My dad’s father and sister brought us to America; they took us in, fed us, sent me to school, where I learned English. They provided a roof over our heads, a new home. My dad found a part-time job in an ice factory for minimum wage; it was our only source of income. My dad provided food, clothing, transportation, and school supplies. He never complained.
Everyone took the changes in our lives in stride—except my mother. As a Pentecostal Protestant, she believed that everything that had happened to us was God’s will. She trusted no one who did not share her beliefs, including my father’s Catholic family, our benefactors. As the days and weeks and months went by, she became more and more paranoid. She thought my aunt and grandfather were trying to do us harm. Her inability to speak and understand English was fuel added to the fire. She thought every word spoken was a conspiracy against us. Her distrust drove a wedge between my father and his family. Once the fear took root in his heart, it grew.
In 2015, the rift became a break. In the middle of the night, my mother fled my grandfather’s house. She took shelter in her church. The next day, my dad took my brother and I to the Department of Homeless Services. My mother had convinced him that his own family, his lifeline in the U.S., was trying to kill him. We never said goodbye.
Overnight, we were isolated and lost. We were homeless. It was humiliating. We lived in my mother’s church until someone took pity on us and offered us a two-room apartment.
Those painful memories are imprinted on my mind. Wherever I go and whatever I do, they will stay with me. My dad has stamina, endurance, and perseverance—the stuff heroes are made of—but no matter how hard he tried to give me the world, his lack of education stood in his way. He fell prey to my mother’s superstition and paranoia. He failed to protect me from pain and shame. But through it all, he managed to provide me with the education he lacked. Even in the homeless shelter, I traveled four hours round-trip to school. Although my dad may not be much to the world, to me he is great. Because of him, I will not live my life a victim of fear. What my father failed to achieve, I will make my reality.
I will live my life an educated woman.
The Object of Desire
LAURA GERINGER-BASS
“The Object of Desire” is flash fiction about sibling rivalry. This piece speaks to some of the dark places in family life, the hidden conflicts that erupt unexpectedly and expose feelings that have been suppressed and unacknowledged. In that respect, it shares common ground with Saradine’s courageous memoir. To be bold, a writer must dig deep in whatever genre. Ctrl + B!
The Walk N’Talk didn’t walk or talk. She didn’t sing or dance. Her legs were stiff, her pudgy knees could bend a bit but would never buckle or shake with fear or pleasure. Her cheeks were round, her dimples deep. Harsh black lashes framed her glass eyes.
Face to face with the object of her desire, the girl did not now believe any of the advertised charms of the Walk N’Talk except what its programmed voice box told her.
The doll loved her.
The girl had yearned for the doll. She had begged her mother to buy it for her birthday and then when her birthday passed without the Walk N’Talk, the girl hid her defeat deep inside her where it shrank into something hard and sour.
It did not escape the girl’s attention that her brother had received a brand-new bicycle with hand brakes for his birthday and an electric train set with tracks that took up all the space on their shared bedroom floor. The girl got a floppy monkey hand puppet with woolen braids. “For my little monkey,” her father said and laughed.
Miraculously, in the gray chill of January, at last here was the doll!
“It went on sale,” said her mother.
“I’m disappointed in you,” said the girl to the doll when they were at last alone. “Very disappointed.”
“I love you,” piped the Walk N’Talk.
The girl’s brother stuck his head into their room.
“I love you,” he mocked, then brayed like a donkey and slammed the door.
The girl’s face turned a nasty shade of red. She ripped off the Walk N’Talk’s dress and stuffed it in the garbage. She pulled out the Walk N’Talk’s voice box and crushed it between her thumb and forefinger and stepped on it. She pulled out the pretty hair in tufts. She grabbed her scissors and dug out the slow-blinking eyes and tossed them into her brother’s box of marbles. She took her brother’s magic markers from his desk drawer and, popping off the cap of the black one, scribbled all over the Walk N’Talk’s chin, giving her a beard. She gave her a curly moustache too. She drew black tears and question marks on the Walk N’Talk’s cheeks. She blackened the perfect pearly teeth. She drew a wicked black heart on the rubbery chest with a lethal arrow through it.
“She loved me,” the girl sobbed, when her mother turned down her bed that night and discovered the broken and disfigured doll. “How could he?” she shrieked.
YAMILET ORTEGA
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Harvest Collegiate High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: Bronx, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Heather has changed my perspective on many things we’ve talked about. I would tell her my worries and she would reply back with her wise words that always seemed to reassure me. When I told her how scared I was to grow up, she assured me that there was nothing to worry about. “No one has their life together.” I will always remember these words because of how much confidence it gave me to keep going without any fears. I’m glad she was my mentor, because she never once doubted me and she always gave me reassurance as a writer.
