Where I’m From
I am from framed Virgen de Guadalupe photos on the wall,
From tamales and dulce de leche.
I am from a small home.
Where the smell of Fabuloso fills the rooms.
I am from home-grown peppers,
That get tossed into every dish.
My carved name,
on the quaking aspen bark in my front yard.
I am from piñata birthday parties and intercambios navideños.
From Centeno and Padilla.
From motorcycle rides and green eyes.
I’m from “Angel de mi guarda, de mi dulce compania”
And “No me desampares, ni de noche, ni de dia.”
I’m from “Bidi Bidi Bon Bon” by Selena Quintanilla,
I’m from spicy and feisty.
I’m from Jalisco,
From missing thumbs
And spilling caldo de camaron.
I’m from dancing horses
and Quinceañera dresses.
From dirt roads.
From agua de rosa soaked skin
That glows.
I’m from “Corelle!”
And “Esperate!”
It’s never enough time.
Necesitaba más tiempo contigo.
Pero nunca sera demasiado tiempo.
I’m from “Speak English, you’re in America.”
And from “Callate pinche gringo.”
I am from te quiero
And te amo.
Not from I love you.
Memory
My head jumps off the musty pillow, and a horrid stench fills my nose. My head quickly spins to look around, gushes of cold air hitting my cheeks. I shiver. The room is dark, and small. There is a toilet and a tiny sink in a corner, which were once probably white. In front of me are bars, two men walk by, laughing. Security guards or policemen, I don’t know. My breath becomes shaky and my heart feels heavy. My brain scatters to find out what is going on. My eyes continue to rapidly look around the darkroom and my hands clench the old and moist mattress beneath me, while flashes of my life run through my head. “No.. no, no, no no no.” My eyes clench shut. My mind swims in memories of my life. From my 5th birthday party to when I graduated high school. My eyes fly open again and I realized that I am in a jail cell. My hand began to shake and my chest feels tight. My breath goes heavy and I begin to cry. I sob out, tears sneaking into my mouth, the salt melting into my taste buds. Slowly more memories start coming to me. My name, my age, what I do for a living. My life seemed perfect, so what was I doing here. I clench my eyes once more, trying to pull in more memories. Darkness was all I could remember. Nothing came to me. A chilling scream swims into my ear canal, ramming into my ear drums. I groaned as the screaming would not stop. I stopped to think if maybe I was the one screaming. No, it’s not me. The screaming continued before it cried out “I don’t belong here.”
I ran my fingertips on my lips, the ridges of my fingerprints rubbing on the dry, dead skin. I once again made sure that I wasn’t the one screaming. I take a deep breath before throwing my legs off the bed. The bed creaks and the sound makes me wince. I put all my weight on my two weak legs. I was surprised that they didn’t snap. I could feel the gravel on the floor sneak in between my toes, through my thin socks. I began to wonder about how long I have been here, if I was fed, hydrated. Or not. Slowly, I walk towards the bars. I wipe away tears with my forearm before wrapping my bony fingers around two cold, rough bars. I close my eyes and carefully lay my forehead on the bars as well, as I had no strength to hold it up. I cleared my throat and licked my lips with salty saliva, which was the only thing I had to hydrate. I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
“Hello?” I was finally able to croak out. It was quiet, barely a sound. I pray someone is there to listen to me, and you’ll never catch me praying.
“Hey.” I voice, as frail and rough as mine spoke a bit after my “hello”.
I didn’t know what to say after. I had questions, but I didn’t know what they were. I just wanted to know why I was here, but that was a question that only I could answer.
My knees go weak and I slowly went down. I fall on my knees. I bite my lip to keep me from sobbing out again. The iron taste swimmed with my taste buds. My dry lips were crumbling apart.
“You’re probably wondering why you’re here?” The same frail voice replies, like an answer to my prayers. My voice gets stuck in my throat again, and all I could let out was a loud, painful sob.
“Oh no, we’ve got another crier!” Another voice, a much stronger, deeper voice giggled out. Her comment was followed with chuckles.
I had never been this confused in my life. I run my fingers through my hair, and I feel strands pluck out of my scalp.
“What the hell is going on?” I cried out.
No one replied to me. I continued letting tears marathon down my face. This feeling of lostness was going to make me go insane.
“So who’s gonna tell her?” The same loud voice chuckled out. “Not it.”
“No one knows why we’re here.” A new voice informed me.
My eyebrows furrowed together, and I shook my head, still lost.
“What do you mean?” I pushed the words up and out of my throat, like alphabet letter puke.
A new memory starts playing in my head. I was seated on a metal chair, which was not comfortable at all. Leather straps were wrapped around my wrists and the chair handles. People were all around me, speaking, but I could not understand their words. They began connecting me to something, cold sticky things were put on my forehead, and I shivered as they made contact with my skin. I started shaking, and I pulled as hard as I could, trying to free myself from the leather straps.
I gasped, and I was back in the horrid cell. My chest burns, like going up for fresh air after almost drowning. I could not remember what I did, I could not remember what I was in here for. I suddenly remembered why I could not remember. My memory was extracted.
A new device for memory extracting was being used on criminals to find out if or if they did not commit the crime. After the memory is extracted, they cannot remember it. This means there's perfect judgment in incarceration, but no one in jail knows what they did.
