The Core of CORE by Alexandra Jacobs
Overcoming Recidivism
Norman Gensemer
I have been labeled as a criminal,
A name that feels like it is terminal
But I refuse to let that define me,
For I am more than just a mere identity
I know that I made some wrong choices,
And that led me to hear society's voices
But I will not let them dictate my fate,
For I am stronger than the judgment that they create
I am resilient, I am strong,
And I will not be a victim for long
I will break the cycle of recidivism,
And emerge victorious from the prison system
For I know that I have a purpose,
A mission in life that is not surplus
I will keep my head high and my heart pure,
And let my strength and resilience endure
So let the world try to bring me down,
For I know that I can wear the crown
I will overcome, I will succeed,
And my resilience will be my greatest creed
For I am more than a label,
I am a human being that is able,
To rise above the past and move forward,
And create a life that is full of reward.
Norman Gensemer
I have been labeled as a criminal,
A name that feels like it is terminal
But I refuse to let that define me,
For I am more than just a mere identity
I know that I made some wrong choices,
And that led me to hear society's voices
But I will not let them dictate my fate,
For I am stronger than the judgment that they create
I am resilient, I am strong,
And I will not be a victim for long
I will break the cycle of recidivism,
And emerge victorious from the prison system
For I know that I have a purpose,
A mission in life that is not surplus
I will keep my head high and my heart pure,
And let my strength and resilience endure
So let the world try to bring me down,
For I know that I can wear the crown
I will overcome, I will succeed,
And my resilience will be my greatest creed
For I am more than a label,
I am a human being that is able,
To rise above the past and move forward,
And create a life that is full of reward.
My Weakness
Adolfo Garcia
The idea of resilience feels so out of place to me
I don’t feel like I can say I am resilient
That makes it seem like I had the choice to fail
I constantly felt an overwhelming pressure to push forward
I asked for permission to acknowledge my mental illness
as if I choose to feel broken
A self-assigned handicap that turns my blankets to lead
Nails my shoes to the ground and yells at me to freeze
Who assigns the title of resiliency?
Is it defined by one's capacity to ignore the pain and overcome
or by the number of accomplishments on our gravestone
Where does failure land under the umbrella of resilience?
I yearn for the day when I no longer need to be resilient
When I don’t mark my days with how much I overcame
And instead, count the days in laughs and smiles
But there is strength in our weakness
I’m standing here today saying “I need help!”
I choose to heal and grow because I know
these barriers stand in my way
True liberation comes in the form of breaking generational ties
My weakness will become my strength
One day resilience will feel like home
Adolfo Garcia
The idea of resilience feels so out of place to me
I don’t feel like I can say I am resilient
That makes it seem like I had the choice to fail
I constantly felt an overwhelming pressure to push forward
I asked for permission to acknowledge my mental illness
as if I choose to feel broken
A self-assigned handicap that turns my blankets to lead
Nails my shoes to the ground and yells at me to freeze
Who assigns the title of resiliency?
Is it defined by one's capacity to ignore the pain and overcome
or by the number of accomplishments on our gravestone
Where does failure land under the umbrella of resilience?
I yearn for the day when I no longer need to be resilient
When I don’t mark my days with how much I overcame
And instead, count the days in laughs and smiles
But there is strength in our weakness
I’m standing here today saying “I need help!”
I choose to heal and grow because I know
these barriers stand in my way
True liberation comes in the form of breaking generational ties
My weakness will become my strength
One day resilience will feel like home
My Liberation
Areeana Florez
My liberation
not a pigment of my imagination
It is supernatural
Factual
Not a contract to be exact
Quite the opposite in fact
Combate contention with love
I Thug out in my care game and hope it rubs off
Blank stare in my eyes has been replaced
Liberation for everyone I consistently chase
with purpose sky high
That’s why
I never give up hope on my peeps
Cause when I needed grace
It was extended to me, and now I reap
No other way for me to see life
No other way for me to strive
My heart can’t take anymore bitter taste
So I’m steady on my peace game
Peace of mind
This is a piece for those still inside
I’m not resilient cause I wanna be
I’m resilient cause I had to be
I refuse to wear shackles now that I’m physically free
I plan to show this with my life indeed
I plan to be free
I plan to be me
Liberation a communal experience
About my peoples’ liberation
I am serious
Furiously
courageously extending this freedom
I can’t stop
won’t stop until we free ‘em.
In my, Mind, Body and Soul
Community pull up
Until community is whole
Areeana Florez
My liberation
not a pigment of my imagination
It is supernatural
Factual
Not a contract to be exact
Quite the opposite in fact
Combate contention with love
I Thug out in my care game and hope it rubs off
Blank stare in my eyes has been replaced
Liberation for everyone I consistently chase
with purpose sky high
That’s why
I never give up hope on my peeps
Cause when I needed grace
It was extended to me, and now I reap
No other way for me to see life
No other way for me to strive
My heart can’t take anymore bitter taste
So I’m steady on my peace game
Peace of mind
This is a piece for those still inside
I’m not resilient cause I wanna be
I’m resilient cause I had to be
I refuse to wear shackles now that I’m physically free
I plan to show this with my life indeed
I plan to be free
I plan to be me
Liberation a communal experience
About my peoples’ liberation
I am serious
Furiously
courageously extending this freedom
I can’t stop
won’t stop until we free ‘em.
In my, Mind, Body and Soul
Community pull up
Until community is whole
Why Did He Save Me
Theodore Campos
I chose to be me, not anything but me. For what I have seen is not me, but what he manifested through me. I choose to be me, not anything but me. For what you see in me is not me but what he manifested in me for all to see.
He saved me . . . Why was I there . . . ? Why was it like that . . . ? Why did that happen to me . . . ?
It was evil, a place to be, only he saved me from the things of my old ways only by his grace and mercies.
For the thing I did against him, I don't understand why he still loves me.
For the thing I did against him, why does he still love me? Only by his grace and mercy of love, I’m here today.
For he was with me even when I didn’t know he was there by my side every day. The grace of he saved me daily in that place.
I was never meant to be there. Why did that happen . . . ? What happened to the ones left behind . . .? To protect me, they allowed me to leave; go in peace, for they all knew I didn’t belong there as death to those that tried to take me.
For only he saved me, for he is king of Kings, and lords of Lourdes, the first, the last, the great of Greats. YAWAY, my king of Kings, for only he allows me to be alive. As I cry daily, I’m alive, I’m alive, bent down on bended knees.
As I cry daily, to live this peace, only by his grace I am saved to this day. Living in a beautiful place with flowers every day for he knows how I love flowers. To smell and see them daily, he knows what makes me happy.
Only he allows me to be living in today’s society with love and blessings. With my fellow human beings, by the grace of God, he lets me be. For I cannot understand his grace and mercy for me. Why does he love me and let me be?
Who am I not to give also to those that do not know him as I do? For he tells me to teach of his grace and mercy. For his mercy is lifesaving for all to have mercy for life is a gift.
For he gives life and sustains it. In a split second, life can leave us. I lost how many times? He has allowed me to live for he saved me from my enemies, more times than I can count, for life is a gift he has given me.
How precious is life? It can be taken in a fraction of a second from this reality.
AS I CRY IN AMAZEMENT, STANDING ON MY FEET, WHY AM I STILL ALIVE?
IT PERPLEXES ME, WHY HE ALLOWS ME TO BE.
Theodore Campos
I chose to be me, not anything but me. For what I have seen is not me, but what he manifested through me. I choose to be me, not anything but me. For what you see in me is not me but what he manifested in me for all to see.
He saved me . . . Why was I there . . . ? Why was it like that . . . ? Why did that happen to me . . . ?
It was evil, a place to be, only he saved me from the things of my old ways only by his grace and mercies.
For the thing I did against him, I don't understand why he still loves me.
For the thing I did against him, why does he still love me? Only by his grace and mercy of love, I’m here today.
For he was with me even when I didn’t know he was there by my side every day. The grace of he saved me daily in that place.
I was never meant to be there. Why did that happen . . . ? What happened to the ones left behind . . .? To protect me, they allowed me to leave; go in peace, for they all knew I didn’t belong there as death to those that tried to take me.
For only he saved me, for he is king of Kings, and lords of Lourdes, the first, the last, the great of Greats. YAWAY, my king of Kings, for only he allows me to be alive. As I cry daily, I’m alive, I’m alive, bent down on bended knees.
As I cry daily, to live this peace, only by his grace I am saved to this day. Living in a beautiful place with flowers every day for he knows how I love flowers. To smell and see them daily, he knows what makes me happy.
Only he allows me to be living in today’s society with love and blessings. With my fellow human beings, by the grace of God, he lets me be. For I cannot understand his grace and mercy for me. Why does he love me and let me be?
Who am I not to give also to those that do not know him as I do? For he tells me to teach of his grace and mercy. For his mercy is lifesaving for all to have mercy for life is a gift.
For he gives life and sustains it. In a split second, life can leave us. I lost how many times? He has allowed me to live for he saved me from my enemies, more times than I can count, for life is a gift he has given me.
How precious is life? It can be taken in a fraction of a second from this reality.
AS I CRY IN AMAZEMENT, STANDING ON MY FEET, WHY AM I STILL ALIVE?
IT PERPLEXES ME, WHY HE ALLOWS ME TO BE.
Soul
Larry Velez
I've had to battle to protect my soul ever since I was 3 years old
I've had to grow cold and be old to preserve my soul
amongst a city full of
lost souls trapped within a black hole
it was a struggle to find hope
I'm not going to lie
it was a struggle to cope dealing with depression, addiction, and trying to heal this wounded soul
it took alot prayers and hard work to find some hope
no longer being a slave to the dope
nothing no longer stands within my path in the effort to preserve my hope
no money, cars, clothes or hoes will ever be able to heal a wounded soul
there is one cure for the wounded and bruised soul
it's that thing called HOPE
Larry Velez
I've had to battle to protect my soul ever since I was 3 years old
I've had to grow cold and be old to preserve my soul
amongst a city full of
lost souls trapped within a black hole
it was a struggle to find hope
I'm not going to lie
it was a struggle to cope dealing with depression, addiction, and trying to heal this wounded soul
it took alot prayers and hard work to find some hope
no longer being a slave to the dope
nothing no longer stands within my path in the effort to preserve my hope
no money, cars, clothes or hoes will ever be able to heal a wounded soul
there is one cure for the wounded and bruised soul
it's that thing called HOPE
A Life Worth Living
Ashley Parada
Growing up was fun until it wasn’t. Growing up as an only child was extremely difficult for me. Making friends was extremely difficult for me because I was always bullied. At a young age I learned to channel my emotions into unhealthy means of coping. My best way was fighting. At a young age I was very violent and angry but what everyone failed to see was that underneath it was all was pain and fear. Fighting got me kicked out of multiple schools, but my best thinking told me “I’d rather have them respect me out of fear than continue to bully me.” This unhealthy way of managing my anger was the beginning of the worst part of my life.