HEATHER STRICKLAND
YEARS AS MENTOR: 5
OCCUPATION: Senior Manager, Internal Communications & Colleague Engagement, American Express
BORN: Philadelphia, PA
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: The day I told Yamilet that no one had their life together was a turning point in our pair relationship; we opened up to each other more, started sharing more vulnerability in our conversations and in our writing. Yamilet has taught me to let my guard down (so I’m not such an enigma) and encouraged me to focus my writing on my own stories instead of on how other people’s stories impact me. I’ve loved getting to know her personally and working with her to help bring her voice to life.
child.
YAMILET ORTEGA
Thinking back to the past, I had negative thoughts. Moments of mental breakdowns and anger were all these years brought. It took a lot to write this and share it with people, but I’m proud of my past. Because I fought for something I thought I’d lost for good—myself.
2016.
Defined as “the new era”
That involved creating new memories, that replaced the ones I never thought could be
A period of time where the stereotypes I’d neglected my whole life, now defined who I was
How fast my mind shook the thought of growing up, and became someone that made my parents question their parenting skills
And the ambitions that I once chased in dreams, no longer ran
But stayed still and disappeared one by one as I walked a different path
My mind wandered around unknown places my body once feared
2017.
LOST.
I was no longer in control of myself
Parent–teacher conferences always started with “Your daughter has been cutting class, Ms. Martinez. I’m afraid she might fail.”
Ended with my mother yelling back and forth in what seemed like never-ending conversation, “What are you doing to yourself? You are ruining your future! Is that what you want?”
As I screamed out in frustration
Yet, only the sound of what seemed like an empty room was heard
I was a walking zombie, trying to tell everyone I needed help was like Mortal Kombat
It was unbeatable to even the best
The feeling of fighting back slowly went away whenever I felt �
�happy”
Whenever my friends praised my devilish work and called it “one of a kind”
Those words reached back for me and held me tight
It wasn’t until I dreamed.
I dreamed of the future
And for once, I wasn’t pushing it away
Instead, I embraced it
And I watched as my future shattered into a million pieces and became vapor
That moment is when I felt like crap
When it actually hit me, this feeling of regret
This lingering regret crawls over my face
For becoming someone I once tried so hard not to be
At that moment, I wanted to shout from the top of my lungs so that everyone heard
I wanted people to know how much I hated myself for being this stupid
For going as far as becoming this monster that I couldn’t stand anymore
I wanted people to know how much I hated my friends for believing that who I was becoming was the right thing
It felt like an annoying hangnail that I just now realized I had.
And pulling it would only make it worse
Yet I still pulled it, and I hoped for the worst to come
I waited for my friends to hate me for not following them anymore
I waited for my parents to once again take me seriously, even after all I said to them
I waited for me to come back
2018.
This lingering regret still haunts me
Familiar faces still come back to comfort me
But it’s not like before
I let them in because I feel like I owe them something
I just can’t figure it out—and they still haunt me
We don’t have anything to reminisce about
We keep repeating the same things again and again
I guess that’s how it’ll always be
I’m still trying to figure out how to tell them
I’m sick of them
I’m sick of reminiscing the past like it was some tragedy
I want to tell myself I accomplished something too.
Keeping you in my heart makes me feel sick
Knowing that you’re still there, haunting me, fills me with anxiety
Because I don’t know how or when this will all end.
And because of that I haven’t accomplished anything this year.
I am in this slump with you, and only you know when it’ll end
Toe Prints
HEATHER STRICKLAND
One night, walking home from a meeting with Yamilet, I told her I wasn’t sure what I should submit for the anthology. I said I was struggling among a few pieces, and unsure because I was always writing about other people (real or fictional). She encouraged me to write about myself, about my past. To take control—to be bold.
When the Florida Highway Patrol called to tell me my mother was dying, I didn’t pick up the phone.
It was just more than a month into my freshman year. My Acting for the Stage professor was leading a breathing exercise when my phone blared—the theme song from The Office. I melted into the floor, apologizing, and slinked over to my bag to switch my phone to silent. Why would my mom be calling? I’d just talked to her last night.
My mom was not a particularly good mom. She spent most of my childhood working a job that kept her out of state, and when she did come home, she’d take me shopping to make up for the fact that she was never around. She forgot my twelfth birthday. I’d have boys over with the door closed and she wouldn’t say anything. She never told me to clean my room or do any chores or wake me up for school on time. And she let me live alone in the house when I was thirteen—just me, an infinite supply of SpaghettiOs for dinner, and late-night episodes of Unsolved Mysteries to keep me company.
But she was my mom. And at some point, she started to try. She was getting better, trying to close the gulf that had spread between us. My senior year of high school, we took a road trip to check out some colleges I was interested in. We cruised up I-95, singing Barenaked Ladies and the Beatles. We stopped for breakfast at Cracker Barrel, lunch at anywhere that was fast and cheap. We stayed in crappy motels. Mom would yell at me because I liked to put my bare feet on the dashboard, and my toes would leave little prints on the inside of her windshield. When the car fogged up from the rain, there would be dozens of tiny toe dots left behind.
