Final Essay

One scorching New York City day, so hot that the air was wavy, and so long ago that I knew I’d had sex eleven times in my life, I was on the subway heading to work.  It was mildly crowded on the train, but nothing overbearing, and it took a moment for me to register that a man had come up behind me and started feeling me from my boobs to my belly to my butt. From his clothing, level of apparent hygiene, and utterances to an unseen character named Charlie, I surmised that he was a residentially challenged citizen. Having been raised to believe that nobody was to touch me in my happy places without my approval, and having been schooled by women who didn’t invent Gender Studies but believed they did,  I hollered at the top of my lungs, “No! Get your hands off me! Don’t you touch me!”

Well, Charlie’s buddy listened to me. He backed away, hands in front of him, perhaps a bit scared in whatever way his self-medicated hallucinatory haze could muster, and toddled off in a tardive dyskinesiac hustle. I bear him no ill will. However, to my fellow riders that day, they with their attachés and their Wall Street Journals and their gazes everywhere but where I needed them, I bid them a hearty Fuck You. Nobody looked; nobody said a word, not during and not after. That part has stuck with me more than anything that came before. 

If I were to get molested on public transportation today I think my expectations for me would be higher, and far less for any spectators. Maybe eighteen years ago I was new in town—heck, I wasn’t even living here then; I was a sloppy visitor. Maybe then I was still suburban on the brain; all apologies, gazes downward, speaking too softly for the waitress to hear me ask for more coffee--looking too young and chubby for anybody to want to help keep some sicko’s grimy claws off me, even when I yelled. Actually, when I go back back back in my memory, I seem to remember that any drops of sympathy that were on that 7 train were directed at the man. What is that all about? Were people sad for him that I was the best grope he could find?

Let’s cut to today:

I pretend I’m on the A train, and I’m late for work. I didn’t have a chance to shower this morning because the hot water was out again and the super wasn’t answering his cell phone. Sure, I could have taken a cold shower, but those hurt, so I just washed the necessary parts with a washcloth and hoped for the best. The time is 8:52am, so there’s no way I’m going to make it to work on time, and I’m already crushed up against the door and a metal pole because two Austrian tourists are backpacking across New York City and I’m in the way of their bedrolls.

I feel something. I’m being touched! Massaged? Someone is actually rubbing the rolls of my belly fat. What the fuck? I swivel around as fast as possible despite the encumbrances. I see him, again, just as he looked eighteen years ago. He still doesn’t look dangerous, but his hands are still on me. The biggest difference is in me; I’m a New Yorker, now. I’ve lived here ten years. I know how to get a seat on the bus and how to ask for cream instead of milk for my coffee. I ignore the free daily newspapers and can’t be taken in by the comedy show runners in Times Square. I look at this guy, Charlie’s old friend, and I make my hand into a closed fist. And I take that fist and I punch him with all my might into his lower jaw. He makes no sound, but stumbles backward. I hiss at him, “Don’t you ever touch me again.”

Surprisingly, or not, nobody notices. This is just classic NYC transportation entertainment. So what if nobody came to my aid? I wish I’d known when I was a kid that they can indeed all go to hell after all. It turns out I don’t need anybody. I feel like spitting as I say that last line.

Karma Chameleon.

Laellanie Gonzalez

I could tell you about how I’m bilingual and how knowing Spanish is convenient. Honestly knowing Spanish really doesn’t mean anything to me anymore. I mean, sure it’s a way for me to communicate with my family but most of them can understand every word of English I speak and I understand their Spanish just the same. I could say that I love the language and how beautiful it sounds, the way it just rolls off the tongue but my Spanish is so broken up and gross that I don’t think you can even consider it Spanish. In fact I grew up referring to my second language as “Spanglish.”

The story goes like this; I lived with my grandmother for a very brief period. When I was five years old it was decided by the powers that be, better known as my mom, that I would live with Abuela Mita because Mami had to go away. My mom had enlisted in the army in order to pay for college; she totally bought into the hype and apparently thought it would make a better life for us; she ultimately didn’t do the 20 years that make it a career thing or even finish her college degree, I know she always regretted that.

