Tag: World Heritage Collection

Smoke Break

On the downtown side of Houston sits a strip of outlets ready for all economic walks of life. Center stage down this strip is Coppola’s; an Italian restaurant that prides itself on elegance, a proper wait staff, and award winning cuisines. Next door is Mookie’s; a hole in the wall pizza joint with the cheapest, greasiest pizza that the bar flies ever mulled over. From the back door of each of these establishments every day after nine at night, Anthony would come from Coppola’s and Ryan would come from Mookie’s, and together they would indulge in their one-time-a-night smoke break.

“Shit show in there tonight.” Ryan said, still wearing his sauce covered apron, and removing his rubber gloves, wrapping one glove in the excess of the other, then launching them into the dumpster before fishing his back pocket for a smoke.

“Hasn’t been so bad for me,” Anthony replied, “I just got a family of five. Fresh out of the new star wars and won’t shut up about it.” He slid a hand through his combed hair, and carefully leaned against the wall so not to wrinkle his dress shirt, or scuff his slacks.

“Those movies are getting worse and worse if you ask me.” Ryan took off his hat and fiddled with his flat hair before securing it under cover again. “Honestly they’ve all been kind of shit after Empire.”

“Empire?” Anthony scoffed, “Was Revenge of the Sith just a waste of cinema to you?”

Ryan chuckled, “Revenge of the Sith plays into what audiences want to see, it feels fun but it follows a formula. You spend the entire film waiting for what you now is going to happen,

it plays off your knowledge of the other films and keeps pace by reminding you that the world you love will be here by the films end, almost solidifying that this is not the world you love.”

“No, no- no, I appreciate your idea and I believe that there is a point, but something acting as a prequel is required to serve the purpose of leading us to the familiar destination that we love. The film adds new characters, shifts tones from trilogies, and even manages to surprise an obsessive audience that should recognize every detail.”

Ryan shifted his weight and took a drag of his cigarette, ash fumbling on to his apron, “Okay- but Empire changed the course of film as an art, bringing us editing and designs that we hadn’t ever seen before. Sith just uses those same story telling techniques to craft another good Star Wars film.

Anthony straightened his posture and smiled wildly, making carful practice of not allowing ash or ember to ruin his clothing, “So you do think Sith is a good film?”

Ryan presses a tongue to his cheek and holds back a laugh, “Yeah yeah, whatever. They’re both good. I gotta head back in, I’ll see you at home. Star wars marathon tonight?”

“Sounds much needed.” Anthony bogarted his smoke and adjusted his clothing once more, “I’ll see you later, try and hurry up- I’m not trying to wait another hour”

“Later man. Hey! make sure to have some fun in there! Enjoy the family of five!” The two returned to work after a brief exchange of middle fingers.

Author Bio: Cody Hopper is a student at CSUSM, when he isn’t doing improv, or flippin’ za, he can be found in the dark corners of his room, writing the next story of horror and torment that crosses his mindscape. He loves violent stories, comic books, movies, coffee, and buffalo wings– not in this order.

A Walk in the Past

I remember the day all too well, though my heart begs me to forget it. The memories are hard to bear, the moment hard to look back upon. It’s a Saturday. A cool, brisk Saturday, weighted with the promise of winter.

I am biking, but my head is soaring. I am flying through the trees, dancing with the changing leaves. The world is painted with the endless possibilities it promises. I am free. As I glide through the November air, the idea plants itself in my brain and begins to grow, begins to develop roots and spread and grow, begins to flower and flourish and grow. I know where I have to go. I have no choice; the idea seizes my mind and clouds my vision. My brain is no longer engaged in navigating; my feet turn the pedals, my hands steer the bike, as if someone else is controlling me. I am a marionette, unsure of the plans of my puppeteer. I am surprised when my bike turns down the street, surprised that I am able to find it so easily. I suppose I thought the years had wiped my memory clear, but they must’ve missed a spot. I decide to fix that later, erase it from my head as though it was never there. After all, it hurts to let go, but it kills to hold on.