At 16, I was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon with intent to cause great bodily injury. This put a pause on my life because any chance I had at improving my life went out of the window. I was constantly hearing others say “Ashley won’t ever amount to anything” and so it was what I started to believe. This eventually led to me not caring about what happened to my life.
Shortly after that, I got actively involved in my neighborhood. I became fully enmeshed in drug and gang culture. This put a different perspective on my life. I learned to become a chameleon and adapt to different aspects of my life. It was then that my addiction and my criminal lifestyle took me to the lowest points. This lifestyle is not something I would wish on anybody. The pain, agony, and anger that came with this lifestyle had me questioning my existence. I was in and out of the county jail, and little by little, I was being introduced to what others described as “a life beyond your wildest dreams.“
Eventually I graduated to the drug court and was sentenced to complete one year at the House on the Hill. I was grateful to get this opportunity to complete a program in lieu of my six-year prison term. While at this program, I learned a lot about myself. I enjoyed the friends I was making and most of all learned what self-love was. Unfortunately, I did not remain clean. Two weeks after discharging probation I was actively in my addiction.
I can vividly remember the series of events that led to me picking up the phone and asking for help. Once again there we were, me and my higher power, packing my things to return to the House on the Hill for what would hopefully would be my last time. Growing up I had adopted my parents' beliefs in religion, but as I got older and was introduced to a 12-step Fellowship, I realized that I am not so religious but definitely spiritual. Spirituality comes from within and I am able to create what I want to believe in. This time being in a program was a little different because I knew I wanted to be there for myself. I no longer had court mandates or sentences, and my family had been completely done with me due to my constant broken promises, and it was finally time to grow up by myself.
At this point what I didn’t realize was that I wasn’t by myself. I was surrounded by others who had the same goals as me, for the most part. Upon completing my program, I decided I wanted to return back to school. One thing that I remember telling myself was, “Ashley, knowledge is power.” There’s only one thing that no one can take from me and that is my education.
Today I have freedom in what I decide to do with my education and that is the best freedom to experience. Today my life is simple. Today I am a wife. Today I am a daughter. Today I am a friend. Today I am free. Today all these things are possible through praying for a life worth living without drugs and alcohol.
Ashley Parada
Growing up was fun until it wasn’t. Growing up as an only child was extremely difficult for me. Making friends was extremely difficult for me because I was always bullied. At a young age I learned to channel my emotions into unhealthy means of coping. My best way was fighting. At a young age I was very violent and angry but what everyone failed to see was that underneath it was all was pain and fear. Fighting got me kicked out of multiple schools, but my best thinking told me “I’d rather have them respect me out of fear than continue to bully me.” This unhealthy way of managing my anger was the beginning of the worst part of my life.
At 16, I was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon with intent to cause great bodily injury. This put a pause on my life because any chance I had at improving my life went out of the window. I was constantly hearing others say “Ashley won’t ever amount to anything” and so it was what I started to believe. This eventually led to me not caring about what happened to my life.
Shortly after that, I got actively involved in my neighborhood. I became fully enmeshed in drug and gang culture. This put a different perspective on my life. I learned to become a chameleon and adapt to different aspects of my life. It was then that my addiction and my criminal lifestyle took me to the lowest points. This lifestyle is not something I would wish on anybody. The pain, agony, and anger that came with this lifestyle had me questioning my existence. I was in and out of the county jail, and little by little, I was being introduced to what others described as “a life beyond your wildest dreams.“
Eventually I graduated to the drug court and was sentenced to complete one year at the House on the Hill. I was grateful to get this opportunity to complete a program in lieu of my six-year prison term. While at this program, I learned a lot about myself. I enjoyed the friends I was making and most of all learned what self-love was. Unfortunately, I did not remain clean. Two weeks after discharging probation I was actively in my addiction.
I can vividly remember the series of events that led to me picking up the phone and asking for help. Once again there we were, me and my higher power, packing my things to return to the House on the Hill for what would hopefully would be my last time. Growing up I had adopted my parents' beliefs in religion, but as I got older and was introduced to a 12-step Fellowship, I realized that I am not so religious but definitely spiritual. Spirituality comes from within and I am able to create what I want to believe in. This time being in a program was a little different because I knew I wanted to be there for myself. I no longer had court mandates or sentences, and my family had been completely done with me due to my constant broken promises, and it was finally time to grow up by myself.
At this point what I didn’t realize was that I wasn’t by myself. I was surrounded by others who had the same goals as me, for the most part. Upon completing my program, I decided I wanted to return back to school. One thing that I remember telling myself was, “Ashley, knowledge is power.” There’s only one thing that no one can take from me and that is my education.
Today I have freedom in what I decide to do with my education and that is the best freedom to experience. Today my life is simple. Today I am a wife. Today I am a daughter. Today I am a friend. Today I am free. Today all these things are possible through praying for a life worth living without drugs and alcohol.
Photos by Lizette Contreras
This is not my story
Nicholas Hatch
Typically, I would state my name,
my education,
my title.
But this is not who I am. This is my place in the human hierarchy of academia.
A better introduction would be that I am everything from an unrealized love of music,
to a scientific mind (or so I’d like to think).
I am everything from devotion without condition to my sisters and my nieces and my nephew,
to the fear of having a family of my own.
I am everything from grandparents with expectations of me,
to parents with unbounded dreams for me.
I am everything from public speaking as a career path,
to a hermitage deep, deep, deep in the woods.
I am everything from the pain of a traumatic injury,
to the support I couldn’t ask of family.
I am everything from the competency of the “good worker,”
to the laziness of the privileged so-called leader.
I am everything from blue grass and horse farms and spring thunderstorms and fall colors, to the shame of being from ancestors who colonized and killed and then marginalized when society no longer accepted the killing, to a future of going to the margins, standing beyond the margins, making a home outside those margins.
No, enough. You deserve more. This is not my story.
In Teaching to Transgress, bell hooks writes, “Home was the place where I was forced to conform to someone else’s image of who and what I should be. School was the place where I could forget that self and, through ideas, reinvent myself.”
Yet again and again the stories my students tell are of repressed identities, shuttered behind someone else’s norms and ideas of what it means to be an academic, a professional, or a person of worth.
When Cèsar Cruz exclaimed, “Don’t call me first generation!” while highlighting the erasure of rich histories by colonization, I finally understood.
To the students who are variably called first-generation, disadvantaged, underrepresented, at risk, marginalized, minoritized, or worse, who may ask what they can expect, what success looks like, I know already before they have finished asking that success is the defiant look in the eyes of a student who, empowered by the full weight of a thousand ancestors, steps onto our campus to claim their right to the critical dialogue and the tools that they will use to better their community.
Formerly incarcerated student. Formerly incarcerated graduate. Formerly incarcerated professor. Formerly incarcerated congressperson. Formerly incarcerated first human to set foot on Mars.
I don’t see it.
I see a student. I see a graduate. I see a congressperson. I see the first human to set foot on Mars.
This story is not about me.
This story is about you.
This story is about who you always were.
This story is about who you were always meant to be.
Nicholas Hatch
Typically, I would state my name,
my education,
my title.
But this is not who I am. This is my place in the human hierarchy of academia.
A better introduction would be that I am everything from an unrealized love of music,
to a scientific mind (or so I’d like to think).
I am everything from devotion without condition to my sisters and my nieces and my nephew,
to the fear of having a family of my own.
I am everything from grandparents with expectations of me,
to parents with unbounded dreams for me.
I am everything from public speaking as a career path,
to a hermitage deep, deep, deep in the woods.
I am everything from the pain of a traumatic injury,
to the support I couldn’t ask of family.
I am everything from the competency of the “good worker,”
to the laziness of the privileged so-called leader.
I am everything from blue grass and horse farms and spring thunderstorms and fall colors, to the shame of being from ancestors who colonized and killed and then marginalized when society no longer accepted the killing, to a future of going to the margins, standing beyond the margins, making a home outside those margins.
No, enough. You deserve more. This is not my story.
In Teaching to Transgress, bell hooks writes, “Home was the place where I was forced to conform to someone else’s image of who and what I should be. School was the place where I could forget that self and, through ideas, reinvent myself.”
Yet again and again the stories my students tell are of repressed identities, shuttered behind someone else’s norms and ideas of what it means to be an academic, a professional, or a person of worth.
When Cèsar Cruz exclaimed, “Don’t call me first generation!” while highlighting the erasure of rich histories by colonization, I finally understood.
To the students who are variably called first-generation, disadvantaged, underrepresented, at risk, marginalized, minoritized, or worse, who may ask what they can expect, what success looks like, I know already before they have finished asking that success is the defiant look in the eyes of a student who, empowered by the full weight of a thousand ancestors, steps onto our campus to claim their right to the critical dialogue and the tools that they will use to better their community.
Formerly incarcerated student. Formerly incarcerated graduate. Formerly incarcerated professor. Formerly incarcerated congressperson. Formerly incarcerated first human to set foot on Mars.
I don’t see it.
I see a student. I see a graduate. I see a congressperson. I see the first human to set foot on Mars.
This story is not about me.
This story is about you.
This story is about who you always were.
This story is about who you were always meant to be.
Self Deprecating Mindset
David O. Moore
This is more than just a story from one mans perspective
It is a life that was created and weaponized as directed
I considered myself a key player
but was merely a pawn in a much bigger scheme
The chess game of gangs, streets, institutions, and life
Conditioned to be ready for war at all costs, the loss
acceptable consequences regardless of what’s all included
The exclusion from reality, lost in a distorted lens of seeing,
a warrior poetry of sorts that to die for the cause is a worthy sense of being.
Defeat not being an option and to fight to death, the willingness, the loyalty, all feelings of compassion and empathy repressed.
The self-deprecating mindset that I’ve been trained to uphold, to death do us part, loss of spirit and soul
I was always told that I had a twisted sense of reality where to fit in was a win and revered as a gangster mentality
It was all lies
Just a story I told myself to masquerade as a homie and not a son, a father, a friend or a brother
My negative lifestyle reinforced through a third-party perspective that was defined through the lens of others
I’ve always lived life to the fullest potential.
It’s just the trajectory of my self-deprecating mindset could only prove detrimental.