When I lived with my grandmother she didn’t speak a word of English and still to this day doesn’t know anything. I could never understand why she never bothered learning how to speak at least the smallest things but she’s made it in America for years without so much as a problem until she had to stay with me. She spoke to me everyday in Spanish and wouldn’t respond to me unless I answered her in Spanish. So according to everyone Spanish was my first language. I find this very hard to believe because the language is so difficult for me now.

Speaking isn’t difficult but I have a very hard time stringing the words together in a coherent manner. When under pressure the things I would say didn’t really make sense. I tend to pause, think and by the time I realize what it is that I want to say the conversation is over. This is where the Spanglish began to make its mark, in order to avoid pauses and long breaks in conversation I substituted the words in Spanish for English ones and just plug in the Spanish version when it comes to mind. When speaking to my family, more specifically my Abuela Cuti (coo-ti) things get especially frustrating because I want to tell her so much. I usually get ahead of myself and start plugging in the English words expecting her to know. She always looks at me like I was crazy, laughs and says “ Ay mija si tu supiera, yo me siento tan feliz cuando tu estas aqui conmigo aunque no se lo que estas diciendo algunas veses.” (Oh my girl, if you only knew how happy I am when you’re here even though I don’t know what it is that you’re saying some of the time.) When she says this I always laugh and say, “ ay abuela Te amo tanto, y nunca…. its’ never going to change…por siempre. (Oh grandma I love you so much and its never going to change. Forever)

Spanglish was a lifesaver; I didn’t have to be ashamed about how little Spanish I knew because my generation is expected not to know fluent Spanish. Being born in the Bronx really didn’t help my case, because not only did I butcher the language of my ancestors but I butchered the English language as well. Slang not only took over my speech, it took over the speech of every “ghetto” of every borough in every state.

In my “hood” that’s how you knew who was cool and who wasn’t. Knowing how we referred to the different “gangsters” or the words we used to say things like cool (poppin) and you’re crazy (you’re wildin out) was how you fit in. Apparently I didn’t fit into this world either. I was always told that my voice sounded funny saying like things like deadass or that was fire! I spent so much time trying to make my accent sound a lot less Hispanic I didn’t realize that it put my creditability with my friends into question. To a self-conscious very insecure person like myself this was the worst thing that could happen. No matter how much I would try to fit in, I was always standing out.

What should I refer to as my language or my “voice,” with an apparent accent that makes my professional voice sound; as my schoolmates and so called friends would refer to as fake; and broken Spanish, what exactly is my “voice.” I just like to tell everyone I’m a “Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon”

Mother's Day Niani

Niani Peebles

Creative Writing

Short Story

Mother’s Day

It was a warm mother’s day and I was living with my grandmother in Brooklyn. It was decided by her and my mom that I would stay there until school was finished, since I was doing so well. My mother, sister, and brothers resided in the Bronx. My seven cousins were lined up sitting on my grandmother’s porch. They all lived in the upstairs apartment of the house. I was eleven and my mood had taken flight since my cousins were allowed to speak to me again. My aunt Cathy didn’t like me much, so she would often prevent communication between us with the silent treatment. At times when we were playing with each other, she would stand at the screen door and just stare at me. I couldn’t see her eyes clearly through the screen, but I felt them.

My cousin James, who was two years older than me, became my best friend after his sister Crystal, who was my age, took a liking to boys. He was interesting and had a countless amount of jokes to share. I sat down on the step beside him.

“You know grandma wants me to fix her shelf for her, and she gonna pay me twenty dollars.”

He was good with his hands. It made up for his bad grades and behavior at school. It blew my mind as to why my grandmother would assign him such a task. She knew what else he could do with his hands. I mean, he was my cousin but I couldn’t deny that he was an all out thief. I would unsuccessfully hide gifts that my mother would send for me and they would disappear. He wasn’t the only one. At least two more of my cousins had the habit of stealing.

“Oh yea, that’s good. You could probably buy your mother a mother’s day gift from the drugstore with that.” I replied.