My bike screeches to a halt, tires spinning in a leaf pile. Brown and orange and yellow colors surround me, and I look in wonder at the blizzard of fall. The leaves settle, and time seems to freeze. The street is a portrait; no, it’s a still life, hanging in silence. The houses gaze down at the empty street, waiting, watching, observing. They seem closer together than I remember, forming one unbreakable defense line. I am not welcome here.

A force within me pulls the back of my throat deep into my stomach, and I look down. I can’t gaze at the end of the street. I can’t. I can’t search for the stucco house with the maple tree and the little angel statue and the front door with squeaky hinges. This is a mistake, I know this now. I should not have come here. I was once welcome here, but all good things are lost with time. I have lost this place.

My heart is beating faster than it should, so I sit on the sidewalk and look at my Converse. The wind has picked up a little, or maybe I’m imagining it, or maybe I’m crazy. I certainly feel crazy, because I can’t seem to grasp that this is only a place. Only a street, only a park, only a pond. To me, it’s all a home. No. It was a home, but it is no more. Now, it’s a painful reminder of how things used to be. It’s only a place, I remind myself as I stand up. It’s clear to me that I have to do this, for myself. I’ll never be at peace until I let it go.

Locking my bike to the nearest tree, I walk hesitantly to the three white posts guarding the entrance to the greenbelt. They come up to my waist, but I remember a time when my hands couldn’t reach their rounded tops, no matter how hard I stretched.

A child rides past me on a tricycle, turning sharply between the posts, no reason to stop and think about them. I look with envy as the boy weaves back and forth on the path, not afraid of anything. He belongs in the park. He belongs here. I know that once, like him, the park was welcoming of me. My access seems to be denied now. My fingers run along the edge of the posts and I am painfully aware that I have been standing here for too long. I can turn back or go ahead, but I can’t linger any more. I want to cry but the tears won’t come.

My feet finally make the decision. I take a step, and then another. Ahead of me, in the middle of the path, is a fountain surrounded by tulips. Someone has let the flowers die, just like I’ve let my memories of this park fade away. They look so out of place in the cheery park.

Looking down at my black sweater and ripped jeans, I realize that I stand out just as much as

the flowers. My eyes flicker to the ground and I quickly stumble away, nearly taking out a happy couple and their dog.

Unsettled, like the autumn leaves that flutter around my feet, I float down the path. My body feels unattached to my surroundings, though everywhere I look stirs up new memories. Look there, see, that’s the tree I crashed into when I first learned to bike! And there, to the left of the light pole, that’s where I successfully tied my shoe for the first time. Reminiscing brings a slight smile on my face, and for a moment I take a walk in the past. I am six again, careless again, happy again. I am young and unafraid, innocent to the pain that’s coming my way.

I’m sprinting down the long dock, faster, faster, wind whipping through my hair. My arms are outstretched, palms open. Every time a board squeaks beneath my feet, I squint and make a wish, just like I did when I was younger. I wish this was part of my life now. I wish we had never moved. I wish my parents had never gotten –

My eyes jerk open, interrupting my inner dialogue, but it’s too late. The thought has plagued my mind, and the giddiness is gone quicker than the last days of summer. I trip on a wayward piece of wood and fall onto a bench. Embarrassment creeps into my neck and I shrink back into the dock. If I could only become part of the wood, disappear from this park and avoid these bittersweet memories. I close my eyes, but no matter how hard I try to vanish, I’m still sitting there when I open them.

A sudden gust of wind tangos with the trees, and I rise shakily, letting it push me away from the dock. I feel numb, and I dig my nails into my palm to gain some sense of feeling. My hand seems frozen, I can’t feel my fingertips. I push harder and harder into my flesh, wondering if I’ll eventually expose the hollowness of my insides. What am I doing here? I wonder again.

When did it get to be this hard?

I pay no attention to the playground as I pass it; maybe I would stop if there weren’t happy children running and playing, shrieking with joy and darting between the trees. Watching them is too hard, too melancholy. Too unbearable. Childhood is, to me, but a dream; I wish to remember it, to relive it, but I can hardly recall its sparkle.

