a dim light peers over my hand, perusing yet shadowing my words. flicker. a flicker of an idea. flicker, a glimpse of that sweet, idolized result. the velevet silence humming in my ear. the near rise and fall of the entire home, heavy with the breath of those deep in sleep. the flickering stops and becomes so dim that soon i am writing in the complete dark that has gradually pooled across my page. the silence drools and smears. i am completely aware i should be enveloped in a think, sleepy, dark rather than this stale, dim light. but along with every thought that acrues, every idea into a reality, my hands tremble to pour it out, under this flickering light. soon, as the words alter my conciousness, i find a tear rolling down my cheek, a laugh creeping out. the tranquil menagerie has soon raced into a storming stampede, trekking through the forest of lines, the empty pools of blanks, infesting without thought or consideration. flicker. pool. the silence is pounding in my ears, in my heart. i cant go to sleep anytime soon. through this flickering light, i remember me, and infest these pages with that flickering, and those memories.

you tell me all the things i did wrong. your syllables are curling my own tongue, preparing to tell you the same. your eyes perusing my life like a map, maybe looking for a legend to my faults. faults that you “despise”. ive noticed that you use this word often. like, very often. but after all the times i have heard its shrill cry, i seldom thought it would swarm your lips, just to sting me. and when i cry because i know i have fallen to my faults. i cry and apologize with my heart but you push me away with your head. telling me to stop playing victim. and, i want you to know, victims dont apologize. but i know these words that rest on the crack of my lips will never escape. neither you nor i am the victim. neither you nor i am the villian. simply, we are jailed by our own conscience, our own superficiality, which is digging deeper than i wanted. and when i try to pick up the shards of your anger, i split my fingers open, my blood quickly streaming, just like my tears. your shards are now crawling into my raw wounds, my bloodstream, and to my heart. my fingers still searching aimlessy to directions to the puzzle, looking for a way to mkae ends meet, but all i can find is chaos. tears. shards pouring out of my eyes, fragments of your hatred, your lies, your trust fall onto my lap. i have a secret. i know that those shards will never find a way together, and no one will put them together for you. and if they do, it will never be complete. because there will be a

missing

piece

lodged

in

my

heart.

i am sorry. genuinely. for everything.

take it

or leave it

but

victims shouldnt apologize

villians should.

A silver stream snakes elegantly through a vast, dark tunnel of trees. Gently but powerfully cascading down with an infinite amount of cadence. The stream gets wider, and wider, into a silver creek. A creek gliding past obstacles with unbelievable grandeur. Boulders will shape the creek, making it twist, turn, toss, its beautiful reflective surface swirling, spitting, chasing. Fasters, faster as is the world has no end, enlarging into a river, the river runs with mad desire. Tossing, flipping, twisting, captivating everything it touches, spreading its wonder, want, and love, until it is nothing but a small stream once again, falling, falling down, furious, until it is nothing but surreal silver droplets floating in the thick air. Every single droplet of its love and wonder captured. The silver stream, the river, the creek, are eternal unless forgotten. But for now, the droplets start over again, falling, falling, falling into a new silver stream to start over again.

“Remember, this is an easy survey. Just tell the truth and try to answer the questions to the best of your ability. There is no right or wrong answer. This survey is about you.” The woman stresses the word you. She glances around the classroom, waving her bushy eyebrows up and down. She locks eyes with me, pushing purple cat eye glasses further up her nose. I look away and start the survey, unaware of what was ahead of me. Soon, I’m going through the questions, telling the truth just like she told us to. They really interrupted my independent reading time for this. “Are you male or female?” “Who lives with you at home?” “Do you have a dishwasher?” The incessant tick of the clock is vibrating through my ears. Every question simply a passenger through my brain, like white noise. I count how many keys are on the computer, letting my mind wander aimlessly away from the screen. I leave my realm of fifth grade imagination when I get to question nine. That one question about race. My race. I squint my eyes and move closer to the screen. The clock is silent. I only hear my heart racing, my breath shaking. Why should I be scared? What can they do? What will they do?