It took time to truly undue, but the results are in and now this I say to you,
change demands a surrender of security, work to unstick the only lifestyle I ever knew
The outcome produces assets, strengths and a life full of living that is so valuable and true
The darkest days were necessary in order to produce this newfound vision
the possibility of life beyond a mindset that was weaponized in prison.
David O. Moore
This is more than just a story from one mans perspective
It is a life that was created and weaponized as directed
I considered myself a key player
but was merely a pawn in a much bigger scheme
The chess game of gangs, streets, institutions, and life
Conditioned to be ready for war at all costs, the loss
acceptable consequences regardless of what’s all included
The exclusion from reality, lost in a distorted lens of seeing,
a warrior poetry of sorts that to die for the cause is a worthy sense of being.
Defeat not being an option and to fight to death, the willingness, the loyalty, all feelings of compassion and empathy repressed.
The self-deprecating mindset that I’ve been trained to uphold, to death do us part, loss of spirit and soul
I was always told that I had a twisted sense of reality where to fit in was a win and revered as a gangster mentality
It was all lies
Just a story I told myself to masquerade as a homie and not a son, a father, a friend or a brother
My negative lifestyle reinforced through a third-party perspective that was defined through the lens of others
I’ve always lived life to the fullest potential.
It’s just the trajectory of my self-deprecating mindset could only prove detrimental.
It took time to truly undue, but the results are in and now this I say to you,
change demands a surrender of security, work to unstick the only lifestyle I ever knew
The outcome produces assets, strengths and a life full of living that is so valuable and true
The darkest days were necessary in order to produce this newfound vision
the possibility of life beyond a mindset that was weaponized in prison.
Otro Mundo es Posible
Jasmin Lopez
para las mujeres
who put our lives on the lines
another world is possible
where our skin, our land, our sexual
longings coexist without obscuring one
to save the other
no borders, no cages, no suppressed voices
not only possible
another world is necessary
for the women
nepalteras, living in-between
writing theories from our flesh
here and there
this and that
honor the both-and
para las mujeres
otro mundo es necesario
Jasmin Lopez
para las mujeres
who put our lives on the lines
another world is possible
where our skin, our land, our sexual
longings coexist without obscuring one
to save the other
no borders, no cages, no suppressed voices
not only possible
another world is necessary
for the women
nepalteras, living in-between
writing theories from our flesh
here and there
this and that
honor the both-and
para las mujeres
otro mundo es necesario
Death Come for You
Jessica Leeth Young
Time pauses and my mind is endlessly on continuous echo.
Once more, you lay there. The unfriendly, cold barrel of the officer’s
gun pressed against your back. The firing blast
rings my ears. Bone-chilling concrete is all your body feels.
Howls fill the air, agonizing. Standard procedure: handcuff a dying man.
Roll over. Roll over.
Your body remains almost lifeless. You are given commands, like a dog
that needs to be demanded.
Choke him out, dude.
Orders ring out. A father of two bleeds, left to die. Officers
stand, impenetrable. They’ve executed you.
Ghetto bird soars high in the sky. An officer continues to
penetrate and to press into your back with his knee. Maybe they thought
two slugs weren’t enough. Rendering aid is luxury. Breathing now shallowed
and slow. Moaning sets in. Angel of death comes for you. Eternal rest
sets in. Two children left breathing without you. Overwhelming sadness
fills the air. The heavens wait for you. Until we meet again, I love you.
Rest in Paradise
My Love
Omar Gonzalez
June 28, 1980 – July 28, 2016.
Jessica Leeth Young
Time pauses and my mind is endlessly on continuous echo.
Once more, you lay there. The unfriendly, cold barrel of the officer’s
gun pressed against your back. The firing blast
rings my ears. Bone-chilling concrete is all your body feels.
Howls fill the air, agonizing. Standard procedure: handcuff a dying man.
Roll over. Roll over.
Your body remains almost lifeless. You are given commands, like a dog
that needs to be demanded.
Choke him out, dude.
Orders ring out. A father of two bleeds, left to die. Officers
stand, impenetrable. They’ve executed you.
Ghetto bird soars high in the sky. An officer continues to
penetrate and to press into your back with his knee. Maybe they thought
two slugs weren’t enough. Rendering aid is luxury. Breathing now shallowed
and slow. Moaning sets in. Angel of death comes for you. Eternal rest
sets in. Two children left breathing without you. Overwhelming sadness
fills the air. The heavens wait for you. Until we meet again, I love you.
Rest in Paradise
My Love
Omar Gonzalez
June 28, 1980 – July 28, 2016.
LA All Day by Ricardo Miranda
Using the Side Door
Ashley Knowlton
As an English instructor, I often find myself teaching Creative Writing, Poetry. In my experience, there's something about writing poetry, in particular, that seemingly invites the exploration of personal experiences or emotions. I'm not sure why this is, exactly, but I'm sure we can talk up and down about the value that poetic form has in reflective writing. Students often utilize the medium of poetry and the classroom to unpack certain life events or experiences. As such, trauma often bubbles up from their written work.
I've had students in my class who have written vivid, compelling poems about their incarceration, sensory deprivation, missing their wives, missing their children, missing their mothers, losing a loved one, being shot – shot once, shot three times, shot at a corner store, shot at a gas station, shot while they were asleep in bed, shot in the chest and struggling to breathe, shot and bleeding out in the middle of the street. I've had students write about shooting someone else because their paranoia turned into terror. And so on.
Needless to say, crafting a poem (or any written document) with a focus such as these has the potential to stir up some intrusive, unwanted, or just plain uncomfortable thoughts or emotions. Not that writing needs to be comfortable at all times, but it should (arguably) be productive.
A few years ago, I learned about a strategy for writing about personal trauma at the Desert Nights, Rising Stars Writers Conference, hosted by Arizona State University. Chels Knorr presented "Enter Through the Side Door: Ways to Write Through the Darkness," which offered "entering through a side door" as a promising practice for writing that explored trauma.
This is a strategy I often use, myself, and one that students (or anyone) could use when they're having difficulty getting a particularly challenging poem down on paper – but, nevertheless, feel deeply compelled to do so.
Writing from a "side door" suggests that, rather than come at the focus head-on or from a "front door," which might be too painful, a writer can consider taking out the "I" of the poem and explore how an outside observer might witness the event or grapple with the trauma. This outside observer doesn't need to be a person; it can easily be an object, animal, sense, etc. A "side door" can also take a different form. If not an outright poem, what about a grocery list, recipe, email, map directions, a horoscope?
An example that I'll share with you, that I don't really share with my students (because it just hasn't come up in class), focuses on a miscarriage I experienced about a year and a half ago. As one of my coping strategies, I wrote poetry to process the experience. However, explicitly writing about how I felt and what I was actively experiencing was much too painful, emotionally. So, I took the "I" out and wrote a poem from the viewpoint and experience of the placenta. This "side door" – the placenta as the one experiencing the loss and grief – helped me still get it all down on paper without engaging with that trauma in a way that might have felt harmful or unproductive, at that moment.
It should be noted that my students are never intentionally prompted to write about such painful, traumatic events. However, though I don't consider myself an expert in psychology or trauma, I think that (when appropriate) encouraging students to use "side doors" in classes, discussions, or writing assignments that possibly lend themselves to intrusive or unwanted feelings might further (and more compassionately) support students’ growth inside and outside of the classroom.
Ashley Knowlton
As an English instructor, I often find myself teaching Creative Writing, Poetry. In my experience, there's something about writing poetry, in particular, that seemingly invites the exploration of personal experiences or emotions. I'm not sure why this is, exactly, but I'm sure we can talk up and down about the value that poetic form has in reflective writing. Students often utilize the medium of poetry and the classroom to unpack certain life events or experiences. As such, trauma often bubbles up from their written work.
I've had students in my class who have written vivid, compelling poems about their incarceration, sensory deprivation, missing their wives, missing their children, missing their mothers, losing a loved one, being shot – shot once, shot three times, shot at a corner store, shot at a gas station, shot while they were asleep in bed, shot in the chest and struggling to breathe, shot and bleeding out in the middle of the street. I've had students write about shooting someone else because their paranoia turned into terror. And so on.
Needless to say, crafting a poem (or any written document) with a focus such as these has the potential to stir up some intrusive, unwanted, or just plain uncomfortable thoughts or emotions. Not that writing needs to be comfortable at all times, but it should (arguably) be productive.
A few years ago, I learned about a strategy for writing about personal trauma at the Desert Nights, Rising Stars Writers Conference, hosted by Arizona State University. Chels Knorr presented "Enter Through the Side Door: Ways to Write Through the Darkness," which offered "entering through a side door" as a promising practice for writing that explored trauma.
This is a strategy I often use, myself, and one that students (or anyone) could use when they're having difficulty getting a particularly challenging poem down on paper – but, nevertheless, feel deeply compelled to do so.
Writing from a "side door" suggests that, rather than come at the focus head-on or from a "front door," which might be too painful, a writer can consider taking out the "I" of the poem and explore how an outside observer might witness the event or grapple with the trauma. This outside observer doesn't need to be a person; it can easily be an object, animal, sense, etc. A "side door" can also take a different form. If not an outright poem, what about a grocery list, recipe, email, map directions, a horoscope?
An example that I'll share with you, that I don't really share with my students (because it just hasn't come up in class), focuses on a miscarriage I experienced about a year and a half ago. As one of my coping strategies, I wrote poetry to process the experience. However, explicitly writing about how I felt and what I was actively experiencing was much too painful, emotionally. So, I took the "I" out and wrote a poem from the viewpoint and experience of the placenta. This "side door" – the placenta as the one experiencing the loss and grief – helped me still get it all down on paper without engaging with that trauma in a way that might have felt harmful or unproductive, at that moment.
It should be noted that my students are never intentionally prompted to write about such painful, traumatic events. However, though I don't consider myself an expert in psychology or trauma, I think that (when appropriate) encouraging students to use "side doors" in classes, discussions, or writing assignments that possibly lend themselves to intrusive or unwanted feelings might further (and more compassionately) support students’ growth inside and outside of the classroom.
Another Pill
Jewlez
They say with time things will heal
but I don’t want to feel
I’ll just take another pill
act like this isn’t real
like the world isn’t being pulled out from under me
like my whole life didn’t just flash in front of me
like the 20 losses that have had are just a vision from the past
they are not real
tomorrow I’ll wake up and the world will become still
here I go pop another pill
maybe that will numb me
let me close my eyes and pray I wake up and all my loved ones will be standing there in front of me
this isn’t real please God
I don’t want to feel
they say with time this will all heal but man this hurts
I don’t want to feel here I go time to pop another pill.