“You’re ruining my windshield.”
“You’ll appreciate those toes when I’m gone,” I’d said, pressing my feet harder into the glass.
She’d sighed, heavy, in that way that mothers do. “I’m wiping those off as soon as we get home.”
After she died, we had to deal with the house. Her clothes. Her books. Her car. We tried to sell the car privately, but it was old, beaten. I drove it to a used car lot. I stopped to wash it on the way. It was a cold night, and when I turned the engine, the window fogged up. My toe prints covered the passenger side windshield, like tiny stars, like passport stamps marking prior journeys.
She’d never washed them away.
GABI PALERMO
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Eleanor Roosevelt High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: New York, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: This is my second year as a mentee, and I’m so glad that I have Kate as my mentor. I feel like this year we’ve gotten closer and she has made me a better writer. One moment that stuck out to me this year was when I started writing “The Puerto Rican Snow White.” Without Kate, I don’t think I would’ve written this piece, because I never felt like it was that great of a story. I’ve been able to explore storytelling and other genres that I wouldn’t have tackled if it weren’t for Kate.
KATE MULLEY
YEARS AS MENTOR: 4
OCCUPATION: Playwright
BORN: Boston, MA
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Razorhurst at the Hayes Theater Company, Sydney, Australia, 2019
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Last fall, Gabi performed in a Moth StorySLAM. I sat in the audience between her mother and aunt and felt like another proud family member as she shared her humor, her intelligence, and her capacity for boldness and bravery with an audience of strangers. Gabi has been a touchstone and a cheerleader for me in a year full of transition and uncertainty. I’m inspired by what she chooses to write about and express in words, and I look forward to sitting in the audience for years to come.
The Puerto Rican Snow White
GABI PALERMO
This piece is inspired by my grandmother’s story of being a housewife when she moved to New York City, and all the animals she had to take care of in her home.
Today is the day I’m going to get rid of this ugly dog. I’m tired of dealing with this shit. I agreed to cook and clean, but I didn’t agree to run a shelter in our apartment. I don’t understand why my husband always brings dogs home and I’m the one taking care of them. Yesterday he brought the most sickly-looking dog, and I refuse to take care of it. The dog is losing all of its hair and it’s covered in red spots. It’s one thing to take care of a dog, but to take care of a sick dog is something else. I barely get enough sleep as it is with two young daughters, a bird, and a rabbit. This dog would make me die from exhaustion.
It was easy to get rid of the dog because her husband was never home. She spent every day alone with the animals. She felt like Snow fucking White. She had time to plan to get rid of the dog because her husband was with that puta across the street. He went to that puta because she gave him fake love that Elba couldn’t. She knew he wasn’t going to church or visiting his cousins. She knew she could use this time he was being unfaithful to her advantage.
There was never love between Elba and Senen. She married him out of convenience rather than love. He was the only escape from her controlling father. Their love story wasn’t romantic or special. They had been together for sixteen years and she was nev
er happy. She thought she had it okay because he didn’t beat her, but she was never satisfied. The animals were the only connection she had with her husband, and this dog was going to be the end of that. In order to get rid of this dog, she had to call Carmen.
Carmen was her only friend outside of her family. They would talk on the phone for hours, gossiping about the neighborhood—who’s sleeping with whom and whose wife was a whore. They rarely spoke in person because they were both busy dealing with husbands who never appreciated them. Today, though, Elba needed to see her in person.
Carmen walked into Elba’s house and greeted her by saying, “Nena, this house smells like shit, and look at you! You haven’t slept in years!” Elba was going to snap back, but she couldn’t disagree with Carmen, she was a mess. The house was disgusting, she didn’t have time to cook, and she looked horrible. The one thing she was supposed to be good at was taking care of the house and she couldn’t even do that right. “Carmen, please do me a favor,” Elba said. “Anything, mi amor,” Carmen said. Elba took Carmen to see the dog. The dog sat in its cage with sad eyes that looked like they had no hope left. When Carmen saw the dog, she was immediately disgusted by it. “Elba, this dog is the reason your house smells like shit. It’s so nasty! You have to get rid of it!” Carmen said. “That’s why I brought you here. I need you to take this dog for me. I know it may sound like a lot, but I know your cousins from DR are here and they would appreciate you giving them a dog,” Elba said. She knew it was a stretch, but she was desperate. Carmen was hesitant to take this dog, but she knew that Elba had done so much for her over the years, and she was willing to take the dog if it meant that Elba would be happy. Carmen hugged Elba, looked into her eyes, and said: “I’m going to do this for you because I want you to focus on yourself for once.” “Thank you so much,” Elba said with tears forming in her eyes. Carmen grabbed the dog from the cage and walked back to her house, and Elba could finally be at peace.
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