I disappear into my thoughts, wrapping them like a blanket around me. I need all the protection I can get against the outside world. Every step matches my heartbeat, and I fall into a familiar rhythm. My heartbeat once pounded in the soil beneath my feet; it once tolled like a bell over the park, matched with the slap of my bare feet as I ran through the gravel paths and climbed the trees. My heartbeat was once part of the park, and the house was once my heart.

The house. I am standing in front of it now and I don’t remember leaving the park or walking down the street.

The house, I remember too well. Feelings swirl within me, my own personal storm, and I clutch my sweater. The feeling of illness sweeps over me again, and I cover my mouth. Hadn’t there been a tree there? And the hose – once green, now a clumsy brick red. Still, there’s no denying that this is the house of my past.

My instinct tells me to run up the driveway to the front door, and I do. Waves of recognition, one after the other, pound me like waves carve the beach during an earthquake. Perhaps that is what’s happening, maybe I’m caught in an earthquake. The ground beneath me seems as though it’s shaking. My fingers tremble. The smell of the lavender bushes floods my brain with scene after scene from my childhood, memories long forgotten. I can’t blame tectonic activity; no, my instability is my own fault. I’m facing my emotions after years of swallowing them, and I can clearly see that I’ve damaged myself worse than I’d ever believed I could.

My hand reaches out for the doorbell, ready to hear the familiar tune of the Westminster

chimes, ready to walk into my home and sleep in my room with the bumblebee wallpaper and the mirrored closet and the large windows. I want to catch pill bugs and pick rocks out of the garden and hide among the evergreens. But no, I remind myself. I pull my hand away sharply and back up, burning with shame. Dashing to the curb across the street, I curl in a ball and finally the tears come. They run down my face, great underground rivers seeing the light for the first time in six years.

When I lived here, I didn’t know why leaves change colors and fall away from their homes. I didn’t know that people can be so unhappy, they stop believing in family. I didn’t know anything about the world, and truthfully, I still don’t. But I do know that this place is no longer a part of my life.

Sitting up, I brush the tears off my face and turn away from the place I once called home. When I reach my bike, I unlock it. The bike lock falls to the ground and I don’t even pick it up. I am no longer tied to this place.

I point my bike in the right direction and take off, not even looking back. I leave in search of new places where I will once again feel at home. The past is at my back, and ahead of me, I see only my future.

Author Bio: Kali Mitchell-Silbaugh (she/her/hers) is a third year literature/writing major at the University of California, San Diego. She absolutely loves to write, and is particularly interested in exploring experimental genres and playwriting. In addition to writing, she also enjoys tutoring writing students, singing with her acapella group, and playing the drums.

The Overzealots

I always hated church when I was growing up. Yet, I spent about eighty percent of my childhood at a church. I thought it was a good time but the majority of the time it just flat out sucked. Everyone there wasn’t really about the message. It was more of a social gathering to see who was the better ‘Christian’ than the other. Before we go any further, I want my reader to understand, this isn’t a piece about the bashing of church-going Christians. If you’re a churchgoer do not be turned off by my allegations. Majority of churchgoers are just trying to go and have a place to feel accepted and to genuinely congregate with their community. I’m just asking you to hear me out for a bit longer because I promise there is a meaning to all of this. Church is a good place to raise a family and become acquainted with some really genuine people, at least that’s what everyone else tells me.

I was forced to go every Sunday for main service, Wednesday for youth groups, and Saturday to help prepare for Sunday. My mom and stepdad were heavily involved with our little home church Trinity Lutheran located in the hell hole of city Hemet, California. My mom acted as theVolunteer Coordinator for several years and she loved it. Mom is a caring woman who just wanted to help out and do the Lord’s work for her church. She’d be the one who people would trust in by telling them confidential aspects of their lives and the one people would trust with their children because she ran an independent daycare from our home for a few years after she met my stepdad, Ed.