For the rest of my life, I will be here. Not ever knowing why, what I did to deserve to be here. I stopped crying, like an emotion switch switched off inside of me. I stood up, and dragged my feet on the concrete floor before dropping on the musty mattress. I closed my eyes, drifting away to sleep, thinking about how I was going to go insane in here.
A shock suddenly goes through my body, an alarm beeps, the blaring noise rumbling in my chest. I’m back in my room, and it’s time to get ready for work.
A Normal Job
The cars roar as they fly past their car. They both sit in silence, only the pat of an anxious leg bouncing up and down fills the car. The man in the passenger's seat runs his hand on his head, the scruff of hair scratching the palm of his hand.
“What does he look like?” He asks the women in the driver's seat.
“I don’t know, he’s suppose to be wearing a black hoodie.” She replies before looking out her window.
“How do you not know what he looks like? What if we get the wrong guy?” He speaks in a concerned tone.
She rolls her eyes. “Chill out, I got it. I’ll tell you when I see him.”
He sighs, closing his eyes and throwing his head back against the seat. He continues bouncing his leg.
“You nervous?”
He scoffs, “Are you kidding me?”
She shrugs.
“Of course I’m nervous.”
“Why?” Her voice is ignorant.
“What do you mean “why”?” His voice grow louder. She doesn’t flinch. “Why am I nervous? I’m nervous because I have never killed a human before. Sorry I don’t do this often!” Sarcasm fills his voice.
“Listen, no one is forcing you to do this. If you want out, get out of the car, that simple.” She chuckles out. “This is what you asked for...” Her voice still uninterested.
“No, no, I never asked for this-”
“You wanted my help, I’m helping you.”
His mouth opens, but no words come out.
After a moment of silence, he says, “Look, I’m sorry.” He looks out the window, and contemplates about what he is about to do, the decisions he is making. Flashback of how he got in this situation run a marathon in his mind.
“My girlfriend is pregnant.” He blurts out, spinning his head to look at her, She doesn’t give a response.
“I always told myself that I was going to be the best father, the most supportive, you know?” He pauses, chuckles, then sighs. “But how am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to tell my kid to not steal toys from other kids when I used to steal for a living? Or how am I supposed to tell him not to do drugs when I’ve done more drugs then it’ll even get it’s hands on?” He stops to catch his breath, which is shaky. “And I sell them. How do I live with being a hypocrite to my own child? How do I let it believe that I am not who it thinks I am? That I’m not who they should look up to?”
Silence. He looks up at the roof of the car, while she intentively stares out the window. He sighs again.
“That’s part of being a parent. Keep up with the lie and do everything in your power so that they don’t make the same damn mistakes you did.” She states, bluntly, while looking at her nails.
He shakes his head, sighing again. His dry arms go up to his face, he rubs his eyes, trying to wake himself from what he wishes was a bad dream. “I don’t know how I got here.”
“Stop complaining.”
“This is the last time.”
“What?”
“This is the last time I’m working with you.”
She raises her eyebrows, and slowly turns her head to look at him.
“I can’t do this anymore…” He looks at her in her eyes, before he quickly looks away.
“Maybe if I try hard enough, get a nine-to-five, I can live a normal life. I can give my kid a normal life. A life where his dad isn’t a criminal. I want to start over.”
She laughs.
“What?” Aggressiveness fills his voice.
She shakes her head while grinning.
“You think you can just drop this? With just some words you’re off the hook?”
“No, I’ll finish this, I’ll do this, but after this.. it’s over.. I’m done.” He whispers out, his voice cracking.
“That’s not how this works.”
He furrows his eyebrows, confused. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t just quit. He won’t let you. Last person who wanted to quit, I had to shoot him in the face before he had the chance to.” She casually states, before pulling out her pistol and pointing it at him, right between his eyebrows. She grins at him.
Her words echo in his head, and it takes him a while to process them. After he does, his blood goes cold, forming icicles in his veins. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to move. His lungs feel tight, and his breaths become heavy. He swallows his own saliva to hydrate his dry throat. With no idea of what to do now, he felt that being shot in the face wasn’t such a bad thing.
“There.” she says.
He looks out her window and sees a man in a black hoodie walking away from a car across the street. She slams her gun on his chest. The thump vibrates through his body.
“It’s all you.” She gives him a supportive smile. “This is your first, not your last.”
A Rising Rebel
Most people would have been proud, most people would not be feeling this emptiness in their chest when looking at the 5 honors classes on their seventh grade school schedule. 4th period was the worst, honors U.S history. As I walked in, all I saw was long blond hair, blue eyes and hot pink braces. I had short brunette hair, my mexican dads dark brown eyes, and my family could not afford braces. Those girls all sat together, they were always giggling, they were always happy. I walked into the class and sat towards the back, since I didn’t know anyone. I did not belong there, I always felt out of place. The words I dreaded the most in those classes were “Turn and talk to a partner.”