Jewlez
They say with time things will heal
but I don’t want to feel
I’ll just take another pill
act like this isn’t real
like the world isn’t being pulled out from under me
like my whole life didn’t just flash in front of me
like the 20 losses that have had are just a vision from the past
they are not real
tomorrow I’ll wake up and the world will become still
here I go pop another pill
maybe that will numb me
let me close my eyes and pray I wake up and all my loved ones will be standing there in front of me
this isn’t real please God
I don’t want to feel
they say with time this will all heal but man this hurts
I don’t want to feel here I go time to pop another pill.
This is America
Khale’ Jackson
Many people say the land of the free and the home of the brave,
But is it really free and are we really brave?
We sit back and watch many people die and be mistreated at the hands Of the police and do nothing, yet we call it justice.
Justice, the meaning in which we are fair and treat people the same, goes down the drain not because we are worried but because we are scared
No, that's Injustice.
Time and time again, we see the same issues and yet do nothing
Time and time again, we face the same problems and yet say nothing
But here’s the question, when will it all END?
Is it going to have to take our cries and sorrows to get your attention? Is it going to have to take our pain and suffering to make you pay attention to what is going on in our society!
This Is America
January 6th, 2021 (The Insurrection)
People rioting, storming the US Capitol, police mocked and made fun of because, guess what? they didn’t do their “JOB”
The Job in which they swore an oath, in order to protect the American
Not just white and the elitist, but to protect those who are not heard
because those people think that they are “beneath” them.
Summer of 2020, seeing the Peaceful protests, walking side by side,
hand and hand
all in one, shouting out “Black Lives Matter”
But do they really Matter, is the question?
This is America
56 years in the making, still trying to fight for our equal rights that we deserve
Worked hard for, and still they don’t care
W.E.B DuBois spoke for our rights and freedom,
Frederick Douglass stood his ground
to show them that we matter and no matter what, you can’t stop us
Shirley Chisolm paved the way for many African Americans who want to make a change in our country and now
Kamala Harris, the first female black Vice President, Isn’t that Something
This is America
R.E.S.P.E.C.T, I found out what that means to me
Once scorned but now Respected
Once shunned but now exalted
The true essence of what America means to me.
Khale’ Jackson
Many people say the land of the free and the home of the brave,
But is it really free and are we really brave?
We sit back and watch many people die and be mistreated at the hands Of the police and do nothing, yet we call it justice.
Justice, the meaning in which we are fair and treat people the same, goes down the drain not because we are worried but because we are scared
No, that's Injustice.
Time and time again, we see the same issues and yet do nothing
Time and time again, we face the same problems and yet say nothing
But here’s the question, when will it all END?
Is it going to have to take our cries and sorrows to get your attention? Is it going to have to take our pain and suffering to make you pay attention to what is going on in our society!
This Is America
January 6th, 2021 (The Insurrection)
People rioting, storming the US Capitol, police mocked and made fun of because, guess what? they didn’t do their “JOB”
The Job in which they swore an oath, in order to protect the American
Not just white and the elitist, but to protect those who are not heard
because those people think that they are “beneath” them.
Summer of 2020, seeing the Peaceful protests, walking side by side,
hand and hand
all in one, shouting out “Black Lives Matter”
But do they really Matter, is the question?
This is America
56 years in the making, still trying to fight for our equal rights that we deserve
Worked hard for, and still they don’t care
W.E.B DuBois spoke for our rights and freedom,
Frederick Douglass stood his ground
to show them that we matter and no matter what, you can’t stop us
Shirley Chisolm paved the way for many African Americans who want to make a change in our country and now
Kamala Harris, the first female black Vice President, Isn’t that Something
This is America
R.E.S.P.E.C.T, I found out what that means to me
Once scorned but now Respected
Once shunned but now exalted
The true essence of what America means to me.
Resilient Cholita
Grace Gonzalez
I didn’t wear a cap and gown until I graduated from Homeboy Industries with my high school equivalency. Before that, the last time I was in one was when I was in 5th grade. I can’t believe I’m in college now because I’ve been through a lot. At the age of fifteen, I got involved in gangs. I grew up in a world of gang violence, abuse, and drugs. I thought that by the age of 25 I would either be doing life in prison or be dead. But somehow, I had a change of heart and decided that I wanted to go to college.
I knew that to get to college I had to earn my high school equivalency first.
In 2016, I began taking the tests for my high school equivalency and quickly passed them all, except for the math exam. I was not a nerd yet! Over the next five years, I took the math exam six times. I never gave up. Even when I had to move to Mexico for a year, I continued commuting to San Diego to keep trying to pass the test. Even though I kept failing, I had tunnel vision about getting into college. I was stubborn, and I never questioned that college was the right path for me.
During this journey, I became a mother to a beautiful girl named Isabel. I actually took the math test again the day before I went into labor, which I failed but I still celebrated! Because I needed to find a place where I could bring my daughter to class with me, I came across Homeboy Industries. So there I was, in class with a newborn baby girl. When I became a mom, I knew that I didn’t want to be a part of the gang life anymore. My worst fear was, and still is,
that my baby could be in harm’s way.
Three days before I took the math exam again, my worst fear came true. My daughter, my mother, and I got caught in a crossfire and found ourselves ducking to not get hit by bullets. Despite this traumatic event which triggered my PTSD, I took the exam and finally managed to pass.
I’ve been through hell and back with my emotional health, but no matter what, I persisted. This journey has been tough, but I know this is just the beginning. I am currently in my third semester in college and earned a certificate in real estate sales. My next goal is to excel in community college and stay on the path to become an accredited finance professional with a degree in Business. I owe this to myself. I will continue creating wealth for my loved ones and me.
This wouldn’t be possible without my support foundation at Homeboy Industries and my family and Pasadena City College. Being a part of CORE has given me the opportunity to show my leadership and community skills. I look forward to continuing to grow.
Grace Gonzalez
I didn’t wear a cap and gown until I graduated from Homeboy Industries with my high school equivalency. Before that, the last time I was in one was when I was in 5th grade. I can’t believe I’m in college now because I’ve been through a lot. At the age of fifteen, I got involved in gangs. I grew up in a world of gang violence, abuse, and drugs. I thought that by the age of 25 I would either be doing life in prison or be dead. But somehow, I had a change of heart and decided that I wanted to go to college.
I knew that to get to college I had to earn my high school equivalency first.
In 2016, I began taking the tests for my high school equivalency and quickly passed them all, except for the math exam. I was not a nerd yet! Over the next five years, I took the math exam six times. I never gave up. Even when I had to move to Mexico for a year, I continued commuting to San Diego to keep trying to pass the test. Even though I kept failing, I had tunnel vision about getting into college. I was stubborn, and I never questioned that college was the right path for me.
During this journey, I became a mother to a beautiful girl named Isabel. I actually took the math test again the day before I went into labor, which I failed but I still celebrated! Because I needed to find a place where I could bring my daughter to class with me, I came across Homeboy Industries. So there I was, in class with a newborn baby girl. When I became a mom, I knew that I didn’t want to be a part of the gang life anymore. My worst fear was, and still is,
that my baby could be in harm’s way.
Three days before I took the math exam again, my worst fear came true. My daughter, my mother, and I got caught in a crossfire and found ourselves ducking to not get hit by bullets. Despite this traumatic event which triggered my PTSD, I took the exam and finally managed to pass.
I’ve been through hell and back with my emotional health, but no matter what, I persisted. This journey has been tough, but I know this is just the beginning. I am currently in my third semester in college and earned a certificate in real estate sales. My next goal is to excel in community college and stay on the path to become an accredited finance professional with a degree in Business. I owe this to myself. I will continue creating wealth for my loved ones and me.
This wouldn’t be possible without my support foundation at Homeboy Industries and my family and Pasadena City College. Being a part of CORE has given me the opportunity to show my leadership and community skills. I look forward to continuing to grow.
The Tattoo Artist
Jessica Leeth Young
I.
I see spring dew shimmering on trees.
I hear squirrels chirping. They run up and down the big Oak tree.
I smell morning mist drift up off the damp driveway.
Mornings are my favorite. I can hear my own voice speak to my heart in these moments.
The birds sing so loud this morning, like they know that I’m thinking of you.
Sometimes I think it was all just an illusion that your love was even there.
I ask myself if I am living in a fantasy, or if this is reality.
In my mind I gaze into your eyes and see your devotion to me.
I see your vulnerability and I know you’re scared.
Have no fear, my love. All I want to do is show you my intimacy and passion.
We are magnets, you and I. We are drawn to each other. My endless love for you runs deeper than an ocean. Everyone can see my hopeless love for you.
What would have happened if you had never touched me? That touch bonded us for eternity.
You knew I needed you. My protector. You drew me the owl, positioned solid and sturdy like the giant Oak tree. You were my owl, feathers ruffled, clear eyes.
I was just a woman who wanted to be loved. You were a man who needed my touch.
This love we have is pure love. Love that loves for the sake of loving. Passion that dissolves boundaries and separations. We try to hide this unseen love but we can’t.
I take pieces of you everywhere I go.
II.
I needed you. You needed me. I touched you and felt tingles run down my spine.
I laid on the tattoo bed and you adjusted the seat, the light. You steadied me, your hands caressing my leg.
You created the owl just for me. A symbol of devotion, pureness. You etched it gracefully into my skin. The pain of your ink drove me mad as needles pierced my skin.
I watched you work the rough and rugged edges. My hands were shaking. Your big, brown eyes kept locking with mine. Could you see the hunger and craving as it grew inside of me?
III.
My eyes have swelled up with tears. They flow like a river. No, like raindrops on a Spring morning lightly touching your body.
Everywhere I turn, everything reminds me of you.
You brought sadness to my heart because you hurt.
I fell in love with your mind. I just wanted to crawl inside and see what you see.
I just wanted to hold you close to me, even if it’s just in dreams. You, a genuine soul with so much love in your heart to give to me.
If this is a fantasy then let me stay here, because this is always better than the reality of losing you.
Remembering your gentle touch makes me think maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe you just couldn’t express your love or open yourself up to feel the love you deserve.
I know sadness is still there. I never wanted to feel the anguish, yet I did.
I allowed you to get close to me.
Sometimes I sit and wish I never let you get close.
Sometimes I feel I will never love again. You were my most beautiful mistake, a love I never felt before you.
You were my greatest love and maybe you don’t even know it. Maybe I have always loved you.
So many years have gone by and yet we remain friends, forever drifting back into each other’s lives.
We are connected in ways no one can imagine. To touch you is to love you. The unseen love between us is so strong. You do not want to love me because you’re afraid I will shatter your heart, but I yearn for the touch of your soft hands.