My grandmother’s room was something that my sticky fingered cousins didn’t see often. They were not allowed the luxury of my grandmother’s bedroom with its big soft king sized bed that made you fall asleep like a breast fed baby, it’s soft, fluffy pillows that nursed a sore head back to health, and the sweet scents of her designer perfumes. Those perfumes rested on a shelf close to her bed, against the wall. It was the shelf my cousin James was supposed to fix. It was also where she kept a tin box filled with money for her Popular Club Plan members.

“James, you ready to fix the shelf?” My grandmother came to the front door holding a dish towel, cooking again.

“Yea” he replied annoyed.

As he went in I stayed outside and enjoyed the weather. I watched my older cousin Nakia talk about strangers that passed by. I secretly hoped that the strangers would turn back and knock her lights out. When James was done fixing the shelf, we walked to the drugstore together to get the gift. I was excited for him and wondered if anything could light up my aunt’s hollow eyes, or even put a smile across her lips.

“These ones would be nice.” I helped him pick out a bunch of white and pink flowers that were wrapped in plastic and a big pink ribbon.

“You should get a card too.” He picked a card and gave the cashier his twenty dollars.

That night I had just taken a bath when I saw my grandmother walking around the house looking upset and disheveled, her gray hair standing up and looking all spiky.

“Where the hell…” She rambled on, opening and closing her dresser drawers.

“What are you looking for grandma?”

“I’m looking for twenty dollars that went missing from my box. Where the hell could it be?”

I started to help her find the money, looking underneath her bed. I began to feel nervous because my cousin was the only person I could think of with twenty dollars.

“I need to find that damn money!” she was getting angrier by the minute and began to look in my dresser drawers. I didn’t believe that she would suspect me.

“Grandma, I didn’t take your money. I would never do that. I don’t steal.”

“Well somebody got the damn money!”

I had to tell her what I knew. James was the last person I knew with a twenty dollar bill.

“James had twenty dollars that he said you gave to him for fixing the shelf.”

I longed for my mother at this moment, I wished I was with her instead of there.

“What, pass me that phone!”

She called the upstairs apartment to where my aunt and cousins lived. I couldn’t hear the conversation because I slipped down into the basement. The next morning I was to walk with my aunt and cousins to school like I usually did. They walked ahead of me the whole way, not saying a word.

A VERITABLE CUSHION OF HARDENED POOP - Liane Graham

Whenever we would stay with my grandparents in Tel Aviv, my sister and I would sleep on the pullout couch in the Blue Room. The Blue Room was not blue – it was a TV room that had supposedly once contained blue furniture, but I only knew its bright purple paisley couch and matching armchair. Nevertheless, the name stuck.
One night when I was seven years old I woke up from my sleep, and it was not from the jetlag that was usually responsible for waking me in the middle of night. Something was definitely off. I quietly crept out of bed, careful to avoid the wire that jutted out the side and had already scraped my thigh a few times before, and careful not to wake my sister, whose head had somehow managed to lay where her feet had been only a few hours ago. I tiptoed to the bathroom and pulled down my Princess Jasmine underpants. There it was: a veritable cushion of hardened poop. I was so embarrassed. I was a big girl, too old to be treating my underpants like a diaper. The poop was caked on. I didn’t know what to do with it, other than clean my own bottom, which, believe me, was challenging enough at the time. I didn’t have any poop-related dreams. I didn’t feel the pooping process as it was happening. I just woke up, and there it was, all over my underwear. I did what I always did with dirty laundry: I tossed it in the hamper. Instead of going back to sleep, I lay in bed praying until daybreak that nobody would notice the brown brick sitting at the bottom of the laundry drawer.
When morning came, I waited. I was terrified of getting in trouble. My mother was the sort of person who took dirt very seriously. I knew that eventually someone would figure out what I had done, and that I would be on the receiving end of my mother’s legendary Israeli bark-and-slap combo deal. Sure enough, that moment came when I heard her shout, “Liaaaaaaaaaaaaaaane!”
I stalled for a minute, bracing myself, and walked into the bathroom. She was dangling my soiled underwear on her pinky, only, she didn’t look angry at all!
“Why did you put this in the hamper?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t want to wake you up.” What I really meant was, I didn’t want to her to think I was still a baby. Instead of shouting, she laughed, and told me what to do in case it ever happened again. I swore it wouldn’t, still not convinced that I was out of trouble.
To my surprise, my mother, and this was completely out of character for her, did not punish me. I think she realized that sometimes, the shame is punishment enough.