My school was diverse, but it was very segregated. For starters, my school separated us by gender. Then, walking into the lunchroom, I remember this image vividly. The white girls would sit in the middle lunch table, the black girls on the lunch table to the right and the hispanic girls to the left. In 6th grade, I never knew where to sit, my skin was too pale for the hispanic girls, but the hair on my arms was too thick and dark for the white girls. I never felt in place, I was the anomaly. It got to the point where I would do anything to not have to go to school. My grades dropped and I blamed it on the fact that I couldn’t handle all the honors classes, even though I knew the real problem. Eventually, I found my place in the those honors classes and in the lunchroom. It was the old beaten down lunch table in the corner with the other girls of color in my honors classes. We were the only table with five girl who had completely different skin tones and accents sitting together. I began going to school and focusing on my honors classes, which was a lot easier now with friends.
Coming to Denver South High School, I loved that it was such a diverse school, it was extremely beautiful for me. But the blond hair still stood out in my AP classes. I felt like my problem had been solved when I found my friends, but it was not. My Junior year, a club called Rising Rebels was formed. Rising Rebels is together to try to rise the number of students of color in honors and AP classes. Rising Rebels was the key to solving the problem. My best friend from middle school and I joined it, and for our senior year, South achieved the goal that they wanted to meet for the number of students of color in the honors and AP classes. We are not 100% there, but it’s a giant step forward, and slowly we will allow people of color to not be scared of what they can do and achieve, with the support of Rising Rebels. We are allowed to walk into a class and feel happy to be there, with confidence that we will achieve. Hopefully soon, no person will be scared of challenging themselves because they think they don’t have the support.
I wouldn’t even call the fact that I failed my seventh grade honors U.S history class a setback or a failure. It was a lesson which opened up my eyes about the division in our schools and I’m so glad that I don’t see it as a defeat, now. Instead, I found a solution and I am now so proud be part of the change towards more support of in AP and honors classes.
Myself
No one can love me as much as me.
A world, previously unseen, unlocked.
I had to learn how to be carefree,
negative thoughts were finally blocked.
I’m the one who knows myself better
than anyone else, I can trust me.
I believe that trust can grow greater.
only myself, don’t need nobody.
Won’t allow my watercolor world,
turn to a distressing shade of grey.
No longer scared, not hiding or furled.
The old me is gone, let her decay.
Finally free. I have found myself.
What about you, have you found yourself?
“Curfew”: Not just a red telephone, but a literal lifeline
From surreal and dreamy, to dark and grubby, in just nineteen minutes I experienced emotions all up and down the spectrum. Scenes shot beautifully by cinematographer Daniel Katz, voices and facial expression performed perfectly by the actors amplified those feelings. As well as allowing the audience to connect to characters through witty dialogue. I enjoyed “Curfew”, I enjoyed it so much I almost cried when I found out they had turned it into a full length movie, named “Before I Disappear”. But, today I will be reviewing “Curfew”.
“Curfew” is written, directed and features Shawn Christensen. His character is Richie, a man who is struggling with his current life, and doesn’t see much reason to go on, until he receives a call from from his sister, Maggie (Kim Allen), who he had lost contact with. She desperately begs him to watch her daughter, Sophia (Fatima Ptacek). Richie doesn’t say anything as she frantically begs him.
"And you know that you are my last choice on earth to ask to be responsible for anything… I know you're not doing anything important..."
In the middle of a suicide attempt, he weakly responds after a while with a weak: “Okay.” For some reason, I laughed, even though I knew I should not have.
Then we are introduced to Sophia, as Richie picks her up from her apartment. She is a very smart-mouthed, yet an extremely hilarious and lovable little girl.
“Well, my name is Richard, and I am… your uncle…” says Richie.
Sophia replies with: “I don’t care.”
Then the story continues with beautiful shots through New York City. You witness Richie and Sophia's personalities crash and then combine through dancing in bowling allies and stick-figure flipbooks (watch the short film so you understand. C’mon, it’s only nineteen minutes.)
The reasons I fell in love with the film is the cinematography, the showcasing of the characters, and how attached you become to them. The cinematography really captures the beauty of New York City. Scenes like when they are walking at night, surrounded by neon lights and the colors reflecting off their skin, or even the extremely simple scene of them on a subway. In just nineteen minutes, it captures so much of the city. I don’t even want to get started on the acting because all I can say is: it is amazing. Even just how Shawn Christensen delivers his “Okay.” You can sense the pain he is in, but yet how the call gives him more life, almost relief. You can see how his eyes light up and see his mental process all through facial expression and one word. Lastly, I personally fell in love with both Richie and Sophia. They both were broken when they first met, Sophia was a little girl confused with what was going on with her mom, and Richie just simply felt lost in the world, but they both seemed to help each other since they couldn't help themselves. Their help wasn’t obvious, but as the audience, you could feel it, and that really made me fall in love with them. I don’t want to talk too much about detail, because I don’t want to spoil it since I really recommend watching it.
My rating for “Curfew” directed by Shawn Christensen, featuring Shawn Christensen, Fatima Ptacek, and Kim Allen, is a …. 99%! I don’t want to say 100% because what if there is a better movie out there, I need to save my 100% for it
White-Washed
(SLAM POETRY IS MEANT TO BE HEARD, NOT READ)
“Wait, you speak spanish?”
Yes, I speak spanish.
“So, you’re, like, Mexican?”
Yes, I’m Mexican
“But, you don’t look Mexican?”