Don’t get me wrong, we had some great times at that church whether it was all the fall festivals, chili cookoffs, Christmas festivals, Rally Picnics, or cooking for the homeless. I was never not involved in the church events or else my Mom would reprimand me until my ears fell off. Also, she ran all of the events at the church, so it would’ve looked pathetic if her heathen son didn’t attend and help out. So, I was there for my mom at all times even if I was being a little poopy butt about it. Those were the times that taught me the important life lessons; not the Bible verses we had to recite and all the boring hymns we had to sing.

Then there were the bunk times where church served as a proving ground for whoever’s crucifix hung heavier around their neck. Sunday school was a joke because it was basically a teenage girl or guy who would have cared less whether or not that God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son. I don’t remember anything from Sunday School that held significant merit in my life other than that it wasn’t anything close to a school. Sunday School felt more like a glorified IKEA daycare where we wouldn’t do anything but sit there and stare at each other essentially. It was more of a time to gossip about other people’s families and how ‘unchristian’ they were because so-and-so got to watch that R-rated movie or how so-and-so was a sinner because they said ‘crap’ or ‘hell’. I never understood why the majority of the people at church were so judgmental and thought they served a higher purpose as though they were God’s right hand pounding down the gavel of judgement. It doesn’t end with the kids; the adults were just as contradictory.

After congregation we’d all meet outside of the front of the church where everyone would gather in their cliques. A circle of fashionable worshippers over here, a circle over there. This is where all of them, my family as well, would decide where they were going to eat for their Sunday feasts. These talks would also include another hour-long discussion of whether or not they’re living their lives righteous enough or if they should be more faithful to their lord and savior because they’ve been having one too many glasses of wine before bedtime. Mundane, simple shit that didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of being a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ person.

I never had a good experience with people at church. Any church for that matter. All the kids would bully me, make fun of me, tell me I’m ‘too radical’ and weird. My jokes went over everyone’s head, my sense of style was like a little skater kid that didn’t fit in anywhere, and above all I was a bastard child. All the adults would complain to my parents about how I’m this ‘wild child’ and that I don’t listen to people when they tell me to do things. Although this might have been true it was never out of spite or because I was this delinquent everyone painted me out to be it was simply because I could see right these people and their intentions. They weren’t looking out for me; they were trying to use their powers as adults as they tend to do by telling me how and who to be, but I never could fall for it. I tried but it never felt genuine. I wasn’t some evil little devil child that needed to be changed and molded into something I’d never be! Ain’t nobody perfect! I could never fit that perfect image of what a ‘child of God’ was supposed to be. People at church loved to live their lives with this notion of ‘perfect image’ which is something that my family and I could never really live up too because we were real people. Real isn’t perfect because perfect isn’t real.

All of this blasphemy had me confused. I thought that this was a place of community and positivity, yet, being so involved with the church and seeing what happens behind the scenes of such secular activities. Even the pastor of our church made my Mom cry one time because he thought that she was planting ‘negative thoughts’ into people’s minds at the church making them leave to other churches. This obviously wasn’t the case; my Mom was more a shepherd to the people of Trinity Lutheran than he was. People simply just wanted to get the heck outta dodge and go to a more healthy and positive church.

Eventually we left the Trinity and tried to find a new home church because we were all getting sick of the overzealous repercussions. Sadly, we never found one we could truly call home. We would attend church every now and then for the annual Christmas service or if my grandmother Gigi wanted us to go with but whenever we’d enter those hallowed halls it never felt the same. They reeked of false prophets and empty messages as we sat in the cathedral of misguided sheep. My Mom always had a way of making light in every situation though. It was during the time we were serving food to the homeless in the community center at the church. We were all smiling, the homeless men, children, and women were too as we served them a warm dinner. I watched each of them pass down the line grabbing a plate and showing their gratitude and my Mom walks up behind me and says, “This is what it’s all about Jim. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

It’s not about going to church every Sunday. It’s not about donating money. It’s not about sitting around talking shit on everyone and how they aren’t a ‘rightful Christian’ because of X, Y, and Z reasons. It isn’t about molding people into who you want them to be. It’s not about being judgmental. It’s all about being a real, genuine, and loving person. I believe that’s what God would want his followers to be. That advice from Mom is something I’ve held close to my heart ever since and it has never led me astray. I’m a man of faith and I walk on my own road of salvation. I’ve never needed a church to tell me how to be a good person because in all reality, you can’t teach heart.