“No Fork” Written by Christopher J. Greggs

After rushing through the double doors, I stopped at one of the circular tables across from the Starbucks coffee cart, and proceeded to remove my obsidian black Hp laptop and evironote 5-subject notebook from my messenger bag. In their place, I hid a late night student’s contraband: grilled chicken Cesar salad, 12 oz. Pepsi-Cola, and a Hershey’s Cookie and Cream candy bar. After securing my bag around my shoulders and my laptop and notebook under my arm, I hastily flashed my student ID to the security guard at the entrance of the Library. Briskly, I made my way passed the “No Food or Drink” sign, a bold type reminder of my trip to Wally’s Deli, and guiltlessly graced my way to the third floor study hall.

I found her in a hot-door-less-room that smelled like the by-product of shower-less overnighters and meatball foot-long sandwiches from Subway. She spoke first.

“Hey honey. Got the goods?”

“Yes I do. I am assuming this is not of you doing?” I said with a cringing face that referred to the smell.

“No you jerk. This was the only room left.”

“I’m sure,” I said with a tinge of sarcasm. “How’s the studying going?”

She grabbed the black plastic deli bag out of my hand and commenced her scavenger hunt.

“It’s going,” she said speaking directly into the bag. “No fork?”

Normally the Middle Eastern guy across the counter took care of the fork situation. I began rummaging through the bag and to no surprise she was right—there was no fork. Staying resourceful, I gave her an option.

“I think they have some near the coffee cart downstairs. I can go and get—“

“No they don’t,” she interjected, “and the cafeteria is closed.” She proceeded to roll her eyes, grab the grilled Caesar salad out of the deli bag, all the while avoiding eye contact.

What was sad was that I clearly remember looking at the fork dispenser when I stopped by the Starbucks coffee cart before entering the library. However, like so many things since our breakup even my vision had come into question. I opened up my laptop, unlocked my computer, and stared at the paneled image of the desert raven that covered my desktop. I watched her, as I always did, and saw the frustration on her face as her ability to eat became limited by three-finger-pinches of croutons and green peppers.

“You know what?” she said acknowledging my presence.

“What?”

“This is exactly why I keep a fork in my bag.”

“Well, where is it?”

“I threw it out this morning.” I stayed silent and stared at her.

Irritated, she dug further into the bag and pulled out the Pepsi-Cola and Hershey’s cookie and cream candy bar.

“Uh, Pepsi. You should have gotten me water”

“Well, what about the cookies and cream,” I added attempt to redeem myself. “You did say you wanted something sweet. I remember in the summertime when we used to—“

The solemn look on her face disrupted my romantic anecdote.

I turned back to my laptop and started to act like I was busy. Over the past thirteen months, we were either walking on eggshells or rolling in sheets. Before we got serious we dealt in absolutes. Nothing I said started with “I think” or concluded as if it was posed as a question. She had been more absolute knowing exactly what she wanted. But maybe she was right. It was only a fork.