So, what exactly does a Mexican look like?
I would finally ask.
Brown skin, big belly, poncho and sombrero?
Hyper-sexualized, curves and red lips?
I’m sorry I don’t fit the mold that you made,
Out of paper mache,
For me.
“You’re white-washed.”
I’m white-washed.
I used to think I was blessed for getting my mother's white skin
Innocent. But,
I used to pluck away the thick, dark eyebrows
That were copied from my Mexican dads’
And pasted on my face.
I used to shave the dark hair away from my arms.
I used to scrub away my culture,
With a loofa and jabon,
Like dirt on my skin.
-
My favorite song when I was 5 was
“Bidi Bidi Bom Bom” by Selena Quintanilla.
I used to play is so much
My family started calling me “Bidi”.
In my first english classroom
I was marked absent when
I didn’t respond to “Crystal Centeno-Padilla”.
I was Bidi.
A year later
I begged my mom,
With the salt from my tears dehydrating
my baby-soft skin,
To stop calling me Bidi.
Because I was now Crystal.
I’m white-washed.
But It’s not my fault
I was forced to push my identity
Into a musical box.
With the white ballerina spinning above,
Spinning like my head
After the teacher asks me to read aloud,
Fear of my accent slipping out,
Fear of my white mask falling off.
But now the words rumble in my chest,
The words roll of my tongue
Just like I roll my “R’s”.
Boulders rolling through walls.
Crashing down,
My walls.
They’re no longer up.
Ode to Goodbyes
A sunrise turns into a sunset.
Passion and desire can fade,
But so can pain.
What I have come to realize is,
No matter who it is,
Friends, family, or a lover.
Goodbye has always been the most painful thing to say.
But the hardest goodbye was the best.
Like a tumor
Growing inside of me, planning to destroy me
Then removing it and
Putting it in medical waste.
But how could I let go of something that is part of me?
For the feeling, the rush,
Like waking up from sleep paralysis.
A weight lifted from my body,
I could finally breathe.
My lungs no longer filled with intoxicated air.
My body bleed with amnesia.
Saying goodbye,
And forgetting you,
Was my best decision.
And there are those who we don't want to let go of
You don’t want the word to slip out of their mouth, but
in the end, you know it’s for your own good.
My chest is still tattooed with their scripture.
goodbye.
Endings are bittersweet.
This is my ode to the sweet part.
Sundays
(Inspired by Sundays by Amine)
In my case it’s snow,
Every Sunday,
9 a.m.
Pancake breakfast,
Arguing of what to do after.
Rock, paper, scissors.
Church is first.
1 p.m.
Heels on marble,
Crying kids.
Loud preaches that go in through my right ear
And out my left,
With no stain on my brain,
“Padre Nuestro”.
3 p.m.
Crowding around el platero
For rompope bolis
and duros
“Don’t eat so much, te vas a llenar!”
4 p.m
More arguments,
Over where to eat.
But we always compromise.
Some days it was sushi downtown
Or a greasy slice of pizza from Costco
6 p.m
Pitch black drives home
Hot pink matching hat and gloves
Drawing hearts on frosted windows
Renting movies on redbox
Because what’s Netflix?
9 p.m
Anxiety
Shaking hands pulling out notebooks from my backpack
The thought of going back to school
Made my chest feel hollow
Everything has changed now
Nothing's the same,
Except for that feeling
Of my hollow chest.
A Rant - Mass Shootings
Bullet holes
Like constellation stars
Or “Connect the Dots”
The dots tell us
“Do Something.”
For as long as I can remember,
Every practice lock down
My brain told me “Shooter.”
I replied “It’s just practice.”
Once again it would scream
“Shooter.”
My longest relationship has been with mass shootings
It had completely influenced
How I see the world.
Has everyone really forgotten?
Just a couple of month ago we had the largest mass shooting in the U.S.
59 people spilt blood.
People who were just trying to have fun,
live.
But, it’s forgotten.
It filled the news for 8 days,
And now it’s like it never happened
We have become so used to these shooting
It’s like they are
Normal.
I have lost count at how many times
tears have dropped on my cell phone screen
As I read
“Pray For…
Virginia Tech
Aurora
Sandy Hook
Charleston
Planned Parenthood health clinic
Pulse night club
Vegas
And so, so many more.
Where are we safe?
We are not safe at school
Or a club
Or on campus
Or at a movie theater
Or at a grocery store
Or at a concert
I used to feel safest at a concert
Surrounded by people who love this music as much as me
But a couple week ago
I almost had a panic attack at one
Because all my brain was telling me was
“Shooter.”
I might be the only one with these thoughts but
I think we can all agree that mass shooting need to stop
I’m not trying to take away your right
Or go against the constitution
But if all these white male shooters are “mentally ill”,
Then maybe we should stop giving guns to those white males who are “mentally ill”.
There are rules for a reason
You have the right to own a car
and the right to drive it
But you still gotta pass the written exam and the drivers test to get your driver's license.
I shouldn’t have to compare a drivers license
To a gun permit
But the meaning of gun control can’t get through
Your thick skulls
So I have too.
Hopefully my screams and cries
Will make you understand
What the bullet holes,
Like “connect the dots”,
Are trying to tell you.