Author Bio: James Mudrak is an aspiring artist, writer, and creator graduating this winter with a BA of Arts in Literature in Writing Studies. He enjoys spending his alone time creating and working on his brand Unify Collective and his other various creative endeavors. To find out more about James, we encourage you to visit his website: unifycollective.com or follow him on Twitter and Instagram @jamezmudrak.

An Odd Shade of Periwinkle

I was standing four feet tall in a nest of wanna-be Americans when my luggage rolled onto the carousel, its top half torn to shreds. The bag was an odd shade of periwinkle and smelled somewhat like asphalt after a storm. It had been gifted to me by my Mutti because she thought we ought to travel in style.

But there was nothing stylish about it now.

The airport was small and muggy and I was starting to get claustrophobic when Mutti signaled for the nearest employee. Her long, brown ponytail bobbed as she waved a hand. I doubted her outstretched arm would be seen from the clump we stood in, but Mutti stood on her tippy toes and gave a shout.

“Mama, let’s just go,” I said. From the sliver of moonlight that peered through the windows on our left, I knew it was late. Papa would be waiting for us at the house.

“We just bought your bag, Mila,” Mutti said. “Now it’s ruined.” “But I’m tired and hungry.”

Mutti sighed, taking my sweaty palms in hers. “Your father will not be pleased if we come home like this.”

I parted my lips to say otherwise, but Mutti held up a finger. Conversation over.

Her heels made an eerie clicking noise as she walked across the tiles, headed straight for a young lady standing behind a podium-like desk. The lady offered Mutti a smile, revealing a thick gap between her front teeth. I kept my own mouth closed.

“Excuse me, ma’am, our luggage has been carelessly handled and is ruined,” Mutti said. The lady’s smile faded. She drummed two fingers against her podium as if in thought. “Form of identification?” the lady said.

Mutti nodded, reaching into her bright blue purse for a wad of papers. She handed the lady our passports along with a thicker stack of letters that I had never seen.

“Business in the United States?” the lady asked.

I watched Mutti swallow her impatience and straighten her back before speaking again. I didn’t know why my heart began racing and my eyes were starting to water. If only Papa was here to see this. Surely he’d agree the bag wasn’t worth it.

But Mutti did not stand down. “We’ve just moved here.” “This is a temporary visa,” the lady said.

“Yes, we are in the process of getting a business visa with my husband’s work.” “This–” the lady held up the stack of papers. “Is not a business visa.”

“I know, but–”

“I’ll have to call for backup, ma’am.”

I didn’t know what that meant, and I would not wait to find out. “Let’s go, Mama,” I said.

The lady mumbled something into a walkie talkie as Mutti swatted my hand away. I glanced over to my luggage still on the ground and sighed. All this for a periwinkle bag. It wasn’t that I didn’t love it, but I could get another.

I wasn’t sure we could get another visa if those papers didn’t find their way back to Mutti’s purse.

The airport began to empty as more and more families swept through the large set of doors. When they opened, a breeze rushed inside, brustling my lilac skirt. Even my fair skin was starting to turn a ruby-red from the winter air. I was now tired, hungry, and a little bit cold. And my luggage was not avenged!

“Ma’am, we will have to confiscate that bag,” the lady said after a set of muffled voices spoke through her walkie talkie.

“Excuse me?” Mutti replied.

“We can’t verify when the damages occurred so we’ll have to take it in for inspection.” “The damages happened during our thirteen hour flight!”

It was never a good sign when Mutti raised her voice. She rarely did, so I wasn’t sure why she was now.

“Mama?” I tugged on her blouse.

“We can’t verify that,” the lady said. She ignored me and my protests and came from behind her podium to take my bag.

“Wait, my clothes are in there!” I said. It made me sick to my stomach when even Mutti was silent, her shoulders drooped in defeat.