I will never remove you, forever-stained imprint on my skin, my beating heart. You are majestic, more beautiful than anything I’ve ever wanted in life.
IV.
I open my eyes and sip my morning coffee.
I look down at my leg, the owl, and you stare back at me.
I almost hear the tattoo gun.
I feel its electricity.
I try hard to stay calm. I’ll count each day
as if it is my last with you.
Love is bipolar.
I hold my breath waiting to see you,
despite my heart
growing heavy.
Jessica Leeth Young
I.
I see spring dew shimmering on trees.
I hear squirrels chirping. They run up and down the big Oak tree.
I smell morning mist drift up off the damp driveway.
Mornings are my favorite. I can hear my own voice speak to my heart in these moments.
The birds sing so loud this morning, like they know that I’m thinking of you.
Sometimes I think it was all just an illusion that your love was even there.
I ask myself if I am living in a fantasy, or if this is reality.
In my mind I gaze into your eyes and see your devotion to me.
I see your vulnerability and I know you’re scared.
Have no fear, my love. All I want to do is show you my intimacy and passion.
We are magnets, you and I. We are drawn to each other. My endless love for you runs deeper than an ocean. Everyone can see my hopeless love for you.
What would have happened if you had never touched me? That touch bonded us for eternity.
You knew I needed you. My protector. You drew me the owl, positioned solid and sturdy like the giant Oak tree. You were my owl, feathers ruffled, clear eyes.
I was just a woman who wanted to be loved. You were a man who needed my touch.
This love we have is pure love. Love that loves for the sake of loving. Passion that dissolves boundaries and separations. We try to hide this unseen love but we can’t.
I take pieces of you everywhere I go.
II.
I needed you. You needed me. I touched you and felt tingles run down my spine.
I laid on the tattoo bed and you adjusted the seat, the light. You steadied me, your hands caressing my leg.
You created the owl just for me. A symbol of devotion, pureness. You etched it gracefully into my skin. The pain of your ink drove me mad as needles pierced my skin.
I watched you work the rough and rugged edges. My hands were shaking. Your big, brown eyes kept locking with mine. Could you see the hunger and craving as it grew inside of me?
III.
My eyes have swelled up with tears. They flow like a river. No, like raindrops on a Spring morning lightly touching your body.
Everywhere I turn, everything reminds me of you.
You brought sadness to my heart because you hurt.
I fell in love with your mind. I just wanted to crawl inside and see what you see.
I just wanted to hold you close to me, even if it’s just in dreams. You, a genuine soul with so much love in your heart to give to me.
If this is a fantasy then let me stay here, because this is always better than the reality of losing you.
Remembering your gentle touch makes me think maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe you just couldn’t express your love or open yourself up to feel the love you deserve.
I know sadness is still there. I never wanted to feel the anguish, yet I did.
I allowed you to get close to me.
Sometimes I sit and wish I never let you get close.
Sometimes I feel I will never love again. You were my most beautiful mistake, a love I never felt before you.
You were my greatest love and maybe you don’t even know it. Maybe I have always loved you.
So many years have gone by and yet we remain friends, forever drifting back into each other’s lives.
We are connected in ways no one can imagine. To touch you is to love you. The unseen love between us is so strong. You do not want to love me because you’re afraid I will shatter your heart, but I yearn for the touch of your soft hands.
I will never remove you, forever-stained imprint on my skin, my beating heart. You are majestic, more beautiful than anything I’ve ever wanted in life.
IV.
I open my eyes and sip my morning coffee.
I look down at my leg, the owl, and you stare back at me.
I almost hear the tattoo gun.
I feel its electricity.
I try hard to stay calm. I’ll count each day
as if it is my last with you.
Love is bipolar.
I hold my breath waiting to see you,
despite my heart
growing heavy.
Break the Bonds of Incarceration by Kaiyah Murrell
Wasted Days & Wasted Nights
Jorge A. Espinoza
So many days and nights have I gone too far off the edge. Wandering aimlessly with no specific destination towards life. Always doing the most to impress the wrong crowds. Most of the time I ended up fighting, using drugs, or going to jail. Sheesh! Sitting handcuffed in the back of a police car. I’d think to myself why this lifestyle seemed to be so attractive? It’s really sad.
So many days and nights did I spend alone in a cell regretting the things I’ve done to get me there in the first place.
I am working on myself today and I don’t live in much sorrow, hate, or discontent. I am dedicated to a new way of living that’s loving and caring. I am tired of the pain I inflicted towards my family and myself. That same pain that has motivated and helped me want to step away from a brutal, dishonest, and lying mentality because as I am getting older. I look back to my childhood and try to replay when I was still innocent and happy before it’s too late. I am talking like it is the end but it’s really just the beginning.
Started from the bottom but I’m on my way up to a life that has no ceilings, no limits, the heights I’m going to go. Who would have thought some people would never know the gift of sobriety, the clarity, the growth pushing through obstacles on the daily and the barriers would never be strong enough?
A system that was designed to defeat me has only served a greater purpose to only fully complete me.
Jorge A. Espinoza
So many days and nights have I gone too far off the edge. Wandering aimlessly with no specific destination towards life. Always doing the most to impress the wrong crowds. Most of the time I ended up fighting, using drugs, or going to jail. Sheesh! Sitting handcuffed in the back of a police car. I’d think to myself why this lifestyle seemed to be so attractive? It’s really sad.
So many days and nights did I spend alone in a cell regretting the things I’ve done to get me there in the first place.
I am working on myself today and I don’t live in much sorrow, hate, or discontent. I am dedicated to a new way of living that’s loving and caring. I am tired of the pain I inflicted towards my family and myself. That same pain that has motivated and helped me want to step away from a brutal, dishonest, and lying mentality because as I am getting older. I look back to my childhood and try to replay when I was still innocent and happy before it’s too late. I am talking like it is the end but it’s really just the beginning.
Started from the bottom but I’m on my way up to a life that has no ceilings, no limits, the heights I’m going to go. Who would have thought some people would never know the gift of sobriety, the clarity, the growth pushing through obstacles on the daily and the barriers would never be strong enough?
A system that was designed to defeat me has only served a greater purpose to only fully complete me.
Fight to Stay Alive
Theodore Campos
Why do I feel? why was I there? can’t feel anything. try as I do !
my life is upside down. how can I be.
why am I here?
it wasn’t me alone at the time
how he saved me from my enemy
for he always been with me
I didn’t know at the time when I had to fight
for it wasn’t me it was he defending me from my enemies
Why I am here . . . . . I feel so I must be alive am I a human being . . . . .
It seems now like 4 decades . . . . . lives ago.
You would would not be next to me
A long time ago a different life my name is thumper when the body drops
in front of
me it goes thump fight for life
For only one reason I don’t show the pain inside that’s tearing me apart
as I fight daily
for life to not leave me from my enemy coming at me can’t can’t lose in my suicidal
tendencies I
fight to stay alive by the reasoning that makes me
fight to stay alive over and over it’s never going to end!
As I stick a pencil in his neck as he falls to my feet I walk away why must I
fight to
stay
alive
the pain inside is ripping me apart as my suicidal
tendency says end it
now stop the pain as I walk away the cell block is yelling. my name as I walk away
as I cry inside why must I fight ….. just to be me ….. why must it be
this is my life
why must it be this way as I cry inside my cell wanting to end my
life for I
HATE . . . . . That I have to fight to stay alive . . . . . can’t be nice . . . . . have to be evil . . . . .
let out
to stay alive !!!!!!!!!!
As I sharpen my pencil for tomorrow to be another fight just
stay alive
by the ruses of suicidal tendencies just to stay live
over and over it’s never going to end lost count how many fights to stay
alive why
must it be this way that I must fight
I don’t want to use my pencil PLEASE STOP before it goes inside just
walk
away suicidal tendencies rushing me as I cry and I walk away why must it be just to live I
must
fight daily to be me
it is not too late to walk away I say the next day after day just walk away
before it’s too
late
it’s never going to end as I cry walking away it’s too late another falling at
my feet as I
cry walking away it’s too late another falling at my feet
over and over suicidal tendencies rushing me I sharpen my pencil for
tomorrow’s
never end I must fight to stay alive
Must I for I can’t not give up my life for he made me and put life in me must
be me to
see that it’s not in me to give up on me I LOVE ME even this evil me for life is in me !
Many have tried to end my life lost count how many lay in Earth for me to
be alive
for I must fight to stay alive
Try and take if you dare
if you can take it . . . . . I’ll be home sooner
how you don’t know how I would love to go home only once my life leaves
this body I can go home how I would be so lucky to go home and not be in this life
anymore
Suicidal tendencies rushing me as I laugh I can’t take my own life I must
fight to stay
alive
as I stand up to go outside with my pencil in my hand one more time this is
my life
why must I fight to stay alive
Theodore Campos
Why do I feel? why was I there? can’t feel anything. try as I do !
my life is upside down. how can I be.
why am I here?
it wasn’t me alone at the time
how he saved me from my enemy
for he always been with me
I didn’t know at the time when I had to fight
for it wasn’t me it was he defending me from my enemies
Why I am here . . . . . I feel so I must be alive am I a human being . . . . .
It seems now like 4 decades . . . . . lives ago.
You would would not be next to me
A long time ago a different life my name is thumper when the body drops
in front of
me it goes thump fight for life
For only one reason I don’t show the pain inside that’s tearing me apart
as I fight daily
for life to not leave me from my enemy coming at me can’t can’t lose in my suicidal
tendencies I
fight to stay alive by the reasoning that makes me
fight to stay alive over and over it’s never going to end!
As I stick a pencil in his neck as he falls to my feet I walk away why must I
fight to
stay
alive
the pain inside is ripping me apart as my suicidal
tendency says end it
now stop the pain as I walk away the cell block is yelling. my name as I walk away
as I cry inside why must I fight ….. just to be me ….. why must it be
this is my life
why must it be this way as I cry inside my cell wanting to end my
life for I
HATE . . . . . That I have to fight to stay alive . . . . . can’t be nice . . . . . have to be evil . . . . .
let out
to stay alive !!!!!!!!!!
As I sharpen my pencil for tomorrow to be another fight just
stay alive
by the ruses of suicidal tendencies just to stay live
over and over it’s never going to end lost count how many fights to stay
alive why
must it be this way that I must fight
I don’t want to use my pencil PLEASE STOP before it goes inside just
walk
away suicidal tendencies rushing me as I cry and I walk away why must it be just to live I
must
fight daily to be me
it is not too late to walk away I say the next day after day just walk away
before it’s too
late
it’s never going to end as I cry walking away it’s too late another falling at
my feet as I
cry walking away it’s too late another falling at my feet
over and over suicidal tendencies rushing me I sharpen my pencil for
tomorrow’s
never end I must fight to stay alive
Must I for I can’t not give up my life for he made me and put life in me must
be me to
see that it’s not in me to give up on me I LOVE ME even this evil me for life is in me !