The question is captivating my view. My brow scrunches up in confusion. What if you are more than one? I tried to wrap my mind around the fact that one person could be only one race and I started to ask myself what is race? Soon, I am confused why colors are on the same question that ethnicity is on. Are race and ethnicity the same? What about color? Does black mean African American? Does white mean caucasian? Are they asking me about my skin? Or where my parents are from? Or where I was born? I cautiously glance down at my skin. I hover over the bubble that marks: white. But I don't click on it. I don't, because really, I'm not just “white”, I'm Latina and white. My dad's side is Mexican and my mom's side is white. I glance from my skin to the screen, and back, and forth. Skin. Screen. Skin. I'm scared. Will they not believe me if I put Latina? But why couldn't I just be both? I remember when my mom always says “You should be proud to be Latina” when she finishes a random fireside chat with me and sister, looking at us in the backseat of the car. and when I used to nod my head, oblivious to its significance. I quickly click on Latina and go to the next question, the question still pulsating in my mind. Right? That was right? Right? Maybe not. Maybe not. Maybe I am White. Not latina. White? Latina? I'm both. But why couldn't I just put both? Or am I am an other?

I’m fighting so hard to keep the tears from bursting out. I look up at the ceiling because maybe, just maybe the tears will seep back into me. I can't cry. Everyone seems to be easily filling out that answer. Their ceaseless clicking of their computer keys cuts into my heart. This is supposed to be an easy question, with no “right” or “wrong” answer. But I feel like I got that question all wrong. After what feels like hours, we transition to the rug. My mind is foggy, still stuck on that one question. My eyes are still dewey. I sit down, and my friends eagerly surround me. I feel like moving away. They probably put the right answer to that question. They wouldn't understand my reasoning. They ask me how that survey was. I respond with one word answers. “Fine”. “Did you get to the one they asked about race?” One of them asks. I look up. Both of her parents are white. I’ve been to her house before, been surrounded by her family. Mine aren't, but I look just like her, but on the inside, I'm different from her. My voice, unexpectedly, opens ups like a well-opened page as I say“latina”. She looks at me like I said a curse word. “Bbbb-but you're white, Marisa.” She says, glancing down at my skin. She stares into my eyes. I'm sad and confused and scared. “No.” I say. “No. No. I’m not. I'm both”

I leave. Sitting far, far, away from them. Criss-cross applesauce. Criss cross applesauce. 1, 2, 3, 4 ,5. I try to distract my mind from letting the tears go. They told me I was White. I'm not White, I’m biracial. No one can be just one color. Right? Right? Right? I need reassurance. I need someone to say “Yes Marisa you are right. It's gonna be okay.” But no one says that and now they're staring at me all weird, with their eyes scrunched up into slits. Was that how the world thought of me? White? Did people on the street really just look at me and think I’m White? That's not fair. Not fair at all. You couldn't just look at someone, look at their skin or their hair and determine in one glance that they are white, or Black, or Latino, Asian, or Other. Right? You could be biracial, like me. Tears well up in my eyes, and overflow into fat tears rolling down my face. But it wasn't the kind of cry when you get hurt, not the wailing cry of pain, but tears of vulnerability, tears of confusion. I cover up my face. No one notices.

They said there was no “right” or “wrong” answer. They said it was an easy survey. They said to tell the truth. Don’t lie. But they lied. There is a right and wrong answer. It wasn’t about you. It was about how society looks at you, not how you look at yourself. There is a right answer. There's a wrong answer, too.. I quickly wipe off my tears and I stare at those angry slits with eyes that are sad, mad, disappointed. I don't know. I don't know. Who am I?

When I go home, and I stare at myself in the mirror. I see me. When I look at myself, I see Marisa. I tried to put myself in the shoes of a stranger. I used to call it “defamiliarizing”. And I see how they could think that. I look through to my green eyes, brown hair and white skin. I do look white. But that makes me more confused than ever. Why do people look a certain way? And I continue staring, watching as the picture in the mirror blurs up because of my tears, watching as my glass is tainting. Because when you look through the world in tears, everything looks like blurs of color mixing together like paint. Everything is too blurry for people to be judgemental. No stereotypes. You can't judge anyone when you look through the world with tears.

Sometimes I feel like the world is a crayon box. Each color with its own individual box. They don’t mix. You can’t mix crayons. And when they do mix, it looks like chaos, overlapping over each other, the waxy scribble refusing to mix. And I hate our world for that. I hate that. I wish we could be like watercolors, mixing together with the tears shed in the light of stereotypes to create a beautiful painting. I wish. But i can't have. Patience.

After this experience, my whole world changed. I understood what race was, and I understood that it wasn't really a thing. I understood how I looked from another perspective. I understood not everyone thinks the same way I do. And I really started to notice things. Not only about me, but about my Daddy. About us. About how society separates us. This experience wasn’t just an identity crisis that I came over, it was a turning point in my life. It's like I woke up from a good dream to the harsh reality of the world and the lights were turned on. But I had to learn to adjust to the light.