I am from framed Virgen de Guadalupe photos on the wall,
From tamales and dulce de leche.
I am from a small home.
Where the smell of Fabuloso fills the rooms.
I am from home-grown peppers,
That get tossed into every dish.
My carved name,
on the quaking aspen bark in my front yard.
I am from piñata birthday parties and intercambios navideños.
From Centeno and Padilla.
From motorcycle rides and green eyes.
I’m from “Angel de mi guarda, de mi dulce compania”
And “No me desampares, ni de noche, ni de dia.”
I’m from “Bidi Bidi Bon Bon” by Selena Quintanilla,
I’m from spicy and feisty.
I’m from Jalisco,
From missing thumbs
And spilling caldo de camaron.
I’m from dancing horses
and Quinceañera dresses.
From dirt roads.
From agua de rosa soaked skin
That glows.
I’m from “Corelle!”
And “Esperate!”
It’s never enough time.
Necesitaba más tiempo contigo.
Pero nunca sera demasiado tiempo.
I’m from “Speak English, you’re in America.”
And from “Callate pinche gringo.”
I am from te quiero
And te amo.
Not from I love you.
Memory
My head jumps off the musty pillow, and a horrid stench fills my nose. My head quickly spins to look around, gushes of cold air hitting my cheeks. I shiver. The room is dark, and small. There is a toilet and a tiny sink in a corner, which were once probably white. In front of me are bars, two men walk by, laughing. Security guards or policemen, I don’t know. My breath becomes shaky and my heart feels heavy. My brain scatters to find out what is going on. My eyes continue to rapidly look around the darkroom and my hands clench the old and moist mattress beneath me, while flashes of my life run through my head. “No.. no, no, no no no.” My eyes clench shut. My mind swims in memories of my life. From my 5th birthday party to when I graduated high school. My eyes fly open again and I realized that I am in a jail cell. My hand began to shake and my chest feels tight. My breath goes heavy and I begin to cry. I sob out, tears sneaking into my mouth, the salt melting into my taste buds. Slowly more memories start coming to me. My name, my age, what I do for a living. My life seemed perfect, so what was I doing here. I clench my eyes once more, trying to pull in more memories. Darkness was all I could remember. Nothing came to me. A chilling scream swims into my ear canal, ramming into my ear drums. I groaned as the screaming would not stop. I stopped to think if maybe I was the one screaming. No, it’s not me. The screaming continued before it cried out “I don’t belong here.”
I ran my fingertips on my lips, the ridges of my fingerprints rubbing on the dry, dead skin. I once again made sure that I wasn’t the one screaming. I take a deep breath before throwing my legs off the bed. The bed creaks and the sound makes me wince. I put all my weight on my two weak legs. I was surprised that they didn’t snap. I could feel the gravel on the floor sneak in between my toes, through my thin socks. I began to wonder about how long I have been here, if I was fed, hydrated. Or not. Slowly, I walk towards the bars. I wipe away tears with my forearm before wrapping my bony fingers around two cold, rough bars. I close my eyes and carefully lay my forehead on the bars as well, as I had no strength to hold it up. I cleared my throat and licked my lips with salty saliva, which was the only thing I had to hydrate. I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
“Hello?” I was finally able to croak out. It was quiet, barely a sound. I pray someone is there to listen to me, and you’ll never catch me praying.
“Hey.” I voice, as frail and rough as mine spoke a bit after my “hello”.
I didn’t know what to say after. I had questions, but I didn’t know what they were. I just wanted to know why I was here, but that was a question that only I could answer.
My knees go weak and I slowly went down. I fall on my knees. I bite my lip to keep me from sobbing out again. The iron taste swimmed with my taste buds. My dry lips were crumbling apart.
“You’re probably wondering why you’re here?” The same frail voice replies, like an answer to my prayers. My voice gets stuck in my throat again, and all I could let out was a loud, painful sob.
“Oh no, we’ve got another crier!” Another voice, a much stronger, deeper voice giggled out. Her comment was followed with chuckles.
I had never been this confused in my life. I run my fingers through my hair, and I feel strands pluck out of my scalp.
“What the hell is going on?” I cried out.
No one replied to me. I continued letting tears marathon down my face. This feeling of lostness was going to make me go insane.
“So who’s gonna tell her?” The same loud voice chuckled out. “Not it.”
“No one knows why we’re here.” A new voice informed me.
My eyebrows furrowed together, and I shook my head, still lost.
“What do you mean?” I pushed the words up and out of my throat, like alphabet letter puke.
A new memory starts playing in my head. I was seated on a metal chair, which was not comfortable at all. Leather straps were wrapped around my wrists and the chair handles. People were all around me, speaking, but I could not understand their words. They began connecting me to something, cold sticky things were put on my forehead, and I shivered as they made contact with my skin. I started shaking, and I pulled as hard as I could, trying to free myself from the leather straps.
I gasped, and I was back in the horrid cell. My chest burns, like going up for fresh air after almost drowning. I could not remember what I did, I could not remember what I was in here for. I suddenly remembered why I could not remember. My memory was extracted.
A new device for memory extracting was being used on criminals to find out if or if they did not commit the crime. After the memory is extracted, they cannot remember it. This means there's perfect judgment in incarceration, but no one in jail knows what they did.