3:01

3:01

I don’t have any funny accent stories to tell other than the mildly amusing anecdote of the time at NYU when I embarrassed a visiting linguist. He swore he could determine our birthplaces or ethnicities, eyes closed, just by hearing us speak. He guessed I was from Connecticut. I took no small pleasure in letting that Ivy League wind-bag know that I was a product of the mean streets of Brooklyn.
My father, on the other hand, had a very amusing bon mot he enjoyed sharing with all my Anglo boyfriends, perhaps as an explanation for the taciturn reception they’d received.
It was Thanksgiving, 1953. My father and his brothers had recently arrived in New York from Puerto Rico and were working the late shift at a pizzeria in Manhattan. They lived in the (then) predominantly Hispanic South Williamsburg but were forced to cross through the more Irish North Williamsburg on their way home from the subway. A big bunch of recent Irish immigrants were hanging out on a stoop when one of them called out “Hey Buddy, you got the time?” at which point, in his best Spang-lish, my dad replied “Jeah meng, ees tree o’clock.” By 3:01 they were three on one-my father and his brothers having been identified as Spics were beset on all sides by this welcoming committee. My dad, seeing no other alternative, pulled out a pen knife (which was later recorded in the police blotter as a switch blade) and stuck the nearest non-related red-head. Unfortunately for all involved, he managed to reach and knick the liver of a too-slim, under-fed Irishman. Police were called and you can guess who ended up in jail. My poor father was stunned. His father was a Spaniard, a European just like these men. He too harbored all sorts of racial “preferences” just like these men. He too was white and tall and young and a recent arrival. He and his brothers too had blond or red hair and green or blue eyes. How were they any more white than he? After 24 years of life as a white man how on earth had a 5 hour flight on Pan Am from San Juan to New York magically transformed him into something else? My dad was no dummy and he quickly learned what years of Civil Rights civic lessons would teach the generations to follow: race is relative. Racism is stupid, and arbitrary. The color of your skin should and does say absolutely nothing about who you are. In the end, a Jewish eye witness testified that my dad acted in self defense. And while the Irish cops didn’t like the Jews any more than they liked the Beaners, they trusted the Jews and let my dad go.
For your amusement, a coda to the story: years later I dated an Irish guy from the Northside who adored me and whom my father grew to love. He told an interesting story about the time his Uncle Ray and some buddies from the Ancient Order of Hibernians beat the crap out of some Puerto Ricans on Thanksgiving Day in 1953.
I left that poor boy standing on an altar. Isn’t America grand?

Betty Trevino

Theme Park - Kai

I was four when it happened. Both my parents had taken off from work that day to accompany me on a field trip to Sesame Place. Being a child from the city, I appreciated the few moments I was able to escape from my city environment, even if that time was very limited. The trip was organized by my preschool teacher, Mrs. Sheldon. I don’t remember much about her, other than she was supposedly very strict, according to my mother, but my mother said that of every teacher I had until high school. Probably to intimidate me into doing well in school. Many of my teachers were not as severe as she made them out to be, and I found that to be the case with Mrs. Sheldon.

Seeing characters from the show in real life was a startling and surreal experience for me. But I was less concerned about them and more wrapped up in the rides and attractions at the park, which were the main selling point for me. I could see these characters on my television screen every morning at eight, but how often would I get to be king of Cookie Mountain, or jab my way through the monster maze, or ride down the silly sand slide twice. Those dry attractions (rides that were not in water) were already highlights of the trip, and we hadn’t even made it to the water park.

The rambling river was a popular attraction at the park, and still is to this day. During the ride, you floated in an inner tube, through Sesame Island- past bubbling waters, geysers, and waterfalls. This, I imagine, was exciting to the average four year old, and endurable for the parents or guardians who accompanied them. All you had to do was stay on the tube, let the currents push you, and it was smooth sailing. It should have been the high point of the trip, but instead, ended up a disaster. I don’t know if the currents were too strong that day or if I was still sorting through my fear of water, particularly, large bodies of water, but something came over me. It forced me to lose my balance and fall off my float. I can’t recall the depth of the water. It couldn’t have been deep, but it probably seemed so at the time. I don’t remember the details but I remember plenty of flailing about, and shouting. I recall my father going in after me and losing his glasses in the process. I remember my mother looking down below through her fingers; watching the spectacle unfolding. I’m not sure if she was actually looking through her fingers, as I was too busy flailing about, but that’s how I imagined her. That’s what I had seen on television shows and in movies. When I reached dry land, the fear I felt minutes ago was gone and replaced with embarrassment and shame. It was the first time I recall wanting to crawl under a rock. I don’t think I knew what that statement was at the time, but I could feel it‘s meaning intensely in that moment.