Vulnerable, young. New to this world. Empty of hatred, empty of stereotypes, full of love. Me in my father's arms, my white skin mixing with his beautiful dark brown skin. Daddy. We walk home from the metro every day in Kindergarten and I'm holding his hand as we cross the street and a man passed by, looking at my small hand in my Daddy's protective hand and he looks really worried when he sees us. I think maybe he just had a sad day at work, and he’ll get better. I don't realize it's because he thinks my Daddy is trying to harm me. But he would never do that. I didn't realize it then, but I do now.

I'm sitting with my dad. Our arms are intertwined, because I'm freezing from the cold water of the pool I just jumped into and his warmth is surrounding me, making me feel a lot better. Warmer. A woman passes by and gives me a dirty look. She slits her eyes, just like the girls in 3rd grade, and her lips form into a disappointed line. She’s mad. She looks at my dad, then to me. She moves on while shaking her head. Daddy, I don't know if you notice these things, but I do. Everyday. Now, I notice the eyes that long to tear us apart. I saw how the girls looked at me. I see the eyes of worry: “a Mexican holding a white girl’s hand?” “No, no, it couldn't be.” “Is she being kidnapped?” “Is she okay?” “No, you are White” “Is she adopted?” Of course, I've never heard anyone actually say this, but I see it. I see eyes of worry, eyes of hatred, slitted eyes. Eyes that say we don't belong together, but I yearn to say, yes, yes he is my biological dad. Eyes that say I don't belong in a certain category. I've seen the looks on my teammates face when she says “oh, marisa i have never seen your biological dad before” and I begin to explain to her why she shouldn't think this way. I see how their eyes change when they ask if we need two separate checks. All they see is a man and a little girl together. They want to tear us apart. The one that wakes up 2 hours earlier than he usually would just to walk me to the metro to hug me goodbye. The one who supports me in anything I do. The one who teaches me lessons about life, about how to be a better person. They don’t see any of that. And that makes me sad.

They don’t know I've seen the looks. I’ve seen how society enjoys shaping me into their vision of White and shaping my dad into their version of Mexican. Shaping us. Then tearing us apart. Shaping me. A destructive sculptor, shaping with an intense focus, just to tear us apart again. I've seen it. It's okay. He won't hurt me. Its okay, I'm fine. Daddy, I Don't know if you see these eyes that yearn to tear us apart, but I do. Everyday. But that's okay. No one can tear us apart. Hatred can’t tear love apart, right? I see it. And I understand it. But I choose to ignore. Let them judge me. But I’m tired of ignoring. I’m tired of glancing away from eyes that stare at me. I’m tired of not knowing who I Am. I’m tired of disbelief. I'm tired of people telling me who I am. I’m scared right now. Because whoever is reading this, or listening to this, might not believe me, might judge me or shake their head in disbelief. This story has been I'm scared, and I’m sorry I don't trust you to believe me. Just that the way society has shaped me to think because hardly anyone ever believes how I actually am. But I do. And that's what matters. I'm scared because what you see as an alien I see as my dad. And I'm just starting to wipe off my glass. And you should too.

- thank you for reading this.

A silver stream snakes elegantly through a vast, dark tunnel of trees. Gently but powerfully cascading down with an infinite amount of cadence. The stream gets wider, and wider, into a silver creek. A creek gliding past obstacles with unbelievable grandeur. Boulders will shape the creek, making it twist, turn, toss, its beautiful reflective surface swirling, spitting, chasing. Fasters, faster as is the world has no end, enlarging into a river, the river runs with mad desire. Tossing, flipping, twisting, captivating everything it touches, spreading its wonder, want, and love, until it is nothing but a small stream once again, falling, falling down, furious, until it is nothing but surreal silver droplets floating in the thick air. Every single droplet of its love and wonder captured. The silver stream, the river, the creek, are eternal unless forgotten. But for now, the droplets start over again, falling, falling, falling into a new silver stream to start over again.

january 14.

I have a confession to make. I haven’t been keeping up with my writing. I have been brainwashed, diagnosed, my condition is diaphanous. Today, I spent 5 hours on a screen. 5 hours. I think this condition was spread to me, and I have caught on the habits of so many others. But it is not completely despondent. Looking away from the screen, away from the filters, to looking through a lens on life, may be harder. The filtered one may be like an adult’s answer to a young child’s profound question: Only telling them what they expect, what they want to hear. But although it is harder, less pretty, less distinct,