For the rest of my life, I will be here. Not ever knowing why, what I did to deserve to be here. I stopped crying, like an emotion switch switched off inside of me. I stood up, and dragged my feet on the concrete floor before dropping on the musty mattress. I closed my eyes, drifting away to sleep, thinking about how I was going to go insane in here.
A shock suddenly goes through my body, an alarm beeps, the blaring noise rumbling in my chest. I’m back in my room, and it’s time to get ready for work.
A Normal Job
The cars roar as they fly past their car. They both sit in silence, only the pat of an anxious leg bouncing up and down fills the car. The man in the passenger's seat runs his hand on his head, the scruff of hair scratching the palm of his hand.
“What does he look like?” He asks the women in the driver's seat.
“I don’t know, he’s suppose to be wearing a black hoodie.” She replies before looking out her window.
“How do you not know what he looks like? What if we get the wrong guy?” He speaks in a concerned tone.
She rolls her eyes. “Chill out, I got it. I’ll tell you when I see him.”
He sighs, closing his eyes and throwing his head back against the seat. He continues bouncing his leg.
“You nervous?”
He scoffs, “Are you kidding me?”
She shrugs.
“Of course I’m nervous.”
“Why?” Her voice is ignorant.
“What do you mean “why”?” His voice grow louder. She doesn’t flinch. “Why am I nervous? I’m nervous because I have never killed a human before. Sorry I don’t do this often!” Sarcasm fills his voice.
“Listen, no one is forcing you to do this. If you want out, get out of the car, that simple.” She chuckles out. “This is what you asked for...” Her voice still uninterested.
“No, no, I never asked for this-”
“You wanted my help, I’m helping you.”
His mouth opens, but no words come out.
After a moment of silence, he says, “Look, I’m sorry.” He looks out the window, and contemplates about what he is about to do, the decisions he is making. Flashback of how he got in this situation run a marathon in his mind.
“My girlfriend is pregnant.” He blurts out, spinning his head to look at her, She doesn’t give a response.
“I always told myself that I was going to be the best father, the most supportive, you know?” He pauses, chuckles, then sighs. “But how am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to tell my kid to not steal toys from other kids when I used to steal for a living? Or how am I supposed to tell him not to do drugs when I’ve done more drugs then it’ll even get it’s hands on?” He stops to catch his breath, which is shaky. “And I sell them. How do I live with being a hypocrite to my own child? How do I let it believe that I am not who it thinks I am? That I’m not who they should look up to?”
Silence. He looks up at the roof of the car, while she intentively stares out the window. He sighs again.
“That’s part of being a parent. Keep up with the lie and do everything in your power so that they don’t make the same damn mistakes you did.” She states, bluntly, while looking at her nails.
He shakes his head, sighing again. His dry arms go up to his face, he rubs his eyes, trying to wake himself from what he wishes was a bad dream. “I don’t know how I got here.”
“Stop complaining.”
“This is the last time.”
“What?”
“This is the last time I’m working with you.”
She raises her eyebrows, and slowly turns her head to look at him.
“I can’t do this anymore…” He looks at her in her eyes, before he quickly looks away.
“Maybe if I try hard enough, get a nine-to-five, I can live a normal life. I can give my kid a normal life. A life where his dad isn’t a criminal. I want to start over.”
She laughs.
“What?” Aggressiveness fills his voice.
She shakes her head while grinning.
“You think you can just drop this? With just some words you’re off the hook?”
“No, I’ll finish this, I’ll do this, but after this.. it’s over.. I’m done.” He whispers out, his voice cracking.
“That’s not how this works.”
He furrows his eyebrows, confused. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t just quit. He won’t let you. Last person who wanted to quit, I had to shoot him in the face before he had the chance to.” She casually states, before pulling out her pistol and pointing it at him, right between his eyebrows. She grins at him.
Her words echo in his head, and it takes him a while to process them. After he does, his blood goes cold, forming icicles in his veins. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to move. His lungs feel tight, and his breaths become heavy. He swallows his own saliva to hydrate his dry throat. With no idea of what to do now, he felt that being shot in the face wasn’t such a bad thing.
“There.” she says.
He looks out her window and sees a man in a black hoodie walking away from a car across the street. She slams her gun on his chest. The thump vibrates through his body.
“It’s all you.” She gives him a supportive smile. “This is your first, not your last.”
A Rising Rebel
Most people would have been proud, most people would not be feeling this emptiness in their chest when looking at the 5 honors classes on their seventh grade school schedule. 4th period was the worst, honors U.S history. As I walked in, all I saw was long blond hair, blue eyes and hot pink braces. I had short brunette hair, my mexican dads dark brown eyes, and my family could not afford braces. Those girls all sat together, they were always giggling, they were always happy. I walked into the class and sat towards the back, since I didn’t know anyone. I did not belong there, I always felt out of place. The words I dreaded the most in those classes were “Turn and talk to a partner.”