“You’re going to take my daughters luggage and clothes, why?” Mutti said. Her voice was soft and gentle, but I just wanted to cry. “Is it my accent?”

The lady ignored her and I watched with wide eyes as my luggage disappeared. I couldn’t

decide which was worse: the shredded top half, or its vanishing entirely. But then I realized that with it, I had lost all my clothes, and I almost missed the bag’s odd shade of periwinkle.

“Why are you doing this?” Mutti pressed.

But it was useless. The lady glanced at us like we were nothing but the muggy carpet beneath our boots. Before we could say anything else, she left. And I never saw my luggage again.

Mutti grabbed my hand and turned for the doors. “This is ridiculous.” “Mama?”

“Yes, Mila?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I was sorry the bag got ruined. I was sorry I had let the lady take it away. I was sorry we wasted the money on it in the first place.

“When we get to the house, don’t say anything about this to your father.”

Mutti clutched my hand as she rolled her own luggage behind her, stopping short of the red curb to wait for a taxi. I could see my breath in the air and wished for a clock. But even my watch was in that luggage. Even–

“I left my stuffed Hundchen in my luggage,” I said. I didn’t bother looking up at Mutti.

As I blinked, the cold air seemed to dry up any tears that welled in my eyes.

“We will find you another,” Mutti said. She squeezed my hand as a bright yellow car pulled up in front of us.

“To Hollywood,” Mutti said to the driver while we climbed in the backseat. It sounded fantastical and I was sure we would have to turn around soon. No way were we going to Hollywood. But the taxi kept driving, and eventually, we pulled up to a small house on the side of a hill.

There was no view of the city or the beach I had read about. There was only a row of cars stacked bumper to bumper, and blue and green bins by the driveways. We stepped out of the taxi to a peculiar buzz of music.

I hoped that was the sound of other kid’s playing in the streets, riding bikes or jump

roping.

But the streets were vacant. Aside from the idle hum of our taxi as Mutti pulled her

luggage from the trunk, there was no one here.

“I hope they won’t have parties every night,” Mutti said as she looked to our neighboring

house. It was much bigger, and maybe a little less worn down. But I liked the look of ours much better.

We thanked our driver and made our way to a double set of bright orange doors. A beat later, they swung open and Papa came running out.

He wrapped me in his arms, laughing or weeping, I couldn’t tell. “Welcome home, Mila.” My heart was racing again, but this time it felt different.

Sure, this didn’t look like home. There was no sound of rain hitting the windows, or bells to tell the hour. Children didn’t ride their bikes past sundown; there were no children at all. Our house didn’t come with a spiral staircase that led to my very own playroom; there was just one room for us all. I didn’t see grandma or grandpa, or any of my friends from school.

I didn’t see a lot of things I had just thirteen hours ago. We were exhausted, and I even missed my luggage and its’ odd shade of periwinkle.

But there was my family, and Papa had made Mutti’s soup for us. There was my family, and they felt like home.

THE END

Author Bio: Leilani Dewindt is a current student pursuing a BA in Literature and Writing at the University of California, San Diego. She was born in Belgium, Europe and moved to San Diego when she was seven years old. In her spare time, she enjoys curling up by the fire with a good book, cuddling her little chihuahua, or watching Stranger Things.

The Tale of a Blessing

On April 27, 1931 in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, the world was infinitely enriched by the addition of Rita Elizabeth Salvi; my paternal grandmother. She is the fifth of seven kids in the household of one working parent. During her childhood, things were marred by tragic loss and anguish brought on by the Great Depression. Her father, Nicola Salvi, immigrated from Italy and repaired shoes for a living. While her mother, Harriet Elbert, was a homemaker who grew up in Indiana, and they met while she worked at a boarding house. In 1913, they married and wanted a big family. Unfortunately, their first and fifth child died in infancy; the first, Helen, succumbed to double pneumonia at age 2, while the fifth, Nellie, was stillborn. Their first son, Louis, was a bundle of joy, but they were not satisfied just stopping there, and so they agreed to have more. From there came Virginia, Armand, Elvera, Rita, Eleanor, and Marlene. As a father, Nicola was strict and old-fashioned, but his wife brought a gentleness to their home. After struggling through difficult economic times during the 1930’s, Nicola could not last any longer and took his own life. Their mother, Harriett, did her best to keep the family together, but ultimately gave in to clinical depression and took her life as well a few years later. At this time, Rita was only ten years old, and her oldest siblings were in their early twenties. Even though they no longer had the ones who brought them into this world, these kids had each other and summoned the strength to move forward. Almost a decade later, Rita would come across a theologian who gave her solace by proclaiming her parents went straight to heaven despite their “last minute insanity”. Despite her struggle, Rita continued living with honor and faith.