It is all a lie. Because really, all the filter does is make life fake. It treats you bad. It deceives you. It may look pretty, but my friend, reality is divine. And you may want a cure for this highly contagious condition, or perhaps not, and maybe you would rather live life in that filter, but for those that would like to rid of this condition, I will prescribe to you a simple yet effective dose of awareness. But then again, ignorance is bliss, yet reality is divine. Maybe choose to live life

#nofilter.

january 30

43, 44, 45, 46. There are exactly 46 stairs to the metro platform. Bet you didn’t know that. Because your eyes and mind are transported to the screen in your hand, the vast expanse of potentiality that your mind has shoved into the glowing box in your hand. Well, you also don’t know the number of stairs because you took the elevator. Which is reasonable. But I’m not reasonable. That way you are taking the escalator yet I am taking the stairs not the escalator and you are staring at your screen, not the number of steps yet I am focused at the number of steps not the chimy thing in my backpack. You can’t even count steps on an escalator. I’m on the thirty-third stair and I see a minuscule piece of paper that is folded reasonably on the thirty-third stair of forty-six stairs. My hand reaches out and unfolds it. The front reads “vacation express”. On the back, it says things in a list like candles (check) exploding kittens (unchecked), glass flowers (unchecked) and blankets (checked). An unreasonable person reading a not-so-reasonable reasonably folded note. Exploding Kittens. Hm. (later I would find that this is a popular game). Glass flowers. Interesting. You probably would have never picked up this dingy note and hung it like a piece of resistance art in your reading nook, just as I did. But then again, you took the escalator. And even if you took the stairs, the chances of you picking up this soggy note is slim. Maybe because all of your focus is on that filtered world, not the steps. Or maybe because you’re reasonable and I’m not. Either way, you would have never experienced the small resistance against this malefactor when I count 46 in my head. Either way, you never would have experienced the laugh I gave when I read

“Exploding kittens”

february 9

There is a pathway of mustard yellow carpets ahead of me. Silence hangs in the warm air that greeted me as I entered. The velvety capet gives way to my cold feet as I peer into the airy gallery. Colorful art of the early 20th century stands before me, like a guard. A painting of a coorful neighborhood sparks my imagination. I stand there for at least five minutes, making sure to notice every last detail, from the hanging laundry to the young woman peering out of a purple window. I take a seat on the inviting bench, the type they have in museums. My mind is determined to focus on every last detail of this beautiful painting, but part of me, an unknown part, is tugging me away. My mind seems elsewhere, wanting to open up my phone and scrutinize every perfect life. Part of me is taken away from the simple life framed in the painting. Its like I was transported from the purple windowsill into an unknown world. My mind is tugging tugging, trying to resist the temptation. Why? Is it the silence? The emptiness?

I resist. But for all I know, it was there.

february 14

Enduring the brutal cold, the wind screaming in my face and my thin jacket is useless against the restless cold. Small snowflakes swirl around my body. The metro rolls in, making a rush of freezing air collide with my face. Stepping into the warmth, I walk towards a seat at my favorite spot in any metro car: In the back where one seat has one huge window, so you can see everything. But today, it is taken. I am not mad at first. I just sigh and sit to the back where there aren’t any windows. They look like they are together. He puts his arm around her halfheartedly and pulls her closer. But I wonder, how can he pull her closer when they both are separated by the screens in their hands? She carries the red roses and a heart box of chocolates he probably gave to her, and now she’s taking a picture of them and making him focus so she can pose a fake smile with him. She posts both of them. They go back to focus on that filtered world. I just can’t even. Love is not supposed to be fake or posed. I tap her on the shoulder. “It’s Valentines Day. Stop letting screens get between you guys.” He is now looking at me with mad eyes. “Do you know her?” “No, I have no idea” I probably should have just stayed quiet, but I couldn’t do that. There are plenty of people out there who aspire to have a valentine. But look at all that love, to waste. “Hey, you need to leave. Leave us alone and leave the train.” He says, practically yelling. “Fine” I say with something inside of me, a burn makes me spit it out with rather strong heat. As I’m walking away, I hear her say to him “I love you” but he is stuck in this world, so he doesn’t hear her and replies to her with a phrase that we hear all too much, with a hint of carelessness and confusion. A word one can reside to when they are jailed in this fake world. “Yea.” Because in this world, one only hears, not listens.

february 26

You may ask who the jailer is. You may ask why we should fear this jailer. You may ask why we don’t just escape. Why we don’t just open up that unlocked door and escape from the wrath of this anonymous demon. You see, it may seem like this cell is locked. It may appear that way. But in fact, there is a lock. A lock with no intention of realeasing its inmate. A lock that was not created by the jailer, rather, its inmate. A lock that can easily be unlocked. Just with the right key.