eye.
When I was young. I hid my face
down in the dirt. I watched the golden scales
of boys in football uniforms, contemptuously

envious of all their bodies riches,
how they swam so fearlessly.
I waited in the grass,
for what?
I didnt know. I was born, a boat with holes.
I was born, a suit of clothes, no boy inside.
An empty fsh. Hallucination.
Now I know I would be safe inside your walls,
and I would like to try again.
Bear me again, O world, into this time,
this feld of fowers for bold faggots
to traipse naked through.
O harsh aquarium of sex,
to breathe was all I wanted, but I never tried,
I held my breath.
high school
Sean Patrick Mulroy
60
Etymologically speaking, not the entire universe, only the frst and better half.
What I didnt learn about the body in the locker room, I learned
afterward. The terrifying data, tight clutch of voyeurism. Still, boys come like
lexicon, when I am trying to behave.
100 crimson letter jackets striding from the tree line, wooden bats over
their shoulders. They have come to punish and reward. To seed the
baseball diamond with rich fragments of my teeth. To beat me into heaven with
the milk white of their muscled arms.

varsity
Sean Patrick Mulroy
61
Sixteen year old girl is half digested, drags her black laced toes past eighth grade
boys with two fnger masks. They will grow into Johnny Apple Seeds. Line their
fngers into the grooves of her skeleton. After all, she is only young once. She is
only young when inhaling black smoke. Spark into smiles of knowing. She knows
her fellow painted faces carry matchbooks in their back pockets.
Her lungs are kerosene cans.
Fifteen year old Mohawk strips all of the sixteens of the privilege between their
legs. Girls with sugar cookie breath do not deserve to hold something so sexy. Let
it crumble. Heroin is lunchtime talk. Swallow the gossip like a dirty syringe.
A vaccine for not being old enough to understand.
Sixteen cries past wrinkled fngers. Old woman locks her doors at the sight of
empty where a face should be. Old woman does not realize that sixteens chained
hips are open dead bolts to burning buildings.
Old woman prunes with winter cold steering wheels, dreams of white gloved gro-
cery shopping on Sunday afternoons. Wets her lips for cloth napkin smiles. In this
town, everyone knows how to be fabric. Paper dolls. Dont cut yourself on some-
one elses skin. Dont hurt yourself on ceramic bitch tongues. Bring the tools to the
bathroom. Tie veins into cats cradles. Razorblade your name onto the bathroom
stall with all of the other secrets. You are sixteen, and these are the carving zones
behind blinded eyes. In this town, children are just that.
Close your eyes. Pretend you are the peeling paint. write love on your arm and
cloak your body in a white fag. The girls cut themselves matchsticks, sheering
themselves of fesh, They are hollowed cheeks drinking from gasoline guns. Cook-
ies curdling from their incisors as they lick dry lips. Boys like that. let them leash
you behind stairwells. Lunch is served.
They will gut you like a fsh. Turn you into blood orange beetle bellies. They will
not remember to wipe their chins when they leave you stranded. Do not admit you
have a problem. We dont have problems in this town.
You are sixteen when you walk home. Remember, you are a white fag. She is a
white fag. does not know if her blood tastes like gasoline, or like oranges. smiles,
and thinks she fnally made it. pulls a match from her back pocket and strikes it on
her tongue.
Sixteen year old girl half digested
Marisa Glynn
62
In the town
I grew up in, almost every street has a small
fower shop on it. We are always trying to bloom but dont.
The streets are lined with boys
who never want to be up-
rooted, who want to stay where they think they can grow.
But in suburban Connecticut, you grow
the same way a plastic fower does. The town
is the water that should let you crawl up
towards the sky, but you are forever small.
Your dad will tell you that boys
dont cry, and all you can do is hope you dont
turn into him, dont
follow in his footsteps and never grow.
You try your best to hang with the boys
but Dan talks about how he wants to make this town
his home, uses small
talk to tell you about his sex life. Vinnie speeds up
High Ridge Rd. at 70 mph and cranks the speaker up
as his rap music plays and he screams the n word and you dont
say anything because you are so small
and you still havent learned to grow
up. You just know this town
is full of boys
you dont want to become, and boys
who became men you cant look up
to. But Ive learned a secretthis town
is the same as every other town, where you dont
know who you are until you grow
out of your skin and fnd your voice, however small.
And while this victory may be small
cherish it, because not all boys
get to see themselves grow
into a garden, dont have the sun to lift them up.
And you can take what youve been born into and learn from it, dont
just turn into your father, your friends, or your town
because the thing about being born in a small town
is that you and the boys you were born with dont
have anywhere to grow but up.
Sestina for My Hometown
Kieran Collier
63
mama planted these for me
Jess Rizkallah
64
pizza pi press