Many have tried to end my life lost count how many lay in Earth for me to
be alive
for I must fight to stay alive
Try and take if you dare
if you can take it . . . . . I’ll be home sooner
how you don’t know how I would love to go home only once my life leaves
this body I can go home how I would be so lucky to go home and not be in this life
anymore
Suicidal tendencies rushing me as I laugh I can’t take my own life I must
fight to stay
alive
as I stand up to go outside with my pencil in my hand one more time this is
my life
why must I fight to stay alive
Photos by Theodore Campos
Home Is Where the Heart Is
Princess Braxton-Ford
Have you seen my heart?
Oh where oh where has my heart gone?
Have you seen my city?
Please tell me you see the beauty and the strength…
She’s so strong.
Have you seen the time?
Oh where oh where has my time gone?
Have you seen my struggle?
Please tell me you see my resilience…
Why does my struggle always seem so long?
Have you seen my depth?
Oh where oh where has my depth gone?
Have you seen my tears?
Please tell me you see my fire…
She’s fighting to not feel alone.
Have you seen my fight?
Oh where oh where has my fight gone?
Have you seen my home?
Oh yeah… She’s right here…
Because HOME is where I belong.
Princess Braxton-Ford
Have you seen my heart?
Oh where oh where has my heart gone?
Have you seen my city?
Please tell me you see the beauty and the strength…
She’s so strong.
Have you seen the time?
Oh where oh where has my time gone?
Have you seen my struggle?
Please tell me you see my resilience…
Why does my struggle always seem so long?
Have you seen my depth?
Oh where oh where has my depth gone?
Have you seen my tears?
Please tell me you see my fire…
She’s fighting to not feel alone.
Have you seen my fight?
Oh where oh where has my fight gone?
Have you seen my home?
Oh yeah… She’s right here…
Because HOME is where I belong.
Caged
Robert O’Leary
My name is Robert Sean O’Leary. I’m 36 years old. I come from a city called Long Beach and a broken family in the ghetto on the East Side. I was born in the streets, literally! My first home was a VW Buggy. My mom used to feed me cheeseburgers. I guess that’s why I love cheeseburgers so much.
Both my parents were loving in their own way. My mom was a square from New York. My dad was a street thug in Long Beach always on drugs and involved in criminal activity. My mom was the affectionate one. My dad showed me hard love. I remember when I was a kid, I was put in a corner sitting on my hands on some rocks and my mom and dad were in the room. The whole house was dark and I could see the only room that had the light on. I saw my mom and dad’s shadows from the light on the wall. My dad had my mom by the throat and my dad was punching my mom. I could still hear the thumps like it just happened.
My dad used to beat me like I was a grown-ass man, even if I didn’t do anything wrong. Long story short, I carried the demon he left with me. I was 8 years old when he got 20 years in prison. He was my hero. When he left, he left me to fight the demon alone. My mom remarried and I didn’t get along with her new husband, so I used to leave, or I’d stay with my grandfather and grandmother. My grandfather used to spoil me. He used to give me whatever I wanted, drugs, money, clothes or even the latest video games. He loved me, but I started to realize his love and spoiling me had a cost.
My grandfather was a predator that I used to live with and fight off. I used to have thoughts of killing him. I wasn’t comfortable, so I would leave to go to the streets and that’s how I found love from my gang. We started off doing drugs. At this time I was only 13. All emotions went away. At first I just got sick, then I used to get sick in the head. I used to have bad dreams from the people I hurt. It haunted me. So I got deeper into drugs so that I would never sleep and never care.
I started to like the life because it made my new family happy. They praised me. They gave me drugs to get high and sell, and money and guns. All of this came with women, luxury and respect. At 14 I started my career of incarceration. I spent the rest of my teens fighting YA life until I was 18. The county bus picked me up from Sylmar Juvenile Hall. I was then promoted to the southern family, the biggest prison gang in the world. I became a soldier for the cause 100%. As I grew into this lifestyle, I got deeper into a dark pit, a vicious cycle of anger and rage, to the point where in gun battles I wish I would get hit to end this anger I had for myself, ashamed to do it myself. As I sat in my cell for what I hoped would be my last time, I started to feel the remorse and guilt I had for myself and others.
Since I came to this recovery program, I'm finding myself and this new way of living clean and sober. I know it will be a hard journey, but it’s one I know will be worth living.
I would like to thank Impact Treatment Center and everyone who is giving hope and courage to me to continue moving on, freeing me from my cage.
Robert O’Leary
My name is Robert Sean O’Leary. I’m 36 years old. I come from a city called Long Beach and a broken family in the ghetto on the East Side. I was born in the streets, literally! My first home was a VW Buggy. My mom used to feed me cheeseburgers. I guess that’s why I love cheeseburgers so much.
Both my parents were loving in their own way. My mom was a square from New York. My dad was a street thug in Long Beach always on drugs and involved in criminal activity. My mom was the affectionate one. My dad showed me hard love. I remember when I was a kid, I was put in a corner sitting on my hands on some rocks and my mom and dad were in the room. The whole house was dark and I could see the only room that had the light on. I saw my mom and dad’s shadows from the light on the wall. My dad had my mom by the throat and my dad was punching my mom. I could still hear the thumps like it just happened.
My dad used to beat me like I was a grown-ass man, even if I didn’t do anything wrong. Long story short, I carried the demon he left with me. I was 8 years old when he got 20 years in prison. He was my hero. When he left, he left me to fight the demon alone. My mom remarried and I didn’t get along with her new husband, so I used to leave, or I’d stay with my grandfather and grandmother. My grandfather used to spoil me. He used to give me whatever I wanted, drugs, money, clothes or even the latest video games. He loved me, but I started to realize his love and spoiling me had a cost.
My grandfather was a predator that I used to live with and fight off. I used to have thoughts of killing him. I wasn’t comfortable, so I would leave to go to the streets and that’s how I found love from my gang. We started off doing drugs. At this time I was only 13. All emotions went away. At first I just got sick, then I used to get sick in the head. I used to have bad dreams from the people I hurt. It haunted me. So I got deeper into drugs so that I would never sleep and never care.
I started to like the life because it made my new family happy. They praised me. They gave me drugs to get high and sell, and money and guns. All of this came with women, luxury and respect. At 14 I started my career of incarceration. I spent the rest of my teens fighting YA life until I was 18. The county bus picked me up from Sylmar Juvenile Hall. I was then promoted to the southern family, the biggest prison gang in the world. I became a soldier for the cause 100%. As I grew into this lifestyle, I got deeper into a dark pit, a vicious cycle of anger and rage, to the point where in gun battles I wish I would get hit to end this anger I had for myself, ashamed to do it myself. As I sat in my cell for what I hoped would be my last time, I started to feel the remorse and guilt I had for myself and others.
Since I came to this recovery program, I'm finding myself and this new way of living clean and sober. I know it will be a hard journey, but it’s one I know will be worth living.
I would like to thank Impact Treatment Center and everyone who is giving hope and courage to me to continue moving on, freeing me from my cage.
For My Best Friend
Monica Gonzalez
You were my best friend and my sister, you always came through for me
You were there for me when I hit rock bottom and you still picked me up
Even when you were at your lowest of lows you never let me see it
I think about you every night since you left me
I think about you every second of my life now
I think about you every time I look at my phone
I think about you when the Deftones are playing
I think about you when I see two sisters holding hands
I think about you when the moon is full, you loved the moon and the stars
I think about the memories we created
I think about us when we were younger
I think about us taking naps together
You were there when my cousin passed
You were there when my grandpa passed
You were there when my grandma passed
Now you’re gone and I’m here waiting for you to come back
I remember you . . .
I’ll see you soon
I miss you
Monica Gonzalez
You were my best friend and my sister, you always came through for me
You were there for me when I hit rock bottom and you still picked me up
Even when you were at your lowest of lows you never let me see it
I think about you every night since you left me
I think about you every second of my life now
I think about you every time I look at my phone
I think about you when the Deftones are playing
I think about you when I see two sisters holding hands
I think about you when the moon is full, you loved the moon and the stars
I think about the memories we created
I think about us when we were younger
I think about us taking naps together
You were there when my cousin passed
You were there when my grandpa passed
You were there when my grandma passed
Now you’re gone and I’m here waiting for you to come back
I remember you . . .
I’ll see you soon
I miss you
Starting-Over ink
Camila Carsolio
Tearing a page glued on by sweat,
you’ll never suppress it,
only a disease or an accident erases memory.
Crumbling the infinite edges will end up cutting you
like an unsharpened knife,
painfully, slowly.
Scratch the words and your frustration will be inked,
not opening the book with fear of seeing the pen which failed to write.//
Turning to a blank page every day,
feeling lonely, naked, and powerless,
you start with a word
"I"
"moved to a new city"
"to a new family"
"left …”
You didn't leave it.
It's in the pages behind,
those you wrote unexpectedly,
those you forgot to scratch,
Or you may find it in the words you didn't write,
in the memory of a face you touched so much that you forgot to describe.//
Countless pages that give you the words needed to start writing the NEXT.//
Unconditionally, you have words,
even if everything else seems to drift awa y.
Camila Carsolio
Tearing a page glued on by sweat,
you’ll never suppress it,
only a disease or an accident erases memory.
Crumbling the infinite edges will end up cutting you
like an unsharpened knife,
painfully, slowly.
Scratch the words and your frustration will be inked,
not opening the book with fear of seeing the pen which failed to write.//
Turning to a blank page every day,
feeling lonely, naked, and powerless,
you start with a word
"I"
"moved to a new city"
"to a new family"
"left …”
You didn't leave it.
It's in the pages behind,
those you wrote unexpectedly,
those you forgot to scratch,
Or you may find it in the words you didn't write,
in the memory of a face you touched so much that you forgot to describe.//
Countless pages that give you the words needed to start writing the NEXT.//
Unconditionally, you have words,
even if everything else seems to drift awa y.
My Story: For I Am Not Alone
Gia Behnke
I have always had a certain skewed outlook on the world. The way I grew up taught me to be very observant of my surroundings; an awareness that qualifies me to tell this story as a result of my hardships. The skill-set I acquired was not one of a traditional childhood. I grew up with an absent father and a single mother who struggled with substance abuse issues. I naturally learned how to maneuver my way around various situations and learn quickly from my environment. I always loved to learn new things, and at 20 years of age, writing this from a treatment center, I believe now that the things that I’ve learned through my brief time on this earth have molded me and given me a unique wisdom that needs to be heard.