My school was diverse, but it was very segregated. For starters, my school separated us by gender. Then, walking into the lunchroom, I remember this image vividly. The white girls would sit in the middle lunch table, the black girls on the lunch table to the right and the hispanic girls to the left. In 6th grade, I never knew where to sit, my skin was too pale for the hispanic girls, but the hair on my arms was too thick and dark for the white girls. I never felt in place, I was the anomaly. It got to the point where I would do anything to not have to go to school. My grades dropped and I blamed it on the fact that I couldn’t handle all the honors classes, even though I knew the real problem. Eventually, I found my place in the those honors classes and in the lunchroom. It was the old beaten down lunch table in the corner with the other girls of color in my honors classes. We were the only table with five girl who had completely different skin tones and accents sitting together. I began going to school and focusing on my honors classes, which was a lot easier now with friends.
Coming to Denver South High School, I loved that it was such a diverse school, it was extremely beautiful for me. But the blond hair still stood out in my AP classes. I felt like my problem had been solved when I found my friends, but it was not. My Junior year, a club called Rising Rebels was formed. Rising Rebels is together to try to rise the number of students of color in honors and AP classes. Rising Rebels was the key to solving the problem. My best friend from middle school and I joined it, and for our senior year, South achieved the goal that they wanted to meet for the number of students of color in the honors and AP classes. We are not 100% there, but it’s a giant step forward, and slowly we will allow people of color to not be scared of what they can do and achieve, with the support of Rising Rebels. We are allowed to walk into a class and feel happy to be there, with confidence that we will achieve. Hopefully soon, no person will be scared of challenging themselves because they think they don’t have the support.
I wouldn’t even call the fact that I failed my seventh grade honors U.S history class a setback or a failure. It was a lesson which opened up my eyes about the division in our schools and I’m so glad that I don’t see it as a defeat, now. Instead, I found a solution and I am now so proud be part of the change towards more support of in AP and honors classes.
Myself
No one can love me as much as me.
A world, previously unseen, unlocked.
I had to learn how to be carefree,
negative thoughts were finally blocked.
I’m the one who knows myself better
than anyone else, I can trust me.
I believe that trust can grow greater.
only myself, don’t need nobody.
Won’t allow my watercolor world,
turn to a distressing shade of grey.
No longer scared, not hiding or furled.
The old me is gone, let her decay.
Finally free. I have found myself.
What about you, have you found yourself?
“Curfew”: Not just a red telephone, but a literal lifeline
From surreal and dreamy, to dark and grubby, in just nineteen minutes I experienced emotions all up and down the spectrum. Scenes shot beautifully by cinematographer Daniel Katz, voices and facial expression performed perfectly by the actors amplified those feelings. As well as allowing the audience to connect to characters through witty dialogue. I enjoyed “Curfew”, I enjoyed it so much I almost cried when I found out they had turned it into a full length movie, named “Before I Disappear”. But, today I will be reviewing “Curfew”.
“Curfew” is written, directed and features Shawn Christensen. His character is Richie, a man who is struggling with his current life, and doesn’t see much reason to go on, until he receives a call from from his sister, Maggie (Kim Allen), who he had lost contact with. She desperately begs him to watch her daughter, Sophia (Fatima Ptacek). Richie doesn’t say anything as she frantically begs him.
"And you know that you are my last choice on earth to ask to be responsible for anything… I know you're not doing anything important..."
In the middle of a suicide attempt, he weakly responds after a while with a weak: “Okay.” For some reason, I laughed, even though I knew I should not have.
Then we are introduced to Sophia, as Richie picks her up from her apartment. She is a very smart-mouthed, yet an extremely hilarious and lovable little girl.
“Well, my name is Richard, and I am… your uncle…” says Richie.
Sophia replies with: “I don’t care.”
Then the story continues with beautiful shots through New York City. You witness Richie and Sophia's personalities crash and then combine through dancing in bowling allies and stick-figure flipbooks (watch the short film so you understand. C’mon, it’s only nineteen minutes.)
The reasons I fell in love with the film is the cinematography, the showcasing of the characters, and how attached you become to them. The cinematography really captures the beauty of New York City. Scenes like when they are walking at night, surrounded by neon lights and the colors reflecting off their skin, or even the extremely simple scene of them on a subway. In just nineteen minutes, it captures so much of the city. I don’t even want to get started on the acting because all I can say is: it is amazing. Even just how Shawn Christensen delivers his “Okay.” You can sense the pain he is in, but yet how the call gives him more life, almost relief. You can see how his eyes light up and see his mental process all through facial expression and one word. Lastly, I personally fell in love with both Richie and Sophia. They both were broken when they first met, Sophia was a little girl confused with what was going on with her mom, and Richie just simply felt lost in the world, but they both seemed to help each other since they couldn't help themselves. Their help wasn’t obvious, but as the audience, you could feel it, and that really made me fall in love with them. I don’t want to talk too much about detail, because I don’t want to spoil it since I really recommend watching it.
My rating for “Curfew” directed by Shawn Christensen, featuring Shawn Christensen, Fatima Ptacek, and Kim Allen, is a …. 99%! I don’t want to say 100% because what if there is a better movie out there, I need to save my 100% for it
White-Washed
(SLAM POETRY IS MEANT TO BE HEARD, NOT READ)
“Wait, you speak spanish?”
Yes, I speak spanish.
“So, you’re, like, Mexican?”
Yes, I’m Mexican
“But, you don’t look Mexican?”