The next home for Rita, Eleanor, and Marlene, was St. Anthony’s Orphanage in Oakmont, Pennsylvania. Elvera (Vera for short) was fourteen years of age and adopted by their maternal aunt, Josephine. To be clear, the only reason why these three adorable children were not snatched up in a heartbeat by a lucky adult, was that their older sister, Virginia, did not want them to be separated; since kinship meant everything to them. At the orphanage, the nuns were kind but commanded obedience. During the holidays or when visitors came, everyone listened to these little munchkins’ cheerful singing. Throughout the four years they lived there, Rita was held in high regard for being nurturing to around a dozen girls whom she looked after, and they called her “Aunt Rita”. At school, she was the only orphan in the class, but did not receive any

special treatment. When she looks back at her time in the orphanage, Rita has nothing but happy memories of it, since it taught her the lesson of helping yourself through helping others. Her reaction to cigarettes later on was immediate revulsion, and she vowed never to commit to anyone that used them. At times when life got hard for her, Rita used her faith, made a prayer, and brought up the energy to get through the day. Compassion, empathy, and respect were the cardinal virtues which she made sure her next generation would have within them.

During high school’s junior year in Dayton, Ohio at Roosevelt high, Rita met the love of her life, Clyde Harris; they got together through her sister Marlene’s adoptive brother. Upon going steady, both Clyde and Rita agreed to finish their education before going any further. After four years of dating, they married when she was 21 and her soulmate was 22. It just happened to be on a national holiday, Groundhog’s Day. Rita knew that her schooling was over since she did not have enough money, and because in this era, women were not widely expected to go much higher than this. Originally, she was employed as a secretary-clerk at a finance office for a year, and then Rita was hired at General Motors as a clerk-typist. Throughout her nineteen-year career, Rita was dependable and felt respected as the competent worker she was. When her children came along, she took some time off to raise them, but ultimately returned in order to help pay for their college. It didn’t take long for her to gain trust back, as her bosses put her in charge of mentoring younger managers on duties of the office, and rapport was built as she was always fair. As her employers were away negotiating business from time to time, they put Rita in charge of everything. Her hourly wage was initially $4.00, and when she retired it was $10.00. This provides proof of the appreciation her hard work earned. Rita is a natural caregiver who not only put sincere thought into her job, but exponentially more in her role as a mother.

In her early twenties Rita was ready to have kids, as Clyde had graduated college and was working full-time. They both wanted a big family but four was the most; Rita definitely did not want to go through as many childbirths as her own mother had. Clyde wanted all sons, but they compromised with having one daughter; as it happened, they each got their wish. The first child delivery went smoothly as the doctors put Rita to sleep through it all. However, her second time was far more excruciating as the doctor was out to dinner, and they did not have any time for anesthesia; later on she would say that it was the most severe pain she has ever experienced. They picked their first two names: Michael and Mark, and then their daughter was named after her sister, Marlene, but shortened to Marla for a distinction. Since Clyde worked away from

home a big part of the month, Rita put the caboose on the line. Their youngest, Matthew, was born with hypoglycemia (naturally underweight) and was instructed to eat an ice cream sandwich every night after dinner. The two primary traits they would ingrain in their kids were honesty and discipline; as parents, they never tolerated lying and delivered swift punishment when it occurred. Rita was sure to be an impartial judge and expressed no favoritism. She sent them to Catholic school just like she went through. It gave a convenient location and strongly instilled honor. Both Rita and Clyde insisted on all of their kids attending college, yet they did not push for any one in particular. Rita did her part in giving her children a better opportunity in life.

