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The voice Feb 2019
Aside from the black nail polish,
My own personal act of rebellion,
I see my father's hands.

I have my mami's nose,
and eyes,
and lip shape,
and even her forehead.

We have the same forehead,
But my hands,
When I see them I see my father's hands.

Maybe I see them in an attempt,
to portray an image of his existence,
To acknowledge that he actually exists
even though he hasn't been by my side

My hands are darker than my mother's
They are slightly chubbier,
Even the darker little hairs that decorate them,
They do not look like hers at all,
so naturally, they have to look like his.

I am more reminded of him when I grip them
So tightly I almost cut the flow of blood.
So strongly the blood rushed to blush the tips of my fingers

The rage. The anger. The reminder that I am your daughter
That I carry your last name
That I am still and Forever will be,
a part of you
and you a part of me

I did not choose that.
I did not choose the anger or the love

When I have you in front of me,
I will take these, my hands
that look like yours
grip them tighter than ever before
with determination in my eyes,
aim and...

I learned how to box in an attempt,
to shape these hands to be less like you
Fighting hands, unlike yours
Strong hands, much different to yours
Passionate hands, contrary to YOU

I wear the black nail polish, to remind me and you
That these hands are yours,
tainted by the dark melody of the last kiss you gave me
Before you let me walk away.

I wear these hands masked by power,
but deep down a reminder that I am a woman,
Despite my hands being like yours.
A reminder that had you stayed,
I would probably not have the education I now have.

I look down at my hands and see yours.
Despite the black nail polish, they look like yours.
With a layer of love, willing to forgive and love
But unwilling to Forget!
This is what happens when a professor asks a good question in class. "Whose hands beside your own do you see when you look down at them"
The voice Nov 2018
How do you tell a friend that she has made a mistake

You can go back to THAT Ariel with time...
If that is really what you want

Sometimes people make mistakes on purpose
soemtimes we do things that helps us become the people,
we want to become.
Sometimes, we stand on the line and cross it anyway,
because it is easy and it feels okay...

But then, what lines are we not willing to cross.

You can go back to that Ariel with time...
If that is really what you want

As we look at your picture, from your past
I can feel the need and desperation you have to be that person
I sense the nerves and the regret you have because you are no longer that Ariel,

But... Is that what you really want
You swam, despite the wished of your father,
you swam and rescued the prince and fell in love

You kissed the prince, knowing your father would disprove,

you could be the Ariel that your father made you to be,
You could be go back to that Ariel,
but do you want to.

That Ariel, felt things different than you do now
That Ariel, knew nothing of this new experience
I hope you discover which Ariel you love more,

If you really wanted to, you could, with time,
Have the love and the warmth of that Ariel.
For now, you have to reflect and think,
which Ariel Makes you Happiest!

The one in the picture,
or the one confused about love.
Disclaimer: : Life happens
The voice Mar 2018
The ground beneath me trembled,
The lights were dimming,
A dark hole below my desk
And only my desk
I had become a target
I should have never volunteered

I should have never volunteered to read in a language that was not mine
I needed the grade
How dare I have an accent
How dare my eight year old self, not know better
How dare me.
  Mar 2018 The voice
sunflower
I'd like to be alone,
but I don't want to be lonely.

I'd like to be in hope,
but I don't want to be hopeless.

I'd like to be in love,
but I don't want to be broken.

I'd like to be sad,
but I don't want to be weak.
For when I'd like to be 'me', but I don't want to be 'her'.

ㅡn.s
The voice Mar 2018
I stand in the middle of the room
My classmates are commanded to listen to me
I am the 14th person to present and so far, everyone has done a good job

I stand in the middle of the room
I begin to saw the name of my project
“My Poem”
I cannot remember what it was about
I do remember, what I felt

I stand in the room,
Hoping that everyone feels what I felt when I was writing it
I felt excited, my stomach had ‘butterflies’ I think
I felt the heat in my heart and the cold on my shoulders.
I felt the tingles all over my body, and the air escaping me

I stood in the middle of the room
I stand in the middle of the room
I was in the middle of the room and said
“My poem”
I heard a chuckle.

I ignored it because the ‘in love’ heart in my chest was more excited than It should have been
I continues and my voice began to play tricks on me
And the r’s rolled and the words were suddenly in another language
My mind still ignored it and continues
Because I felt I could write, and read this and everyone could love it

I stood in the middle of the room,
I waited for the, applause, the smiles, the congrats, or even a simple ‘good job’ like everyone else
Instead…
My teacher said, work on pronunciation. She said it again. Pro-noun-ci-a-tion
Ok. ‘Work on grammar.’ ‘Work on sentence structure’
“Work on being American” the chuckle said
Or the person who chuckled?