I respect my mother to the fullest for always stepping up and doing her best to make ends meet as this characteristic is one I truly admire. My photographic memory of the good moments which was once a blessing to me, has at times become my biggest curse. Dealing with a mother who is struggling with addiction, I naturally became curious about drug use, but always swore that I would never try it because of all the turmoil I felt throughout my childhood. I always saw the gift of innocence in my sister; I truly believe that innocence was stolen from me and that I was robbed of my childhood by becoming a parent-by-proxy at a young age. I was my sister’s protector from everything wrong with the insidious cycle of emotional and mental abuse that accompanies the disease of addiction. I had aspirations and dreams of becoming a lawyer and having my own practice focusing on criminal law. Sadly, that is not how the story went; at least not yet!
I strived to be everything my mother wasn’t and feel devastated at times when I reflect on how I let substances into my life to corrupt me the way they have. I feel hopeless and in despair at times when I look around at where I am and what direction my life has taken. I had every intention to stop before it got bad, but always convinced myself that tomorrow would be a better day.
Addiction centers itself in the mind and creates an obsession that becomes insurmountable to the addict who is suffering. I was so consumed by addiction that I felt like I wasn’t me anymore. I was my addiction. The spiral downward was horrible and the bottoming out process became unbearable. I realized that things could only get worse and at that moment I was broken morally, spiritually, mentally and emotionally.
As alcoholics and addicts, we reflect upon these times. I believe this was my moment of clarity and that I had received the gift of desperation. I set my pride aside and made the first rational decision I had been able to come up with for a long time: I asked for help. This brings me to the current part of my story and journey through recovery. I am not trying to be just abstinent from drugs; I am really trying to feed myself spiritually and to shift my self-deprecating perception of the world that had been established while in active addiction. The smallest amount of hope was all it took to start the process, and I had faith in others' willingness to lead me to the solution.
I have seen living proof of addicts who are no longer defined by their addiction. With determination and conviction, I knew that I, too, could reinvent myself into something much greater than how I had been living in my own addiction. My history with narcotics does not define me, for this is only a small part of my story. A renewed outlook of myself and my perception of the world around me has changed drastically.
I remain teachable and I continue to learn more about the disease which is a part of me, forever attempting to seize control of my thoughts and behaviors unless arrested. I finally see the light at the end of a long, treacherous tunnel. I will continue to embark on this journey of life one day at a time. I will keep my newfound hope and faith only by giving it away to the addict that still suffers, for I am not alone, none of us are. Pride and fear must both be set aside, we must ask for help, and we must be open to a new way of life.
Gia Behnke
I have always had a certain skewed outlook on the world. The way I grew up taught me to be very observant of my surroundings; an awareness that qualifies me to tell this story as a result of my hardships. The skill-set I acquired was not one of a traditional childhood. I grew up with an absent father and a single mother who struggled with substance abuse issues. I naturally learned how to maneuver my way around various situations and learn quickly from my environment. I always loved to learn new things, and at 20 years of age, writing this from a treatment center, I believe now that the things that I’ve learned through my brief time on this earth have molded me and given me a unique wisdom that needs to be heard.
I respect my mother to the fullest for always stepping up and doing her best to make ends meet as this characteristic is one I truly admire. My photographic memory of the good moments which was once a blessing to me, has at times become my biggest curse. Dealing with a mother who is struggling with addiction, I naturally became curious about drug use, but always swore that I would never try it because of all the turmoil I felt throughout my childhood. I always saw the gift of innocence in my sister; I truly believe that innocence was stolen from me and that I was robbed of my childhood by becoming a parent-by-proxy at a young age. I was my sister’s protector from everything wrong with the insidious cycle of emotional and mental abuse that accompanies the disease of addiction. I had aspirations and dreams of becoming a lawyer and having my own practice focusing on criminal law. Sadly, that is not how the story went; at least not yet!
I strived to be everything my mother wasn’t and feel devastated at times when I reflect on how I let substances into my life to corrupt me the way they have. I feel hopeless and in despair at times when I look around at where I am and what direction my life has taken. I had every intention to stop before it got bad, but always convinced myself that tomorrow would be a better day.
Addiction centers itself in the mind and creates an obsession that becomes insurmountable to the addict who is suffering. I was so consumed by addiction that I felt like I wasn’t me anymore. I was my addiction. The spiral downward was horrible and the bottoming out process became unbearable. I realized that things could only get worse and at that moment I was broken morally, spiritually, mentally and emotionally.
As alcoholics and addicts, we reflect upon these times. I believe this was my moment of clarity and that I had received the gift of desperation. I set my pride aside and made the first rational decision I had been able to come up with for a long time: I asked for help. This brings me to the current part of my story and journey through recovery. I am not trying to be just abstinent from drugs; I am really trying to feed myself spiritually and to shift my self-deprecating perception of the world that had been established while in active addiction. The smallest amount of hope was all it took to start the process, and I had faith in others' willingness to lead me to the solution.
I have seen living proof of addicts who are no longer defined by their addiction. With determination and conviction, I knew that I, too, could reinvent myself into something much greater than how I had been living in my own addiction. My history with narcotics does not define me, for this is only a small part of my story. A renewed outlook of myself and my perception of the world around me has changed drastically.
I remain teachable and I continue to learn more about the disease which is a part of me, forever attempting to seize control of my thoughts and behaviors unless arrested. I finally see the light at the end of a long, treacherous tunnel. I will continue to embark on this journey of life one day at a time. I will keep my newfound hope and faith only by giving it away to the addict that still suffers, for I am not alone, none of us are. Pride and fear must both be set aside, we must ask for help, and we must be open to a new way of life.
Home for Now
Ricardo Munoz
This photograph was taken when I was living out of my truck during my first semester at Pasadena City College. I would shower in the mornings in the gym locker room before class and do my laundry at friends’ houses or the laundromat. My clothes were kept in a large plastic bin in the back seat, and my one real jacket hung over the passenger seat.
I’ll never forget my worst night. It was two in the morning on a cold Monday. I had Statistics class early that morning. I was sleeping in a local business parking lot that my friend, who was also living out of his vehicle, showed me. He liked the idea of someone he knew being in the parking space next to him, as things could get dangerous in the many hours of the night. I used to sleep with a knife under my pillow. We would talk and smoke cigarettes before we went back to our vehicles to get some rest. I slept in a sleeping bag that I got by the Veterans’ Resource center, in the bench seat of my ‘03 Chevy Silverado. Even with the sleeping bag, the nights were bitter cold. I’d usually wake up in a shiver. But some nights were the opposite. I would awake in sweltering heat, wrapped in my own sweat and avoid the sleeping bag all together. On this particular night it was the latter, and being too hot for me to go to sleep, I cracked the rear driver side window to let some airflow in. The cool breeze felt blissful over my skin, and my eyelids fell with no protest, as I went peacefully to sleep … for a short time.
I awoke to find myself tossing and turning, then itching and scratching. I tried to ignore it but I finally relented and sat up angry and lacking sleep. As I removed my shirt, I came to find mosquito bites all over my back and shoulders. The areas affected were inflamed red, and the welted spots were huge and spanned in odd shapes that resembled countries on a map. Continuing to scratch proved no use; the itching was unreal, and I found myself absolutely, positively miserable.
I had slept under worse circumstances in the military: subfreezing temperatures in a snow shelter I had dug myself, in the cold mud under heavy rainfall several times, in dry heat while sitting in the back of a moving seven-ton truck with full flak and Kevlar as dust caked over my face and body, making me resemble an archaeological discovery rather than a person.
Yet somehow this felt worse, much worse because at least in the military there was a purpose. I was either training or on deployment. This night though, I was at a much lower point. This was not training, this was not deployment. I was in the civilian world sleeping more miserably than I ever remembered sleeping in the military, and I had class in a couple of hours.
I sat there, in dirty sweat, itching and covered in bites, and so tired that I could barely keep my eyes open – and I cried.
Not a lot, maybe a tear or two, as I sat and recounted the decisions that got me here. I debated quitting school all together and going back to the Marines, or firefighting, something similar. Quickly though, I decided that I was here, and I’d be damned if I let this deter me from my path.
Crawling over to the driver’s seat, I wiped my eyes, made a sign of the cross, and drove to the nearby 7-Eleven where I grabbed some rubbing alcohol, more baby wipes, and paper towels. The rubbing alcohol was cold on my skin but soothed the itching sensation. Cleaning myself afterwards with baby wipes, I then laid back down, windows closed this time, and I got in what little amount of sleep I could before having to get up and prepare for class.
That morning I walked into class tired and a little disheveled, but I was there. I showed up.
Afterwards as I walked back to my truck, it was then that I knew this wasn’t going to be forever; this was just home for now.
Ricardo Munoz
This photograph was taken when I was living out of my truck during my first semester at Pasadena City College. I would shower in the mornings in the gym locker room before class and do my laundry at friends’ houses or the laundromat. My clothes were kept in a large plastic bin in the back seat, and my one real jacket hung over the passenger seat.
I’ll never forget my worst night. It was two in the morning on a cold Monday. I had Statistics class early that morning. I was sleeping in a local business parking lot that my friend, who was also living out of his vehicle, showed me. He liked the idea of someone he knew being in the parking space next to him, as things could get dangerous in the many hours of the night. I used to sleep with a knife under my pillow. We would talk and smoke cigarettes before we went back to our vehicles to get some rest. I slept in a sleeping bag that I got by the Veterans’ Resource center, in the bench seat of my ‘03 Chevy Silverado. Even with the sleeping bag, the nights were bitter cold. I’d usually wake up in a shiver. But some nights were the opposite. I would awake in sweltering heat, wrapped in my own sweat and avoid the sleeping bag all together. On this particular night it was the latter, and being too hot for me to go to sleep, I cracked the rear driver side window to let some airflow in. The cool breeze felt blissful over my skin, and my eyelids fell with no protest, as I went peacefully to sleep … for a short time.
I awoke to find myself tossing and turning, then itching and scratching. I tried to ignore it but I finally relented and sat up angry and lacking sleep. As I removed my shirt, I came to find mosquito bites all over my back and shoulders. The areas affected were inflamed red, and the welted spots were huge and spanned in odd shapes that resembled countries on a map. Continuing to scratch proved no use; the itching was unreal, and I found myself absolutely, positively miserable.
I had slept under worse circumstances in the military: subfreezing temperatures in a snow shelter I had dug myself, in the cold mud under heavy rainfall several times, in dry heat while sitting in the back of a moving seven-ton truck with full flak and Kevlar as dust caked over my face and body, making me resemble an archaeological discovery rather than a person.