So, what exactly does a Mexican look like?
I would finally ask.
Brown skin, big belly, poncho and sombrero?
Hyper-sexualized, curves and red lips?
I’m sorry I don’t fit the mold that you made,
Out of paper mache,
For me.
“You’re white-washed.”
I’m white-washed.
I used to think I was blessed for getting my mother's white skin
Innocent. But,
I used to pluck away the thick, dark eyebrows
That were copied from my Mexican dads’
And pasted on my face.
I used to shave the dark hair away from my arms.
I used to scrub away my culture,
With a loofa and jabon,
Like dirt on my skin.
-
My favorite song when I was 5 was
“Bidi Bidi Bom Bom” by Selena Quintanilla.
I used to play is so much
My family started calling me “Bidi”.
In my first english classroom
I was marked absent when
I didn’t respond to “Crystal Centeno-Padilla”.
I was Bidi.
A year later
I begged my mom,
With the salt from my tears dehydrating
my baby-soft skin,
To stop calling me Bidi.
Because I was now Crystal.
I’m white-washed.
But It’s not my fault
I was forced to push my identity
Into a musical box.
With the white ballerina spinning above,
Spinning like my head
After the teacher asks me to read aloud,
Fear of my accent slipping out,
Fear of my white mask falling off.
But now the words rumble in my chest,
The words roll of my tongue
Just like I roll my “R’s”.
Boulders rolling through walls.
Crashing down,
My walls.
They’re no longer up.
Ode to Goodbyes
A sunrise turns into a sunset.
Passion and desire can fade,
But so can pain.
What I have come to realize is,
No matter who it is,
Friends, family, or a lover.
Goodbye has always been the most painful thing to say.
But the hardest goodbye was the best.
Like a tumor
Growing inside of me, planning to destroy me
Then removing it and
Putting it in medical waste.
But how could I let go of something that is part of me?
For the feeling, the rush,
Like waking up from sleep paralysis.
A weight lifted from my body,
I could finally breathe.
My lungs no longer filled with intoxicated air.
My body bleed with amnesia.
Saying goodbye,
And forgetting you,
Was my best decision.
And there are those who we don't want to let go of
You don’t want the word to slip out of their mouth, but
in the end, you know it’s for your own good.
My chest is still tattooed with their scripture.
goodbye.
Endings are bittersweet.
This is my ode to the sweet part.
Sundays
(Inspired by Sundays by Amine)
In my case it’s snow,
Every Sunday,
9 a.m.
Pancake breakfast,
Arguing of what to do after.
Rock, paper, scissors.
Church is first.
1 p.m.
Heels on marble,
Crying kids.
Loud preaches that go in through my right ear
And out my left,
With no stain on my brain,
“Padre Nuestro”.
3 p.m.
Crowding around el platero
For rompope bolis
and duros
“Don’t eat so much, te vas a llenar!”
4 p.m
More arguments,
Over where to eat.
But we always compromise.
Some days it was sushi downtown
Or a greasy slice of pizza from Costco
6 p.m
Pitch black drives home
Hot pink matching hat and gloves
Drawing hearts on frosted windows
Renting movies on redbox
Because what’s Netflix?
9 p.m
Anxiety
Shaking hands pulling out notebooks from my backpack
The thought of going back to school
Made my chest feel hollow
Everything has changed now
Nothing's the same,
Except for that feeling
Of my hollow chest.
A Rant - Mass Shootings
Bullet holes
Like constellation stars
Or “Connect the Dots”
The dots tell us
“Do Something.”
For as long as I can remember,
Every practice lock down
My brain told me “Shooter.”
I replied “It’s just practice.”
Once again it would scream
“Shooter.”
My longest relationship has been with mass shootings
It had completely influenced
How I see the world.
Has everyone really forgotten?
Just a couple of month ago we had the largest mass shooting in the U.S.
59 people spilt blood.
People who were just trying to have fun,
live.
But, it’s forgotten.
It filled the news for 8 days,
And now it’s like it never happened
We have become so used to these shooting
It’s like they are
Normal.
I have lost count at how many times
tears have dropped on my cell phone screen
As I read
“Pray For…
Virginia Tech
Aurora
Sandy Hook
Charleston
Planned Parenthood health clinic
Pulse night club
Vegas
And so, so many more.
Where are we safe?
We are not safe at school
Or a club
Or on campus
Or at a movie theater
Or at a grocery store
Or at a concert
I used to feel safest at a concert
Surrounded by people who love this music as much as me
But a couple week ago
I almost had a panic attack at one
Because all my brain was telling me was
“Shooter.”
I might be the only one with these thoughts but
I think we can all agree that mass shooting need to stop
I’m not trying to take away your right
Or go against the constitution
But if all these white male shooters are “mentally ill”,
Then maybe we should stop giving guns to those white males who are “mentally ill”.
There are rules for a reason
You have the right to own a car
and the right to drive it
But you still gotta pass the written exam and the drivers test to get your driver's license.
I shouldn’t have to compare a drivers license
To a gun permit
But the meaning of gun control can’t get through
Your thick skulls
So I have too.
Hopefully my screams and cries
Will make you understand
What the bullet holes,
Like “connect the dots”,
Are trying to tell you.