It didn’t mean much, you know
I loved writing so much that it did not matter
I would be a writer, I would continue to
STAND in the middle of the room and share my talent
And when I did, he chuckled
She chuckled, I was Mexican

Not a writer. Writers can’t be Mexican
Unless you write in Spanish and in Mexico
But I was too American for that at this point…

SO the next time I wrote I was ashamed,
Maybe if someone else wrote my writing?
But it didn’t matter,
When the teacher began reading,
The chuckle reminded the class it was the ‘Mexican’ who wrote it

“Mi nina” My mom would say
She reminded me that no only was I Mexican
I was a woman,
Only men thrive in this world
I believed it
And that is why my name is ‘The Voice’
Not my actually name,
Disclosure: I accept criticism on how to better my writing
NOT on what to write or on my background
Thanks, for a lesson I will never forget:

I make my own destiny!
The voice Mar 2018
I couldn’t wait for my class to end so I could run outside and find
el carrito (Stand)
I fell in love with the feeling and the taste before I even knew what love was.
I stood outside holding my mother’s hand waiting for her to ask
the times she did not ask I would pull on her plaid, decently long skirt and looked over towards the man selling raspados

She knew what I wanted and she knew how much I wanted it.
I focused on ...
el carrito
as if looking at it would be enough to call the gods of raspados to have mercy over me

They cost $1.50. My mother gives me the money
I run over
The man says

te faltan, no es suficiente (not enough)

I was devastated, I began to take step back slowly, I dared to not look at my mother with this disappointment.
I barely noticed the lady standing behind the man, she was the boss

I noticed she was looking towards my mother
Maybe she saw in my mother’s face something convincing, or maybe my confusion triggered a mother instinct
Whatever it was, it was enough

As I walked away slowly with my first heart break,
the lady behind says,

tiene antojo, tu daselo (She has a craving, give it to her)

I thanked her with my smile and with a slight flitter in my heart of happiness and even more with my taste buds having a celebration just by looking at how this raspado was being made

The beautiful sound of the mountain man, holding a metal, rectangular shaver of ice
containing it all inside until it was ready to be placed in the cup. The small stones pile one by one when crushed
Just big enough to hold shape and small enough to enjoy

Then the miel con sabor a tamarindo  being delicately set on top, like a creamy blanket in liquid form

Si, con limon y sal, porfavor, y poquito chile (add salt and lemon, and a bit of spice... Please)
because my mom taught me how to be polite
and then, to my surprise the actual fruit
tamarindo on top, a light brown coloring with a soft cover on the hardened seed inside

It decorated with grace and delight, the treat awaiting for me
I felt the richness


There I learned my first lesson of kindness
It is part of a longer piece... It is Nonfiction.
Raspados are similar to icecones but very Hispanic. I suggest trying one. They vary in flavors (guava, pineapple, lime, mango, etc...)
  Jan 2018 The voice
AJ
I. When I was 5, I thought recess was probably the best thing ever invented. Until the first autumn rainfall, when the sky opened up and unleashed it's sorrow unto the earth. The children were kept inside that day. As the storm thundered on around us, we ran to play on the other side of the classroom. The boys charged to the shelf with legos and blocks, while the girls lined up at the miniature kitchen. I followed them to the tiny toy oven, even though, secretly, I thought those lincoln logs looked really fun.

II. When I was 6, I thought my first grade teacher was the sweetest woman to ever have lived. Then, one day she lined us to to go outside, calling out, "Boys on one side, girls on the other" reminding of us of a divide between genders that we did not understand. Marking off differences on a checklist that none of us had read yet.

III. When I was 7, like most little girls I daydreamed of the perfect wedding. The part I played over and over in my head was my brother walking me down the aisle, "giving me away". Because even in the second grade, some part of me knew that I belonged to the men in my life.

IV. When I was 8, I learned that the praise I'd receive from the boys I called my brothers would always be conditional. No matter what award I received, how fast I ran, how tough I fought, how smart I was, I'd always be "pretty good for a girl". And that is never a compliment.

V. When I was 9, the YMCA told me I had to stop playing the sport I'd loved for 5 years because I was a girl. I took my first feminist stand by quitting, because I don't care what they say, softball and baseball are not the same thing.

VI. When I was 10, my brother informed me that the day I brought home a boyfriend was the day he bought a gun. Because that's how you protect your property.

VII. When I was 11, a boy ran up to me on the playground and told me I was cute. For a moment, I felt confident, a feeling that was foreign to me. Until the boy and his friend started laughing uncontrollably, as if they couldn't believe that I'd ever think that was true. I cried a lot that day because I hadn't yet realized that my self worth wasn't directly proportional to how many boys found me attractive.

VIII. When I was 12, my aunt gave me my first make up kit for my birthday. When my grandmother tried to force me to wear it, I refused, yelling, "It's my face!" She proceeded to tell me that I'd never get a boyfriend with that attitude. After all, who was I to want to be in control of my own body?

IX. When I was 13, I thought gym was a subject invented by sadistic hell fiends created just to torture teenage girls. It was the hottest day of the year, and I'd just ran a mile, so I opted not to change out of my tank top before continuing on to my next class. A teacher cornered me at my locker, advising me to put on a jacket before I became a distraction to the boys.

X. When I was 14, I confessed to my mother the wanderlust inside of me. Exclaiming about travelling to new places, having new experiences. That's when she looked me dead in the eye and told me to always take someone with me. Preferably, a man. I couldn't bring myself to be angry. We both knew what happened to women alone on the streets, and I felt bad for the way I made her eyes shine with worry each time I left the house without her.

XI. I am 15, and I walk with my fists clenched and my head down. I am always conscious of what clothes I wear and whether or not they could attract "the wrong kind of attention". I attempt to shield myself from the world, but I can feel my barriers cracking with each terrifying statistic, each late night news story, each girl that was never given justice. The world is a war zone, and every woman must put her armor on before walking outside. My life has been one battle after the next. I am a 15 year old war veteran, and have the scars to prove it. I've learned from my experiences and am left with just one question:

At what age does the war end?
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