Once all the kids were out of the house and into homes of their own, she was not done living just yet. Rita was not finished being her caring self, as her world grew bigger with grandchildren. Her position transitioned from babysitter to caregiver, and everyone knew she was in all of their corners. Despite her best intentions of staying fit through exercise, Rita’s knees developed early onset arthritis, and ended her running days for good. Nevertheless, her grown kids still counted on her unconditional support through obstacles like losing a child, divorce, and terminal illness. In spite of these serious issues, Rita’s heart and soul never aged one bit. Now, her eleven grandchildren are the light of her eyes, for whom she prays for every night. My grandmother does not have a long list of accolades or is known across borders, but is nonetheless remarkable for knowing who she is, what she wants and what is important in life. Through it all she has been stronger than many I have ever known, and I am certain she would happily do it all over again. Within my heart she shall have her own nook where I will hear her cheering me on as she rests peacefully amongst the greats of the ages.

Author Bio: Doug Harris is a 25yr old transfer student at Cal State San Marcos. Doug has recently earned his Associates Transfer Degree in English, and is now pursuing his Bachelor’s Degree in Literature & Writing. Doug is an aspiring creative nonfiction writer, who yearns to dedicate himself to producing beauty through his written work. Doug is an introverted, conscientious and a “wise-beyond-his-years” young man. Doug strives to live with a pure-heart, just like for example, what Mahatma Gandhi lived for: “In a gentle way, you can shake the world”.

What Allah Wants

Know your place, habibti¹. We are women, women have their own role. Keep your legs crossed, even when you’re not wearing a dress. Tch, tie your hijab tighter, don’t let your hair be seen. Go wash yourself, do wudhu² before going to the prayer mats. Sit quietly at the back of the room, behind the men. Keep your head down. Pray to Allah for the health of your family. Don’t be selfish. What are you doing? Don’t take your hijab off until you leave the mosque, if you must. Say hello to all of the khalos and khalas³ before playing dolls with the other girls. Don’t play with the boys, they are mean and rough.

I know my place, Mama. I wait until you have your back turned to sit criss-cross, to think about painting and astronauts and dinosaurs when the imam⁴ is talking, to rip my hijab off and run with the boys as soon as I’m out of the mosque doors. I know the girls with their dolls are jealous of me, because they’re good girls who listen to their mamas. I don’t know these people, I don’t talk to strangers. I know my place, Mama.

Be modest. Don’t wear shorts that show your thighs. Don’t wear shorts at all. Don’t dye your hair or get tattoos. Why change what Allah made? Don’t date, that’s not right. Hurry, get out of the pool and put on a towel before your umo⁵ comes over. Come help Mama in the kitchen.

Serve the tea, be a good hostess-in-training. Baba and I are going out, make dinner for yourself and for your brothers when we leave. Your older brother is in charge. Don’t be disrespectful, immodest, loud, assertive. Women have their own role, we are women. Know your place, Habibti.

I know my place, Mama. I’ll cut my shorts to the length I want, I’ll roll them up as soon as

you’re not there. I won’t ask for permission, I’ll ask for forgiveness. I dyed my hair, I have a tattoo, I date boys and girls. Don’t tell Baba, please. Allah wants me to be happy. My umo can treat me like a niece or not look at me. Don’t tell him I said that. I don’t want to make dinner, with you or by myself. I want to play video games with my brothers. I can’t help being disrespectful, immodest, loud, assertive, when you raise me to stop before I even start. I know my place, Mama. Do you know yours?

1. sweetie; darling
2. the washing process before prayers
3. uncles and aunts
4. Islamic prayer leader
5. uncle, father’s brother

Author Bio: Amani is a senior at UC San Diego, majoring in Literature – Writing. In addition to studying for tests and writing papers in Spanish and English, she likes to listen to music and hang out with her friends. After graduation, she is planning on teaching high school students how to enjoy the full experience of writing and reading.