Yet somehow this felt worse, much worse because at least in the military there was a purpose. I was either training or on deployment. This night though, I was at a much lower point. This was not training, this was not deployment. I was in the civilian world sleeping more miserably than I ever remembered sleeping in the military, and I had class in a couple of hours.
I sat there, in dirty sweat, itching and covered in bites, and so tired that I could barely keep my eyes open – and I cried.
Not a lot, maybe a tear or two, as I sat and recounted the decisions that got me here. I debated quitting school all together and going back to the Marines, or firefighting, something similar. Quickly though, I decided that I was here, and I’d be damned if I let this deter me from my path.
Crawling over to the driver’s seat, I wiped my eyes, made a sign of the cross, and drove to the nearby 7-Eleven where I grabbed some rubbing alcohol, more baby wipes, and paper towels. The rubbing alcohol was cold on my skin but soothed the itching sensation. Cleaning myself afterwards with baby wipes, I then laid back down, windows closed this time, and I got in what little amount of sleep I could before having to get up and prepare for class.
That morning I walked into class tired and a little disheveled, but I was there. I showed up.
Afterwards as I walked back to my truck, it was then that I knew this wasn’t going to be forever; this was just home for now.
Photos by L. Rose
Yo soy quien yo digo que soy
Elide Garcia
Yo soy mexicana, yo soy chicana, yo soy humana, yo soy una madre, yo soy
una hija, soy Elide
Ellos dicen que soy mojada, que soy frijolera, que soy criminal, que soy
ilegal, que no importo
Ellos dicen que no pertenezco a América, que no tengo valor aquí, que
conmigo no es América
Yo soy californiana, yo soy angelina, yo soy mexico-americana, yo soy el
futuro y el pasado
Ellos son deshonestos, ellos son ladrones, ellos son engañadores, ellos son
injustos, ellos son violadores, ellos son actores, ellos son los estafadores, ellos
son supuestos americanos
Ellos son la América antigua, nosotros somos la América presente, somos la
América del futuro
Ellos dicen de mí, ellos dicen que soy bruta, ellos dicen que soy débil, ellos
dicen que soy inepta
Yo soy el presente, yo soy conmutativa, yo soy observante, yo soy calmada,
yo soy paciente
Yo soy la luz al final de la oscuridad, yo soy la fe en el Dios de nuestra gente, yo
soy una guerrera
Yo soy la bandera de nuestra patria mexicana al final de la victoria en la
guerra conocida como la Guerra de América contra México, mexicanos con
honor y con mucho valor, ellos son Elide
Yo soy inteligente, yo soy valiente, yo soy poder, yo soy los rezos de las
madres, yo soy los rezos de los padres, yo soy los ruegos de nuestro pueblo
para poder vivir
Yo soy la lucha, yo soy la vida, yo soy las victorias, yo soy las derrotas, pero
siempre soy Elide
Elide es amor, Elide es hogar, Elide es poder, Elide es humildad, Elide es
honestidad, Elide es guerra, Elide está lista, Elide es soldada, Elide es agresiva,
Elide es impaciente,
Elide es la explosión de valores que fueron violados por los Spaniards cuando nos robaron nuestras tierras
Elide es la solución para la abolición de los americanos racistas que no tienen
ningún derecho para hacernos menos
Elide es la educación que no hubo para nuestra gente, Elide es las letras que no
supimos leer, Elide es las preguntas que no supimos preguntar, Elide es sin
vergüenza y muy hábil
Elide es el grito de nuestro pueblo cuando dijeron “¡ya no más!”
California es México, California era México, California es América, y
América es de origen mexicano ¡lo quieran o no! ¡Viva México, cabrones!
Yo soy Elide, y yo soy mi gente, yo soy mexicana, michoacana, yo soy
americana, californiana, yo soy la oscuridad y la luz a la vez, yo soy el dolor
y la felicidad a la vez, yo soy ni de aquí ni de allá, yo soy de aquí y de allá, yo
soy única y común, ¡yo soy México y soy América a la vez!
Elide es ¡la antigua lucha que no se cansa de batallar y nunca se cansará!
No soy una sola historia, no soy una posibilidad, no soy previsible, soy
imprevisible, y soy capaz, soy el león de selva listo para atacar, soy
orgullosamente mexicana, chicana, y americana
“Nuestras lágrimas no serán de dolor ya, serán de felicidad, grandeza y honor”
Elide Garcia
Yo soy mexicana, yo soy chicana, yo soy humana, yo soy una madre, yo soy
una hija, soy Elide
Ellos dicen que soy mojada, que soy frijolera, que soy criminal, que soy
ilegal, que no importo
Ellos dicen que no pertenezco a América, que no tengo valor aquí, que
conmigo no es América
Yo soy californiana, yo soy angelina, yo soy mexico-americana, yo soy el
futuro y el pasado
Ellos son deshonestos, ellos son ladrones, ellos son engañadores, ellos son
injustos, ellos son violadores, ellos son actores, ellos son los estafadores, ellos
son supuestos americanos
Ellos son la América antigua, nosotros somos la América presente, somos la
América del futuro
Ellos dicen de mí, ellos dicen que soy bruta, ellos dicen que soy débil, ellos
dicen que soy inepta
Yo soy el presente, yo soy conmutativa, yo soy observante, yo soy calmada,
yo soy paciente
Yo soy la luz al final de la oscuridad, yo soy la fe en el Dios de nuestra gente, yo
soy una guerrera
Yo soy la bandera de nuestra patria mexicana al final de la victoria en la
guerra conocida como la Guerra de América contra México, mexicanos con
honor y con mucho valor, ellos son Elide
Yo soy inteligente, yo soy valiente, yo soy poder, yo soy los rezos de las
madres, yo soy los rezos de los padres, yo soy los ruegos de nuestro pueblo
para poder vivir
Yo soy la lucha, yo soy la vida, yo soy las victorias, yo soy las derrotas, pero
siempre soy Elide
Elide es amor, Elide es hogar, Elide es poder, Elide es humildad, Elide es
honestidad, Elide es guerra, Elide está lista, Elide es soldada, Elide es agresiva,
Elide es impaciente,
Elide es la explosión de valores que fueron violados por los Spaniards cuando nos robaron nuestras tierras
Elide es la solución para la abolición de los americanos racistas que no tienen
ningún derecho para hacernos menos
Elide es la educación que no hubo para nuestra gente, Elide es las letras que no
supimos leer, Elide es las preguntas que no supimos preguntar, Elide es sin
vergüenza y muy hábil
Elide es el grito de nuestro pueblo cuando dijeron “¡ya no más!”
California es México, California era México, California es América, y
América es de origen mexicano ¡lo quieran o no! ¡Viva México, cabrones!
Yo soy Elide, y yo soy mi gente, yo soy mexicana, michoacana, yo soy
americana, californiana, yo soy la oscuridad y la luz a la vez, yo soy el dolor
y la felicidad a la vez, yo soy ni de aquí ni de allá, yo soy de aquí y de allá, yo
soy única y común, ¡yo soy México y soy América a la vez!
Elide es ¡la antigua lucha que no se cansa de batallar y nunca se cansará!
No soy una sola historia, no soy una posibilidad, no soy previsible, soy
imprevisible, y soy capaz, soy el león de selva listo para atacar, soy
orgullosamente mexicana, chicana, y americana
“Nuestras lágrimas no serán de dolor ya, serán de felicidad, grandeza y honor”
Know More
Angela Gonzales-Torres
When I feel rejected, I disrespect my soul
This learned habit is not mine, it’s colonial
Oppression imprisons me
I let love be the key
To the cell I was born in, six feet deep
Despite my heart calling
For blood
They’re lucky we seek justice
Not vengeance
Grew up shielded from the truth
True colors always ooze
It don’t matter what they do
They can’t get in the way of my bloom
Know more now than I used to
I'm turning my jail into a school
For me and you
‘Cause the main focus on us,
The system-impacted,
Is on how well we perform as students and employees
Not on family separation impacts
On our self-perception
Or relationships with distractions
I won’t go down like this
They don’t know I’m a seed
They can try to bury me and my dreams
Enough cycles of abuse
Liberation’s what I choose
It don’t matter what they do
They can’t get in the way of my bloom
‘Cause I’m a seed
They can try to stop generational healing
Together, we bear fruit
Our degrees and hope as proof
It don’t matter what they do
They can’t get in the way
I wish I could prevent
All the senseless deaths
Trying to catch my breath
Wondering if I’m next
So, I live to reclaim love
To amplify voices of
Migrants in Tijuana
to Farmworkers marching up and down Sacramento
Tyre who should be skating
Vanessa exposing the military
Valentina taken from her family
By the LAPD like so many
Our missing trans and native ladies
Berta, the revolutionary
Like her, we won’t go down like this
'Cause we are seeds
They can try to smear our solidarity
Leave us gardens without tools
Try to sow doubt in our youth
It don’t matter what they do
They can’t get in the way of our bloom
Angela Gonzales-Torres
When I feel rejected, I disrespect my soul
This learned habit is not mine, it’s colonial
Oppression imprisons me
I let love be the key
To the cell I was born in, six feet deep
Despite my heart calling
For blood
They’re lucky we seek justice
Not vengeance
Grew up shielded from the truth
True colors always ooze
It don’t matter what they do
They can’t get in the way of my bloom
Know more now than I used to
I'm turning my jail into a school
For me and you
‘Cause the main focus on us,
The system-impacted,
Is on how well we perform as students and employees
Not on family separation impacts
On our self-perception
Or relationships with distractions
I won’t go down like this
They don’t know I’m a seed
They can try to bury me and my dreams
Enough cycles of abuse
Liberation’s what I choose
It don’t matter what they do
They can’t get in the way of my bloom
‘Cause I’m a seed
They can try to stop generational healing
Together, we bear fruit
Our degrees and hope as proof
It don’t matter what they do
They can’t get in the way
I wish I could prevent
All the senseless deaths
Trying to catch my breath
Wondering if I’m next
So, I live to reclaim love
To amplify voices of
Migrants in Tijuana
to Farmworkers marching up and down Sacramento
Tyre who should be skating
Vanessa exposing the military
Valentina taken from her family
By the LAPD like so many
Our missing trans and native ladies
Berta, the revolutionary
Like her, we won’t go down like this
'Cause we are seeds
They can try to smear our solidarity
Leave us gardens without tools
Try to sow doubt in our youth
It don’t matter what they do
They can’t get in the way of our bloom
CONSUMED by Rudy Demanett
